Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  The Egyptian’s eyebrows rose. “You’re American?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I went to medical school in Boston. And Americans say ‘fuck’ all the time.”

  The Egyptian raised his weapon, and issued an order in Arabic. His men tilted their rifle barrels up toward the sky. “I am Dr. Dacey Boutros … Commanding officer of the Coptic Guard. Welcome to the hood.”

  The “hood” as it turned out was part of the Daher district of downtown Cairo. The Guard’s territory consisted of four-square blocks. They were bordered by the Ramsis freeway on the north, El-Zaher on the south, and side streets to the east and west. The Guard’s mission was to protect the Arch Angels Greek Orthodox Church from the Sunni groups that wanted to purge the city of Christians.

  After passing through a sparsely defended perimeter, Kydd found himself looking up at the church. It consisted of two towers, each topped by a rounded cupola, and separated by a peaked arch. The windows were shaped like gun slits. As if the architect knew that his edifice would come under attack.

  The church’s facade was pockmarked with bullet holes. A large chunk of the left-hand tower was missing. And at least two-dozen shell craters marked spots where incoming mortar bombs had exploded. “The Sunnis attack us every few weeks,” Boutros explained. “They want to kill us and demolish the church.”

  “You’re a Coptic,” Goolsby said. “And this is a Greek Orthodox Church. Why risk your life to defend it?”

  “I’m a Christian,” Boutros explained. “And that comes first.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a man dressed in combat gear. He spoke rapid-fire Arabic and Boutros frowned. “I’m sorry,” the Coptic said in English. “A Sudanese gang called the Outlaws captured one of your pilots. They know you’re here … And they want 50-thousand dollars for him.”

  “Our pilots are dead,” Goolsby replied.

  Boutros spoke to the fighter who replied. Cole translated. “The gang says the pilot’s name is Riley, and in order to prove that he’s alive, they’ll put him on the radio. He’s injured though … And a bit confused.”

  Goolsby nodded. “Go ahead. Put him on the radio.”

  It took a full minute to complete the necessary arrangements. Goolsby accepted a radio from Boutros. “What’s your name?” Then, after a pause, “What’s the Marine Corps motto?”

  The answer must have been correct, because Goolsby nodded. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Riley … Hang in there. The State Department will try to get you out.”

  Goolsby thumbed the radio off and gave it back. “Where are these bastards?”

  “Most of the Sudanese live on the outskirts of the city,” Boutros replied. “But, because of the chaos, the Outlaws were able to infiltrate the central area. They control an abandoned Hilton hotel. It’s five-miles west of here. Why?”

  “Because we’re going to pull Riley’s ass out of there,” Goolsby replied. “That’s why.”

  “I can’t spare any men,” Boutros said. “We’re barely holding the church as it is.”

  “All we need is one man. A guide,” Goolsby said.

  Boutros nodded. “I have the right person for you. She’s an Iraqi Christian. We call her Sneakers.”

  “Good,” Goolsby said. “Please ask Sneakers if she’s willing to help us.”

  As Boutros departed to find Sneakers the VTOL’s crew chief snapped to attention. “Sergeant George Martin, sir, requesting permission to join the extraction team.”

  Goolsby stared at him. “You told me that both pilots were dead.”

  The expression on Martin’s face was one of pure misery. “I checked, sir. After the crash and when you sent me to get their tags. I couldn’t find a pulse either time.”

  Goolsby relented. “Don’t worry about it son … That’s the most anyone could do. Your request is approved.”

  “I’ll go too,” Cole said. “I speak Arabic.”

  “I’m in,” Kydd added. “Because I belong to the Hilton rewards program.”

  “And that’s all the people we can afford to send,” Goolsby said. “The bad guys know we’re here. So it’s my guess that they’ll attack the church.”

  Goolsby was about to say something more when Boutros appeared. “This is Sneakers.”

  Kydd figured the girl was 15 or 16 years old. She had a buzz cut, and was dressed in boy’s clothing, including a pair of red Nikes. Brown eyes scanned the marines. “Too many,” she said. “Small group better. Night have eyes.”

  Goolsby gave in. “Okay, four people.”

