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

missiles and they would be fully armed upon launch. They would cause death on a scale never before witnessed in all the bloody history of war. The engineer did not yet know precisely where the targets were but as he inspected the computer code, he could tell that it was far from open ocean.

He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach at what he was being ordered to do. There had to be a way to stop this, but he had not yet found it. He could take no pride in the fact that the system was checking out perfectly. For once Iranian and Russian engineering was working just as it was promised to.

The answer to his dilemma finally came to the Iranian engineer in a dream, as he involuntarily dozed for a few unexpected moments at his desk. Perhaps Allah had caused the sudden nap, that He was assuring him that this murderous assault was not at all His plan, but that of a madman. And that He had chosen Dirbaz to be the one to stop the Prophet’s lunacy.

In the dream, a voice had told him that he did not need to stop the launch. He should, instead, divert the missiles’ flight path to a spot where their impact would not be catastrophic. All he had to do was re-target them to do exactly what Galani had told them they should do. Hit out somewhere in the lonely recesses of the Indian Ocean.

Dirbaz now worked quickly, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he tried to make changes to the computer code that would determine the course of the missiles. He was just double-checking the new coordinates he had entered into the sequence when Colonel Gilani burst into the missile launch space’s cramped cubicle.

The Revolutionary Guard officer’s eyes were wide and glowing maniacally.

“Mohandes Doktor, is all in order?” he asked, peering over the engineer’s shoulder at the lines of code on the display. “Is the system functioning correctly? What were you typing?”

Beads of nervous sweat ran down Dirbaz’s forehead, nearly blinding him as he pulled away the mask and wiped it from his eyes with a sleeve. Did the tyrant suspect what Dirbaz was attempting? The engineer tensed himself, certain that a bullet would be coming if the colonel had even the slightest suspicion.

“I am merely running the diagnostic routine, Colonel. Double-checking the target co-ordinates as they were originally set. All is in order. For the test.”

Gilani nodded, then broke into an evil grin.

“Good. Very good. Now, please exit the program, bring that ridiculous mask if you must, and come to the control room to assist with the next step. Do not tarry, Doktor!”

The colonel backed out of the cramped room. Armand Dirbaz hit the key to exit the launch command system.

Only then did he let his chin fall to his chest and say a quick prayer of thanks for allowing him to be the one to do Allah’s true bidding. And that the changes he had made to the code were what was needed to divert the missiles.

And that there was not some pre-programmed override built in to prevent just the kind of sabotage that Dirbaz was attempting.

He rose and stepped out the doorway, adjusted the breathing mask, and headed to the submarine’s control room.

34

The beastly roar from an aircraft engine screaming by overhead rudely rousted Nabiin from his meditation. He shook his head, got to his feet, and rushed out onto the house’s second-floor portico, the alrawaq bialtaabiq alththani. There should be no aircraft in this area at all, much less so near the structure from which he would soon initiate the greatest destruction ever launched by man, in Allah’s service of course.

He knew immediately what he was seeing. A black-painted Osprey, a most distinctive aircraft, and one he had once considered acquiring to employ its unique capabilities for his own needs. But it was also distinctive enough that such a purchase could have possibly raised the curiosity of Mossad, the CIA, and other intelligence agencies. Now, one of those planes was hovering about one meter above a dusty soccer field behind the Al Rayan Hospital. And a team of heavily armed men tumbled out of the back, already rushing straight toward the building where the Prophet was standing.

His own men, expecting no such attack, nonetheless sprang into action. They rushed out of their rooms below and opened fire on the strangers. Muzzle blasts lit up the very-early-morning darkness, yet a full hour before people would begin stirring, preparing for morning prayers. An hour before he expected to send the launch order to the submarine.

Bullets zinged and zipped across the open field. Nabiin watched as one of his men fell, the bodyguard’s anguished screams ringing in his ears. Then two more men went down. A grenade arced across the field and blasted one of the pickup trucks still parked out front of the building after their mad journey to this place.

The Prophet was fascinated, both by the skill of the attackers—almost certainly US Navy SEALS or some type of Special Forces unit—and the ferocity with which his own guards fought to protect him. But then he shook his head as he dove back into the blackness of the small room. Its thick mud walls would provide some protection from the hail of gunfire that spattered the outside. And he was confident his men would keep the attackers at bay until he could do the deed that had brought him to this assumedly safe location in the first place.

Nabiin crouched down on the thick carpet and hammered out an encoded message on his laptop computer. When he hit “Send,” the short set of code groups passed via Bluetooth to an input on the very-low-power HF transceiver resting against the far wall. A red light on its face blinked, indicating a transmission had been sent up the short run of coaxial cable to the tall antenna projecting from the roof. The brief, low-wattage signal would hardly be