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

console and pushed a couple of buttons, typed in his user ID and password, and read the message that appeared on the screen.

The skipper flexed both hands and stood up straight. It was clear to everyone that something had just changed.

“Officer of the Deck, secure ventilating, secure periscope depth operations, come to four hundred feet, course two-seven-zero, ahead flank.” Edwards’s orders came quickly, firmly. “And get the Nav up here.”

The sub was already sliding into the depths—and every man aboard could feel it, sensing some urgency—as Edwards started punching new coordinates into the ECDIS control panel. The Electronic Chart Display and Information System began spitting out the best course to Diego Garcia.

That was when Lieutenant Commander Jim Shupert, George Mason’s navigator, ran into the control room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Captain?”

“Looks like this little voyage just got a hell of a lot more interesting.”

12

A hot, dry wind blew the dusty smell of the parched desert across the broad, shallow harbor. The setting sun held little hope of relief from the arid heat. Arman Dirbaz squeezed the damp towel that rested on his neck and shoulders, trying to conjure up even the tiniest bit of cooling moisture.

“Chabahar may be the city of four spring seasons, but all four are woefully hot,” the man muttered, mostly to himself. The chief engineer stood up high on the bridge wing of the tug Ilhyat. He watched as the boat pulled the ballistic missile submarine Boz-Manand away from the shipyard pier. The sub was a great source of pride for Dirbaz. Much of his career—indeed most of his life—had been spent designing, building, and proving the worth of this mighty submarine.

And this would be the day that she would taste the open sea for the very first time.

Vassily Godonov, Dirbaz’s old friend and Russian mentor, grinned as he watched the younger engineer pace anxiously around the tiny space.

“Arman, my friend, you must be calm. You are not birthing a son this night,” he said with a chuckle. “It is only the sea trials for a floating hunk of iron.” Godonov waved toward the submarine, only now being separated from the pier. “But I will admit, it is a rather impressive hunk of iron.”

Dirbaz grasped the bridge rail and watched intently as the line-handlers on the submarine cast off the last ropes connecting the Boz-Manand to the land. He felt the tug’s powerful diesel engine rev up and the big screw bite into the harbor water as the Ilyhat obediently pulled the submarine out into the channel.

Finally, Dirbaz responded to Godonov’s comments.

“I’m not sure which is more difficult, birthing a son or a submarine. I do know that standing here on the tug and not on the Boz-Manand is most frustrating.” The engineer gazed longingly at “his” submarine. “I would feel much better if I were now observing the fuel cells. I still have concerns about that overheating.”

Godonov shook his head. “My friend, you must trust Russian technology. It is proven to be the best in the world. And besides, should anything happen, you will only be a few hundred meters away.”

The tug towed the submarine out into the center of the channel before stopping. As the pair of engineers watched silently, the deck crews cast off the big submersible. When the last line slid off the new vessel’s rounded deck, the tug’s whistle sounded a prolonged blast, welcoming a new denizen to the deep. The submarine swung around until it was lined up with the center of the channel and then proceeded downstream, at last bound for the open sea. The Ilyhat loyally floated in behind to follow her, playing the dutiful escort.

Lights blinked on around the broad shallow bay. Over to the east, Chabahar City, the sprawling new metropolis, brightened the sky, as if basking in the central government’s attention as Iran’s only deep-water port on the Arabian Sea.

Finally arriving out in the center of the bay and into the major ship channel, the two vessels came around to the south and headed out into the deep waters. The open ocean swell gently rocked them. To the southeast a dhow beat its way into port, its holds presumably filled with fish for Chabahar’s bustling market. Otherwise, the sea appeared to be empty of any other vessels.

The Boz-Manand signaled that all was normal with the boat’s operation so far and they would begin a high-power surface run. Since he had approved the sea trial’s engineering tests, Dirbaz knew that this portion involved a complex series of high-speed runs, rudder throws, and backing bells. For the Ilyhat to play mother hen now would be exceedingly dangerous. The slightest hesitation, miscalculation, or miscommunication would result in a disastrous collision. The engineer reminded the tug’s master yet again to stay well clear of the submarine for the next couple of hours. Now, as Dirbaz proudly watched, the Boz-Manand leapt ahead, white water surging high up on the submarine’s towering sail before crashing back down in a frothy maelstrom.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone on the new boat or the tug, one hundred and fifty feet below, on the bay’s muddy bottom, an acoustic sensor recorded the submarine passing overhead. The digitized acoustic recording flashed across the fiber link to a communications node several miles out, in deeper water. From there, the data was uplinked to a geosynchronous satellite hovering twenty-three thousand miles over Central Africa and then instantly relayed back down to a secure terminal in a nondescript building in Dam Neck, Virginia.

Analysts working there now knew not only that Boz-Manand had begun her sea trials but also knew, well before the Iranian engineers even had a chance to collate their data, that a cooling pump on the vessel would soon need a bearing replacement.

“Salam, Mohandes Doktor,” the tug’s master said in greeting as he stepped out onto the bridge. Almost exactly two hours had passed since the submarine’s maneuvers had begun. “The Boz-Manand signals that the surface power runs are completed with no