Kantar’s breath came in short gasps. He started to shake as the adrenaline drained from his system. He needed to rest, to think, but the boat was drifting downstream toward Hiesa Island, and the people who lived there. The bodies, Kantar thought. And my uniform. I need to get rid of them.
An eddy caused the boat to turn as Kantar removed his shirt, pants and boots. He was about to drop the bundle overboard when he remembered the remote. Was it still there? What if it wasn’t? Kantar felt a sense of desperation as he felt for the lump and found it.
After removing the remote, Kantar threw the rest into the river, confident that his boots would weight everything down. Next came the difficult task of dumping the old man into the Nile. Would someone notice the body? Probably … But he hoped to be on land by the time that occurred.
Then came the unpleasant task of pulling the other Egyptian’s filthy shorts off, and removing his cheap sandals, before rolling the body up and over the side. The current carried the corpse away. The shorts were a little baggy—but Kantar managed to cinch them in.
Hiesa Island was closer by then and Kantar had no intention of landing on it. The oars were secured to vertical posts with cord, and unexpectedly crude, being little more than lengths of lumber. Still, something was better than nothing.
Kantar settled himself onto the middle seat and began to pull. His goal was to land on the east bank of the river near the area where the Russian-Hezbollah fighters originally came down. From that point a two-mile hike would get him to Launcher # 4, which was part of the dam’s missile defense system. The noncom in charge of the facility was an Iranian named Babak Marwan. A man who wasn’t likely to be part of Boustani’s plot.
One of Kantar’s Hezbollah loyalists was stationed at the facility both to learn about the launcher, and keep an eye on the Iranians. With assistance from the two men Kantar planned to recruit more personnel from other missile sites.
Kantar looked over his shoulder occasionally, in hopes that the trip would soon end. But due to the clumsy oars, and his lack of skill, the endeavor took twenty minutes.
As the felucca neared the shoreline it was time to look for a landing spot. A small cove offered Kantar the opportunity he was looking for. Another felucca was pulled up on the beach, but the owner was nowhere to be seen.
Once the hull scraped the bottom Kantar got out and checked to ensure that the remote was in his pocket. It was. But a horrible thought occurred to Kantar. What, if anything, had the water done to the device?
After removing the remote Kantar flipped the protective cover out of the way. It wasn’t watertight, and the inner surface was wet.
There were three buttons, each labeled with Cyrillic script, and three matching indicator lights. What Kantar assumed to be the firing switch was located at the bottom of the remote and protected with a sliding cover. A green light was on. Did that mean what he hoped it meant? That the device was on, and functional? It seemed logical, but there was no way to be sure.
Kantar removed a bottle of water from the boat and gave it a push. It took a moment for the current to find the felucca and drag it away. Then Kantar put the remote down long enough to wade out into the river, before returning to shore, and retrieving the device.
Kantar’s wet skin and clothes helped to keep him cool as he followed a trail east. But not for long. The merciless sun bit into the skin on Kantar’s back, and sucked the moisture out of his shorts within fifteen minutes, leaving him hot and dry. And the fisherman’s flip flops were far from ideal for the rocky ground.
It wasn’t long before the trail turned into a dry creek bed through which water flowed two or three times a year. Kantar knew he was headed in the right direction … But was the missile base directly ahead of him? Or off to one side? Maybe, if he was lucky, he would catch a glimpse of the facility’s communications tower.
Kantar scanned the horizon as he walked, paused to take an occasional sip of water, and wondered what was happening at the dam. Alawi was missing. That left Sergeant Major Damji in command. Kantar’s bodyguards were dead, and he was missing. What would Damji make of that? Or had he been killed as well?
Doubt and fear continued to plague Kantar as he climbed up out of a ravine and spotted a palm tree! No, two palm trees, both standing next to a deserted building.