  “You’ll need this, sir,” Martin said, as he offered a handheld radio to Goolsby. “An automatic distress call went out the moment we crashed. The SAR (Search and Rescue) people will contact you soon.” Goolsby accepted the unit.

  “Get rest,” Sneakers said. “We go when dark come. Have to walk. Many checkpoints.”

  “Are you hungry?” Boutros asked them. “We have a kitchen … And there’s always something to eat. Church members make sure of that.”

  Sneakers led them into the church through the front door. The interior was beautiful. Perfectly-lit religious paintings and tapestries decorated the walls. Rows of benches lined the main aisle which led straight to the altar. Two of the slit-shaped windows were located so as to direct sunlight onto an oil painting and the effect was stunning.

  A side door led to a flight of stone stairs and the basement below. The kitchen, which was normally used for religious celebrations, had been transformed into a mess hall. Kydd, Cole and Martin took advantage of the opportunity to eat lunch.

  The ful sandwiches consisted of stewed fava beans that had been mashed and mixed with olive oil, chopped parsley, onion, and garlic all stuffed in hot pitas. The texture was similar to that of hummus, but filling in the way that meaty sandwiches are filling, and therefore satisfying.

  It would have been nice to have a serious chat with Cole. But that was impossible with Martin present. Assuming the agent wanted to talk, which was by no means certain.

  After lunch the three Americans were shown into an adjoining room. Padded sleeping mats had been laid on the stone floor. Each was topped with a neatly placed pillow and blanket.

  Kydd lay down expecting to lie there—waiting for the necessary hours to pass. But he fell asleep at some point. And when he woke it was to discover that someone had laid a blanket over him. Cole was kneeling at his side. “Rise and shine sailor … We have work to do.”

  Kydd wondered if Cole was the one who had placed the blanket over him. He hoped so.

  After a visit to a restroom, and a cup of strong coffee, Kydd was ready to leave. Or thought he was ready until Sneakers appeared holding a bundle of black cloth. “These niqab,” she said. “You wear. Hide you. Hide weapons.”

  After Sneakers shook one of the garments out Kydd discovered that he was going to be wearing a female garment that was supposed to cover a woman from head to toe.

  Except most women weren’t six-two. So his niqab ended ankle high, thereby revealing his combat boots. “Very sorry,” Sneakers said. “Biggest I could get. Nighttime. No one see.”

  Kydd wasn’t so sure about that. Nor was Sergeant Martin. But it couldn’t be helped. Some sort of disguise was better than none. The plan called for Sneakers, dressed as a boy, to accompany the three “women” to the Hilton. “There be checkpoints,” Sneakers warned them. “I talk. I pay access fees.”

  “Access fees?” Kydd inquired.

  “Batteries,” Sneakers said. “New ones. Or toothpaste. Or cigarettes. But bullets best.”

  It was dark outside and the air was cooler. Kydd’s assault rifle was on a makeshift sling, hanging inside the niqab, where it would be impossible to access in an emergency.

  So he was holding his nine-mil in his right hand. And, as long as he kept the pistol pointing down, only an inch of barrel showed below his sleeve. That wasn’t perfect by any means, but beat the heck out of the alternative.

  Sneakers led the way … She was wearing a boy’
s thawb (ankle-length robe), and a white skull cap. The hope being that observers would assume that “he,” as a male was serving as an escort for three adult women. A common sight in neighboring Saudi Arabia.

  Sneakers and Cole led the way. The men followed. They were paired to make them seem smaller. And because they didn’t speak Arabic.

  Kydd hadn’t been to Cairo before, but was pretty sure that the prewar sidewalks had been a good deal more crowded in the evening, especially downtown. Some streetlights were on. But many had been shot out. Businesses that would normally remain open after dark were closing. And most were equipped with roll-down doors or makeshift fences to protect them from thieves.

  The rattle of distant gunfire could be heard as gangs battled over turf, warring militias clashed, and citizens defended their homes. A flare soared in the distance and floated down. The sound of a pop song emanated from an alley.

  Meanwhile the Americans were subjected to the unrelenting attentions of street vendors. They were teens mostly, peddling trinkets, street food, and tee shirts.

