Twenty-four Days Read online

  TWENTY-FOUR DAYS

  Book Two: Rowe-Delamagente series

  By J. Murray

  Other books by Jacqui Murray

  Fiction

  To Hunt a Sub

  Prequel to Twenty-four Days

  Non-fiction

  Building a Midshipman: How to Crack the USNA Application

  Over 100 books, ebooks, and other non-fiction resources on integrating tech into education available from her publisher, Structured Learning LLC

  Praise for the Rowe-Delamagente series:

  A blistering pace is set from the beginning: dates open each new chapter/section, generating a countdown that intensifies the title’s time limit. Murray skillfully bounces from scene to scene, handling numerous characters, from hijackers to MI6 special agent Haster. ... A steady tempo and indelible menace form a stirring nautical tale. – Kirkus Reviews

  ***

  … a satisfying read from a fresh voice in the genre, and well worth the wait. The time devoted to research paid off, providing a much appreciated authenticity to the sciency aspects of the plot. The author also departs from the formulaic pacing and heroics of contemporary commercialized thrillers. Instead, the moderately paced narrative is a seduction, rather than a sledgehammer. The author takes time rendering relatable characters with imaginatively cool names like Zeke Rowe, and Kalian Delamagente. The scenes are vividly depicted, and the plot not only contains exquisitely treacherous twists and turns, but incorporates the fascinating study of early hominids, and one ancestral female in particular who becomes an essential character. – Goodreads reader

  ***

  A fusion of technology, academics, and archaeology make “To Hunt a Sub” a thrilling ride. The stakes are high as a PhD student and an ex-Seal risk all to stop terrorists from stealing American submarines carrying nuclear weapons. The writing is clipped and crisp, fitting well with the genre—there’s little fluff. The author’s expertise in technology shines through. A quick read I finished in just a few days. Solid debut novel. – Amazon reader

  ***

  So last night I couldn't sleep and finally got up about 3 o'clock in the morning and thought I would just read for a while and maybe I would get to sleep unfortunately, I read your book. Needless to say I was only halfway done when I started at 3 a.m. and by 6 a.m. I had finished the book! Too good to go to sleep. Excellent book. Can't wait for the next one. WOW – Amazon reader

  ***

  This is a complex layered story that successfully blends well researched archaeology and cutting edge technology, with a high stakes terrorist plot to steal nuclear submarines. It’s got characters to root for, and villains to loathe. –Amazon reader

  ***

  I loved the way the author combined vulnerability and strength in her main characters. I loved where the macho character ‘Rowe’ takes Kali’s hand even though she pulls away. And there is this beautiful raw, insight into what it can cost you to be a mother. Otto is very cool too. – Amazon reader

  ©2017 Structured Learning LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Structured Learning LLC ([email protected]).

  Published by Structured Learning LLC

  Laguna Hills, Ca 92653

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and military weapons and strategy are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, military strategies, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Design and layout for cover: Paper and Sage Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-942101-19-2

  Acknowledgeements

  My sincere thanks to several USNA professors for their passionate discussions about submarines, my brother who shared what he could from his days hunting submarines, my naval officer daughter for her constant patience to yet another question, the Captain and crew of the USS Bunker Hill for their guidance and insights, Fire Controlman Senior Chief Chris Moore for allowing me to pick his brain over eggs and bacon. Many thanks also to Dr. Philip Ender of the University of California Los Angeles for savvy insights into computers and an alternative approach to thinking and my anonymous friend for his anecdotal insights into radical Islam—providing a personal face to the terrorists’ goals.

  Please know, while many individuals assisted in this book’s development, all mistakes are my own. In some cases, I adjusted reality to reflect the needs of the script. In other cases—such as submarine protocols, code words, equipment, and other military details—I purposely strayed from reality to ensure my story never got close to resembling classified material. If you are a veteran and think I got something wrong, I’m just keeping things secure.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  Want More?

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Monday, August 7th

  HMNB Devonport England

  Until last month, Eyad Obeid considered himself a devout Muslim. He prayed five times a day, proclaimed God’s glory in every conversation, and performed the required ablutions when confronted with uncleanliness. When his brother was executed by Israeli gunman five years ago, Obeid swore retribution. No nobler purpose could he imagine for his worthless life than dying for Allah.

  But instead of a suicide vest and the promise of seventy-two virgins, the village imam enrolled him in college to learn nuclear physics, thermodynamics, chemistry, and math so complex its sole application was theoretical. Much to Obeid’s surprise, he thrived on the cerebral smorgasbord. In fact, with little effort, he attained all the skills required by the Imam.

