Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  As the V-22 circled, Goolsby appeared with Cole in tow. She was wearing her trademark shades, a heavily loaded tac vest, and toting an MP7. The combat loadout was SOP. If the Osprey went down, and the passengers survived, they would find themselves in what amounted to enemy territory.

  Both engines began to tilt upwards as the Osprey made its final approach and, by the time the VTOL was in position over the LZ, the rotors were pointed at the sky.

  Everyone knew that V-22s were allergic to dust. But the field consisted of black loam. And there was very little blowback as the aircraft touched down.

  Goolsby went to speak with a lieutenant leaving Cole to fend for herself. “Good morning,” Kydd said, as the agent approached. “This is a pleasant surprise. I like the way your submachine gun matches your boots. ”

  Cole removed her glasses. “You never quit, do you?”

  “Don’t be a quitter,” Kydd replied. “That’s what mom told me.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Cole’s mouth and disappeared. “The fact that we had to let Urabi go sucks. I understand you went cray-cray on the colonel.”

  “We had a spat,” Kydd allowed. “But we’re besties now.”

  Cole laughed. “You are entirely full of shit.”

  “I choose to interpret that as a compliment,” Kydd replied.

  “Excuse me,” a marine said. “Names please.”

  After checking their names off his list, the crew chief told them to clear their weapons and place them on safety. “And keep your PFDs handy,” he added. “The last leg of the trip will be over water. You can board.”

  The Osprey’s rear loading ramp was down and in contact with the ground. Cole entered followed by Kydd. Inward facing fold-down seats lined both bulkheads, cable bundles ran every which-way, and recessed tie-downs were set into the deck. A crewman was there to greet them. “Sit wherever you like … We have twelve passengers, so there’s plenty of choices.”

  Goolsby got on, produced a laptop, and went to work. The rest of the passengers were marines who required more medical treatment than the battalion’s surgeon could offer them. One was strapped to a stretcher, with a hospital corpsman at his side. “Ramp’s coming up,” the crew chief announced. “Fasten your seat belts.”

  The engine noise increased, the VTOL began to taxi, and suddenly it was up in the air. That’s how it felt anyway, although there weren’t any windows in the cabin, so Kydd couldn’t see.

  It would have been nice to chat with Cole during the trip, but she had chosen to sit across the aisle, and was busy reading her Kindle. A clear message if there ever was one. That left Kydd to do what Evans wanted him to do, which was catch up on his paperwork. He opened his pack, removed the laptop, and turned it on. Maintenance logs … Oh, goody.

  Kydd worked. Then he napped, or pretended to nap, while watching Cole through slitted eyes. What was it about her anyway? The way she looked? Her smarts? All of the above? Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t interested.

  Eventually, after nearly 3 hours in the air, the pilot made an announcement. “We crossed the coast, we’re over the Med, and 20-minutes out. More when I have it.”

  The landing was somewhat anticlimactic since Kydd couldn’t see anything. He felt the shift from forward to vertical flight however, knew the Osprey was going to land on a moving target, and hoped the pilot was competent. She was. There was a pronounced thump as the wheels made contact with the flight deck.

  Another wait followed as the V-22 was towed to an elevator and moved to the deck below. The ramp was lowered at that point, and a team of corpsmen came aboard to carry the stretcher off. Then, and only then, were the rest of the passengers allowed to disembark.

  A first class petty officer was waiting for them at the reception desk where the visitors had to check-in. They were then handed off to an ensign who welcomed them aboard, and led them into what felt like an endless maze.

  That was one of the reasons why Kydd disliked the “big” navy. He liked smaller boats, smaller crews, and smaller objectives. He couldn’t imagine being in charge of a carrier strike group like Admiral Larson’s.

  In addition to the Hornet, Larson’s command included approximately 7,500 sailors, a cruiser, a destroyer squadron, an air wing, ancillary vessels, and at least one submarine. That was way too much responsibility in Kydd’s opinion, and boring to boot, since most of the admiral’s time was spent on politics.

