Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Read online

  RED FLOOD

  WILLIAM C. DIETZ

  Wind’s End Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by William C. Dietz

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Damonza

  This book is for my grandson, Wyatt George Franta

  Other Books by William C. Dietz

  THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

  Red Ice

  Red Flood

  AMERICA RISING SERIES

  Into The Guns

  Seek And Destroy

  Battle Hymn

  MUTANT FILES SERIES

  Deadeye

  Redzone

  Graveyard

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES

  Legion of the Damned

  The Final Battle

  By Blood Alone

  By Force of Arms

  For More Than Glory

  For Those Who Fell

  When All Seems Lost

  When Duty Calls

  A Fighting Chance

  Andromeda’s Fall

  Andromeda’s Choice

  Andromeda’s War

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to my editor, Marjorie Dietz.

  You are wonderful!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Khmeimim Air Base, Latakia, Syria

  Dawn was still hours away as the hangar doors parted to reveal a Boeing 727. The plane was 36-years old, and had seen service in the United States and Brazil, before being sold to Syrian Air. Now, thanks to a fresh paint job the aircraft appeared to be the property of Israel’s El Al airline. The main difference being the Star of David emblazoned on the jetliner’s vertical stabilizer.

  A tug towed the 727 out onto a taxiway on the civilian side of the Khmeimim Air Base, previously known as Bassel Al-Assad International Airport, and still referred to as such by the local population. Once the plane was in position, the pilots asked for and received permission to take off.

  After taxiing onto the main runway the pilots paused to run the engines up prior to releasing the brakes. Mustafa Kantar felt gravity push him back against leather upholstery as the plane gathered speed. This was only his third trip in an airplane and he feared it would be his last. It wouldn’t do to let that show however. Not with subordinates seated around him, most of whom were listening to music, or settling in for a nap.

  The 727 could theoretically carry 189 passengers. But only 150 men were aboard, all of whom had a need to store weapons, ammo, and other supplies inside the cabin.

  Kantar was in command of the 96 fighters seated in the forward section of the jet. The albarabira (barbarians) were in back, where they were conversing in Russian, and passing a bottle of vodka back and forth. They called themselves Spetsnaz, or special forces troops, and were said to be part of the Russian military intelligence service called the GRU.

  But the only thing “special” about the kafirs (unbelievers) was how loud and obnoxious they were. Kantar felt the wheels leave the runway and waited to die. He didn’t.

  The fear had always been there, starting as a little boy slinging rocks at Israeli soldiers, continuing as a member of Hamas, and later Hezbollah—which sent him to Iran for more training. Then there were missions. A dozen or so … All of which terrified him.

  Hiding the fear, that was the key, and Kantar had. And that made him the right man to lead a mission which, if Allah willed it, would force Egypt to join the Russian-Syrian-Iranian-Pakistani-Chinese Axis. Thereby denying Egypt to the so-called “Allies.”

  Kantar would be a hero then, and a man with a future. Would he become a wahda? (Head of a Hezbollah division.) Anything was possible.

  Kantar managed to take a nap after that. He was dreaming about his brother’s wife when his second in command, Amir Alawi, touched his arm. “Mustafa! Look! A plane!”

  Kantar leaned forward to look past Alawi, and sure enough lights were visible off the 727’s starboard wing. A voice came over the intercom. “Don’t be alarmed. Keep the window shades down. A pair of Israeli F-15s were sent to intercept us. We’re talking to them. Everything is under control.”

  Kantar knew the pilots were supposed tell the Israelis that the 727 was on a charter flight, taking a professional soccer team from Lebanon to Cairo, having been cleared by the understaffed Beirut Area Control Center. Would they buy it? Kantar felt the fear return. What if the Jews saw through the story? What if the F-15s shot them down? Then Jannah (paradise) awaits, Kantar reminded himself.

  “We’re good to go,” one of the pilots said. “And cleared into Egypt.”

  Kantar felt a profound sense of relief. “See?” he said. “Our plan is working.”

  Alawi nodded. “The Jews are stupid. We will kill all of them.”

  Kantar knew that neither one of those assertions were true, and he was about to warn Alawi about the dangers inherent in underestimating an enemy, when he thought better of it. Why bother? Alawi might be dead soon.

  After freeing himself from the seatbelt Kantar made his way forward to the cockpit. The door was unlocked. The pilots turned to look. Both men had parachutes stored behind their seats. “What’s our ETA?” Kantar inquired.

  “We will enter controlled airspace in thirty-six minutes,” the copilot replied.

  “Good,” Kantar replied. “We’ll get ready.”

  Kantar returned to the main cabin where he saw that the Russians were putting their parachutes on. The narrow aisle made the process difficult, so it was necessary to take turns.

  Each man would get up, move to the aisle, and strap his chute on while Colonel Arseny Gortov watched. He had the unwieldy title of, “Chief of the Directorate of Operations at Military Unit 64722.” An organization which was described online as “mysterious,” and of “unknown purpose.” Although Kantar felt pretty sure that he was looking at Unit 64722, and knew exactly what its purpose was.

