Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Read online

  Kantar forced a smile. “Yes, sir. We’ll do our part.”

  The plan was for the combined force to reach the vicinity of the dam as quickly as possible. Then it would split into two groups, one large, and one small.

  Most of the troops would be under Gortov’s command, with Alawi in charge of the Hezbollah contingent. Their objective was to secure the dam itself.

  Kantar was to lead the smaller team against the administration complex located adjacent to the dam. “That’s where the bureaucrats and engineers have their offices,” Gortov said. “And we need them. Some of them anyway. So don’t harm a single hair on their mostly bald heads. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kantar replied. It was a formidable task, or would be assuming that he and his men faced armed opposition. How could he eliminate the guards while protecting the civilians? A partial answer occurred to him. “I want snipers, sir. Two of them.”

  Gortov frowned. “That’s a big ask, Captain. But I like the way you’re thinking. Your request is approved.”

  The sun was up. Columns of smoke rose from the north, where some of the buildings in Aswan continued to burn. The raiders split into columns and jogged south.

  Kantar had a map. So he knew that a long, narrow, tree-lined inlet lay ahead, with an industrial area beyond. That was where the invaders were likely to encounter initial resistance. And, if things went well, they would capture some vehicles.

  But if things went poorly the larger team could find itself locked into a prolonged firefight. That would give the Brotherhood time to summon reinforcements.

  A dirt track appeared from the east and turned south towards the trees. A sure sign that the inlet and a bridge lay up ahead. Gortov’s scouts were in among the palms by then, glassing the enemy. Kantar could hear them speaking to Gortov in Russian.

  The translation came shortly thereafter. “The enemy is waiting for us,” Gortov announced. “They’re on the south side of a wooden bridge. Deploy your troops along the east side of the tree line, but don’t advance until I give the order. We’ll tease them onto the bridge, pull back, and open fire.”

  Kantar gave the necessary orders. There were 28 Hezbollah and 2 Russians under his command. They took up defensive positions as the larger group opened fire on the Brotherhood. The defenders had heavy weapons and put them to use. There was no mistaking the thump, thump, thump of a fifty-caliber machine gun, interspersed with the occasional crack of an RPG.

  That wasn’t good. Or so it seemed to Kantar, until two large drones bored in from the east. One of them was intercepted by a surface-to-air missile and blew up. But the other made it through … And was flying so low it was lost in the ground clutter.

  It was carrying bombs under its wings. And as it swooped over the enemy the weapons tumbled free. The defenders had revealed where they were. And, when the brothers surged onto the bridge, they were concentrated in one place.

  Explosions threw human bodies high into the air, where they seemed to pause, before raining down. Columns of water rose and collapsed. The center section of the bridge was gone.

  The Brotherhood fighters fired as they withdrew, but the skirmish was over, and Gortov issued new orders. “The water is shallow,” the Russian said. “My column will cross while you, and your men, provide security.”

  Kantar moved his unit westward in accordance with Gortov’s orders, and told them to deploy facing north, ready to protect the larger force should reinforcements appear. After fifteen minutes had passed Kantar received orders to turn south, and cross the inlet.

  The well-worn track led to the shattered remains of a wooden bridge. Bodies, and parts of bodies, lay on the wreckage or floated in the languid waters below. Tracks left by the first column led into the inlet. Kantar and his troops soon found themselves knee-deep in blood warm liquid. A man wearing a dirty turban and a gray gallabiya (gown) floated face down. The body rocked slightly as Kantar pushed past it.

  The south bank was steep, and difficult to climb, after the passage of so many feet. And by the time Kantar made it to the top his boots were heavy with black mud.

  Low-lying buildings were visible ahead. Kantar kept an eye out for vehicles as he jogged south. But those that were available had been hotwired and were pulling away. Troops clung to them like fleas to a pack of dogs.

  That meant Kantar and his men would have to hoof it. The dam rose in the distance with white water spewing out into the Nile. But Kantar’s objective was closer. In fact the road they were on led to it.

  Some of the locals were on the street by then. Egyptians mostly, but dark-skinned Nubians too, decedents of people who’d been displaced by the dam. They stood and stared as the column of heavily armed men double-timed past them. Who were the strangers? Members of a private militia? Anything was possible after the recent revolution—and the onlookers knew better than to try and interfere.

  Gunfire could be heard in the distance. A sure sign that Gortov’s men were in contact with the Brotherhood. But Kantar had his own challenge to face. The three-story building was off to the right with the dam behind it. “On the roof!” a man shouted, as an RPG sped their way.