  After climbing ladders, and making their way down corridors, the party arrived in officer country—where they were assigned to tiny cabins. The ensign eyed his watch. “You have thirty minutes to freshen up … Then it’s off to lunch in the wardroom, followed by a meeting in the briefing room next door. That’s where Admiral Larson will join you.”

  True to his promise the ensign returned half an hour later, to escort them to the wardroom, and sign in with the mess treasurer, who would collect payment for their food before they left the ship. Lunch was a relaxed affair that included officers from various departments: operations, administration, maintenance, safety, and more.

  Kydd found himself sitting next to a helicopter pilot who knew someone that he knew. That happened a lot in the navy. They traded sea stories until the ensign came to collect the visitors.

  The briefing room was only steps down the corridor on the right. It was a large brightly- lit space with theatre-style seating and a low-rise stage. The Hornet’s emblem was located between two flat screens that were mounted on the bulkhead.

  About 15 people were present. Some were seated while the rest were milling around a table where refreshments awaited. Goolsby, Cole and Kydd sat in the second row amongst a mix of civilian and military personnel. Suddenly a voice in the back said, “Attention on deck!” and Admiral Larson entered. Everyone stood.

  Larson said, “As you were,” as he made his way to the podium. Larson had “the look.” Meaning the look of a senior officer, most of whom were tall and fit. Blue eyes roamed the audience. “Good morning. We’re here to figure out what the hell to do.”

  That got a chorus of laughs just as it was supposed to. Larson smiled. “Before we get into our discussions I would like to extend a special welcome to Colonel Martin Goolsby, commanding officer of Operation Pharaoh, Commander Harley Kydd, commanding officer of RIVGRU 6, and adviser Cassandra Cole—on loan from somewhere.” Everyone in the room knew Cole was a CIA agent and they laughed.

  Larson turned serious. “They, along with their marines and sailors, have done a hell of a job in the face of stiff resistance from warlords and insurgents. The battalion is located just south of Esna now—about 100 miles from the dam. But at a price.

  “Now,” Larson continued, “we have to face the prospect of two possible outcomes. One is success, and the other is failure. Strangely enough both possibilities could be good or bad where the Allied war effort is concerned. If we ignore what’s good for the Egyptian people.

  “Here’s an example,” Larson said, as a word chart appeared on the screen to his left. “If the terrorists blow the dam, the best estimate is that 10-million people will die. That would be horrible for the Egyptians. But, if we don’t care, it would be good for us. We could jump in and seize control of Egypt. And by doing so, deny the country to the Axis.

  “But we do care what happens to the Egyptians … And allowing 10-million people to die would be unconscionable.

  “By the same token,” Larson continued, “we can win and lose. Let’s say we manage to take the dam, we neutralize the bomb, and we leave. What is likely to happen then?”

  Larson pointed to Cole, and she was ready. “A warlord, or an alliance of warlords will take control of the dam, and the whole thing will start over.”

  “Exactly,” Larson agreed. “And that brings us to the purpose of this meeting. We need to generate a plan that enables us to win, helps us deal with success, and will minimize the effects of failure if it comes to that. You will work in three groups … The first group will tackle the Operation Pharaoh’s most pressi
ng problem, and that is how to prevent the terrorists from detonating the nuclear device when the task force nears the dam.

  “The second group will work on a plan to hold the dam, and keep it safe after neutralizing the bomb, without committing a substantial number of Allied troops to Egypt.

  “The third group will identify the appropriate actions to take if the dam is blown, 10-million people plus our own personnel are killed, and the Axis attempts to occupy Egypt.

  “You will have until this time tomorrow to create and codify you plans. You have already been divided into groups—and Lieutenant Powell will sort you out. I’ll return at 1500 tomorrow for the read-outs. Do your best work.” And with that Larson left.

  Kydd had been assigned to group 1, Cole to group 2, and Goolsby to group 3. Group 1 consisted of six people, and was sent to a smaller space, which was equipped with all the supplies they might need—including a coffee urn.

