There were supply requisitions to sign, missing equipment to justify, fitness reports to review, watch schedules to approve, patrol rotations to eyeball, and endless Goolsby-grams to read. Most of them were of the “don’t forget to write home” sort. The kind his sailors referred to as “ass wipes.”
But there were exceptions. Like the bulletin that began, “The USS Destroyer Susan Kelly lost with all hands.” Kydd couldn’t bear to read it. A friend of his had been on the Kelly. The BIG war, the one outside of Egypt, continued to grind on.
By 1430 ninety percent of the to-do list had been accomplished and Evans was in a good mood. “We kicked some ass, sir … I’ll finish up.”
Kydd arrived at the meeting on time, spotted Cole, and went over to sit beside her. “You look tired.”
Cole made a face. “The agency doesn’t know about our stroll in the desert. Nor would they care if they did.”
Kydd was about to sympathize when Goolsby called the meeting to order. “Good afternoon. I would like to begin the meeting by acknowledging the loss of twenty-two marines at Outpost Oscar, and still another marine lost inland, for a total of twenty-three men and women lost. But the wounded are doing well. Once the after-action reports have been reviewed and analyzed a report will go up the chain of command.”
Unsaid, but obvious to all of the officers in the room, was the fact that mistakes had been made by the platoon’s inexperienced leader. Mistakes he paid for with his life.
Was the company commander going to take some heat? Probably. He, or she, should have taken notice of the way the heavy weapons were placed—and ordered some changes.
But the buck didn’t stop there. The colonel’s superiors might or might not feel that some of the responsibility was Goolsby’s. Such was the price of command.
“Thanks to Lieutenant Givens, Lieutenant Commander Kydd, force recon marines, and our intrepid sailors, our POWs were freed and will return to duty soon.
“Unfortunately,” Goolsby continued, “I have some bad news to share. As all of you know, a Hezbollah officer named Mustafa Kantar has control of the dam, and the bomb that could destroy it. And so long as he remains inside the ring of SAM installations around the dam he’s safe from drone attacks. But Kantar needs to create a Shia friendly government if he can. And, to that end, he traveled to the town of Al Farafrah—for a meeting with an ex-minister named al-Hudaybi.”
Goolsby’s eyes made contact with Kydd’s. “Another man was present as well. An American who was passing information to the Russians.
“Long story short—someone fired two Hellfires, and dropped some 500 pound bombs on the house where the meeting was taking place.”
That produced applause, but Goolsby raised his hand. “Sorry, but there’s no happy ending. A contractor was dispatched to perform a BDA. He was murdered. So another asset was sent to do the job. He was able to confirm that both al-Hudaybi and the American were killed in the attack. But Kantar’s body was nowhere to be found. And, based on signals intelligence, we know he’s back in Aswan.”
Goolsby paused for a moment. Kydd and Cole traded glances. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the CIA was responsible for the attack. Maybe they figured that two out of three was a fairly good score. But they weren’t sitting in the Nile valley waiting for a religious fanatic to send a tsunami downriver.
“So our mission continues,” Goolsby said. “At 0800 tomorrow morning we’ll cast off, and head upriver to the town of Nagaa Al Jami. That will put us only thirty-miles away from the city of Aswan.
“Will Kantar view that as a provocation? Most likely. But so long as we remain in place our analysts believe that Kantar will continue his efforts to form a government. And, when the time comes, we’ll be within striking distance of the dam.”
Kydd tried to imagine taking his flotilla upstream in a doomed attempt to reach the dam and prevent 10-million people from dying. Talk about a bad day.
There was more, but nothing so consequential for Kydd’s flotilla, as the need to prepare for the 77-mile advance. So once the meeting was over Kydd brought his officers and senior noncoms together for a planning session.
The open air get-together was held ashore in a park once frequented by tour boat passengers. “The way I see it we have the following priorities,” Kydd told them. “Reconnaissance will commence at 1800 hours this evening. Both SURCs will head upriver for 10 miles, paying close attention to both riverbanks. They will keep a sharp lookout for navigational hazards, potential ambush sites, and floating IEDs.
