Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  The paddlewheels were concealed by white wooden boxes. A long sway-backed gangplank connected the paddle boat to the shore. And based on the number of people coming and going Kydd felt certain that the riverboat was Operation Pharaoh’s headquarters.

  Equally striking, but in a different way, were two pristine patrol boats that floated above shivering reflections of themselves. They were roughly the same size as the flotilla’s command boat, and so glaringly white, that they were difficult to look at.

  Had it not been for the shark’s teeth painted on each bow, Kydd might have mistaken the boats for yachts. The British are not only coming, Kydd thought, they’re here.

  Consistent with orders from the harbormaster the two-boat went alongside the refueling barge first. A medical team, plus a handful of marines, were waiting to receive Sanchez, the prisoner, and Bower’s body. Kydd had met Bower, and exchanged a few words with the sailor, but never gotten to know him.

  Once the stretchers were gone the rest of the flotilla was permitted to pull in for fuel. A smart looking corporal was waiting to greet Kydd. “Commander Kydd? I have a message for you, sir … Colonel Goolsby wants you to report to the Nile Queen right away.”

  “Thank you, corporal. I assume you’re referring to the floating palace behind me.”

  The marine grinned, said “Yes, sir,” and popped a salute. That was the second salute Kydd had received since arriving. Salutes were normally frowned on in combat zones.

  Snipers loved nothing more than to have the enemy identify targets for them. So were the salutes a matter of coincidence? Or an indication of how Goolsby ran things? What had Admiral Ducey called the marine? A “by-the-book asshole?” Something of that sort. A sense of impending doom descended on Kydd.

  It seemed safe to assume that “right away” meant right away. So Kydd ordered Altman to complete fueling, make contact with the harbormaster regarding anchorages, and find somebody to carry out a damage assessment on the two-boat. Could repairs be made on the spot? Or would it be necessary to send the patrol boat downriver?

  There was no need to seek directions once Kydd was ashore. The Nile Queen was visible from everywhere on the island. To reach the cruise ship he had to pass a row of cargo containers, a sandbagged LAV-25 (light armored vehicle), and “tent city,” before crossing over to the other leg of the inverted V. A well-trod path led to the foot of the gangplank, where a pair of marines were checking IDs.

  One of them eyed Kydd’s ID card with great care, while the other looked him up and down. “Are you armed, sir?”

  “No, should I be?”

  “Yes,” the private replied, as if speaking to a child. “Officers are required to wear side arms.”

  “You can go aboard,” the first leatherneck said, as she returned his card. The sentence was punctuated with a salute.

  Kydd replied in kind, felt the gangplank bounce under his boots, and crossed the gap. A first class petty officer was waiting to greet him. “Commander Kydd? Welcome aboard, sir. My name is Evans. I’m your yeoman. I saw you arrive.”

  Kydd offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Evans. I was told to report to Colonel Goolsby. Can you show me the way?”

  “Yes, sir. Please follow me.”

  Kydd followed Evans out of the heat, up a flight of metal stairs, and down a gleaming corridor. A lance corporal stood guard next to a door. A sign read, “First Class Lounge.”

  “This is it,” Evans told him. “A meeting is underway. I will make arrangements for a cabin. It will have to serve as your office too I’m afraid.”

  Kydd was about to say, “I don’t need a cabin,” but the yeoman was walking away by then. Kydd flashed his ID at the marine and entered the room beyond. The air was cool. Fans turned lazy circles above. Beautifully executed murals covered the bulkheads. All of it was there. The pyramids, the Sphynx, and a portrait of Cleopatra.

  A table split the room in half. About two-dozen people were present, leaving two chairs unoccupied. Kydd was about to sit on the nearest chair when the man at the head of the table spoke his name. “Lieutenant Commander Kydd, I presume?”

  Goolsby had a high forehead, beady eyes, and a long lugubrious face. And there, seated next to a major, was CIA agent Cassandra Cole! Her face remained empty of expression as Kydd rose to stand at something just short of attention. Every eye was on him. “Yes, sir.”

  “You are out of uniform Commander.”

