Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  “Well, at least we know who the raiders are,” Cole said.

  Kydd’s eyebrows rose. “We do?”

  “In the general sense, yes,” Cole replied. She pointed at a body. “That man looks like a Bedouin the same way a cowboy looks like a cowboy. The type of headdress, the robe, and the knife are similar to what Bedouin men usually wear. Now look around. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Kydd scanned the area. Cole was right … The other civilian casualties were wearing nearly identical attire. Jones appeared at his side. “The platoon had been reinforced with heavy weapons teams, Skipper. It consisted of 46 marines.”

  Martinez returned. “I found 25 marines, sir. Dead and wounded.”

  “So the Bedouins have 21 prisoners,” Cole put in.

  “Damn it,” Kydd said. “We’ve got to find them, and fast, before they fade into the desert.”

  “Which Bedouins excel at,” Cole added. “The Bedouins who practice traditional ways are nomads. They tend to live in areas that get under 2 inches of rain each year. And they see themselves as the true Arabs, and the rest as pretenders.”

  Kydd turned to Jones. “Call the ops center. Tell them that 21 marines are MIA, and presumed to be prisoners. Ask them to launch a drone if they have one that can travel this far. Something the SAMs won’t target. And tell them that we’re sending a party out to get eyes-on if that’s possible.”

  Kydd turned to Cole as Jones worked the radio. “It would be nice to have a translator. Not to mention another gun. Are you in?”

  Cole nodded. “You know I am.”

  “Good. Hey, Martinez! Would you like to volunteer for a walk in the desert?”

  Martinez grinned. “Sounds good, sir.”

  “Great. Tell Harris that he volunteered too … And make up four packs. Lots of water, extra ammo, and night vision stuff. You have fifteen minutes.” Martinez left for the boat.

  “I’m going too,” Jones said.

  “Sorry,” Kydd replied. “But you are in command of the RCB. Not to mention the fact that the XO will need your help when he arrives. How’s the Doc doing?”

  It turned out that Niles was doing as well as he could. Three marines were wounded, one critically, and all were being loaded onto the RCB. “I want to take them downriver as quickly as I can,” the corpsman said.

  “Of course,” Kydd answered. “And the attackers?”

  “One survivor,” Niles said. “A boy. He took a bullet, but he’ll make it.”

  “He’s on the boat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, get moving. And be sure to let the surgeon know you’re coming.”

  Martinez and Harris appeared at that point, wearing floppy hats, and toting two packs each. “The chief sent this,” Harris said, as he gave a rangefinder binocular to Kydd.

  “He’s a genius,” Kydd said.

  “Yup,” Harris replied expressionlessly. “That’s what he tells me.”

  Outpost Oscar was located in that spot for a reason. The Nile was narrower at that point, which made it easier to monitor river traffic, and the nearest habitation from there was miles away. That meant the marines could open fire without worrying about civilians.

  But the locals didn’t live adjacent to the fort for a reason. Due to the topography, and the force of prevailing winds, sand dunes were pushed west—and into the Nile. Making it narrower.

  So as the foursome followed the tracks east, they had to walk on loose sand, which required more effort. “At least it’s easy to follow them,” Kydd observed, as they topped a rise. “Look! The trail is at least six-feet wide.”

  “True,” Cole agreed, as she knelt beside him. “But look at this … See the way the wind is blowing sand into each depression? The tracks will disappear in a matter of hours.”

  “Then we’d better get going,” Kydd replied.

  Thus began a long and arduous hike. Kydd figured the temperature was something like 95 degrees. Scraps of shade were visible near outcroppings of rock. But the team couldn’t take advantage of the cool spots without departing from the trail.

  The sand shifted under Kydd’s boots and raw spots had begun to develop around his ankles. And, precious though they were, the bottles of water in his pack were heavy. But that’s okay, Kydd told himself, as he paused to take a sip. You’re lucky to have it.

  The march dragged on. What would I do if I was a Bedouin? Kydd wondered dully. And I knew the U S of A might come looking for me? I’d leave at least one guy behind that’s what … A guy with a radio. And I’d give him orders to watch for kafirs on my back trail.