“Force protection activities will begin at 0600 in the morning. That’s when the British one-boat will head north and clear feluccas off the river. SURC-1 will follow and act as enforcer.
“At 0800 the American one- and two-boats will lead the Nile upriver and stand ready to repel waterborne or shore based attacks.
“The British two-boat will fall back,” Kydd added, “and prevent hostiles from attacking the convoy’s six. That boat will also have a search and rescue responsibility, should someone fall overboard, and drift downstream.
“Meanwhile SURC-2 will serve as a VIP taxi, an ambulance should there be some sort of accident, and a felucca chaser if needed. Are there any questions?”
There were questions—ranging from how to deal with engine failures, the need for more translators, and the ongoing friction with recalcitrant tug captains. But eventually all the issues that could be resolved were resolved. And it was time for the group to repair onto the Nile where Evans had a buffet waiting for them. It wasn’t fancy, but it made a nice change from MREs, and Goolsby stopped by for a chat.
Then it was time for Kydd to gear-up and board Murphy’s SURC. He wanted to see the next stretch of river for himself—and get back to what he enjoyed the most. A clear night, a fast boat, and a river to run on. The brown water navy. His navy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RAF Deversoir Air Base, Egypt
Cole was tired and for good reason. In order to tackle her next assignment, the agent had been forced to ride a boat downriver to a location where a navy CH-53E helicopter could pick her up without being shot down by the dam’s air defense capability. And not just her. As the helo carried them east Egyptian air force officer Hasan Farook sat chained to the seat across from Cole.
Farook had been captured by Kydd and his sailors when he and a second pilot attacked the Riverines with Russian-made Black Shark helicopters. They’d been acting on orders from an Egyptian general named Ahmar.
Now Cole was taking Farook to Ahmar by way of a gift. But only after a long and tiring ride. “Their SAMs have a lock on us,” the pilot announced via the intercom. “And we have company. Two SA-342 Gazelles are escorting us in.”
Cole had no idea what a SA-342 was, and there weren’t any windows to look out of. But it didn’t matter. They were expected but an ambush wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. And if that occurred then Cole and her bodyguards wouldn’t last long.
Cole would die, or she wouldn’t. There were reasons to live though … And maybe Kydd was one of them. Cole pushed the thought away. Not now. Focus on what you’re doing.
Cole felt a thump as the helicopter’s the landing gear made contact with the tarmac. She released her seatbelt. It fell away. “Welcome to Deversoir Air Base. You’re home.”
“Not home,” Farook said. “I shamed. Kill me.”
Cole sighed. “You never stop, do you?”
She turned to the sailors. There were five of them, all heavily armed, and on loan from the navy. “Free Farook and keep him ready. In the meantime I need a couple of guys to make me look important.”
A first class petty officer named Wilson was in charge. He grinned. “No prob ma’am … Foss and I have your back.”
Cole drew a semiauto pistol from her shoulder holster and worked a round into the chamber. Then she scanned the faces around her. “If this turns out to be an ambush, kill as many of them as you can. Oh, and don’t forget to pop Farook. He wants to die … So he’ll be g
rateful. ”
Wilson nodded. He was carrying an MP7 muzzle-up. “Roger that, ma’am.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
***
General Abdu Ahmar was in the control tower at Deversoir Air Base. His binoculars were focused on the scene below. The field was located 72-miles northeast of Cairo. Prior to WWII it had been known as RAF Deversoir. Now it was home to a half-dozen Russian-made Black Sharks, a few French-built Gazelles, and the 2,000 or so men that he was struggling to hold, equip and feed.
Yes, the once glorious Republican Guard had fallen on hard times. The division consisted of 10,000 men prior to the war, and was supposed to defend Egypt’s President, a variety of strategic institutions, and key airports. One of which was Deversoir.
But, in spite of its best efforts, the Guard failed. You failed, Ahmar told himself for the thousandth time. And, when the day comes, you must pay.
But not today, Ahmar thought, as he watched the American walk off the helicopter. She had blond hair, and was wearing sunglasses, a white pantsuit and yes—red high heels. Oh, and she was holding a pistol down along her right leg! Two soldiers, both armed, followed.