  By the time he earned his PhD in Nuclear Physics, he had learned two lessons. First, he was much smarter than most people around him, and second, the western world was not what he had been told.

  Now, just weeks after graduation, Eyad Obeid approached the dingy Devonport pub
on the frigid southern shore of England and wondered how to explain to the man responsible for giving Eyad Obeid this amazing future that he would fulfill his obligation, but then, wanted out.

  He squared his shoulders and entered the pub.

  His stomach lurched. Rather than his mentor Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi, he found the Kenyan and his three henchmen. He had first met these thugs in San Diego California where he learned to run a nuclear submarine under the friendly tutelage of British submariners. When Obeid finished his studies, the Kenyan slaughtered the Brits. No warning. No discussion, just slash, slice and everyone died.

  As did Obeid’s belief in the purity of Allah.

  The nuclear physicist jammed his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and approached the table. The Kenyan had never introduced himself and Eyad Obeid lacked the courage to ask.

  “I was expecting Salah al-Zahrawi,” Obeid offered as he slipped into the booth.

  The Kenyan stared past Obeid, eyes as desolate as the Iranian desert, thick sloping shoulders still, ebony skin glistening under the fluorescent lights. Danger radiated from him like the hum of a power plant. He had three new fight scars since their last encounter, like angry welts but otherwise, he looked rested, clearly losing no sleep over the slaughter of innocents.

  “You have one more job before you are released.” In a quiet, toneless voice, the man without a soul explained the new plan, finishing with, “If you fail, you die.”

  Obeid was stunned. His gut said Run! He risked his future—his life—staying a moment longer with this crazed zealot, but Obeid did little more than croak a strangled, “If I succeed, I will also die!” His University friends called it a Sophie’s Choice.

  The Kenyan shrugged. “But less painfully.”

  Obeid twitched as heat washed his face. As he sought an appropriate response, the waitress arrived with tea. She poured a cup for each of them, chattering to no one in particular about how she had forgotten her blarmy slicker because her boyfriend kept her up the whole bloody night, di’n he, and she was frightfully knackered. No one responded.

  “Shall I tell you the specials on offer?”

  The Kenyan slowly ratcheted his head toward her. “Go.”

  The waitress backed away, almost knocking over another server and his steaming tray of eggs, bacon, black pudding, and baked beans. “Well, aren’t we in a bloody mood,” and she left.

  The Kenyan did not seem to notice, his flat dead eyes back on Obeid. The physicist squirmed. He was but one man. His only hope was to quietly warn the authorities. He folded his hands into his lap to hide their shaking.

  “Insha Allah, I will help. What do you require?”

  “Do you remember the training you received from the Parishers?”

  The British submariners you butchered? Obeid nodded.

  “You must ensure the sailors perform their duties after we hijack the sub.”

  With no further explanation, the Kenyan tossed a fistful of notes onto the table and left. As Obeid hurried after him, he surreptitiously thumbed a message into his phone and pushed send.

  There was no signal.

  The Kenyan parked in the crew lot outside Her Majesty’s Devonport Plymouth Naval Base. Obeid changed into a uniform and emerged from the car carrying a loaded gun in a prayer rug. Maa shaa Allah.

  The storm broke and quickly turned the parking lot slick and shiny. Obeid shivered despite the heavy pea coat with the warm fur-lined collar. How did the British stand the weather? When this ended, he would never again leave the sparkling sun and cloudless skies of his beloved Iran.

  “Eyad!” It was Tariq Khosrov, with two other friends from Obeid’s graduate program, all with PhDs in nuclear physics. Tariq was one of the smartest boys Obeid had ever met and the most naïve. “Are we going to steal a nuclear submarine?”

  Obeid hissed, “Quiet!” and the Kenyan nudged him toward the base’s thick metal gates. They had been designed to stop an AK-47 or a firebomb, even an RPG, but not the weapon Salah al-Zahrawi would use. Faithful Muslims who worked for naval personnel had replaced pictures of the dead San Diego Parishers with Obeid and the rest of the hijackers. By the time the Royal Navy realized something was wrong, HMS Triumph would be gone and missing.

  “Next!”

  The man in front of Obeid passed his ID to the bored security. He checked the man’s face, his computer screen, and waved him through.

  It was Obeid’s turn. “ID, please.”