  Kydd came to a sudden stop, brought the binoculars up, and glassed the horizon. There were two ridges in the distance with a gap between them. There, he thought. That’s where the lookout would be. Hidden among the rocks.

  The others had gone a bit further when Kydd stopped, figuring that he would sip some water, and catch up. Now they returned. Cole eyed him. “Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” Kydd lied. “But I have a concern.”

  Kydd told the others what he’d been thinking about. Martinez nodded. “That makes sense, sir … But what can we do about it?”

  “We can pass the buck,” Kydd replied. “Let’s see what the ops center says.”

  The hot sun continued to beat down on the team, as Kydd radioed in, and wound up delivering a sitrep to Goolsby. “So,” Kydd concluded. “If we pass through the gap, I’m afraid they’ll make us. Over.”

  There was a burst of static followed by the sound of Goolsby’s voice. “Find some shade One-Six. And keep your eyes peeled. One-five backups are on the way, and will arrive before nightfall. They will deal with the lookout if there is one. Sorry about the drone … But the SAMs would blow a Pred out of the sky. And our UAVs (unmanned aerial vehicles) don’t have enough range. Good job by the way … Maybe you should transfer to the corps. Over.” That was followed by a click.

  The team was waiting. “The colonel wants us to find some shade, and wait for reinforcements,” Kydd told them. “Fifteen marines are on the way.”

  It took the team twenty-minutes to reach a patch of shade on the east side of a rocky spire. “Drink water,” Kydd told them. “And nap if you can. I’ll take the first watch.”

  Kydd spent the next hour watching Egyptian vultures ride thermals above the desert, as contrails clawed the sky high above them, and cloud-shadows crossed the land. Then it was time to wake Martinez and grab some shut-eye.

  It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when the sailor woke him. “Sorry, sir … But a marine, call-sign ‘Four-Three,’ is on the horn. He wants our twenty.”

  Kydd rolled over, did a pushup, and stood. If the leathernecks were off to the west he couldn’t see them. Martinez gave him the radio. “One-Six to Four-Three. Can you see reddish spire? We’re at the base of it. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Four-Three replied. “We’ll be there shortly. Over.”

  The binoculars were resting on top of Kydd’s pack. He held them to his eyes. Dry desert slipped past as he panned from right to left. Nothing, nothing, bingo! There they were, barely visible in their camos, running cross-country! Carrying packs and weapons. Force Recon, Kydd thought. Celer, Silens, Mortalis. (Swift, Silent, Deadly.) One, two, three, four, who loves the Marine Corps? They do.

  The first marine arrived fifteen-minutes later. He was sweating, but otherwise fresh as a daisy, and in good spirits. “Good afternoon, sir … I’m Corporal Lansing. The rest of the team will arrive shortly.”

  A first lieutenant named Givens was the fifth man in. He had dark skin, a lanky frame, and a southern drawl. “No offense sir, but the water’s that-a-way.”

  Kydd laughed. “Thanks, Lieutenant … I’d love to jump in the Nile right now. Are you up for a sitrep?”

  “Yes, sir,” Givens replied. “Lay it on me.”

  Kydd pointed to the gap, and told Givens about his theory. He finished by saying, “So, given the fact the Bedouins are on foot, I figure they’ll make camp no mor
e than five miles beyond the gap.”

  Givens nodded. “That makes sense, sir. The light is starting to fade. I’ll send a team forward to eliminate the sentry—assuming he’s there. Then we’ll push through. Do you plan to go with us? Or return to the river?”

  “Where would the corps be without the navy? We’re in. But you’re in command.”

  Givens smiled. “Roger that, sir. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  Kydd was eating a candy bar, and washing it down with sips of warm water, as the two-man sniper team departed. One marine was carrying a Barrett XM500 sniper rifle with a bipod. His spotter was armed with an M4 carbine and a powerful spotting scope. Kydd tried to follow their progress. But it wasn’t long before the leathernecks seemed to merge with the desert landscape.

  The sun was slipping down below the western horizon when Givens made the rounds. “On your feet marines … Take a whiz if you need to. The enemy lookout is down. We leave in five.”