Suddenly Kantar knew where he was. The highway that led from the dam to Aswan city was up ahead. And, after turning south, he would come upon the dirt road that led east to the missile battery. Kantar felt a sense of renewed energy as he walked past the ruins and out to the highway. There wasn’t any traffic and for good reason. His men had established a checkpoint just south of Aswan City and the locals weren’t allowed to proceed beyond it.
The pavement was hot, but easier to walk on, and Kantar was eager to reach the base. After fifteen minutes he came to the unmarked turnoff, took a left, and followed the dirt road east. It wasn’t long before Kantar came to a cyclone fence, a gate, and a post with a phone mounted on it.
Beyond the barrier Kantar could see the triangular signs that marked the facility’s protective minefield. The mines had been laid by the Muslim Brotherhood to protect the missile battery and left in place by Kantar. Attackers could destroy the gate, and proceed on the road, but even a small force of men would be able to stop them.
Kantar hurried over to the phone. He lifted the protective cover and pushed a button. Nothing happened. He tried again and again. The man who answered was clearly annoyed. “This is a military facility, in a restricted area, and you must leave immediately.”
“This is Wahda Kantar … Send someone to open the gate. That’s an order.”
There was a pause as the technician thought that over. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. “But if I arrive at the gate, and someone other than Wahda Kantar is waiting there, I will shoot that person in the face.”
Kantar grinned as he replaced the phone. He saw a dust cloud before he heard the engine, and an American made jeep with Egyptian markings skidded to a halt. A noncom hopped out and drew his pistol. “I told you I would …” Then he saw Kantar’s face. “Wahda, is that you?”
“It is,” Kantar answered. “Open the gate. We have a lot of things to do.”
Tech Sergeant Babak Marwan was shocked to see a half-naked Kantar appear inside the air conditioned prefab. The unit was located adjacent to the transporter-mounted S-300VM surface-to-air (SAM) missile system, which consisted of a launcher, a command post, four radars—and a supply of SAMs that could destroy incoming targets up to 200-miles away.
Marwan was clearly shocked as Kantar described the attack, and the ordeal that followed. “That’s terrible, sir … I had no idea.”
“So you haven’t been in touch with the dam? What about the 0900 status report?”
Marwan’s eyes widened. “I spoke with Sergeant Boustani.”
Kantar nodded. “That would seem to indicate that he’s in charge. Can we communicate with the other missile batteries without Boustani knowing?”
Marwan frowned. “Not if he’s monitoring radio transmissions.”
Kantar made a face. “I think it’s safe to assume that he is. Put Basri in charge of communications. No radio messages will be sent without my approval.”
Corporal Basri was the man Kantar had sent to keep an eye on Marwan. If the Iranian resented that he managed to conceal it. “Boustani doesn’t know I survived,” Kantar added. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need a shower, a uniform, boots, a holster, ammunition, something to eat and a driver. I will visit each missile battery, brief the man in charge, and provide them a frequency that Boustani won’t know to monitor. Then we will assemble a force consisting of men from each location and retake the dam. Do you have any questions?”
Marwan shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good. I am promoting you to acting lieutenant, subject to approval by your superiors, and to the position of executive officer in Alawi’s absence.”
Marwan
looked pleased. “Thank you, sir. I will obtain everything you requested.”
There were six missile batteries in all, established to defend against multiple threats and provide redundancy. Three were located on each side of the dam.
Sites five and six were closest so Kantar went to visit them first. Once each noncom had been briefed, and the new frequency tested, Kantar left.
Kantar was hidden in the back of the jeep as his driver took him across the top of the dam to the west side. Such battery-to-battery visits weren’t uncommon, and no effort was made to stop the vehicle as it passed the control building.
As Kantar peeked through the gap between the fabric top and its frame he took note of the fact that a single sentry was posted out front. Normally there would be two. Was Boustani short-handed? Or had the second sentry gone inside to take a pee? There was no way to know.
After visiting the batteries on the west side of the Nile, Kantar chose to remain at site two, rather than cross the dam again. Now that all of the missile sites were under his control Kantar could send Marwan to Aswan city with orders to take command of the fighters stationed there. That left 46 men who were allied with Boustani, being held prisoner, or dead.
