Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  “They attack,” Sneakers said. “You wait.”

  “Bullshit,” Kydd said. “Lead the way. We’ll attack the bastards from behind.”

  He turned to Cole. “Tell the stretcher bearers to stay close, but not too close.”

  Cole passed the word. Kydd turned to Sneakers. “Lead the way. But go slow.”

  The streets were nearly deserted by then. And Sneakers made good use of the available cover as she led them across the street and into the narrow passageway between two buildings. Sneakers paused to use her radio at that point. It was important to warn the defenders lest Boutros and his Guards open fire on the stretcher party.

  There was no way to know who the attackers were. But one thing was for sure. They weren’t soldiers. The attackers were so focused on firing at the church that Sneakers was able to sneak up and shoot a man in the back. And the sound was lost in the clatter generated by at least a dozen AK-47s.

  Then the defensive fire stopped. And, had the attackers been better led, a noncom or officer might have wondered why. But certain of victory, the attackers emerged from cover, and started to advance. More than that, they bunched up in order to pass through a gate.

  That was when Kydd, Cole, and Martin opened up on them. What ensued was more of a slaughter than a fight. The attackers near the gate died. The rest fled. Sneakers went to work shooting the wounded and dead.

  Kydd waved the stretcher bearers forward. Then he, Cole, and Martin stood guard until everyone else was safely beyond the six-foot-high stone wall. Goolsby was waiting for them. “Good job! Come 0500 the navy will pull us out of here.”

  Boutros was kneeling by the stretcher. He took Riley’s pulse, checked the pilot’s pupils with a pen light, and stood. “Take him to the infirmary … Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He turned to the Americans. “Don’t worry, he’ll make it. I’ll make sure of that.” Then he was gone.

  Kydd and Cole took the opportunity to get something to eat. And it was then, as Kydd went over to pour himself a cup of coffee, that he realized his hands were shaking.

  Would Cole understand? Would she think less of him? Fortunately his back was to her. By holding the mug with both hands Kydd could keep his hands from trembling.

  They sat across from each other but neither chose to reference the rescue mission. “You lied to me,” Kydd said. ‘When I asked how we were going to stop Kantar from triggering the bomb, you said the plan had an additional element that you couldn’t reveal.”

  Cole smiled. “You can’t share something you don’t have.”

  Kydd laughed. “You’re a devious woman.”

  Cole eyed him over the edge of her cup. Her eyes were very blue. “That’s right, sailor … And don’t forget it.”

  ***

  “The show,” as Goolsby referred to it, began at exactly 0500. Two F/A-18 Hornets appeared. One from the north, and one from the south. They broke the sound barrier within seconds of each other. “Good morning, Cairo!” Goolsby said gleefully, as the Americans watched from the churchyard. “Things are about to get real.”

  The response came moments later when three heat-seeking MANPADS (man-portable air-defense systems) flashed up out of different parts of the city. The fighters fired chaff, entered tight turns, and went looking for people to kill.

  However the Soviet-made second-generation SA-14s weren’t fooled by the chaff. So they zeroed in. Or attempted to.

  But the Hornets were equipped with ECs (electronic countermeasures) which prevented the enemy missiles from achieving lock-on. Meanwhile the jets were preparing to make gun runs with their M61 Vulcan cannons.

  The six-barrel, electrically-fired Gatling-style weapons could fire 6,000 rounds per minute. They were being employed to avoid the collateral damage often associated with missiles and bombs. But as the cannons roared, and 20mm shells ploughed through streets and buildings, the difference was more theoretical than real.

  The attacks were over in seconds and so was the resistance. The missile attacks stopped as the F/A-18 Hornets circled the city. “That was act one,” Goolsby announced. “Act two is on the way.”

  Two specks appeared from the north, and quickly resolved into HH-60H “Rescue Hawk” helicopters, and both were armed. They came in high to avoid ground fire to the extent that such a thing was possible, and as RPGs lashed up at them, helos were ready to reply with GAU-17A door guns.

  A pillar of red smoke was rising from the church, and the Hawks followed it in. Fortunately the garden behind the church was large enough for two helicopters to land at once.

