Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Read online

  “Summon help. Bring Boustani up to the main entrance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was when the Iranian corporal arrived. “Boustani had 12 prisoners, sir … All locked in the same room.”

  Kantar felt a surge of relief. “Thanks to Allah. “Take me to them.”

  The prisoners were in the employee break room, eating and drinking when Kantar entered. A cheer went up. That was followed by a gabble of conversation, man hugs, and joyful backslapping. Once the celebrations were over a fighter looked Kantar in the eye. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head. “Did Boustani survive?”

  “Yes.”

  “We want him.”

  Kantar nodded. “Follow me.”

  Boustani had been delivered to the control room by the time the men arrived. He was lying on the floor, clutching his leg. “It hurts! I need a doctor!”

  “Drag the traitor outside,” Kantar ordered.

  Two ex-prisoners took the instruction literally, grabbing the noncom’s arms and dragging him out through the main door. The civilian engineers sat silent—eyes glued to their screens.

  The cool night air felt good. Kantar took a deep draught of it. Then he pointed to the circle of light thrown off by the nearest streetlight. “There … Put him there, on his knees. Bind his hands behind him.”

  That was when Boustani saw the sword. “No! I am a soldier for Allah!”

  “You’re a piece of dog shit,” Kantar replied. “You can recite the Shahada if you wish.”

  Boustani mumbled the words as he was positioned on his knees. “I testify that there is no god but Allah, and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah …”

  Kantar planted his feet, and raised the sword high. Light glinted from the blade.

  Kantar had read stories about how Saudi executioners could sever a head with a single blow. He had no such ambitions. The Sayif al-Dawla (sword-of-state) rose, fell, and rose again. Finally, when Kantar felt the last bit of gristle part, Boustani’s head rolled free. Dead eyes stared up into the light. The newly freed prisoners shouted, “Allahu akbar!” Justice had been done.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Esna, Egypt

  The first sign of trouble was just that, a large freshly painted sign which was mounted on a raft, and anchored in the middle of the river. “LOCK FEE $1M U.S.” That was followed by a phone number. “They saw us coming,” a petty officer named Murphy said.

  “Yeah,” Kydd replied. “They sure as hell did.”

  The two men were standing in the bow of a 38-foot SURC just aft of the gun position. The boat rocked gently as Kydd opened his mike. “One-Six actual to Two-Six. Over.”

  “This is Two-Six actual,” Altman replied. “Over.”

  “Someone posted a sign in the middle of the river,” Kydd said. “They want a million dollars if we use the locks. We’re going upstream to take a look around. Over.”

  “Roger that … I’ll pass the word. Over.”

  “Okay, Murph,” Kydd said. “Let’s knock on the door. Action stations.”

  Action stations in the SURC’s case consisted of three .50 caliber machine guns. Two in the bow and one in the stern. Murphy had three gunners plus the engineman at the wheel. “Here,” the petty officer said, as he handed Kydd a Heckler & Koch HK416 rifle. “Just in case.”

  Kydd’s eyes were on the river ahead as the boat accelerated, came on step, and threw waves port and starboard. A dozen feluccas, some with sails raised, were tacking back and forth. They rocked wildly as the SURC roared past. None of the Egyptians waved.

  The town of Nuju an Nawasir was visible off the starboard side. Kydd saw a mix of two- and three-story tan colored buildings backed by a minaret and a cell tower further inland.

  ***

  The countryside east of the river was more agricultural. Sun baked dunes could be seen out beyond the verdant farms.

  Kydd turned his binoculars upstream. Esna’s locks, the only locks on the Nile, were up ahead. In order to proceed upriver, which was Goolsby’s plan for the convoy, the Allied vessels would have to transit the locks one-at-a-time.

  Once a boat entered, the gate was closed behind it. Then as water was pumped from the high Nile to the low Nile the boat would rise. Then the upper gate would cycle open, allowing the vessel to proceed. “Gun emplacement,” Murphy said. “Starboard side, one o’clock.”

  Kydd swung his glasses to the right. There was a puff of smoke followed by a bang as a shell rumbled through the air. It landed half-a-mile ahead of the SURC and tossed a waterspout into the air. That was followed by a second column of water as a battery on the east bank fired. The boat performed a nosedive as the helmsman cut power. “Warning shots,” Kydd observed.

