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

emergency breathing mask, but Dirbaz knew that he could not afford to suffer the slow toxic build-up from low-level carbon monoxide poisoning. There was no way of knowing how that would affect his cognitive abilities, but he had a pretty good idea. He could not understand, either, why those who now commanded his submarine did not understand the seriousness of this problem.

Maybe, just maybe, after it came up to temperature and he got it fine-tuned, the burner could keep up with whatever was producing the deadly carbon monoxide. If only they had not decided to save a few thousand rials by not installing a second burner. Two burners could have easily kept the air clean. But now, with one working burner, maybe they could still return to home port and find out what was generating the gas in the first place. And, of course, fix it.

Dirbaz had just completed fine-tuning the burner when Colonel Sayyed Abdul-Qadir Gilani angrily burst into the confined space.

“Mohandes Doktor!” the submarine’s captain shouted at Dirbaz. “You must quit playing with that damnable toy! The air is fine. And I need you to check the missile systems. The time is almost here, and they must work perfectly.”

“The time? If I knew better the nature of...”

But Gilani was not listening. Instead, he rubbed the back of his head.

“If I can only get my head to stop pounding. Surely paradise will cure this headache.”

33

Jon Ward stepped out of the Walter Reed Medical Center and sucked in a deep breath of the cool, humid air. To him, this place was and always would be the Bethesda Naval Hospital, no matter what the Department of Defense said its official name now was. His son, Jim, had been born here. And hospitalized here during his recovery from an episode with his SEAL team down in the Bahamas.

Now, he finally had the opportunity to take a couple of really deep breaths and look up at the night sky. And send up another prayer for Tom Donnegan. That certainly would not hurt.

The EMTs had rushed Papa Tom from the ambulance into the ER and then the staff took him almost immediately to the Cardiac ICU. Jon had spent the last several hours pacing the floor in the waiting area while the doctors and nurses raced past him, normally without a word or a glance, tending to others who had decided to have heart attacks this evening.

Ellen, Ward’s wife, had rushed in just as the head doctor stepped out of the ICU to give Jon an update. They hardly had time to exchange worried looks and a quick embrace.

“Family?”

“Same as…” Jon and Ellen said in unison to the doc’s question.

“Well, Admiral, you outrank me so you can order me to tell you what we know.”

“So ordered.”

Ward felt Ellen squeeze his hand as the young doctor calmly recited the facts, as emotionless as if he were reading a Sonic menu out loud. Papa Tom had suffered a cardiac arrest brought on by severe atherosclerosis. He was still in a coma, which for right now was a good thing. They would continue running tests but would not know any results—including the extent of damage to the heart muscle or the prognosis for recovery—until at least morning. The admiral was still in danger. Another blockage, any other trauma to his heart, and that could be it.

Louise, Tom Donnegan’s wife, had just arrived when Jon Ward left his wife on watch in the cramped waiting room while he stepped outside to get some air. And check for messages.

Ward’s cell phone buzzed before he even had a chance to look. A text message alert popped up on the screen.

“Shalom, my friend. We are praying for the Admiral. Business: Contacts have Prophet in Al Mukalla. We have no ready assets. Time is short. Action vital. Talbot”

So Samuel Talbot and his Mossad friends had again proven to be valuable allies. They had done what the US’s mighty web of intelligence had so far been unable to accomplish. They had located Nabiin in Al Mukalla. The Israelis were able to work without some of the bureaucratic restrictions that so often hampered American efforts.

Ward faintly remembered seeing some satellite photos of a relatively remote port town in Yemen, hard on the edge of the Gulf of Aden. What would a seriously demented Arab terrorist be doing in that out-of-the-way hole? It really did not matter. If he was there, it was a chance to get him.

Ward began furiously dialing a number from memory. A number too important and too secret to be stored in the phone or available on speed dial. This and a couple more phone calls would get the ball rolling.

But now another prayer was appropriate. A prayer that he would make the right moves and that they would occur before it was too late to stop whatever the Prophet was planning to inflict on the planet.

Ψ

Jim Ward and his weary SEAL team rushed across the tarmac to the waiting CV-22 Osprey aircraft. Each man was bent over under a load of weapons and gear.

“Boss, we need to sign up for the ‘Air Farce Frequent Flyer Program,’” Tony Martinelli quipped. “As much time as we spend on these flying Cuisinarts, we should be riding in first class.”

“You are flying first class,” Master Chief Johnston shot back. “Got you early boarding and all your luggage flies free. Once we’re airborne, you can have all the free MREs you can eat.”

“Thanks, Master Chief,” Martinelli answered. “We get a cute flight attendant, or we stuck with that dog-faced jump master from last time?”

“Martinelli, will you never learn?” Johnston retorted. “Your lip just earned you duty loadin’ and stowin’ all the gear. You’d better triple check it and make real damn sure you don’t leave nothin’ sittin’ on the tarmac and that everything is working tippy-top. Make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master Chief. Loud and clear.”

The team swung up the Osprey’s stern ramp and quickly situated themselves for take-off. The urgency of their departure