Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  The fireman opened his mouth to ask a question but never got the chance. Somewhere, deep inside the remains of the mansion, flames found al-Hudaybi’s armory. The resulting blast tossed chunks of debris high into the air. Some splashed into the pool, as Kantar ran for the street.

  The keys were in his hand … All on a Mercedes Benz ring. Was that the kind of car the little man wanted to own? Or was that the kind of car he actually had?

  The answer to the question was parked on the street. And, when Kantar pressed the key fob, lights flashed. Thanks be to Allah, Kantar thought, as he opened the door. The driver’s seat was too far forward, but slid back at the touch of a button.

  Kantar looked for the ignition switch and realized there wasn’t any. There was a button though … And the engine started right away.

  An alarm sounded as Kantar drove away. That forced him to stop and buckle up. Then he took off. But for where? To the airport, where the chartered plane was waiting? Or to Aswan?

  Kantar looked for a place to pull over and did. There was a map in the glove box. And the situation was clear. There was no direct route from Al Farafra to Aswan. And the indirect routes would take forever. So the plane was the way to go.

  Maybe the attackers were after him, and maybe they weren’t. Maybe they knew about the plane, and maybe they didn’t. All Kantar could do was take the chance.

  After asking an old man for directions Kantar drove to the little airport, rousted his pilot out of a nearby restaurant, and ordered him back to the plane. Kantar’s clothes were soaking wet. But, if the aviator was curious, he kept the questions to himself.

  They were in the air twenty minutes later. “Contact the tower at the Aswan Dam,” Kantar said. “Tell them we’re enroute, and give them an ETA. The authorization code is seven-zero-seven. Got it?”

  “Seven-zero-seven,” the pilot said dutifully.

  Kantar felt tired and depressed. He made his way back into the cargo compartment where the pilot had a thin mattress and a couple of blankets. Maybe they’re tracking me, Kantar thought. Maybe I’ll die in my sleep. And that, Kantar decided, would be just fine.

  But Kantar didn’t die in his sleep. He was awake for the refueling stop in Ar Rashdah, and the subsequent flight to the dam, where Lieutenant Marwan was waiting on the tarmac. The sun was setting by then—and the airport’s lights were on. “Welcome back, sir … How did it go?”

  “It went badly,” Kantar told him. “Very badly.”

  Marwan’s eyes grew wider as Kantar described the meeting with al-Hudaybi, the drone attack, and his escape. “Allah was with you,” the Iranian said. “Nothing else could explain how you survived.”

  Kantar assumed that was true. But to what end? Al-Hudaybi was dead. And so was the possibility of a deal. Time was running through his fingers like grains of desert sand. But, much to Kantar’s surprise, the answer to his dilemma was there waiting for him.

  “I have a message for you,” Marwan said, “from a man named Hussain Urabi.”

  Kantar frowned. Urabi … He’d heard the name before. But in connection with what? Then it came to him. Urabi was the warlord who had done battle with the Chinese who, according to Secretary General Haddad, planned to attack him. “What does Urabi want?”

  “He wants to meet with you,” Marwan said. “To discuss the creation of a new government.”

  Kantar felt his heart leap. Urabi was hostile to the Chinese. And the Chinese were hostile to him. So Urabi was a potential ally. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He would like to meet with you tomorrow. In Aswan.”

  “Get back to him,” Kantar said. “And set it up. Pay attention to security though … The meeting could be a ruse.”

  The promise of a new initiative was just the tonic that Kantar needed. He slept well that night, exercised the following morning, and was ready by ten. Marwan had chosen six bodyguards to protect Kantar, all of whom were combat veterans, and large in stature. Urabi was entitled to bring an equal number of retainers. But Kantar’s troops controlled the city of Aswan. So, if the warlord were to try something, he and his men would have no way to escape. And Kantar took comfort from that.

  Even though Kantar was back inside the protective umbrella that the SAM launchers provided, he was even more paranoid about drones after the attack in Al Farafra, and determined to deceive the Allies should they be spying on him. So the bodyguards were sent off in a truck. And, in a departure from his past practices, Kantar rode a motorcycle from the dam to the city. Kantar’s fighters knew their commander was coming and waved him through the checkpoint.