  Riley had been brought up from the church’s basement. Navy hospital corpsmen took over from the Egyptian nurses. But, before they could load the pilot, a significant quantity of guns and ammo had to be unloaded. The rotors continued to turn, and the engines were loud. Kydd had to yell in order for Cole to hear him. “What’s the hardware for?”

  “We owe the Coptic Guards,” Cole shouted. “Plus they might come in handy later on.”

  Kydd was surprised, but shouldn’t have been. Even as the shit went down Cole was busy cutting a deal between Boutros and the CIA. It was a different kind of mindset. Rescue Riley and get him out. That’s what Kydd had been focused on. Cole’s something else, Kydd thought. Something special. Once the last crates had been unloaded the corpsmen lifted Riley into a Rescue Hawk. Martin followed.

  The jets made low passes over the city as the first helo took off. The message was clear: “Shoot at the helicopter and we will we kill you.” No one did.

  The HH-60H was a quickly dwindling speck when the crew chief yelled at Goolsby. “You’re good to go, sir! Let’s load ’em up!”

  Goolsby turned to shake hands with Boutros before making his way over to stand by the chopper. Kydd had to give him credit. Rather than get on, Goolsby planned to count heads and be the last jarhead out.

  The second helicopter departed without incident, the flight from Cairo to Esna took two-and-a-half hours, and the Rescue Hawks landed on the same field from which they had departed. It soon became apparent that while the convoy had transited the locks it hadn’t gone any further. And there was a reason for that.

  “We’re stalling,” Goolsby told Kydd. “While the people in D.C. do their thing. So if your people need to catch up on maintenance now’s the time.”

  Kydd passed the word. There was always maintenance to do, and his sailors went to work. More than that there was the question of the poorly armed British boats.

  The wrench turners agreed that they couldn’t add heavy weapons to the boats without making the kind of structural changes that could only be carried out in a navy yard. But they could add a layer of ballistic fabric to the interiors of both wheelhouses and up-gun the boats by adding shield-protected grenade launchers in the front.

  Thanks to the fact that the launchers could fire 40 rounds a minute, and reach targets that were 2,000 yards away, the additional firepower would make a very significant difference in any sort of bow-on action. Lieutenant Fox-Smith professed himself to be “Very happy indeed.”

  While those things were happening Kydd tackled all the administrative tasks Evans had waiting for him. After working on it for an entire day Kydd was finally caught up.

  That meant he could join the command boat for a trip to Outpost Oscar, which was located about 25 miles up-river just north of Al Kilh Sharq, at a point where the Nile narrowed.

  The detachment consisted of a platoon strength unit located in the ruins of an old fortress. The leathernecks were charged with watching the river—and preventing players like Urabi from setting up shore batteries, laying minefields, or otherwise making preparations to attack the convoy. Kydd’s flotilla was responsible for keeping the advance party supplied, and for providing fire support if needed.

  But, when Kydd made his way down the riverboat’s stairs to board the RCB, he was in for a surprise. Cole was on the boat and chatting with Chief Petty Officer Jones. She was wearing a headscarf and a blue gallabya. Cole turned
to greet him. “Hi! I’d like to hitch a ride with Jonesy. I hope that’s okay.”

  Jonesy? No one dared call the chief Jonesy. Yet the man in question hadn’t blinked an eye. “Sure,” Kydd replied. “That’s fine. Where are you headed?”

  “I’m scheduled to meet with someone at the Pyramid of Al Kola. Dump me off. I’ll be waiting when you return.”

  Kydd frowned. “Shouldn’t you take a fireteam with you?”

  Cole shook her head. “That would spook the guy I’m meeting with. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

  Yes, you do, Kydd thought. But you push it. “Roger that. Okay, Chief … Let’s shove off.”

  It was a beautiful morning. The local feluccas were out on the river as usual. And, as the patrol boat motored south, well-watered farms were visible on both sides. An island appeared ahead. “We took the left channel last time,” Jones said. So we’ll take the right channel today.”