Kantar felt tired, but wasn’t about to let the mutineers settle in. Maybe Boustani knew his commanding officer was alive and maybe he didn’t. It made no difference.
Rather than attack from the top of the dam, which Boustani would expect, Kantar was going to approach from the peninsula of land that jutted out in front of the dam.
Kantar gave orders for the men on both sides of the dam to secure feluccas, prepare for battle, and perform the Isha (night) prayer. After praying Kantar took a nap.
A private woke him at 2400. Fear was waiting for him. But so was Kantar’s pride. Boustani took the dam from you, Kantar thought. Like candy from a child. Will you allow him to win?
No, Kantar decided. I won’t. The anger was sufficient to overwhelm the fear. Kantar got up, put his uniform on, and checked both pistols. The one he’d arrived with, plus a Russian PB with suppressor. The other fighters had Russian weapons too.
Each missile site had been ordered to contribute three men to the larger team, which meant that Kantar had a combined force of 18 men, 19 counting himself. A truck carried the western contingent down to the Nile where two large feluccas were waiting. Street lights marked the top of the dam.
Other lights were visible too, on the island of Hiesa, and beyond. That seemed to indicate that the Egyptian engineers were still alive and on the job. But for how long? Even if Boustani couldn’t detonate the bomb, and didn’t know how to operate the dam, he could execute the staff. And with no one to run the dam’s equipment millions of Sunnis would lose power.
Kantar sat in the stern where he could control the rudder, as the first boat departed the bank. There were two oarsmen, but they weren’t used to pulling in unison, and the one on the right swore as he missed a stroke. “Silence!” a noncom said harshly. “Or you will regret it.”
Cordage creaked as the oars splashed into the Nile, and men heaved. The current from the outflow was strong, and it grew even stronger, as they neared the dam.
Kantar was wearing a headset. He whispered into the boom mike knowing that all the team members could hear him. “Careful now, we’re getting close. Snipers, find your targets.”
The sharpshooters had Chukavin sniper rifles with night scopes and suppressors. They were prone, weapons on sand bags, at the bow of each boat.
There was no wind to speak of. So once past the turbulence the nearly black water was flat. “This is Farhad. I have a target, one target, at six o’clock.”
“Confirmed,” a second voice said. “One target, at six o’clock.”
“Kill him,” Kantar said coldly. As he said it Kantar knew there was a chance, a slim chance, that he was putting an innocent man to death. But only if loyal soldiers had been able to overpower the mutineers, and post sentries, and did so without notifying the rest of Kantar’s command. He heard a series of soft pops. “Target down,” the second soldier said. “Scanning.”
That was wise. Perhaps a second man was present, but wasn’t visible for some reason. Or another soldier could suddenly arrive. “Assume nothing and survive.” That was a lesson every Hezbollah fighter had been taught. But as the feluccas converged on the peninsula no additional targets were observed.
Kantar was holding the Russian pistol in his right hand as he stepped into a foot of water. He was barely aware of the discomfort as he made his way up the beach to the spot where the dead sentry lay. His name was Kazem. A boy really, no more than 18, and impressionable. “Search him.”
A minute passed while a fighter searched the body. “Here’s his radio, sir … And a key.”
The radio would allow Kantar to monitor Boustani’s radio traffic. As for the key, that would open the access door at the foot of the dam, and allow them to enter.
“Remember,” Kantar told the men, as they prepared to enter the dam. “Boustani may have prisoners. So be careful who you shoot. Oh, and one more thing … Take Boustani alive if you can. Let’s go.”
The key turned in the lock, the door opened, and an Iranian started up the stairs. A Hezbollah fighter carrying a shotgun was right behind him. Kantar was third. The dead man’s radio burped static. Kantar recognized Boustani’s voice. “Sentries will report.”