  And that was that. No fuss, no muss, and no sound. “One shot, one kill.” The sniper’s motto.

  The marines took off at a steady jog. Kydd, Cole, and the sailors managed to keep up at first, but soon fell behind. So the best the smaller team could do was don night vision gear, and follow the newly made tracks.

  The other footprints, the ones left by the Bedouins and their prisoners, were partially obscured by that time and hard to discern. Kydd was glad that Givens had the responsibility for tracking the bad guys instead of him.

  Minutes stretched into an hour, followed by another hour, before Givens whispered in his ear. “Four-Three to One-Six … Eyes-on. Close slowly. No noise. Over.”

  Kydd clicked his mike twice by way of an acknowledgement. He turned to the others. “The marines have eyes-on. Move slowly. Keep it quiet.”

  Like any competent platoon leader Givens had a man stationed on his six. And when the naval contingent appeared he waved the newcomers forward. “Keep down,” he whispered. “There’s some strange shit going on.”

  And the marine was correct. A glow appeared as Kydd worked his way up a slope to the top of a ridge. The kind of glow produced by electric lights! Givens was staring at the depression below as Kydd plopped down beside him. “Here,” Givens said, as he handed a pair of night vision binoculars over to Kydd. “Check it out.”

  Kydd had to remove his night vision gear to use the binoculars. The encampment looked green. He saw tents, two of which were military rather than nomadic, along with some parked vehicles. Bedouins were present, but so were uniformed soldiers. “What the hell?”

  “They’re Russians,” Givens whispered. “Or that’s my guess.”

  And it seemed like a good guess. After being suckered by Hezbollah off the top, the Ruskies were back, and determined to reassert themselves. In order to help Kantar? Or with plans to displace him? Either one was a possibility.

  The marines, or the figures Kydd assumed to be marines, were seated with hands behind their heads. “I see trucks,” Kydd said. “I wonder if they intend to move the prisoners.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” Givens replied. “I have orders to free our guys—not let a bunch of A-holes drive them away.”

  “I like the way you think, Lieutenant,” Kydd replied. “What can we do to help?”

  “How about a diversion?” Givens suggested. “You take your team over to the west side of the depression—and lob some grenades at the tangos. Then, as they surge your way, we’ll advance from the north. As we do, my snipers will thin out their command and control. It’s my opinion that we should attack sooner rather than later.”

  “I agree,” Kydd said. “We’ll move out. I’ll let you know once we’re in position.”

  Kydd held a whispered conference with his team. “I’ll take the point,” Cole said, as she screwed a suppressor onto her pistol.

  That made sense, so Kydd nodded. “I’ll walk drag. Let’s keep it tight.”

  Cole had been an infantry officer, and it showed in the way that she advanced, weapon ready, looking for trip wires. The Bedouin weren’t likely to lay any but the Russians were. And sure enough, once they reached the bottom of the slope, Cole raised her hand palm out. It was the signal for “stop.” The team froze.

  Then, using exaggerated movements, the agent stepped over something the rest of them couldn’t see. Not until they reached the same spot. Then the piece of tightly-stretched, monofilament line became visible. Kydd figured it was connected to a mine or a flare. Not that it mattered.

  One-by-one the team members crossed the obstacle, and followed Cole through a scattering of rocks, to the point where open desert began. The glow was directly ahead. And there, silhouetted against the light, was a Bedouin armed with an M16A4. Taken from a dead marine? Or a prisoner? Of course.

  A lighter flared as the sentry lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag. That was when Cole shot him in the head. Smoke dribbled out the man’s nostrils as he fell. Cole patted the body in hopes of finding a radio but came up empty.

  From there the agent led the team forward toward some sand-drifted rocks where they could take cover. And they were halfway to that objective when an engine roared into life. That was followed by a second one. “They’re loading the prisoners!” Givens said over the radio. “Throw the grenades!”

  Kydd removed a grenade from his vest, held it with the pin up, and pressed his thumb against the safety lever. After pulling the pin Kydd threw the grenade overhand. Like a baseball player.

  Harris did likewise and both men hit the dirt. The explosives went off in quick succession. The response was immediate. Auto, and semiauto weapons opened fire, and all the diversionary team could do was hug the ground as bullets whined, snapped, and buzzed over their heads.