  Sneakers did an excellent job of driving them away with machine gun-like bursts of Arabic invective. But more swarmed in to replace them. Sneakers had just dispatched a woeful one-armed beggar when Kydd spotted the checkpoint ahead.

  It wasn’t much to look at. Just a folding card table with a potbellied man sitting behind it, a couple of thuggish youngsters, and a mangy dog. Cars were forced to stop at a boom barrier operated by two men. The motorists paid up without being ordered to.

  The same was true of the checkpoint on the sidewalk. The dog lapped water out of a bowl as the rescue party approached. Sneakers was clutching four 7.62x39mm rounds. The cartridges produced a rattling sound as she dropped them into a red plastic bowl.

  The fat man said “Shukraan jazilaan,” (thank you) and Sneakers continued on her way. The Americans followed. Kydd wanted to look back, but knew a woman in a niqab wouldn’t do that.

  And so it went. Each checkpoint was slightly different, but the price was constant, and no one challenged them. After an hour of walking, Sneakers pulled them aside. “The Hilton ahead. We go in. I ask directions. You kill everyone.”

  The plan was so direct, and so brutal, Kydd could hardly believe his ears. But Sneakers had been through some shit … That much was obvious. And she was smart. A more nuanced strategy wouldn’t work. Use the nine first, Kydd thought.

  Thanks to the ambient light Kydd could see the building’s facade. Most of the windows were shot out. And everything above the fourth floor had been damaged by fire.

  Sneakers led the way to the front door where three armed men were talking and smoking cigarettes. A sandbagged gun emplacement was positioned off to one side—complete with an unmanned heavy machine gun.

  When Sneakers spoke one of the men turned her way. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Sneakers shot him in the face a Helwan 920 pistol.

  That was Kydd’s cue to shoot a second man as Cole fired the stubby MP7 submachine gun through her niqab. The garment flared, and smoke dribbled out of the holes, as the third man jerked spastically. He went down in a heap.

  Martin had thrown his niqab off by then. The combat shotgun was up and ready as he entered the lobby. Two gang members were coming his way. Martin blew both away with single shots. Blood sprayed across the huge “H” set into the terrazzo floor.

  Sneakers entered the hotel like an angel of death. And, even though Martin’s targets were down, the teenager shot each as she passed. “The basement,” Sneakers said, as she hurried over to a circular staircase. Cole and Martin were right behind her.

  Kydd threw his niqab off in time to holster the nine and chase Martin down the stairs. Sneakers shot a gang member as he hurried up the stairs. Then she vaulted over the railing to land six-feet below.

  What had been a combination bar and restaurant was directly in front of them. Kydd fired the HK416 as outlaws poured out of it. Men were snatched off their feet as a series of three-round bursts cut them down.

  Then, as suddenly as the fight began, it was over. Or nearly over … Because the Americans had to stand and wait while Sneakers shot each Outlaw in the face.

  “Jeez,” Martin said. “What’s up with that?”

  “Sneakers was raped by three Isis fighters when she was ten,” Cole replied. “Her goal is to kill as many Sunnis as she can. And she likes to make sure.”

  Kydd looked at her. “How do you know that?”

  “Girl talk,” Cole replied.

  “Come!” Sneakers said, as she reloaded. “We must hurry.”

  Lieutenant Riley was in the bar tied to a chair. His head was hanging low—and one side of his face was caked with dried blood. “Lieutenant!” Martin said. “It’s me, Sergeant Martin.”

  Riley struggled to raise his head. He’d been beaten. One eye was swollen shut. “Martin?” he said groggily. “What are you doing here? Did they capture you?”

  “No sir,” Martin replied as he hurried to cut the pilot free. “We came to get you. Can you walk?”

  “I don’t know,” Riley answered. “Help me up.”

  With Martin’s assistance Riley was able to stand and shuffle forward. But he was in bad shape. And it didn’t take a medical degree to see that he wouldn’t be able to walk a mile, never mind the four required to reach the church. Sneakers had been on her radio. She put it away. “More come … We go.”

  “Paul,” Riley croaked. “I can’t leave without Paul.”