  Much to Kantar’s embarrassment his troops were chatting, sleeping, and eating snacks. Kantar grabbed the mike normally reserved for flight attendants and thumbed it on. His voice boomed throughout the cabin. “Put everything away. Those occupying aisle seats will retrieve the parachutes from the overhead bins and hand them out. After putting their gear on they will rotate to a window seat. Mulazim (lieutenant) Alawi will check each fastener, on each man.”

  That was news to Alawi, who hurried to comply. And a good thing too, because the process took every bit of 30 hectic minutes.

  At one point Kantar’s eyes came into contact with Gortov’s. The Russian smiled. There was no humor in it. Just contempt. That made Kantar angry. But anger, like fear, could be concealed. And Kantar did so.

  “Take your position
s,” the pilot ordered brusquely. “We’re about to enter restricted airspace. The back ramp is going down.”

  Kantar knew the pilot was referring to the so-called “airstair,” that opened from the airliner’s rear underbelly, and allowed passengers to deplane quickly. The original airstairs could be lowered in flight. That came to an end after hijacker D.B. Cooper bailed out in 1971. But, thanks to the Syrian makeover, the 727’s airstair was fully operational again.

  As Kantar eyed the aisle he realized how smart Gortov was. Rather than claim the first class seats for himself, the Russian allowed Kantar to take them, knowing that the troops seated in the back of the plane would jump first. A definite advantage if the jetliner was damaged.

  Kantar felt resentment mixed with fear. There was nothing he could do other than stand there and fume. Maybe it wouldn’t make any difference. Maybe things would go smoothly. The Muslim Brotherhood controlled the dam, and the airspace around it, but surely they would …

  “Jump!” the pilot shouted over the intercom. “The Brotherhood thinks we’re Jews pretending to be Arabs. They’re about to fire on us.”

  Kantar swore. That was the trouble with the Middle East. The lie that saved your life in one place, could get you killed somewhere else.

  The “Brotherhood” the pilot referred to was the transnational Sunni Society of Muslim Brothers, commonly referred to as the Muslim Brotherhood, which assumed power in 2011, only to lose it less than a year later. Hundreds of Brotherhood members had been imprisoned or murdered by the military-backed interim government. And the organization was banned in 2013.

  But when WWIII began, and the military government had to institute rationing, surviving elements of the Brotherhood took advantage of the resulting discontent to lead a counter-revolution. By systematically assassinating military leaders, the brothers tried to ensure that their organization couldn’t be suppressed again. What remained of the military struck back, and would have been victorious, if they hadn’t split into rival factions.

  Air swirled and candy wrappers flew around the cabin, as the airstairs deployed, and the Russians began to jump. Kantar was impressed by how quickly the heavily loaded Spetsnaz troopers could shuffle forward and disappear.

  The lightly armed Hezbollah fighters were right behind the Russians. But there were more of them. And Kantar knew that three or four-minutes would pass before he could make his own escape. Fear battled fear. Which was worse? Flying on a doomed plane? Or plunging to his death from 500 feet in the sky?

  Yes, he and his men had some training, which was to say a single jump. What Kantar’s troops didn’t realize was that their commanding officer screamed all the way down. And, because he landed in a pond, they couldn’t tell that his pants were already wet.

  There was a loud bang as something hit the plane. The 727 jerked wildly, and started to shake. “We’re on fire!” the pilot shouted. “Jump! Jump! Jump!”

  Kantar was six-feet away from the airstairs at that point. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. Something was wrong! A fighter named Omaya had balked. Two men were trying to force him onto the ramp.

  Kantar felt as if his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest, as he ordered the men to release Omaya, which they did. Kantar drew his pistol and shot Omaya in the head. Blood splattered onto the lavatory door. The body blocked the aisle. “Drag the nadhil (bastard) out of the way!” Kantar shouted. “Then jump!”

  The men obeyed. A missile struck the front end of the 727, killed the crew, and threw the plane’s nose up. Kantar fell onto the airstair and bounced. Cold air swallowed him up. Kantar caught a momentary glimpse of the flaming jetliner as he tumbled head over heels. Then the jetliner was gone. Kantar was wearing an American-made BA-22 aircrew bailout kit. One of hundreds the Kurds had captured and sold shortly after the beginning of the war.

  The BA-22s had a number of virtues including the fact that they were compact. But, at altitudes below fourteen-thousand feet, it was necessary for the parachutist to pull a manual ripcord. Kantar hurried to do so. He felt a reassuring jerk as the canopy opened and slowed his fall.

  Street lights were visible in the city of Aswan. It was home to more than a quarter-million people. Hundreds of them began to die as Russian submarines launched cruise missiles from the Mediterranean Sea. The lights went out as explosions rippled across the city.

  The plan was to help the paratroopers take the dam by inflicting so much damage on Aswan that none of the locals could rush south to oppose the invaders. That’s why the missiles targeted power stations, military detachments, and police stations.

  Kantar could steer, should steer, into the wind to reduce the possibility of injury, but to where? A fire was burning to the south. The plane? Everything else was blacked out. All Kantar could do was pray as he fell from the sky.

