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

and headed it down the centerline of the Red Sea. That long, narrow body of water was just a bit over one hundred and fifty miles across at its widest point. From the drone’s very high perch, it was easy to see all she needed to in one pass.

The Triton was flying past Farasan Island, a little more than three hundred miles down the fourteen-hundred-mile flight to Suez, when the alarms sounded, and an icon blinked boldly on the pilot’s display. She set down her soda bottle, renewed her grip on the joystick, and swung the Triton around in a long, swooping circle. Simultaneously, she employed the aircraft’s high-resolution, synthetic-aperture radar and its sensitive multi-spectral sensors to image the target.

Even as the Triton was swinging back to base course to see what else she could find, analysts in Chantilly, Virginia, were already calling Admiral Tom Donnegan with the good news.

Ψ

Nabiin, the Prophet, calmly watched as the crew launched the UUVs from the after deck. The bright-yellow, torpedo-shaped devices were each lifted from their cradle and lowered over the side of the vessel with care. Methodically, one after another, the mechanical fish dropped deeper into the water. They each remained on the surface for a few seconds, almost as if they were orienting themselves in the warm sea surface before diving into the colder deep and disappearing, headed northward up the Red Sea to do their programmers’ bidding.

Nabiin smiled. The choreography was almost hypnotic. A miraculous tool provided to the Prophet and his followers by Allah—and unsuspecting investors and speculators all over the world—to do his holy bidding.

“Alzaeim Almuqadas, please excuse my intrusion into your meditation,” Farian Gurmani, one of his faithful lieutenants, interrupted. “But I must report that we have received a most disturbing message from our faithful at Al Mukalla.”

Nabiin barely took his gaze away from the UUVs. Nor did the smile leave his lips. He was obviously enjoying this aspect of his operation being set into motion.

“So, what is this disturbing news, Farian?”

“The Americans launched an attack on our island. I am afraid they sent in hundreds of troops and a squadron of aircraft. They overwhelmed and killed all our brave followers there. No survivors. And they freed all the prisoners.”

Nabiin nodded. The unmanned underwater vessels unleashed so far were no longer visible, but the Prophet kept his gaze on the dark waters into which they had disappeared.

“None of this is of any concern. The ayatollahs will make great propaganda use of this intrusion in our region by the American infidels. Our fighters? They are now enjoying the fruits of paradise, a blessing in which we will soon join them.”

Gurmani continued his report. “I must also inform you that General Babak has not yet arrived at Al Mukalla. We fear that the attack occurred before he could leave the island. We are certain that he is now among the other martyrs.”

The smile suddenly left Nabiin’s face. He abruptly jumped up, looking quickly at his watch, the mental wheels spinning at lightning speed.

“Farian, this development does require that we slightly modify our plans. Order the men on deck to complete the launches as quickly as possible. Then have the Darih al Mahit al Muqadas ready to go at the very instant they are finished. We will barely have time to reach Al Mukalla in time.”

“What about Mecca and the helicopter?” Gurmani protested. “The plan was to have you there by Friday Maghrib, sunset prayers. That this would fulfill prophecy.”

“Allah will direct us in the ways of prophecy,” Nabiin replied, speaking as though to a questioning child. “His ways are not always clear to us. But we must be in Al Mukalla in order to bring about the end times. General Babak had the launch instructions to bring down the holy cleansing fire on Jerusalem. Now it is I who must get to Al Mukalla so that I can issue the orders. The Boz-Manand must be instructed how to fulfill their final jihad.”

Ψ

The evening’s rush hour was at its peak. The red taillights of the cars of bureaucrats and office workers appeared to be a solid trail up Boundary Channel Drive out of the Pentagon. The view from Admiral Donnegan’s E-ring office was most often totally lost on both him and Rear Admiral (Lower Half) Ward. Their attention was most typically on bright computer monitors and skyscrapers of bound and printed reports.

Jon Ward had been down the hall, collecting even more paperwork, when he heard the news. He rushed into Donnegan’s office and dropped the sheaf of pictures on the conference table. He ignored most of them as they slid onto the cluttered floor beneath the table but grabbed a few before they fell.

“Tom, they found the Ocean Mystery. One of the Triton flights located it heaved to off Farasan Island.”

Donnegan looked at him questioningly over the top of his reading glasses.

“All right, for the geographically challenged, just where the hell is this island of which you speak?”

Just the barest smile flitted across Ward’s face. “Why it’s about three hundred miles up the Red Sea from Bab al-Mandab, of course.” Ward tossed the images onto the big oak table in front of his boss. “But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what they’re doing. It appears to me and the analysts that they might be launching the UUVs that Monagnad was talking about. But to do what?”

Donnegan shook his head.

“Beats the hell out of me, but we’ve got to find out. What do we have in the area that can get there quick?”

It was Ward’s turn to shake his head.

“Not a thing. Closest Navy asset is the Ford Strike Group. It’s just arriving in Port Said and is supposed to transit the canal tomorrow.”

“Damn!” Donnegan growled. “That son of a bitch is going to slip through our fingers again. He’s going to be the death of me yet!”

Ψ

The school of UUVs swam north in perfect formation at a depth of thirty feet. There they were invisible