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

all their stink is finally ashore, you will have a new name painted on our ship. This vessel shall henceforth be known throughout history as Darih al Mahit al Muqadas, the Holy Ocean Shrine.”

Now there were tears in the eyes of both men.

Babak stepped into the brilliant sunshine. Looking skyward, he paused to say a short prayer, thanking Allah for allowing him to be a part of what was about to occur. Then he hurried away to do the Prophet’s bidding.

Ψ

At that moment, sixty thousand feet overhead, Triton Flight Zero-Seven-Six recorded detailed imagery of the rock island far below. Visual, infrared, and imaging radar data from the orbiting drone was instantly linked to a P-8 Poseidon flying lazy circles a thousand miles away, out over the Arabian Sea.

Within seconds, the data was being examined by expert analysts almost half a world away, in Northern Virginia.

Ψ

The red phone on Tom Donnegan’s desk jangled annoyingly. The elderly admiral looked up from the charts and spreadsheets he and Jon Ward had been discussing before the interruption.

“Jimmy, answer that damn phone if you would,” Donnegan growled. “Don’t they know we’re doing important work here?”

Ward grunted. “Important work,” he confirmed.

The folders on the desk indicated they were actually reviewing reams of budget analyses for submission to some obscure Congressional committee whose members would likely never even look at them. Not studying the mounds of incoming data from what was certain to be an imminent inferno in the Mid-East.

Donnegan used his thumb to point to a plaque on the wall behind him, a gift from his staff many Christmases ago. It featured the words of Charles Dickens: “...like a trussed fowl, skewered through and through with office pens, and bound hand and foot with red tape.”

Lieutenant Wilson grabbed the offending handset. He listened for a few seconds and then looked wide-eyed at the other two men.

“Admiral Donnegan, they need you and Admiral Ward down in the Tank. Looks like they may have finally found the Ocean Mystery. And maybe the crew.”

Deep beneath the Pentagon, the National Military Command Center—commonly referred to as the Tank—served as the heart and nerve center of American military might. At the very highest levels, information flowed into the Tank, decisions were made, and orders were issued. Orders that affected far reaches of the planet and, sometimes, its future. From the NMCC, the President, the Secretary of Defense, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff directed the US military. And now the watch staff in the Tank had information that Donnegan and Ward needed to know.

The pair hurried to the elevator that would whisk them directly from their fifth-floor office down to the Tank. Though tired from the long hours of looking, hoping, and planning for all possible contingencies in a growing crisis—and wading through piles of humdrum budget files—the summons to the Tank reinvigorated the two. They stepped briskly out of the elevator, were cleared by the Marine security guards at the high security entrance, and stepped into the high-activity maelstrom.

Donnegan immediately spied Air Force General William “Winking Willie” Willoughby, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, standing by the senior watch officer’s command console. The general’s presence confirmed this was important. The chairman waved the two naval officers over to where he stood.

“Glad you two could get down here so quickly.” He waved toward the Marine one-star standing next to him. “This is ‘Bull Dog’ Harris. He’s the on-watch deputy director of operations. Dog, why don’t you show these two swabbies what got you into a lather?”

Despite his jocular manner, Donnegan noted that Winking Willie’s left eye was beating out a rapid rhythm. That trait was the source of his nickname but also a surefire sign that something really had the general’s attention. And anything that got Willoughby’s attention typically turned out to not be good.

The Marine general—who appeared to still be perfectly capable of hand-to-hand combat if called upon—pointed toward a pair of flat-panel displays in front of them.

“We just got this downloaded from NRO out in Chantilly. The analyst out there got it from a Triton orbiting over the Gulf of Aden. On the left is a visual and IR composite. On the right is an ISAR image.”

He zoomed the screens in to a closer view of a rock sitting out in the middle of open water. The rock took definition, resolving into a small, mostly vertical island, with no other nearby land in sight. As he zipped in closer, individual features became clear. They all recognized the distinctive IR blooms on the composite screen. Those were heat sources on an island that was supposed to be uninhabited by anything bigger than a few sea birds. The ISAR image resolved, first mostly in fuzz, but then into what was clearly a ship tied up next to a rock face. There appeared to be much activity around that ship.

“Now watch this,” Harris said as he flipped to a new series of images.

A group of people were being herded across a narrow pier by what appeared to be armed guards. Remarkably, the pictures were clear enough to make out some individual features. One of the prisoners obligingly looked up, directly at the faraway camera. Harris froze the image.

“Facial recognition has identified that as Yves Monagnad, the captain of the Ocean Mystery. NRO is doing its best to see if they can ID anyone else. The only other one they are positive about is...” Harris clicked the computer mouse a few times to advance the frames. “…this one. He is General Farad Babak.”

Donnegan nodded. “Looks like Talbot and Mossad’s intel was valid. That was pretty much where he told us to look. And who might be on the scene. I only wish we’d had these assets in the right place to see this weeks ago.” Donnegan scratched the stubble on his chin. He had not thought to shave for several days. “I especially don’t like confirming Babak is involved in this. He leads the Houthi terrorists in Yemen, and