  At that point Kydd was painfully aware of the fact that he was the only person in the room, other than civilians, who was wearing a ball cap, blue tee, and cargo pants.

  “Sir, yes sir. This was the approved uniform for my last command. My gear is in transit somewhere.”

  “Please request a full set of uniforms,” Goolsby said. “I expect my officers to look the part.”

  Cole’s head was turned toward Kydd. And, much to Kydd’s surprise, he saw a wink … As if to say, “Goolsby is full of shit. Don’t worry about it.”

  That changed the way he felt about being dressed down in front of his peers and how he felt about her. Maybe, just maybe, a human being lurked behind the blond good looks. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good,” Goolsby said. “How is Sanchez doing?”

  “The doctors are working on him, sir … I plan to check on him once the meeting is over.”

  Goolsby nodded. “Keep me informed. I’m sorry about Bowers. I’ll write to his family.”

  In a single stroke Goolsby was transformed from a complete asshole, to a partial asshole, and Kydd filed him accordingly. Cole smiled as if she knew what Kydd was thinking. “Thank you, sir,” Kydd said. “I’m sure the family will appreciate that.”

  “Grab a chair,” Goolsby said. “Major Waller is our S-2, and he’s most interested in the helicopter attack. You took a prisoner I believe?”

  Kydd was seated by then. “Yes, sir … He suffered a broken leg, so the medical folks are working on him.”

  Goolsby nodded. “Andrew will drain him dry. In the meantime please share you impressions with us.”

  Kydd gave a brief report, and concluded by saying that General Ahmar could be a threat in the future. Waller had dark hair, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was toying with a pen.

  “He’s a problem,” the S-2 admitted. “The general was a captain with the Republican Guard, and better known for his delusions of grandeur, than for his leadership abilities. We will, as the colonel put it, ‘drain your prisoner dry.’”

  The meeting moved on to other matters after that, including threats to the supply chain. “Because we have to bring our fuel all the way up from the Med,” the battalion supply officer began, “the chain is very vulnerable. A tug towing two or three barges would be easy pickings for a well-armed militia. We’ve been lucky so far … But it’s only a matter of time before our luck runs out.”

  “And that,” Goolsby put in, “is one of the areas I expect Commander Kydd to address. We have five patrol boats at our disposal now … And I’m of the opinion that each supply convoy should be accompanied by at least one of them.”

  All Kydd could do was agree even though he understood the toll such an assignment would take on his people and their boats. “Yes, sir … We’ll make it happen.”

  And so it went until the meeting came to a close half an hour later. Some of the participants took the opportunity to introduce themselves. Then, as the room cleared, Cole approached him. “So,” she said. “We meet again.”

  “Yes,” Kydd agreed. “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask what you’ve been up to.”

  “I help where I can,” Cole replied evasively. “And that brings me to a request. My team and I will need a boat at 1900 hours tomorrow night.”

  “To do what?”

  “To go upriver, find a retired engineer, and bring him back.”

  “Because?”

  “Because he knows Aswan Dam like the back of his hand. He spent 27 years working on it prior to the Brotherhood’s takeover.”

&n
bsp; “So he’s friendly.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not. We’ll find out. But he’s Sunni, and the Hezbollah fighters are Shia, so that will cut our way.”

  “It’s as simple as that.”

  “I hope so, yes.”

  “Should I check in with the colonel?”

  “No.”

  “I see,” Kydd said. Maybe Cole was on a solid footing—and maybe she wasn’t. He would check. “How large is your team?”

  “Four marines. A fireteam.”

  Kydd nodded. “Tell your team to be on the fuel barge. I’ll meet you there.”

  Cole raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “So, you’re coming?”

  “Of course. There’s nothing like a moonlight cruise on the Nile. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Cole put her sunglasses on. “It may have been that way once … But not anymore.” She turned her back on Kydd and left. He watched her go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Khartoum, Sudan

  Darkness was falling on the city of Khartoum. The man in the ankle-length jellabiya was no different from other pedestrians, except that he was Chinese, and carrying a stick. Yet, minimal though those distinctions were, they marked the man as a kafir and a target.