  The first order of business was for each person to introduce themselves. That’s when Kydd learned he would be working with a navy pilot, an air force officer on loan from the Pentagon, a Sunni cleric, a retired army general and a reformed member of Hezbollah.

  Each member of the group had a different point of view. And that was no accident. After electing the general to chair the process they went to work.

  First they watched the video posted by Hezbollah immediately after their fighters took control of the dam. Then came a very interesting Intel briefing from an Israeli officer. “Here’s the situation,” he said. “After the Hezbollah fighters killed their Russian counterparts their leader Kantar took possession of the nuclear key. He carries it with him 24 hours a day.”

  “How do we know that?” the pilot wanted to know.

  “We know that because some of his men wanted to blow the dam, and kill millions of Sunnis without regard to Hezbollah’s master plan,” the Israeli replied. “They attempted to assassinate Kantar and failed. After he turned the tables on them two of the fanatics ran. They were captured by Coptic Christians, subsequently sold to Egyptian gun smugglers, and purchased by us. Then they spilled their guts.”

  Kydd’s already high opinion of Israeli Intelligence went up a notch. “So we know Kantar was in no hurry to blow the dam, and we know he has the switch,” Kydd mused.

  “Correct,” the briefer said. “We believe Kantar has orders to pull a collaborationist government together. The most likely arrangement would be a deal where well-known Sunnis agree to front for the Shias in return for money or power. The Axis wants to control Egypt. But they’d like to achieve that goal without killing 10-million Muslims.”

  The meeting ran all afternoon and continued after dinner. The problem was tactical, rather than strategic, and eventually the discussion boiled down to a simple syllogism: (1) To prevent a disastrous flood the Allies had to capture or destroy the nuclear key. (2) Kantar had the key. (3) Destroy Kantar.

  The use of the word “destroy” was intentional. Killing Kantar wouldn’t be sufficient. But if Kantar were “destroyed” the key would be destroyed as well. And that was critical lest the object be recovered by a terrorist or some other bad actor.

  So a variety of scenarios were considered. If the Allies threw waves of missiles at the dam’s SAM system they could overwhelm it. But Kantar would destroy the dam long before Goolsby’s marines could reach him.

  A Sunni suicide bomber could blow him or herself up while standing next to Kantar. Assuming Kantar was that careless.

  And so it went with each scenario becoming more and more unlikely. Finally, when time ran out, only one realistic possibility remained. And that was the idea the air force officer had put forward in the beginning: Kill Kantar with a drone. Or, as he put it, “We’ll blow his ass up. And the trigger too.”

  Each group had the opportunity to present their conclusions to Admiral Larson the following day. And after group 3 presented their findings, he went to the podium. “I’m impressed,” Larson told them. “Your plans will be forwarded to the Pentagon and the State Department for final approval.”

  That produced a chorus of groans. Larson smiled. “I know what you’re thinking … But, they understand the stakes, and we expect a two-day turnaround. Once I receive their feedback, my staff will make adjustments if any are required, and tasking orders will follow. Thank you.”

  A group dinner was held that evening, and once it was over, the participants were invited to rotate through the bridge to watch planes come and go. It was an amazing sight, and one that left Kydd wondering how anyone could master all the skills required to fly a plane off a carrier, or why they would want to.

  Kydd fell asleep only seconds after hitting his rack, only to be awoken at what seemed like ten-minutes later. After packing up, eating a quick breakfast, and paying their mess bills—Goolsby and his subordinates were escorted to the main deck where a V-22 Osprey stood waiting. Once lifted up onto the flight deck, the Osprey had to wait its turn before taxiing into the wind, tilting its rotors up, and lifting off. And that beat the heck out of being shot from a catapult.

  The Osprey was carrying six passengers besides Goolsby, Cole and Kydd. All were replacements for marines who’d been killed or wounded.

  Goolsby was staring at his laptop, and Cole was listening to music, so Kydd took a nap. And that’s what he was doing when the Osprey began to shake and the noise level changed. Kydd opened his eyes as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Please check your seatbelts. We just lost an engine. The good news is that we’re over land, and can fly on one engine.”