  Obeid’s chest tightened as the stern-looking sentry, blonde hair trimmed close to his scalp, collar turned up against the wind, fingers like thick sausages on powerful hands, turned a flint-eyed glare to Obeid. The nuclear physicist froze and the guard’s boredom became suspicion. He read the name stitched on the right breast of Obeid’s uniform. “Haim is it?”

  He looked Obeid up and down, as though to determine if the name matched the slight figure in front of him with wire-rimmed glasses and the thatch of black hair dripping rain down his forehead. True, he couldn’t tell Obeid’s stomach lacked the six-pack of muscles the real Haim had been so proud of, but he could see Obeid’s slender hands and they were those of a scientist, not a sailor. Surely, the guard would say something.

  Obeid fumbled, almost dropping the ID before shoving it forward.

  “Anything to declare?” The guard’s gaze flicked to the prayer rug.

  Sweat broke out under Obeid’s arms. Should he tell the guard there was an AK-47 in his prayer rug or would he shoot before listening to Obeid’s explanation? No, better to deal with the problem onboard. Besides, the Kenyans claimed they were simply leveraging demands against Britain backed by the threat posed by the sub’s weapons. They would never use them.

  He bit his lip hard, tasting blood, and forced anger into his voice. “You suspect me because I am Muslim? Do you want to examine my prayer rug?” His voice dripped with righteous indignation as he had practiced and he extended the tightly-bound bundle, taking care to keep the ends turned away from the soldier. “Maybe I am carrying an A… K.” He purposely stumbled over the name.

  The sentry flushed and stepped back as though burned.

  “Now I didn’t mean that mate, did I? O’ course you’re fine,” and waved Obeid through.

  Across the yard, limned against the grey sky, towered the domed shape of the HMS Triumph, its deck slick with rain, sail glistening in the early morning light. The warheads it carried could reach the vast majority of the planet but the bustling sailors, some in oil-stained uniforms, others nattily dressed in white with jaunty officer caps, greeted each other, oblivious to the danger approaching them in the uniform of shipmates.

  What had he done?

  “Keep going,” the scar-faced Kenyan hissed between clenched teeth.

  Obeid balled his fists to stop their shaking and forced his steps to be slow and measured as if in no rush to start what would be a three-month deployment.

  When the group reached the Triumph, they were greeted by a cherub-faced seaman. “You the Parisher blokes?” He stuck his hand out. “Name’s McEwen. We’re the Second crew. First came down with food poisoning.” He chuckled, eyes crinkling with merriment, brows like gray steel wool. “Brill, you think? Who wants to play hide and seek with a Diesel?”

  McEwen poked the Kenyan in jovial familiarity while Obeid combed through his training for what a ‘diesel’ might be.

  “Enough yakking. Get sorted, blokes. We leave in an hour.”

  Press Release: North Korea to Launch Satellite into Orbit

  SEOUL, South Korea — North Korea proclaimed plans to launch a communications satellite into orbit August 30th, threatening to increase tension surrounding their nuclear weapons program.

  The United States condemned the step, saying it violated UN Security Council resolutions, demanding North Korea stop launching rockets that use long-range intercontinental ballistic missile technology. “If they proceed with this launch, how will we trust a regime that egregiously violates its international commitment?” the State
Department spokesperson asked.

  North Korea, with the aid of their strategic partner Iran, is believed to be developing technology to mount nuclear warheads atop a missile such as the Unha-2, ultimately intended to deliver nuclear weapons as far away as North America, though analysts doubt their success. At least twice, North Korea tried and failed to loft satellites into orbit. To this day, it boasts that a satellite is in orbit, broadcasting patriotic songs praising Kim Jong Un.

  Chapter One

  Day Four, Thursday, August 10th,

  Early morning

  Zeke Rowe crouched behind a clump of creosote in a shallow Iraqi wadi. The cracked ground, baked dry by the scorching sun, might as well have been steel wool under his hands. In three hours, darkness would shroud his return to base, but until then, he must be invisible.

  Something cracked and then the whisper of movement through the hot dry air. Rowe turned, M-16 at the ready, eyes darting through the brush for anything out of sync. There was a glint like sun bouncing off steel, followed by a flash of light. He scrambled, aiming while bobbing sideways, but a searing blast turned everything dark.

  His head hurt. If it split open, it’d be an improvement. He tried to lift an arm to see what was drilling into his skull, but couldn’t. Same with his legs, which left his eyes the sole recon available. One was swollen shut and the other felt like sandpaper as he pried it open. Focusing made his skull pound.

  “You are awake, Lt. Zeke Rowe, Navy SEAL, intelligence, serial number 502861011.”