  Lights from adjacent buildings were reflected in the gently roiling waters before him. Al-Khartum was the capital of Sudan, and located at the confluence of the White Nile and the Blue Nile, which combined to become the Nile.

  As a student of military history, Colonel Shing Bo was fascinated by the battle that raged in and around Khartoum during the summer of 1884, and the winter of 1885. “Study the past,” Confucius said, “if you would divine the future.”

  The lead-up to the battle began when a self-anointed Mahdi (religious leader) led a successful revolt against the government of Egypt, which was a British protectorate at the time.

  After a muddled response a general named Charles George Gordon was sent to evacuate the British garrisons in the Sudan. This, despite Gordon’s personal belief that, should he succeed—the Mahdi might gain dominion over the entire Muslim world.

  Bo paused to look out over the churning waters. They were black, like congealed blood. Shadows shifted nearby. Scuffling sounds were heard. Bats swooped. A siren bleated in the distance.

  Gordon arrived in Khartoum on February 18, 1884. But instead of preparing the garrisons for withdrawal, as he’d been ordered to do, Gordon went about the business of administering the city in hopes of gaining support from its citizens. Gordon made improvements to the judicial system, lowered taxes, and ironically enough—legalized slavery. A horror which he, as Governor-General, had abolished years earlier.

  In the meantime Gordon sent a series of proposals to the British government all of which favored staying rather than leaving. The entreaties were refused.

  Bo felt rather than saw movement behind him. He moved his feet. Right foot forward. Left leg bent.

  Knowing that the Mahdists were closing in on Khartoum, Gordon finally got around to strengthening the city’s fortifications. But his efforts came too late. The city was surrounded. Citizens and soldiers alike began to starve. Gordon organized a force to break through enemy lines.

  But when Mahdi forces heard about that, they decided to attack, rather than continue to wait. On the night of January 25th a force of approximately 50,000 Mahdists approached Khartoum. And, because the Nile was low at that time of year, the attackers were able to wade across it. After circling around behind the city’s wall, they launched an attack on the governor’s palace.

  The British garrison was slaughtered. Four-thousand civilians were taken into slavery. And Gordon died fighting. The lesson? The soldier who fights for himself, fights for a fool, Bo concluded. The correct path was spelled out in the PLA (People’s Liberation Army) oath.

  “I am a member of the People’s Liberation Army. I promise that I will follow the leadership of the Communist Party of China, serve the people wholeheartedly, obey orders, strictly observe discipline, fight heroically, fear no sacrifice, loyally discharge my duties, work hard, practice hard to master combat skills, and resolutely fulfill my missions. Under no circumstances will I betray the Motherland or desert the army.”

  “Khadhah,” (take him) a male voice said, and three men rushed Bo. The telescoping staff was made of metal. And, as Bo gave the weapon a twist, it was transformed from a 22-inch baton, to a 60-inch long fighting stick. Bo held the weapon in both hands as he turned to face his attackers. The right tip came up to whack an assailant across the bridge of the nose. The man stumbled backwards clutching his face, trying to stem the flow of blood with his hands.

  In the meantime the left end of the staff stabbed sideways, penetrating deep into the second attacker’s left ear. He screamed and reeled away. The third man was close by then, very close, and might have been able to make contact had it not been for Shao wei (2nd lieutenant) Wang, who shot the would-be thief in the back. The Norinco Type 92 pistol was equipped with a suppressor—and produced little more than a gentle cough.

  The 9mm bullet threw the man forward to land at Bo’s feet. He frowned. “Lieutenant Wang … What are you doing here?”

  The rebuke was obvious. Though dressed in a Sudanese business suit, Wang snapped to attention, weapon straight down along his right leg. “Many apologies, sir. I have orders to follow and protect you.”

  “Orders from whom?”

  “Orders from Major Zhou, sir.”

  Zhou was Bo’s executive officer who had been obliquely critical of Bo’s “wanderings.” It was a compliment in a way, since Bo was the only thing that stood between Zhou and a command, which his second-in-command sorely wanted. Still, a private word with Zhou was in order.