  “Yup,” Murphy agreed. “The cannons look like Russian-made 122mm D-30s. They’re old, but effective.”

  Kydd frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Murphy looked offended. “I’m a gunner’s mate, sir. It’s my business to know.”

  Kydd laughed. “So it is … My bad. So, if those tubes have a weakness, what is it?”

  “A slow rate of fire,” Murphy replied. “We’re talking 5 to 6 rounds per minute. And, in order to track a moving target, the cannon-cockers will have to spin them around by hand.”

  Kydd took that in. He didn’t have any big guns, but maybe he didn’t need any. A couple of Hellfire missiles could do the job. Then Kydd saw why he was wrong. The guns had been incorporated into the lock’s structure.

  That meant it would be nearly impossible to use a Hellfire without inflicting damage on the lock itself. And that was why the artillery pieces were positioned where they were. Someone had a brain. “The lock is opening,” Murphy observed. “And there’s something inside.”

  Kydd jerked his glasses to the left, and sure enough, a vessel had started to emerge. Not just any vessel … A gunboat. Kydd could see the turret on the bow. “Grab some photos,” he ordered.

  Both SURCs carried digital cameras for reconnaissance purposes. Murphy’s was close at hand. He was snapping away when the vessel fired. There was a loud bang followed by the rumble of a shell passing through the air. Smoke drifted away from the gunboat’s turret. “What do you think, Skipper?” Murphy inquired, as a gout of water shot up into the air. “Should we back off?”

  “This is show and tell,” Kydd replied. “They’re showing us what they have so we can run and tell. Let’s wait to see if that boat will turn broadside to us. I’ll bet the S2 would love some pictures of that.”

  The enemy vessel obliged. It had a mottled desert-sand and black-striped paint job. Kydd could see the bow gun, the rocket launcher aft of the boat’s superstructure, and the turret in the stern. And that was to say nothing of secondary weapons like machine guns and grenade launchers. “Holy shit,” Murphy said. “That sucker must be 90-feet long.”

  “Yeah,” Kydd agreed. “It looks mean as hell. All right, let’s go home. Slowly though—no wake.”

  Murphy grinned. “Right … Fuck them.”

  Kydd got on the horn. “One-Six actual to Two-Six. Over.”

  “This is Two-Six actual … Go. Over.”

  “There are two shore batteries, plus what looks like a 90-foot gunboat waiting for us. Please inform battalion command that I think the convoy should drop anchor.

  “I will report aboard the Nile in an hour or so. In the meantime Bat-Six might want to have someone call that phone number. This is Egypt. Who knows? A million might translate to 50K once the haggling is over. The fee might be worth it. Over.”

  Kydd knew Goolsby would be pissed off about a delay, any delay, for any reason. So it made sense to take the SURC downriver and confront the lion in his den.

  When Kydd arrived he was pleased to see that the convoy was anchored about 100-yards off the west bank. Marines were being ferried ashore to secure the area beyond.

  The helmsman brought the boat in with a flourish and came to a sudden stop. One of the Nile’s civilian crew stood ready with a boathook. Kydd too
k the HK416 with him. He liked the feel of it. Steep stairs took him up to the main deck where Evans was waiting. “The colonel will see you in his cabin sir.”

  “And?”

  “And he has a full head of steam.”

  “Oh goody,” Kydd replied. “Please lead the way.”

  Kydd hadn’t been invited to Goolsby’s private quarters before. It was located on the main deck in the stern. Two marines stood guard outside. Kydd was required to produce ID and leave his weapons with them. As Kydd entered he saw that Goolsby was seated behind an ornate desk framed by a view of the Nile. No one else was present. Goolsby nodded. “Have a seat.”

  There was something foreboding about the moment. Or was that his imagination? But the feeling persisted as Kydd took one of two guest chairs. Goolsby formed a steeple with his fingers. “I understand there are some obstacles up ahead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please share the details.”

  Kydd told Goolsby about the sign, the shore batteries, and the gunboat. Once the report was complete the marine nodded. “Thank you … The S-2 sent a drone up to look around. Your assessment is consistent with his.”