Those were the days, Ahmar thought. When I was young, when such women wanted me, and when I wanted them.
***
Once on the ground Cole paused. A battalion of Republican Guard troops stood waiting. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms and blue berets. And, when an officer yelled a command, they crashed to attention. Then, with a single voice, they shouted, “Alfawz ‘aw almawt!” (Win or die.)
A ra’id (major) took three paces forward and saluted. “Major Din, at your service ma’am.” Din’s English was excellent.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Major,” Cole replied. “My name is Linda Faraday. I’m a foreign affairs officer with the U.S. State Department.”
Din dropped the salute. “General Ahmar sends his compliments, and will see you at dinner. Suitable quarters will be provided for you and your crew.”
Cole had been hoping to meet with Ahmar right away, get the job done, and haul butt. Was Ahmar busy? Away from the base? Or just jerking her around? “Please thank the general for me. I look forward to meeting him. In the meantime, as a gesture of goodwill, the United States government has authorized me to repatriate Republican Guard Lieutenant Hasan Farook.”
Din frowned. “He’s alive?”
“Very much so,” Cole assured him. She turned to Wilson. “Tell the guys to send Farook out.”
Wilson spoke into his boom mike. Then, looking very lonely, the pilot made his way down the ramp. Din was visibly shocked. “Farook?”
Farook came to attention. “Sir!”
“Did you win?”
“No, sir.”
“Then die.” Din shot Farook in the chest. The pilot collapsed.
Cole had seen some really bad things, but knew that would go down as one of the worst. She wanted to throw up and cry at the same time. But that would show weakness.
Cole cleared her throat. “Thank you for your offer of accommodations. But our regulations require that all the helicopter crew remain with their aircraft while away from their ship.”
Cole had no idea what the actual regulation was and didn’t care. She wanted Wilson and the rest of the crew ready to go in case of an emergency. And she wanted to prevent the Egyptians from boarding the ship.
“Of course,” Din replied. “Please inform your personnel that our regulations require that security personnel guard your aircraft until the moment of departure.” Tit for tat.
“Naturally,” Cole said. “My men will need to use a restroom.”
“Escorts will be provided,” Din assured her. “And one more thing … You can continue to carry your pistol in your hand if you wish to. But rest assured that there’s no need for you to do so.”
Cole returned the pistol to its holster. “Thank you.”
Din turned to wave two soldiers forward. Both were noncoms. If they were shocked by the summary execution their faces revealed no sign of it. “Sergeant Faheem will show you to your quarters. Sergeant Naceri will assist your men. Both speak English.”
Cole turned to Wilson. “Please ask the pilots to file a verbal report. And set watches. Do you have sleeping bags? What about food and water?”
Wilson nodded. “Always.”
“Good. The local stuff might not agree with you.”
Wilson knew what she meant, and smiled. “I read you five-by-five ma’am.” He offered a radio. “Please stay in touch.”
Cole turned back. Farook’s blood had dried by then. Flies buzzed around the body. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Sergeant Faheem. Please lead the way.”
The heat was fierce, and the low-lying operations center seemed to shimmer, as Cole followed Faheem across the tarmac. A private was waiting to open the door—and the building’s interior was refreshingly cool. Cole got the feeling that WWII RAF pilots would recognize the pea-green paint on the walls, and the well-worn linoleum floor.
Deversoir Air Base had been built during the 1930s to help defend the Suez Canal. Then, during WWII, the Allies used it to battle Axis forces in North Africa. Now, 80-years later, the Allies were fighting Axis countries again. The alliances were different—but the essence of the conflict was the same. If that was progress, Cole couldn’t see how.
Cole’s high heels produced a clicking sound as she followed the noncom down a long hall. Offices lined both sides of the corridor. Most of the doors were open, and soldiers turned to stare, as a blond woman strode past. A pair of wooden doors parted to provide access to what Americans would refer to as “officer country.”