  Despite Hezbollah’s efforts to prevent Aswan from being reoccupied, people had been leaking in for some time. And Kantar saw evidence of that as he rode through the streets. Laundry could be seen hanging from lines, plants were being watered, and a healthy looking camel stood tethered to a lamppost.

  But what could Kantar do? He lacked the number of fighters required to go house-to-house and clear the city. And, even if he were able to force a complete evacuation, doing so would foster even more hatred. It was a conundrum.

  The restaurant Urabi had chosen for the meeting was a well-known spot that fronted the Nile. Kantar parked the bike next to Hezbollah’s truck. His bodyguards formed up around him. One man in front, followed by two more, followed by Kantar himself. Two fighters had been assigned to protect his back, while a third spent half his time looking backwards, in case of an attack.

  The upscale eatery was plush but empty. White linen covered the tables, silver gleamed, and the floor to ceiling windows were crystal clear. Fishing boats weren’t supposed to operate off Aswan city anymore, but there they were, tacking back and forth. It was a pretty sight.

  Urabi was seated at a table in front of the window and rose as Kantar appeared. The warlord’s bodyguards stood in pairs, their backs to Urabi. The warlord had a receding hairline, a moon-shaped face, and heavy eyebrows. He spoke with a British accent. “Greetings! I’m happy to see that you survived.”

  Kantar’s alarm bells went off. Be careful, the inner voice said. He’s good at this sort of thing, and more experienced than you are. “News travels quickly,” Kantar replied, in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner.

  “Please,” Urabi said, “have a seat. Yes, I have contacts in Al Farafra, and they keep me advised. I assume that Minister al-Hudaybi was killed.”

  “Yes,” Kantar replied. “That seems likely. But I didn’t search the ruins.”

  “No,” Urabi said, as tall glasses of iced tea arrived. “I wouldn’t think so.

  “We’re men of action, you and I. So, let’s get down to business. I, like everyone else in Egypt, would like to prevent a catastrophe. But I’m a businessman as well … And, like all businessmen, I’m interested in making a profit.

  “You on the other hand are a soldier, and a diplomat, who wants Egypt on your side. I believe we can work together to achieve all of those goals. Would you like to hear more?”

  Appetizers arrived and sat untouched as the men eyed each other. “Yes, I would,” Kantar replied. “Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success.”

  The proverb caused Urabi to smile. “Good. My proposal is this: Others, men like myself, will listen to me. I will invite them to a meeting which you will attend. We will put forward a proposal to create an Egyptian government led by me, in which each of them will occupy an important post, thereby ensuring their ability to have a say.

  “Immediately after the creation of this government, I will announce that Egypt has aligned itself with the Axis. Subsequent to that the Axis countries will be allowed to establish a limited number of airbases in Egypt, all in locations well away from population centers, and all subject to limits on aircraft and personnel.

  “But, my friend,” Urabi continued, “that’s only part of it! Saudi Arabia will fall once Axis aircraft can operate from Egypt, and The House of Saud will topple with it. And that will liberate a great deal of wealth. In recognition of
the role that my associates and I will play, it only seems fair that a small portion of that bounty be paid to us. I think something on the order of a hundred-million each would be right.”

  Kantar was amazed by the other man’s audacity. What Urabi proposed was nothing less than a full-scale kleptocracy in which he and his fellow warlords would milk Egypt like a cow. And, once the Saudi Arabian kingdom was dissolved, Urabi and his friends would receive cash bonuses. But so what? I’m not Egyptian, Kantar thought. And the means justifies the end.

  “I think your proposal is quite interesting,” Kantar said. “But the decision isn’t up to me. I will relay the plan to my superiors, along with a recommendation that they approve it.”

  “Excellent,” Urabi replied. “But tell them to hurry. The Allies are only a hundred miles away.”

  Yes, Kantar mused, and who knows how close the Chinese are.