  “However,” Goolsby added, as he put some weight on his forearms. “Lieutenant Altman says you want to pay our enemies rather than fight them. If that counsel had originated from an officer with a combat record less sterling than your own I would question his or her courage.

  “But, since that isn’t the case, I’ll say this … We aren’t here to pay people off. We’re here to fight. I will instruct the S-4 to call the number, pretend to enter negotiations, and drag the process out. If he’s able to discern who we’re dealing with, then so much the better.

  “In the meantime you will use the forces under your command to go up river, clear the way, and take control of the dam by noon tomorrow. Need I remind you that 10-million lives are at stake?”

  Kydd’s heart was pounding in his chest, he knew his face was bright red. Admiral Ducey had it right. Goolsby was an asshole. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  The chair creaked as Goolsby leaned back. His eyes resembled black stones. “Dismissed.” Kydd got up, performed an about face, and left.

  Face burning, Kydd retrieved his weapons, and made his way to the deck below. The S-2 and his staff occupied adjoining cabins. Both were packed with marines and their electronics. Waller was peering at a screen as Kydd entered. A smile appeared on his face as he turned. “Commander Kydd … Welcome to my den. What can we do for you?”

  “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Oh,” Waller said. “It’s like that, is it? Please join me on my private verandah. It’s in the shade.”

  All of the more expensive cabins had balcony-like verandahs where, prior to the war, guests could sit and watch Egypt glide by. Kydd followed the S-2 out. “Don’t tell me,” Waller said after closing the door. “Let me guess. The colonel chewed your ass. Some nonsense about fighting instead of paying.”

  Kydd’s surprise must have been visible on his face. Waller chuckled. “Welcome to the party, Commander. Very few of us escape unscathed. That said, Goolsby is quite competent, and that’s the thing isn’t it? Personally, I’d pay, if the price was right. But I’m a major.”

  Kydd smiled. “Thanks … That helps. I have orders to go south, and capture the locks. What, if anything, have you got for me?”

  “Follow me,” Waller said, as he opened the door. “I’ll share what I have.”

  “Meet Corporal Tanaka,” Waller said, as they stopped behind a chair. “He’s one of our drone operators.”

  “The best operator,” Tanaka said, as he turned to Waller.

  “But not the most modest,” Waller added. “This is Commander Kydd. He’d like to see the parade footage.”

  Tanaka touched a series of keys and video began to roll. Kydd watched from above as a drone swept over the SURC he’d been riding on and went straight for the lock complex.

  A group of armed men were gathered on the bridge that crossed the top of the locks. The gunboat was below and nosing its way out. “Now watch that guy,” Waller said, using his pen as a pointer. “The one with the red checkered keffiah (scarf). We think he’s the man.”

  The gunboat fired, and as gray smoke drifted away from the gun turret, the men raised their rifles. “The show’s over,” Waller said. “So Red Scarf leaves. Fortunately Tanaka had the good sense to follow the parade rather than bring his drone back.”

  “I’m a genius,” Tanaka added, as the drone followed the pedestrians over to a street where four vehicles were parked. Two motorcycles were positioned in front of them. Each with an armed rider.

  A classic gun truck, complete with a .50 caliber machine gun was next in line, followed by a white Land Rover. A subordinate held the door open as Red Scarf got in. A military transport loaded with bodyguards brought up the rear.

  The motorcycles took off and the drone followed as the “parade” turned onto a main thoroughfare. People scattered as the procession made a series of turns and stopped in front of a three-story building. Kydd saw that sentries were posted on the roof.

  “Esna was called Latopolis in ancient times,” Waller said. “And it was a bishopric. Meaning an area overseen by a bishop. He lived in that building. A long succession of Egyptian officials have used it since.”

  “So, who’s living there now?” Kydd inquired.

  “According to one of our civilian interpreters the man in the red scarf is named Hussain Urabi. He’s an Egyptian colonel turned warlord who’s known to raid cities as far south as Sudan.”

  “I’d like to have a copy of that footage,” Kydd said.

  “Done,” Tanaka replied, as he passed a USB stick back over his shoulder.