  “Lieutenant Omada didn’t make it,” Martin said. “Now help us get out of here.”

  By supporting Riley between them Martin and Kydd were able to walk the pilot over to the stairs and help him up. Sneakers and Cole had preceded them.

  Kydd could hear bursts of submachine gun fire—interspersed with the harsh bang, bang, bang of a 9mm pistol. And when they arrived at the top of the stairs Kydd saw that more bodies lay sprawled in the lobby. Sneakers waved. “Come!”

  Riley’s legs had gone limp by then. The toes of his boots cut trails through the pools of blood as the two men dragged him across the lobby and out into the humid air. “Hurry!” Sneakers said, as she led them to the left, and away from the street they’d arrived on.

  “One-block!” Sneakers said. “Then safe.”

  It seemed hard to believe, but Kydd figured that some chance was better than none. Together with Martin, he carried Riley down the shadowy street to a structure with graffiti scrawled all over it, and a sign that said “Metro” above an entrance. “Subway,” Sneakers said, before ducking inside.

  Was the church a short train ride away? Kydd wondered. The possibility seemed too good to be true, and it was. A frozen escalator with stairs on both sides led down. The stairs were covered with trash, piles of human excrement, and stray pieces of clothing. The smell was nauseating and became increasingly worse as they carried Riley down. It was hard work, and Kydd wondered how far they’d be able to go.

  A light appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Sneakers hurried toward it. Four armed men were waiting on a trash-strewn platform. They wore headlamps and scarves which hid their faces. A stretcher sat next to them. Kydd and Martin lowered Riley into place and strapped him in.

  Cole spoke to one of the men in Arabic before turning to Kydd. “Boutros sent them. They will carry the stretcher. After the trains stopped running people began to bring their dead down here. Now it’s a business. The crypt keepers charge the equivalent of one-hundred U.S. dollars to wash each corpse, cover the body with a shroud, and make sure that its head points toward Mecca when they push it into a slot.”

  Kydd wrinkled his nose. “It smells down here.”

  “And it’s going to get worse,” Cole warned him. “The Guardsmen brought scarves for us to use. Wrap this around your face.” Kydd accepted the rezza, and soon discovered that the piece of cloth was large enough to circle his head twice, before securing it in place.

  Once everyone was ready the journey began. First they had to jump down onto the track. The
n it was time to manhandle the stretcher down. With that accomplished the party left. The combined illumination from four headlamps was enough to light the way.

  There wasn’t much to see at first. Just trash, graffiti, and tracks. Then men with guns emerged from the darkness. They were wearing respirators. A stretcher bearer spoke to them and a security guard waved the party through. Some sort of deal had been done. A fee perhaps? Probably.

  The light level increased as they entered a section of the tunnel that was being excavated. A machine had been brought in to dig graves. It consisted of an articulated drill, an enclosed cab, and a large engine compartment.

  Safety barriers kept the stretcher party away from it. Kydd caught a glimpse of a partially drilled wall. Vertically aligned holes could be seen. Some were occupied, while others waited to be filled. And, despite the industrial strength fans and ducting, the stench was terrible.

  Once past the active work area the group entered a section of finished crypts. There were rows of graves. Each with a plastic lid and a code number. It was very impressive in a way … But, in a city where up to 4-million people a day used the subway before the war, there would be transportation problems later on. Unless Kantar blows the dam, Kydd thought. Then it won’t matter.

  Riley passed in and out of consciousness. He shouted things, tossed his head from side-to-side, and moaned occasionally. There was nothing the others could do except get the pilot to the church as quickly as possible. But another forty-five minutes passed before they arrived at what Sneakers said was the correct stop.

  It took the better part of ten minutes to get people into position and hoist the stretcher up onto the platform. Then it was time for the rest of the party to climb the access ladder.

  That was followed by the long up-the-escalator trip to the street above. “We two blocks from church,” Sneakers announced. And that was good.

  But, as they left the metro for the street, the sounds of a firefight could be heard. Bursts of automatic gunfire were punctuated by the occasional boom of a grenade. That was followed by the steady bang, bang, bang of a Kalashnikov firing one round at a time.