  “I will tell them that,” Kantar promised. “I most certainly will.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Pyramid of Al Kola, Egypt

  It was hot, so Kydd went looking for some shade, and found a cool spot under some palm trees. A white plastic chair was waiting for him. Where was the person who liked to sit on it? Where were the women who normally came down for water? Where were the farmers? The area was quiet. Too quiet.

  Kydd sat down and placed the HK416 across his knees. A fly buzzed around his head. He tried to swat it and missed. Kydd should have been on the command boat motoring upstream. He wanted to be on the command boat motoring upstream.

  But Cole was somewhere to the west of him, intent on meeting with a mysterious contact, and unwilling to take marines with her. What was that anyway? A necessary risk? Or some stubborn bullshit?

  The silence was shattered by four shots. They came one after another. Kydd jumped to his feet and began to run. He was wearing a headset—and had a radio clipped to his vest. “One-Six to One-Seven. Shots fired west of the river. I’m headed that way. Over.”

  “Roger that, One-Six,” Chief Jones replied. “We’re on the way. Over.”

  Kydd’s pulse was pounding as he followed the trail along the edge of a field. He heard a shout followed by another shot. “I’m coming your way … Don’t shoot me.”

  Cole was breathing hard. “Three on my six.”

  Kydd saw the agent ahead. He stopped, brought the rifle up, and squinted. The men were roughly thirty feet behind Cole and gaining on her. “You’re in my line of fire.”

  Cole veered off the trail, hit the dirt, and rolled. Kydd fired a series of three-shot bursts. The men were bunched up. That made it easy. Bodies jerked and fell.

  All of the attackers were down, but Kydd kept the 416 up and ready, as he advanced to a point just short of the bodies. With no other pursuers in sight, Kydd lowered his weapon. He turned to find that Cole was searching each corpse. Once she had their wallets and other effects she stood. Her eyes were sky blue. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. And?”

  “And what?”

  “You know what.”

  Cole sighed. “You were right. Do you feel better now?”

  Kydd grinned. “Yes, I do. What happened?”

  Cole told him. “It was a set up,” she finished.

  “Yeah,” Kydd agreed. “You shot at them, but they didn’t shoot at you? That’s strange.”

  “Exactly,” Cole agreed. “I think it’s safe to assume they had orders to capture me.”

  The conversation was interrupted as Jones and two heavily armed sailors arrived on the scene. Kydd turned to greet them. “Thanks for the fast response … Three tangos are down—and we’re ready to pull out.”

  “Not so fast,” Cole said. “I need to go back, and search the guy at the table.”

  Kydd made a face. “Okay, let’s get this over with. I’ll take the point and the chief will walk drag. Let’s go.”

  Kydd half expected an attack, but there was none. And, when they arrived at the pyramid, the bodies were still there. “The girl’s a badass,” Jones observed, as he looked around. “Don’t piss her off.”

  A man sat slumped over a picnic table. Cole went over to search him. Kydd followed. “A dagger?” he inquired. “That’s kind of old-school.”

  “It is,” Cole agreed, as she found a wallet and flipped it open. “Burhan Al-Bishi. This is the man I was supposed to meet.”

  “The guy who worked for Urabi.”

  “Exactly,” Cole replied. “And the guy who was going to give me information about what Urabi is up to. It’s my guess that Urabi was onto Al-Bishi, learned about the meeting, and had him killed. The dagger was supposed to hold my attention while Urabi’s men grabbed me. And it very nearly worked.”

  “So he could ransom you?”

  “Possibly,” Cole allowed. “Urabi has done that kind of thing before as you have reason to know. But I think he planned to drain me dry.”

  Kydd winced. “We need to kill that bastard.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Cole agreed. “It was a big mistake to let him go.”

  Jones had been monitoring the emergency frequency. “We’ve got a problem,” he announced. “Outpost Oscar is under attack.”

  “Come on!” Kydd said. “Let’s get to the boat. Tell the ops center that we’re headed upriver to provide support.”

  They ran east along the trail and out onto the rickety dock. The RCB was waiting with her bow out, and took off the moment the last sailor jumped aboard.

  Waves rolled away from the bow as the helmsman opened both throttles and sent the boat racing upriver. The crew were already at battle stations so there was no need for an order. “What’s our ETA?” Kydd inquired.

