Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) George Wallace (the little red hen ebook .TXT) 📖

And the Red Sea must be sealed. It is time for your pirates to push out again. And use your influence with Boko Haram and their friends to push the Americans out of Africa.”

Turning to the last man in the inner circle, Nabiin concluded his commands.

“Mr. Tong will, of course, move the necessary resources to quietly but sufficiently fund all of these events.”

The short Sudanese, dressed in his inevitable rumpled business suit, nodded thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he spoke quietly, in a voice so low that the other three had to lean in to hear him.

“Master Nabiin, I can only imagine that discretion and secrecy is vital to the success of our plan. I fear that there is one item no longer required that should now be eliminated. Mr. Rothbert, our New York banker, knows far too much about us. In the face of the coming activities, he might suddenly grow a conscience.”

Nabiin nodded to Farian Gurmani and Beren Sheedi. The two men immediately disappeared into the back recesses of the cave.

Nabiin rose, motioned for the others to stand, and made it a point to hug each man. Then he looked into each man’s eyes before making his final declaration.

“My loyal friends, the time is at hand. We must now go forward. The next time we meet will be in Paradise.”

Ψ

High up in the desert and so very far away from any elements of civilization, the stars glittered especially brightly across an obsidian sky. After the baking-hot afternoon, the desert night had turned bone-chilling frigid.

Humidity in the single digits caused such an uncomfortable swing, TJ Dillon thought as he shivered and huddled beneath his camouflage blanket. Hard for a dude to know how to pack for such a vacation. But at least he was all but invisible and beginning to feel a bit more comfortable there beneath the thorny acacia bush.

It had taken hours for the former SEAL to slowly, silently slip down near the roadway, plant the sensor package he had lugged all the way out here to this garden spot, and then find the perfect hiding place for his own tired body. But now he was far enough up the rocky slope that chance of discovery was very slight, yet he was still near enough that he could observe any traffic on the road as well as be able to pick up the weak signal from the sensor. By the time Dillon had everything in place, it was well past midnight.

He checked his watch. If his intel was anywhere near good, he should be seeing traffic in another hour or so. It could not come too soon for him. He stretched his cramped, aching muscles and lamented once again on why and how someone his age was out sneaking around the high Iranian desert in the middle of the night.

Money was part of it. But not the greatest reason. TJ Dillon loved his country and had long ago vowed he would do anything he could to preserve it and all it stood for. His dad had been the same way, but he had paid the ultimate price. That was why TJ had also become career military, and in a branch of the service where he thought he could make the biggest individual difference. This second career, at the CIA’s behest, had come along when TJ had assumed his fighting days were over. That he would be home with his wife and their son, TJ Junior.

Home soaking up the Florida sunshine, looking for rock lobster and oysters in the inlets around Tampa Bay with his boy, sleeping late, watching football, drinking beer, telling tall tales with the guys at the American Legion post. No, he figured the job required that he would mostly be consulting friendly warriors—and, sometimes, some not-so-friendly ones who just happened to share enemies with the USA—and conducting benign training missions. Not lying among the scorpions and sand waiting for deadly cargo to pass within a few yards.

The small convoy arrived just as expected. The four trucks came down Pakistan Route N10 from Gwadar, barreling through Tamp Kuh, the tiny village that served as the Pakistani side of the border crossing, without ever touching the brakes. The trucks hardly slowed, either, as they were waved through the remote border crossing between Pakistan and Iran.

Ten minutes later, they had disappeared down the Bahukalat Road, which led to Chabahar.

After their dust had settled, Dillon carefully checked the readings from the tiny remote sensors. His source had been right. The shadowy figure had told him precisely what he could expect to see. Each truck carried at least one nuclear weapon of some kind. Dillon did not pretend to understand the science employed by those little guys to determine the nature of the terrifying cargo that had rolled past him and his acacia bush. He only knew the sensors’ report had been undeniable.

Bad stuff on its way to do some horrible things at the command of some evil people.

Now the fun part. He had to police his hiding spot in the unlikely event somebody stumbled upon it and made the correct deduction. And then slip out unnoticed. He would have to be up in the mountains by dawn. That was five miles of tough desert hiking. And there was no choice but to be on time.

The CIA operative shrugged. All in a night’s work.

11

The mystery of the Ocean Mystery’s vanishing only deepened. It had already passed the grim fascination the world had with the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 back in 2014. And with the boon to ratings, clicks, and newspaper sales, the media was only too willing to keep stoking the interest.

Despite over a hundred aircraft, a fleet of ships, and all the resources the United Nations could bring to bear, no one had so far found even a trace of the missing research ship. Even the very sophisticated American Keyhole-12 Advanced KEENAN spy satellites continued to come up with nothing at all.

The