  Kydd nodded. Rivers don’t provide a lot of choices. They flow where they flow. But it made sense to vary routes to the extent possible. Cole was standing by the port rail. The slip stream tugged at her gown. He went to stand beside her. “So, what have you heard? Did a decision come down?”

  “Yes,” Cole replied. “Our request was approved.”

  “So it’s up to the drone jockeys.”

  “Yes. But, even if they succeed, we’ll have to fight Hezbollah.”

  “Yeah,” Kydd agreed. “What about the Chinese? Will we have to fight them too?”

  “They’re still moving north,” Cole replied.

  “So the answer is ‘yes.’”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  Kydd took advantage of the momentary silence. “So, what’s your favorite book?”

  Cole broke into laughter. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “What?” Kydd asked innocently. “We can’t discuss literature?”

  Cole smiled. “Pride and Prejudice. And yours?”

  “Into The Heart of Darkness.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “I guess it is … That hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “This is it,” Jones announced, as the boat slowed. “The dock looks rickety … Watch your step.”

  Kydd looked into Cole’s eyes. “You have a radio? And a weapon?”

  “Yes, daddy.”

  “Call and we’ll come running.”

  Cole nodded. “I’ll be waiting when you come downriver.”

  ***

  Cole stepped off the boat and onto the dock. The sunbaked wood was in need of repair, birds had been pooping on it for years, and a beat-up felucca was tugging at its rope. There were no people to be seen.

  A worn path led west from the river and through a well-watered banana plantation. The muted thump, thump, thump of an irrigation pump could be heard but nothing more. No birds. No anything.

  It felt spooky. Cole slid her right hand into the gallabya, felt for the pistol, and drew it. With the weapon pointing down along her leg she continued to walk. Her head was on a swivel, the way it was supposed to be, and her gut felt empty.

  The purpose of the trip was to meet with a man named Burhan Al-Bishi. He was, among other things, one of Hussain Urabi’s underlings. And Cole was supposed to keep track of Urabi’s activities. Was the warlord keeping his part of the bargain with the United States Government? Or was he preparing to attack the convoy? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

  Thanks to one of Cole’s Egyptian contractors she’d been able to make contact with Al-Bishi and set a meeting. But only if she came alone.

  Cole arrived at a T-shaped intersection where her path met with another. A pond blocked the way which meant the agent had to go left or right. Based on the drone footage Cole had seen she turned right. The trail led to a bridge. And the bridge crossed the pond to a spot just east of the Al Kola Pyramid.

  Cole had done her research. The Al Kola had been constructed to honor an unknown personage and dated back to Egypt’s third dynasty. It had been 40-feet tall originally. But now, after more than 2,000 years of weather, it had been reduced to a 32-foot-high mound of rubble. And looked like a pile of stone blocks. So it wasn’t, nor would it ever be, a major tourist attraction.

  The pyramid was a roadside stop for the nearby highway though … And prior to the war the site had been home to half a dozen food vendors. They were gone now leaving little more than a clutch of picnic tables. And except for a lone figure who was slumped over a table the area was deserted.

  Cole stopped to check her surroundings. A truck rattled past on the highway. The sun beat down on her shoulders and flies buzzed. Cole didn’t like the feel of it, but she couldn’t skip the meeting without a reason.

  The person was taking a nap. Or so it appeared from a distance. But as Cole drew closer she saw the knife that protruded from the man’s back and his blood-soaked thawb.

  Cole’s heart beat faster. She raised the pistol and performed a complete 360. Nothing. The killer, or killers, were gone. She wanted to leave. And she would leave. Right after she checked the body. Was she looking at Al-Bishi? Or someone else?

  Cole made her way over to the corpse. The dagger wasn’t just any old blade. The pommel consisted of a red gemstone, or what looked like a gemstone, and glowed in the sun. The handle was wrapped with silver wire. Why so fancy? Unless …

  Cole heard the scrape of a boot, turned, and fired. The bullet hit the man in the shoulder. He staggered, and regained his balance, only to take one in the head.