  Kydd tightened his belt, and saw Cole do likewise. Then came a bang, followed by relative silence, as the second engine quit. The pilot’s voice was tight but calm. “Cairo is directly ahead. Hang on. We’re going in.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cairo, Egypt

  The V-22 Osprey had the glide characteristics of a rock. It couldn’t autorotate the way a helicopter could. So, without power, all the pilots could do was look for a place to crash.

  Kydd looked at Cole. Their eyes met. Something jumped the gap. She shrugged.

  Kydd was thinking about that, thinking about what might have been, when the VTOL crashed. Kydd couldn’t see anything. But there was no mistaking the violent impact, followed by a brief moment of weightlessness, and a second hard landing.

  Then the passengers were thrown sideways as the Osprey’s forward motion caused it to skip like a stone. Metal screeched, groaned, and rattled as an engine came off, and the front end of the plane slammed into something. Kydd’s body was jerked sideways as the journey came to a sudden end.

  Kydd was alive. It took a moment to process that. He could move his arms. And his legs. He fumbled for the release on his seat belt and felt it give. Goolsby began to bark orders. “Get up! Check the people around you … Give aid if necessary.

  “Grab your pack and load your weapons. We’re in enemy territory, marines … And people will try to kill us.”

  “I think that sums it up,” Cole said, as she shouldered her pack.

  “Yeah,” Kydd replied. “Are you okay?”

  “Never better.”

  Kydd laughed.

  “Quit fucking around,” Goolsby ordered. “Get your asses in gear. Sergeant! Check the pilots.”

  The crew chief was donning his tac gear. “I did, sir. Both are KIA. The cockpit hit the backend of a semi-truck.”

  “Get their tags,” Goolsby said grimly.

  A semi? We landed on a street, Kydd concluded. Or in a parking lot.

  The six marines had survived. They were young, just out of advanced infantry training, and understandably frightened. But not too frightened—judging from the way they were strapping their gear on.

  The rear hatch was partially open thanks to the crew chief. Goolsby made his way to the opening, paused, and disappeared. The marines followed one-by-one.

  Cole followed with Kydd behind her. There was a four-foot drop to the ground. The navy officer paused to insert a magazine into the HK416 assault
rifle. A car horn blared nearby. A woman was screaming. A distant boom was heard.

  Kydd scanned his surroundings. The Osprey was resting on two flattened cars. A quick look confirmed what Kydd already knew. The people in them were dead.

  Buildings rose like cliffs around them; the sky was a ribbon above. Goolsby shouted. “Follow me!”

  Did Goolsby know where he was going? That seemed unlikely. But the colonel had been a lieutenant once. And he knew they should clear the crash site quickly. Fire was a possibility, as was an explosion. There were other threats too. The VTOL would attract bandits, thieves and terrorists, all bent on capturing survivors—and looting the wreckage.

  Traffic was lighter than it had been before the war. But there were still plenty of cars on the streets. And when the VTOL fell out of the sky the crash triggered dozens of collisions. Some minor, some serious. Drivers were slumped over their wheels. Others were out of their vehicles shouting at each other.

  As Goolsby led the party through the maze of stalled cars, Kydd saw something shiny coming their way. The off-the-shelf drone made a mosquito-like whining sound as it slowed and circled above them. Had the device been sent by the authorities? No, that seemed unlikely.

  Kydd paused, raised the HK416, and pulled the trigger. The drone ran into the stream of bullets and exploded. Bits of metal fell like confetti.

  The team was up ahead, twisting and turning through cars, but Cole was waiting with her MP7 at the ready. “Come on, sailor … That’s enough target practice.”

  Kydd followed the agent through the traffic jam. They had just crossed Youssef Wahbi street when a group of armed men emerged from hiding. One of them fired two shots into the air, and instructed Goolsby to stop. The marine had no choice but to comply.

  “Place your weapons on the ground,” the Egyptian ordered.

  “Fuck you,” Goolsby said, as he kept the M4 carbine leveled.