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

Talbot paused to take another drink of his coffee, but also to allow Ward time to digest all that he had just heard. And, most likely, Ward realized, to gauge the American’s reaction to it.

“That much we had already gathered. We know that there is a certifiable...as you call him...a nut case on the loose. One with more of a following and considerably more financial and military resources than even Osama bin Laden, who managed to create considerable mayhem. Yes, we are aware of the threat. But we are also aware that you and Mossad are aware that we are aware. There must be more than that to get Mossad’s pantyhose all in a knot, to reach out to us and ask us for help.”

Talbot carefully placed his cup in the small saucer and again looked Ward directly in the eye. Suddenly, it seemed as if they were the only two in the coffee shop.

“Admiral, we have reason to believe that this...this nut case...is very near to getting access, or at least control of, nuclear weapons, as well as the means to deploy them in a most destructive and deadly manner. And we have no doubt he will use them to do what he feels compelled to do. No matter how many people may die in the process.”

26

Arman Dirbaz was sitting at a small table next to the fuel cells in the after part of the cramped engine room on the Iranian Navy submarine Boz-Manand when a sudden thought occurred to him. His beloved boat was, in fact, no longer part of the Iranian Navy. The zealots from the Revolutionary Guard Navy had stolen her. They had also kidnapped him as insurance, just to make sure the untested submarine would function as it was designed. Despite his anger and frustration, the professional engineer did not think of questioning his duty for his country, however distasteful his overlords might be. Such disloyalty was not a part of Dirbaz’s makeup.

Sea trials had been remarkably trouble-free but for a few nagging issues with temperatures in the fuel cells. He had never seen a boat operate so perfectly on its initial trials. That was a testament to the skill and experience of the Russians, both in design and implementation. However, the idea of heading directly out on a combat patrol in such a sophisticated war machine after so little testing and with the quick repairs accomplished after the attack was ludicrous. So was cruising with such an inexperienced crew. It was foolhardiness bordering on suicidal.

The engineer was still sitting there, examining a piece of machinery he had replaced before the takeover, checking for any hints of wear and tear and potential failure. He had grease up to his elbows when Colonel Sayyed Abdul-Qadir Gilani, the martinet that the RGN had placed in command of the Boz-Manand, found Dirbaz tucked back in his normal corner.

“Excellent work, Doktor. I congratulate you. You have built a remarkable submarine. Now I am pleased to inform you that you will remain aboard for the balance of our voyage. You will have the very rare opportunity to help us use this ship in the service of Allah.” Colonel Gilani’s smooth words belied his expression of distaste at the engineer’s greasy coveralls and oily hands. The officer’s uniform was immaculate, freshly pressed. “Your duties here will be very simple. We will stay hidden out here on station until Nabiin tells us that it is time to act. Then we will have the holy honor of ushering in the Yawm al-Qiyamah. Your only duty is to ensure that this submarine is ready at a minute’s notice to fulfill our destiny.”

The RGN colonel spun on his heel and briskly marched out of the engine room. The engineer stared after him in disbelief.

For the first time in his long and honorable career, Arman Dirbaz felt a twinge of hesitancy, a sliver of doubt that this time he might not be so willing to do as he was ordered by a superior.

Ψ

The George Mason glided through the deep a thousand yards astern of and three hundred feet below the Boz-Manand. Brian Edwards and Jackson Biddle were using every trick they could think of to maintain sonar contact on what had proven to be a very quiet Iranian submarine. Even at this very short range there was just the barest trace of a contact. If they did not know for sure that the Boz-Manand was out there, they could very easily have dismissed what they were seeing as biologics.

“Damn, that bastard is one quiet canoe,” Biddle mumbled under his breath. “Any quieter and fish would bump into it. Do we dare move any closer?”

Edwards, standing next to his shorter XO, had hunched over to look at the same screen.

“We will if we have to. Losing her is not an option. She’s up to no good. I’m pretty sure we have depth separation, as long as that son of a bitch doesn’t suddenly get an urge to go deep.”

They were both looking over the shoulder of the passive broadband sonar operator, ST1(SS) Joshua Hannon. The experienced sonar operator looked up, frowning, and said, “Skipper, respectfully, I can do my job a lot better without you two trying to share my screen with me. This guy is hard enough to track as it is. He gets any quieter, we’re going to have to go active on him if we want to hold contact.”

Edwards nodded and stepped away, rubbing his chin. He signaled for Biddle to join him at the command console in the center of the control room.

“Hannon may have something there,” he muttered to his second in command. Biddle started to object, but Edwards held up his hand. There was a time when he might have resented any sign of an opposing viewpoint from his executive officer. Or anyone else. But Edwards had learned much while XO under the mentorship of his previous skipper, Joe Glass.

“Hear