  Cole whirled in time to shoot another assailant. The first shot took half of his left ear. The next slug killed him. Then she ran. A male voice yelled, “Catch her!” The river was a long ways off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Aswan Dam, Egypt

  Blood flew as Kantar brought the sword down on Sergeant Boustani’s unprotected neck. The noncom turned his head and laughed. “You call that a cut? My five-year-old could do better.”

  Kantar awoke with a jerk. The nightmares had been plaguing him for days. There were a number of permutations, but all of them had common elements: The sword, Boustani, and a feeling of failure.

  Not only had Kantar failed to kill the mutineer with a single blow, his efforts to create a Shia friendly government had thus far come to naught, and Secretary General Hassan Haddad was going to arrive in a few hours. But why? Was Haddad planning to deliver a pep talk? Or chew him out? Kantar turned a light on, put his feet on the tiny carpet, and grabbed his radio. “Marwan.”

  “Sir!” Newly promoted Lieutenant Babak Marwan was an even better officer than Allawi had been. The Iranian was equally industrious, better educated, and a trained missile technician.

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, sir. The control tower is manned. The airport has been searched and secured. All the missile batteries have been notified—and will allow the secretary general’s plane to land.”

  “Excellent. And the refreshments? The secretary general might be hungry.”

  “Mr. El Saa promised a feast,” Marwan assured him.

  El Saa was the battalion’s Nubian chef who, along with the other members of his enormous family, kept the battalion fed. Even the men stationed in the outlying missile batteries ate well and that was good for morale.

  “Thank you, Marwan,” Kantar said. “And remember … It will be your job to keep everything running smoothly while I’m at the airport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kantar broke the connection and began the laborious process of getting ready. The “bomb” room had never been intended for sleeping. It lacked running water, never mind a shower. Kantar had to take his toiletries, his radio, the bomb’s remote, and a pistol to a distant utility room in order to take a sponge bath and shave.

  Once that ritual was complete Kantar returned to the bomb room, put his toiletries away, and got dressed. Then it was time to button the remote into a cargo pocket and lock the door behind him. From there Kantar made his way to the control room and his office. Most of the engineers
didn’t bother to turn and look.

  Once Kantar sat down he found the usual stack of reports waiting on his desk. Marwan was a member of the Iranian Army which, unlike Hezbollah, had a penchant for all things bureaucratic.

  That was an improvement in many ways. But it forced Kantar to spend at least an hour of every day plowing through paperwork. Kantar was reading a technician’s fitness report when his lead driver appeared in the doorway. “We’re ready, sir.”

  Kantar put the report aside and stood. “Good.”

  After following the driver out into the cool night air, Kantar looked up at the blanket of stars. Marwan said there was nothing to worry about. But what if the Iranian was mistaken?

  An Al Qaeda leader named Musa Abu Dawud had been killed by a drone near the city of Ubari in Libya. But he didn’t have radars and a missile system to protect him, Kantar thought.

  Still, it was best to leave nothing to chance. That’s why three cars stood waiting at the curb. No one knew which vehicle Kantar would choose to ride in. Not even the man himself. Kantar paused for a moment, chose car two, and got inside. The driver had a radio. “Car one can depart.” Car one left on a drive to nowhere. “Car three can go.” Car three pulled away.

  Then, and only then, did car two leave for the airport. It was a short drive. As the car pulled up in front of the terminal building Kantar saw that all of the lights were blazing.

  A sergeant offered a salute. Kantar returned it. They entered together and made their way to the west side of the terminal. A civilian employee was waiting to greet them. He bowed. “Good evening, Wahda Kantar. My name is Abbad Omar. All is in readiness. The plane is on time.”

  Kantar nodded. “Thank you.” He knew that the plane Omar referred to was a Kenya Airways jet. Did Allied intelligence agents know that Secretary General Hassan Haddad was on board? Probably. But, they couldn’t shoot a neutral plane down, so Haddad was safe.

  Kantar was thirty-minutes early. Time seemed to drag. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Omar reappeared. “The plane is on final approach, sir.”

  “Take me down to the tarmac. I want to be there when the secretary general deplanes.”