  Bo took a quick look around. The surviving attackers had fled. The body lay in a shadow. Another casualty in Khartoum’s long list of casualties. “At ease, Wang … I understand. Orders must be followed. Come, we’ll buy food from a vendor on the way back.”

  That was a rare honor. And as close as Bo would ever come to thanking Wang, because to do so, might involve a loss of mianzi (face). And that would compromise both of them though in different ways.

  To reset the staff it was necessary to push each end of the pole against the pavement. Once that evolution was complete they left. The Nile whispered softly as it departed for Egypt.

  ***

  The new day dawned the way most did, which was to say clear and already warm. That made it the best time for calisthenics since later, around noon, the temp would hover in the upper nineties.

  Bo’s battalion was quartered in the old Cosmopolitan Hotel which, with its fortress-like exterior and spacious inner courtyard, was an excellent example of the colonialism imposed on China in the past. Yet the hotel offered numerous. Among them was the fact that the battalion had control of the entire structure. And the surrounding gardens could be mined, and converted into a free-fire zone, if the complex come under attack.

  Additionally the “Cosmo” was only blocks from Sudan’s most important government buildings. That was important because Bo’s men were in the city to protect the China-friendly Sudanese government—and China’s considerable investments in oil production.

  Though not a military power, Sudan had the kind of oil reserves that China lacked, and would need in the future. A Chinese future which would rule Africa and India.

  The calisthenics were well underway by then, and the troops were performing jumping jacks, when Zhou appeared at Bo’s elbow. “Excuse me, sir.”

  “Good morning, Major.”

  “Good morning, sir. A visitor is here to see you. An old friend.”

  “I doubt that,” Bo replied.

  “His name is Fan Leong.”

  Bo frowned. “Describe him.”

  “He’s shorter than you are,” Zhou said, “and stocky. A scar cuts diagonally across his face.”

  Bo felt a sense of shock. It was Leong. Which was to say Major General Leong, who, for reasons unknown, was in Khartoum rather than Beijing. “W
here is he?”

  “In your office.”

  “Thank you.”

  Zhou watched Bo leave. Mysterious were the ways of commanding officers.

  ***

  The Cosmo had elevators, but they had broken down decades earlier, and never been repaired. So Bo followed a flight of sweeping stairs down into a cavernous lobby. The paint, the furnishings, and the carpets were long overdue for renewal. But in spite of that the high-ceilinged room still managed to convey a sense of bourgeoisie elegance.

  The entrance to the manager’s office, currently Bo’s office, was located near the massive front desk. Both the duty sergeant and a private 1st class snapped to attention as Bo passed them.

  The door was ajar. And as Bo entered, he saw that General Leong was on his feet, inspecting the oil painting that hung over the fireplace. It was a portrait of Queen Elizabeth as she appeared in 1956. The general was dressed in a retro Mao suit which, in his younger days, had been standard formal wear for men.

  Bo came to attention as Leong turned. “Colonel Shing Bo, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  When Leong smiled it did nothing to lessen the scar’s visual impact. Most people assumed that the scar marked a battle wound. That despite the fact that up until the moment WWIII started hardly anyone within the PLA had fired a shot in anger. Bo included.

  No, the scar was the result of an auto accident on the Jingping Expressway, more than 20 years earlier. “At ease, Colonel … You look surprised.”

  “I am, sir,” Bo confessed, as they shook hands. “Please have a seat. Would you care for some tea?”

  “That would be welcome,” Leong replied.

  Bo went over to his desk and used the house phone to call the kitchen. Then he went back to sit across from Leong in front of the seldom used fireplace. The men knew each other well. Leong was a friend of Bo’s father and had been Bo’s mentor.

  Such a relationship could be very advantageous if all went well for the mentor. But, should Leong fall into disfavor, Bo would go down with him.

  Fortunately Leong had proven himself to be an adept politician. And that, in all truth, was something every general had to be. “So,” Leong began. “The people in our embassy tell me that you are doing a good job. Your parents will be pleased.”