  “About forty minutes,” Jones replied.

  Kydd made a face. Forty minutes was an eternity in combat. Jones turned a radio up so all of them could listen. The platoon leader, who was likely to be a second lieutenant, and in the shit for the first time—was doing his best. But there was no denying the desperation in the kid’s voice. The bang, bang, bang of semi-automatic weapon fire could be heard in the background. “This is Oscar-Six actual … Fifty-percent casualties … Final protective fire. Requesting an airstrike on this position.”

  “Shit,” Jones said. “They’re about to be overrun! And if Goolsby had attack helicopters, which he doesn’t, the missiles at the dam would shoot them down.”

  Kydd grabbed the mike. “Oscar-Six … This is Riverine One-Six actual … Hang in there, son. We’re fifteen out. Over.”

  There was a moment of silence followed by a new voice. It was grim. “This is Oscar-Seven. Six is down. We …” Then the transmission ended.

  There was nothing to say. Cole looked away. Kydd knew that tears were rolling down her cheeks. Was she thinking about John? Probably.

  There was a lot of radio traffic as Goolsby sent marines north in every boat he had— including the two-boat, the British boats, and both of the SURCs. Kydd saw the column of black smoke rising from Outpost Oscar well before the RCB arrived. But not a sound could be heard.

  Then, as they got closer, he saw the empty feluccas on the beach that fronted the old fort. “Look!” Cole said. “They’re tied together. End-to-end.”

  The agent was correct, and Kydd thought he knew why. That’s how the bad guys arrived, Kydd thought, in stolen boats. All roped together so they couldn’t go astray.

  The fact that the boats were still there meant one of two things: Either the hajis were waiting to attack the relief force, or they’d gone east into the desert.

  So why not attack from the east? Kydd wondered.

  Because, Kydd decided, the platoon leader was more concerned about the desert than the river. So when the feluccas came downriver, his heavy weapons were facing east.

  “Keep your heads on a swivel!” Kydd yelled, as the boat came within gunshot of the fort. “They could be waiting for us!”

  Ellis had the minigun trained on the fort as the RCB’s bow slid up onto soft sand and most of the crew bailed out. Jones had removed a
n LMG from its mount and was ready to fire it from the hip as he waded ashore. Kydd, Cole, and a gunners’ mate followed.

  Doc Niles was carrying two Unit One medical kits, and armed with a pistol. “Take it slow,” Kydd cautioned. “Watch for IEDs.”

  The steps were made of limestone. A depression was centered in the middle of each tread. There was no telling how many thousands of feet had climbed and descended the stairway over hundreds of years. Not thousands of years, because gun ports in the west wall suggested that the crumbling fortification might have been new when Napoleon arrived in 1798. Or been built by his army. The stairs led to a pool of blood and some dead Arabs. All shot from above as they tried to advance.

  But when they came to a landing two marines lay there, stripped of their gear, faces slack. Niles paused to check each body, and shook his head.

  More stairs led up to ground level. The east side of the fortress was open to the desert. Bodies lay everywhere. A private moaned. Doc rushed to help. Other marines, all stripped of their weapons and gear, were sprawled in heaps.

  A mortar pit marked the center of the area, fronted by a wall of badly shot-up sandbags, with a gun emplacement at each corner. Except the mortar tube and the machine guns were missing. And that, Kydd thought, may have been the purpose of the raid.

  Then something else occurred to him. He turned to Jones. “Call ops … Find out how many marines were stationed here.”

  A sailor named Martinez was standing nearby, weapon at the ready. Kydd waved him over. “Count the dead and wounded. Marines only. And don’t forget the bodies on the lower landing.”

  Martinez said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and disappeared.

  “I see where this is going,” Cole said. “Some of the marines are prisoners.”

  “That’s how it appears,” Kydd agreed. “A typical platoon consists of something like 40 men. And, since I don’t see that many bodies, some of the marines survived.

  “I think the raid had two objectives. The first was to acquire heavy weapons. The second was to kidnap marines and sell them back.”