Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

will provide you with some of the answers you seek. But that will only be the beginning of a very treacherous journey. A critically important one. Good luck, my friend.”

The man suddenly stood, turned, and stepped quickly toward the rear of the crowded plane. Tahib made no attempt to follow him. This guy was nothing more than a messenger. He knew little if anything more. Any further questions would be pointless. Besides, the door to the aircraft was just being slammed shut.

The sun was rising to the east as the old jet taxied out onto the runway, ominously squeaking, grinding, and grumbling the whole way. The two-hour flight was uneventful and Tahib managed a few minutes of unsatisfactory sleep. Upon touching down, he was a little shocked to find that Chabahar International Airport was hardly more than a narrow runway and a decrepit cement pile of outbuildings, improbably bulldozed out in the middle of the desert. Wherever the city of Chabahar was, it was nowhere near its airport, not even in view as the plane circled around to land.

The aircraft stopped on the tarmac a hundred meters short of the unimpressive, squat terminal building. Tahib joined the rest of his travel companions piling off the plane and trooping to a tent that appeared to serve as the gate area. His contact was nowhere to be seen, confirming that he had departed the plane before take-off in Tehran.

Tahib stepped quickly through the terminal to search for a taxi while most of the passengers waited for their luggage to come down from the aircraft. He was mildly surprised to find a cab waiting outside the terminal’s entrance, its driver leaning against a crumpled fender, smoking, as if waiting for him to arrive. And even more surprised when the cabbie motioned impatiently for him to come on and opened the door for him.

As they pulled away, Tahib started to tell the driver where to take him, but the man waved him off, hunched over the steering wheel, and drove furiously.

The ride into Konarak was only about five kilometers and cost all of three hundred thousand Iranian rials. It took Tahib just a second to convert that to thirty-six Qatari rials. Ten dollars, US. Tahib tipped the cabbie an amount equal to the fare. The man took it without smiling or thanking him.

Fajr Bakery turned out to be a small neighborhood establishment, barely large enough for a half-dozen customers at a time. And it seemed that the entire town of Konarak was out to buy their morning bread. The line—more a community gathering—stretched out into the street and around the corner. Despite the obvious wait, the gossip was lively and the banter good-natured.

Still, Tahib quickly concluded that he, a stranger in a suit and tie, very much stood out in this group. Best to find Achmed, ask his questions, and move on before his presence caused too much undue interest.

It turned out that Achmed was the head baker. Head in that only Achmed and his young son ran the shop. When Tahib skirted the line and approached the counter, then introduced himself and said he needed to talk, Achmed handed him a fresh loaf of nan-e barbari and signaled him no payment was necessary, that he was to go back outside and then around to the rear of the shop.

Tahib munched on the crispy soft loaf as he did what he had been directed. The back of the bakery faced a barren field. The reporter glanced around. Nobody in sight. His vulnerability was frighteningly obvious. He could disappear here and his body, dragged into the sandy desert, would never be found. Even so, he was also aware of how hungry he had become. He took another bite of the savory, fresh-baked, sesame-encrusted bread. It was delicious.

Just then, the bakery’s back door opened and Achmed stepped out. He looked around nervously and seemed much more pleased than Tahib to see nobody else about.

“They told me to expect you,” the baker started. “We must speak quickly and then you must leave. It is for both of our safety.”

The baker reached into an apron pocket and handed Tahib a computer memory stick. Tahib took it, a questioning look on his face.

“These are pictures that I have taken over the last two weeks. They are all from the shipyard where I work when I am not making bread. I do what I must to feed my family.” The baker nodded until Tahib returned the nod, confirming that he understood.

The reporter assumed the man was not merely talking about shipyard laboring and baking. The memory stick and the information it contained was another way he earned money to feed his family.

“You will see that the Revolutionary Guard has taken over the new submarine Boz-Manand, Iran’s missile submarine. They have loaded missiles onboard. And I overheard one of the Guards say that the missiles were nuclear tipped. Someone with knowledge of such things can likely confirm that fact from the photographs, but I am certain the weapons contain a nuclear charge. Oh, and the Boz-Manand also loaded enough supplies for many weeks at sea. I do know from my job about such things and that is highly unusual for a new vessel.”

“But why?” Tahib asked, trying to take in all this information. The Iranians had been very aggressive lately. But a submarine with nuclear missiles? That was an escalation that would instantly create headlines worldwide. “Why would even those crazy sons of bitches...why would they rush a brand-new untested submarine to sea? And have her equipped with nuclear weapons onboard. I am sorry, Achmed. It simply does not meet the common-sense test.”

Achmed nodded and thought for a minute before he answered slowly, as if cautiously choosing each word. “There are many rumors. Rumors that the RGN leadership is dissatisfied with the Ayatollahs and their conservative ways.”

The baker looked around as if he fully expected them to be set upon by a group of the Guards. But there