  Waller smiled. “Tanaka is a full-time pain in the ass. Okay, let’s discuss the gunboat.”

  A new video locked up. “That,” Waller said, as the drone hovered above the vessel, “is a Russian Shmel Class, Project 1204 river patrol boat which, along with a sister ship, was sold to Egypt back in 1986. It has a crew of 14, it’s nearly 90-feet long, and draws about three feet of water.”

  Kydd produced a low whistle. “The same as my command boat. That’s amazing.”

  “The fun doesn’t stop there,” Waller added. “That sucker mounts a deck gun, plus rocket launchers, and lots of secondary weapons. So when that dog barks, you’d best pay attention.”

  “Why not tease the gunboat out of the lock and drop a missile on it?” Kydd inquired.

  “That would be ideal,” Waller conceded. “Unfortunately the lock is located inside the area protected by terrorist controlled Russian S-300VM surface-to-air missiles that encircle the dam. If we fly a Pred or a plane into the area they’ll shoot it down.”

  Kydd thanked Waller and went to his quarters. Evans was there, and eager to get approvals on numerous requests and reports. “That stuff will have to wait,” Kydd told him.

  “Contact Altman and Fox-Smith. Tell them to report aboard an hour from now. Oh, and contact the S-1. Tell her I’m going to need a platoon of marines. After we capture the lock we’ve got to hold it.”

  Evans looked at him. “I want to go.”

  “No, you don’t,” Kydd said. “I need you here.”

  Evans was clearly disappointed. But he went back to work.

  The balance of the day was spent planning and organizing. The British boats had been sent down river to escort a tug and three barges up from Cairo. That meant the American contingent would have to get the job done on their own.

  Each boat commander had at least one job. As did the lieutenant in charge of the marines. And all of them would have to work as a team.

  The operation began shortly after darkness fell. Chief Jones, and an engineman named Hawley, drove a dilapidated cruise ship south—and ran it aground half-a-mile short of the locks. The next task was to set the cargo of cotton bales on fire.

  It was a tricky business. Too little air, and the blaze could go out. Too much air, and the ship might bur
n far too quickly. But, if everything worked as it was supposed to, the fire would act as a diversion.

  Gunmen fired on the ship from the community of Bani Himayd on the west bank even as the sailors ran from compartment-to-compartment lighting fires. Finally, with bullets snapping all about them, it was time for Jones and Hawley to jump into a RIB boat and flee. “One-Seven to One-Six,” Jones said, “We’re clear. Over.”

  “This is Six-actual,” Kydd replied. “Roger that … We’re underway. Over.”

  There were numerous reasons to attack at night. Kydd wanted to take advantage of the navy’s night vision technology, cloak the flotilla’s movements, and minimize civilian casualties.

  He was aboard the command boat which, along with three-boat, was going after the shore batteries. The strategy was simple. Zigzag in to take advantage of how unwieldy the D-30 cannons were, get so close that the gun crews couldn’t depress their weapons any further, and open up on the bastards.

  The key was speed. And, thanks to its twin engines the command boat could hit 40+ knots wide-open. As Kydd stood next to the helmsman he couldn’t help but glory in the rush of wind that blew back around the windscreen, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump as the hull slapped the Nile, and the adrenaline surge associated with a small boat action.

  Kydd laughed as Fortunate Son, by Credence Clearwater, blared out of the loudspeakers, and a shore battery fired on them. Kydd’s goggles were on. He saw a column of green water leap into the air off the starboard bow—and heard the minigun roar. Tracers drew a straight line to the shore battery, and remained on-target, as the boat swerved.

  That revealed the D-30 to the marines located just aft of Kydd’s position. Custom-made straps held their bodies steady as they fired their rocket launchers. The resulting explosions produced overlapping claps of thunder and flashes of light.

  But the guns were well protected, and as the command boat turned to the east, the Russian-made cannon was still operational.

  Meanwhile the three-boat, with Ensign Miller in command, swept in for its run. Another minigun roared, more rockets flashed away, and Kydd saw a hit.

  That was followed by a rising ball of fire, and a resounding BOOM, as the second rocket found the D-30’s ammo supply. A warm wind blew across the river, and Kydd felt it wash past his face, as a rebel yell came over the radio.