Such checks were part of the standard operating procedure Kantar had put in place. They were made at random times and intended to keep sentries on their toes. The metal stairs shook slightly as the assault team hurried up them. “Addi.” “Gamil.” “Ismat.”
Three, Kantar thought, plus an equal number who are sleeping. And some more in the control area. Something like 16 men.
“Kazem!” Boustani said. “Wake up.”
Ten seconds passed without a reply. Then Boustani spoke again. “Chances are that the idiot fell asleep. I’ll check. But keep a sharp lookout just in case.”
As the team arrived on level three of six, Kantar herded them into the shadows. “Boustani’s coming! Remember, I want him alive.”
It wasn’t long before metal rattled and heavy footsteps were heard as a person descended the stairs. Kantar wasn’t about to deliver a warning. The Russian pistol made a clacking sound as Kantar fired two bullets. One hit the mutineer in his right leg. He uttered a cry of pain and fell sideways. Two Iranians jumped him.
Boustani tried to struggle but it was useless. It took less than a minute to strip the noncom of weapons and bind his extremities. “Put a pressure dressing on that wound,” Kantar ordered. “Keep him alive so I can kill him.” A guard was left to make sure that Boustani couldn’t escape.
The mutineers were leaderless now. But Kantar was under no illusions. Boustani’s followers would fight to the death. They had no choice.
The assault team continued up the switch backing stairs and soon arrived on the main level. “Be careful,” Kantar cautioned. “There’s likely to be one or two guards in the control room, and one or two out front.”
But when the challenge came it was from behind the group. “Stop right there!” a voice ordered. “Who are you?”
That was when Kantar realized that Boustani had been smart enough to have guards roaming the facility—as well as standing guard at specific points. And, as his men turned to face the threat, a grenade clattered across the floor. The device exploded with a loud bang and sent knee-high shrapnel flying in every direction. Two of his men fell, their legs cut out from under them, as others fired into the darkness.
Kantar knew that would bring other fighters on the run. He turned just in time to see two men round a corner, their AK-47s at the ready. Kantar fired the Russian pistol, saw a fighter fall, and was about to shoot at the second attacker, when someone else cut him down.
A burst of gunfire was heard, followed by a terse, “Traitor down.”
“Medics!” Kantar shouted. “See to the wounded. The rest of you on me.”
Kantar led t
he team down the corridor and paused just shy of the control room. Then, careful to expose as little of his body as possible, he took a peek around the corner.
Terrified engineers were huddled against a wall with their hands raised. No mutineers were visible. That seemed to suggest that the men killed moments earlier had been on duty in the control area prior to being pulled away. “Check out front,” Kantar ordered. “There should be at least one man out there.”
Two fighters went to check. One of them responded by radio. “There’s no one here. I think the sentries ran.”
“All right,” Kantar said. “Remain there until you are relieved.”
Kantar turned to an Iranian corporal. “Take some men. Search for prisoners.”
Then it was time for Kantar to speak with the engineers. It turned out that they knew about the mutiny, believed Kantar to be dead, and had been on the receiving end of Boustani’s rage. “He threatened to kill us many times,” one man said. “And forced us to remove the bomb from the hole.”
That was a surprise. “Why?”
“Boustani wanted to take the bomb away, and find experts who could make a trigger for it,” a second man said. “But, when he wasn’t around, his men talked about selling it.”
Kantar considered that. What would a baby nuke bring on the black market? A lot. That was for sure. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“In the chamber where you sleep,” the first man answered.
“Well, it’s going back in the hole,” Kantar told them. “Nothing has changed. Return to work.”
Kantar went to his chamber, and sure enough, the bomb had been reeled up out of the pipe and was dangling from a tripod. His bed lay on its side. His personal effects were scattered about. The sword, Kantar thought, as he scanned the chamber. Where is it?
Kantar left the room and made his way to the broom closet which, as a noncom, Boustani had been entitled to. The ceremonial scimitar was hanging from a hook. Kantar took it down. Carefully. Reverently. His radio was on. “Corporal Zaki.”
“Sir!”
Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Page 13