The lounge was empty. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and furniture consisted of badly worn 1950’s era chrome chairs with red vinyl upholstery. Windows looked out onto the tarmac—and a board labeled “Flight Schedules” covered most of the opposite wall.
A second set of doors opened onto a hallway with evenly spaced rooms to either side. Each bore a name. Faheem paused to let her catch up. “The officers will stay elsewhere tonight. You have no worries.”
Was that arrangement a recognition of how aggressive Egyptian men could be? Or a way to observe a social norm? Maybe both. “Thank you,” Cole said.
“You down here,” Faheem said. “Guest quarters.”
Faheem opened a door and gestured for Cole to enter. He followed. “You need, you call,” the noncom said, as he pointed to a phone. “Dinner at six. I come to take you.”
Cole thanked the noncom, closed the door, and locked it. Was the room bugged? Maybe, but maybe not. How many Egyptian generals would want to be taped? Still, better safe than sorry.
After checking in with Wilson, Cole glanced at her watch. It was a little past four, and she was tired. After removing the fluffy white bathrobe from the closet, Cole entered the bathroom, where she spent five-minutes searching for cameras before disrobing.
The white pantsuit had been an impulse buy while waiting around in Esna. As were the red shoes. But the outfit made an excellent disguise, and Cole didn’t want to wrinkle it. Not until the meeting with General Ahmar was over.
The room was quiet, the bed was comfortable, and the pistol felt good in Cole’s hand. She went to sleep. Her Garmin watch had an alarm. And the gentle beep, beep, beep woke her up. It took a moment to remember where she was. And another moment to remember why.
Cole rolled off the bed and took the pistol into the bathroom with her. That’s where she made a miraculous discovery. Hot water! Really hot water … After weeks of tepid showers and sponge baths.
Cole took the gun into the shower stall with her, turned the water on, and spent ten wonderful minutes luxuriating beneath the stiff spray. When Cole emerged she felt reinvigorated, and ready to cope with rogue generals.
Once she was dressed Cole spoke to Wilson by radio. “No problems here, ma’am,” the petty officer assured her. “Except for the usual whining.”
Cole laughed. “Good. I’m about to have din-din
with the general. I’ll check in when it’s over.”
“Have a good time,” Wilson replied. “And remember what you told me. ‘The local stuff might not agree with you.’”
“Roger that,” Cole said. “Over and out.”
A knock came at the door. Cole put the radio in her handbag and took the pistol off the bed. “Who’s there?”
“Faheem.”
Cole aimed at the door. “Come in.”
When Faheem opened the door Cole saw his eyes widen. No one appeared behind him.
Cole smiled as she returned the gun to its holster. “Nothing personal, Sergeant. I always answer the door that way.”
Faheem nodded as if one should expect such things from a kafir woman. He led the way back through the empty lounge, and out into the operations center. Two soldiers, both armed with brooms, stared.
From there Cole followed Faheem outside. It was dark by then. But the heat lingered. And an engine roared as an Egyptian helicopter took off. The Sea Stallion was right where she’d left it—and surrounded by guards.
From there Faheem took Cole along a sun-faded yellow line to a WWII era hangar. “It a museum,” Faheem explained. “You like.”
The plane-sized hangar door was closed. So they made use of a side entrance. The museum’s interior was well lit, and there was a lot to see.
Cole wasn’t a WWII aviation buff, but even she could recognize the British Spitfire in one corner, and the German Messerschmitt parked across from it. Both were dusty and in need of restoration.
And there, in a pool of light, was a beautifully set table. An officer rose from his chair to greet her. He had a British accent. “Miss Faraday … This is a pleasure. I’m General Ahmar.”
The general was about five-ten or so, with thinning hair, and a prominent nose. His uniform was just so, and decorated with all manner of tabs, badges and medals. Cole offered her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, General … I love the museum by the way. What a great place to have dinner.”
“Yes,” Ahmar agreed. “Especially since we’re here to discuss war. I was surprised to receive a sat call from Ambassador Darwish. Or is he Egypt’s ambassador? It’s so hard to tell when your country has no official government. But enough of that for now … We will discuss such things later. First a drink … Would champagne be acceptable?”
Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Page 23