  The ground came up hard. His boots hit, but Kantar fell, and was being dragged along the ground when a Russian stepped in to grab hold of his risers. The skid came to a halt. English was the lingua franca that bound the two teams together. “Whoa! You’re supposed to spill the air out of the chute after you land. Remember that next time.”

  There wouldn’t be a “next time,” if Kantar could help it. “Thanks,” Kantar said, as he gathered the chute into his arms.

  “You can put it with mine,” the Russian said. “Then we’ll go after the bastards who shot us down.”

  Kantar dropped the pack and chute next to the Russian’s. “That sounds good. But how will we find them?”

  “They’re civilians,” the soldier said contemptuously. “They will flock to the burning plane. That’s when we’ll shoot them. But we must move quickly. The sun is rising.”

  The Russian’s plan made sense. And Kantar knew it was important to kill as many members of the Brotherhood as possible, both because they were Sunni, and because they controlled the dam. “Lead the way,” Kantar said. “I’ll follow.”

  The heavily encumbered Russian began to run, and Kantar was able to keep up, but just barely. They were crossing the uninhabited plateau that lay just north of the dam. The ground was flat, bare of vegetation, and cut by gullies. And each time the men had to traverse one of the ravines it slowed them down.

  Kantar was wearing a headset and a radio. Alawi answered right away. “Twenty-one fighters were with the mulazim. The rest were scattered far and wide.”

  “Lead the men to the plane,” Kantar ordered. “But be careful. The brothers may be there. Kill them if you can.”

  The two men continued to run, and were nearing their goal, when a brisk firefight broke out up ahead. The Russian had a radio too. “The brothers walked into the colonel’s trap,” the soldier reported. “We must slow down. Some of the bastards are running our way.”

  Kantar had been in combat before. But the fear was there, waiting for him. Not as an enemy, but as a friend, who would help keep him alive.

  Kantar was alert to the smallest sound, and the slightest sign of movement, as they crossed a stretch of hard-packed sand. The sun had broken company with the horizon by then. And Kantar could see a gully up ahead. The fire continued to burn in the distance, and that’s what he was looking at, when three silhouettes lurched up out of the ravine. Two charged Kantar. He shot one in the chest, and was about to fire again, when the second man bowled him over.

  The handgun went flying. And, as the brother started to choke him, Kantar realized that his assailant was far too heavy for him to dislodge.

  Fortunately the janbiya (dagger) was there at his side. The one left to him by his father. The blade was curved, and according to a family legend, home to a blood thirsty jinn (spirit). Kantar’s lungs were close to bursting, and his vision was blurry, as the blade came free. There was nothing scientific about what occurred next. The knife went in between two ribs.

  The brother uttered a grunt, and rolled away. He was busy pulling the blade free when the Russian shot him. And shot him again. “If he’s worth one, then he’s worth two. That’s what they taught us at Hatsavita. (
The GRU Mountain Training Center in Labinsk.) Good job, comrade. The others are dead too.”

  Kantar bent to retrieve his knife. He wiped the blade on the dead man’s sleeve, thanked the jinn, and returned the weapon to its sheath. His pistol was five-feet away.

  Next came the grisly process of gathering weapons, ammo, money, food, and ID from the dead. All of which was second nature for any guerilla fighter. So Kantar was carrying a heavy burden, as he followed the Russian across some hardpan, to the pile of smoldering wreckage.

  Colonel Gortov and most of his men were present. A row of bodies were laid out on the blood stained sand, and judging from their clothing, all were members of the Brotherhood.

  Alawi was there too, and hurried over to greet Kantar. “Men continue to trickle in, sir … But we haven’t been able to contact two of them.”

  Omaya was dead. So, if two of Kantar’s fighters had been killed during the jump, then 93 men remained. Not bad really, given the need to bail out of a burning plane.

  “There you are,” Colonel Gortov said crossly, as he arrived. “As you can see, the scum sent to secure the crash site are dead.”

  Kantar eyed the bodies. “Yes, sir. No prisoners?”

  “No,” Gortov replied. “They fought to the death. Their families would be proud.”

  Kantar knew Gortov was lying. The prisoners had been executed. But, since they were Sunnis, that was reasonable. “We have work to do,” Gortov said. “To capture the dam we’ll have to fight the rest of the Brotherhood’s security people. And they know we’re coming.”

  “How many are there?” Kantar inquired. Prior to the mission he’d been told to expect roughly 100 defenders at the dam, not counting the troops assigned to outlying missile batteries, like the one that blew the 727 out of the air. But what would Gortov say? The Russian’s answer came as an unpleasant surprise.

  “Our drones have overflown the dam for weeks,” Gortov said. “We believe that about 250 men are defending the dam.”

  Kantar felt a sinking sensation. The number was twice what he’d been told to expect! Why? They thought you might balk, Kantar reasoned. So they lied. He felt the first stirrings of fear. Gortov smiled thinly. “We’re outnumbered, but we aren’t outclassed. We are Spetsnaz. You are Hezbollah. They are dogs. We will crush them.”