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

had been emphasized repeatedly since the moment they were rousted. Jim Ward had just plugged his headset into the ICS (intercommunications system) when he heard even one more reason that they had to be in one hell of a hurry.

“Hey, Lieutenant, get your people strapped down ASAP. They just told us we gotta scoot.” Ward looked up to see the lips of the mission pilot, sitting in the left pilot seat, moving. “AIROPS is reporting incoming. Lots of incoming.”

Ward glanced around quickly. All his team was onboard and heading for their seats. He gave a thumbs up. His hand was barely in the air when he heard and felt the twin Alison 501-M80C turboprops spool up. The aircraft literally leapt into the air and headed down range, even as the tail ramp was still slowly closing.

They were clearing the end of the outbound runway when the explosions started, first as lines of airborne bursts to the north and west, and then on the ground. A pair of F-22 tactical fighter jets rocketed past them, buffeting the slower prop-driven aircraft in their jet wash. Another pair of F-22s shot past from another direction, then a pair of F-15 Strike Eagles. The Air Force was trying to get every gun in the air that they could.

Looking out the partially closed ramp, Ward could see more explosions along the field behind them. A C-130 lay broken and burning in the mouth of a cavernous hangar. A fuel truck exploded, shattering the night. Several barracks were burning. He saw an F-22 make a low pass, its M61A2 cannon blazing. Then the CV-22 with its SEAL-team passengers dropped down to the deck and disappeared out over the water.

The mission pilot had not exaggerated. Lots of incoming was raining down on the base they had just left. Ward looked around at his team.

“Guys, I don’t think we should count on air cover on this mission. Looks like the Air Force shooters may be otherwise occupied.”

Ward’s ICS buzzed and his assumption was confirmed. “Hey, Lieutenant. Djibouti is secured. ATC just informed us all flight ops cancelled until further notice. We’ve been diverted to Salalah International in Oman. Nearest friendly field. We can abort your mission and take you there or we can go ahead and drop you on the way. Your call. But you should know that if we drop you, it’ll take us at least five hours to make Salalah, refuel, and come back to pick you up.”

Ward nodded to no one in particular and answered, “Roger all. We got a mission that needs done. Drop us off at the LZ as planned.”

“Sort of figured you would say that.”

“I understand there aren’t any tee times at the Al Mukalla Municipal Golf Course anyway, so I’m not sure what would keep you air jockeys occupied while we went out to do some real work.”

The command pilot chuckled. “Roger. LZ in two hours, ten mikes. Now, just sit back and enjoy the inflight entertainment.”

Ψ

Beren Sheedi, another one of Nabiin’s trusted lieutenants, stepped into the darkened room with an ecstatic look on his face.

“Alzaeim Almuqadas, Holy Leader, Sheik al-Wasragi reports the attacks on the American airbase have commenced. He reports absolute surprise and great success. You are able to watch in real time on YouTube if you desire. I have the link for one of the feeds from an American cable news network.”

Nabiin nodded.

Sheedi reached over and clicked the mouse resting near a computer beside the Prophet. The screen erupted into a grainy but telling image, a violent scene of flames and exploding buildings. Men scurried around like ants in a futile attempt to stop the damage. Even as they watched, a second wave of UAVs zoomed in like a swarm of bees to strike the hapless Americans, causing even more damage to what was ostensibly the most advanced military force on earth. A force that was now being ravaged by a flock of unmanned robot airplanes.

Nabiin smiled. “It is good. Give them a few hours to report their defeat back to their masters. With the dawn, we will cause a new sun to rise over Jerusalem. Do we have the launch orders ready? Is the radio tested?”

Sheedi nodded. “Yes, Alzaeim Almuqadas. All that is required is for you to give the command.”

Nabiin looked away, out a small, dusty window, toward the far horizon.

“Good. Then I need some solitude while I pray and meditate. Leave me in peace for a little time. Soon, we will be very busy.”

Sheedi bowed and backed out of the room.

Ψ

Arman Dirbaz hovered over the schematics for the missile launch control system. It was not the engineer’s sphere of expertise, and the breathing mask made it difficult to see, but he had necessarily been involved with this area during planning and construction of the submarine. It was all simple enough. The computer fed the guidance and targeting information to the missile only seconds before it was launched to allow for any last-instant adjustments. The launch sequence caused the missile tube seal closure to tear open milliseconds before the gas generator at the bottom of the missile tube ignited, pushing up the big rocket in a huge bubble of exhaust gases. When the missile sensed that it was clear of the launch tube, the rocket engines ignited with a roar and a belch of fire. Then the missile was propelled up and away, on its journey that would conclude with a rain of death and destruction on some unsuspecting target several thousand kilometers away from where the submarine remained hidden.

The Boz-Manand had four of these missiles onboard. Sayyed Abdul-Qadir Gilani, the IRGN colonel now in command of the submarine, had shared with Dirbaz that he planned to launch all four missiles in a ripple, but still maintained that this was merely a test of the systems. That the missiles were benign and set to hit in the Indian Ocean.

Dirbaz, of course, knew better. The four nuclear warheads were in place atop the