  The Force Recon marines were halfway down the slope by that time, and firing at targets of opportunity. The defenders shifted fire accordingly. And that was when Kydd stood, and shouted, “Follow me!”

  Blood pounded in Kydd’s head, his breath came in short gasps, and someone screamed. Each muzzle flash was a target and he paused to fire at one of them. Then Kydd was off and running again. The camp was closer by that time as were the tents. Kydd was still picking up speed when he tripped on a guyline. The crash landing occurred just as Givens yelled, “Cease fire from the west!”

  And that made sense, because the marines were in the enemy encampment by then, and could be hit. Kydd had to roll over in order to relay the order. “Cease fire!”

  “Hello, sailor,” Cole said, as she paused to offer him a hand. “What a slacker.”

  Kydd got to his feet. “Just taking a short break, that’s all … Come on, let’s lend a hand.”

  But the marines had the situation under control by then. The Bedouins and the Russians had been sorted into two groups—and their wrists were being secured with zip ties.

  In the meantime the marine prisoners were being released and armed with their own weapons. “Find ’em all!” a noncom hollered. “And that includes the heavy stuff.”

  “I don’t speak Russian,” Cole said. “But I’ll chat with the Bedouins. Maybe they can tell me what’s going on here.”

  With Harris and Martinez in tow, Kydd went looking for Givens, and found him near the encampment’s generator. It rattled softly. Givens was on his radio. “Roger that, we have all of them. Over. Yes, sir … I’ll tell them, over.” Then he broke the connection.

  Givens spotted Kydd and frowned. “Where’s Cole? Is everybody okay?”

  “She’s chatting with the Bedouins,” Kydd answered. “How about your guys?”

  “One KIA, and three WIA,” Givens answered glumly. “We can’t call for an air evac so we’ll use a Russian truck to take them out.”

  Kydd nodded. “I’m sorry. That makes sense. So they are Russians?”

  “Absolutely,” Givens replied. “None of them are willing to talk at the moment. But I figure the S2 will unzip at least some of these bastards. Then we’ll learn more.”

  “I can give you some preliminary sc
oop,” Cole said, as she joined them. “According to the Bedouins, who see themselves as employees rather than Axis loyalists, the Russians came ashore at the port of Al-Ghardaqah on the Red Sea. This group is the advance party for a larger force.”

  Kydd frowned. “Why would the Russians order an advance party attack the fort?”

  “They didn’t,” Cole replied. “A Bedouin chieftain came up with that idea. And, according to my guy, the Russians were mightily pissed.”

  Kydd could imagine it. The chieftain, who had no interest in geopolitics, had seen an opportunity to raid the fort—and acquire heavy weapons.

  End of story. Except that Goolsby would have to be on the lookout for more Russians, and send a larger force should they decide to double down.

  Kydd and his party were on the first truck out, along with a body bag, and two wounded marines. A trip that had required hours of hard slogging on foot took about forty-five minutes. The two-boat was waiting to take the casualties downriver.

  As for the fort, the bodies had been removed, and another platoon had been brought in. But not for long, if what Chief Jones said was accurate. “We’re headed upriver,” the NCO said. “That’s the scuttlebutt anyway.”

  The sun was starting to rise as Kydd boarded the Nile and went to his cabin. Evans was waiting there along with a list of administrative tasks. “We’re falling behind,” the petty officer warned, as if Kydd was at fault.

  That was annoying, but Kydd understood. More than that, Kydd knew Evans was trying to protect him from Goolsby’s wrath, which he would certainly feel if his reports were late. “We’ll dig in,” Kydd promised. “Right after I take a nap. I’m wasted.”

  “The Colonel is holding a staff meeting at 1500,” Evans said, as he prepared to leave.

  Kydd eyed his watch. “Come back at 1200. We’ll work until 1430.”

  Evans looked pleased, and said, “Yes, sir.” The door closed behind him.

  After five hours of sleep Kydd arose feeling much better. Then, following a shower and a hurried brunch, he returned to the cabin where Evans was waiting.