  It landed short of the column, exploded, and hurled shrapnel in every direction. “Disperse!” Kantar order. “Find cover. Snipers to me.”

  Kantar was crouched behind a wall where the Russians joined him. One was named Yezhov, the other Anishin. Both men were carrying VKS 12.7X55mm suppressed sniper rifles. And, since Kantar was well aware of the prominent role Russian snipers had played in WWII, he expected great things from them. “Kill the men on the roof. If others engage us, kill them too. But no noncombatants. The colonel wants to capture them alive. Do you understand?”

  “Da,” Yezhov said stolidly. “We kill.” It was a sweeping response. Kantar hoped that the sniper understood the need to protect civilians.

  Kantar’s team had its own frequency to avoid the possibility of confusion. He spoke to them. “The snipers will neutralize the men on the roof. Squad one will circle around to the west side of the building and stand ready to enter through the back door. Squad two will remain with me. Execute.”

  Shots rang out as the brothers on the roof saw movement and stood up to fire at it. But that made them visible. A sniper fired and one of the brothers toppled forward. His body fell three stories and smacked onto the ground. A cloud of dust billowed into the air.

  The defenders became more hesitant. But as the attackers came closer, they were forced to respond, thereby exposing themselves to sniper fire. The casualties continued to mount. Eventually, after suppressing fire from the roof, Kantar prepared to make entry. “Remember,” he told the men. “Take prisoners. If you kill a noncombatant, I will kill you.”

  All the Hezbollah fighters had heard about Omaya by then. So they were inclined to take the threat seriously. And Kantar was counting on that. When both squads were ready, he gave the order, “Go!”

  Kantar was running. But it felt as if he were standing still. Shoot me in the head, he prayed. I won’t feel it that way. Men carrying AK-47s spilled out through the front door and raised their weapons. One fell to a bullet from Yezhov’s rifle. And another toppled over backwards as Kantar fired. But, when he tried to fire a second shot, his pistol jammed.

  A third fighter remained upright and Kantar watched with a sense of dread as the defender’s Kalashnikov began to swing his way. Then a man named Hassan yelled, “Allah Akbar!” and shot the defender in the head.

  Kantar and Hassan entered the lobby together. The other squad was inside by then, and chaos raged, as men shouted orders. “Get down! Face down. Hands behind your heads!”

  It took about five minutes to subdue thirty-plus men and a handful of women. “Search the building,” Kantar ordered. “Find the ones who are hiding.”

  Two men were. And they received rough treatment as fighters herded them into the now crowded lobby. “Tie their hands behind them,” Kantar ordered. “And lead them out front.

  “Yezhov and A
nishin will take positions on the roof. Abbar, Erakat, and Fadel will patrol the perimeter. Take nothing … And no one is to enter. Do you understand?”

  All of the men nodded. “Good,” Kantar said. “Call for help if you come under attack.”

  The prisoners were marched heads hung, away from the building, and onto the road that ran east and west across the top of the dam. Kantar had done his homework. He knew that the new Aswan Dam was equipped with 12 Francis turbines, capable of producing 2,100 megawatts of electricity. But the structure wasn’t, in all truth, that impressive to look at.

  The belly of the concrete beast pushed south, from whence the 4,258 mile long river flowed, as if to keep Lake Nasser at bay. And there, running parallel to the road, was a well irrigated strip of carefully manicured trees. The planting curved in concert with the dam, thereby providing a welcome touch of green to what would have otherwise been an entirely drab structure.

  Signs of fighting were visible ahead. Bodies lay sprawled on the pavement, the pools of blood already drying, as flies ate their fill. Most of the dead wore Egyptian garb. But there were Russian and Hezbollah casualties too. Both readily identifiable by their uniforms.

  A Russian lieutenant and his men were guarding a metal door which had clearly been blown open. “Take the prisoners below,” the officer ordered curtly. That, in spite of the fact that Kantar outranked him.

  Kantar was careful to keep a check on his emotions as he gave the necessary orders. A Hezbollah noncom led the prisoners inside. Kantar and a contingent of his soldiers followed. Two flights of stairs led down to a large room with high ceilings. The air was artificially cool, and machinery hummed nearby.

  Flat screen monitors covered most of the left wall. Some displayed schematics with colored indicator lights. Others featured lines of scrolling code. The rest were devoted to shots from external security cameras. Including one that displayed the bodies lying out front.

  Two rows of consoles, all equipped with computer screens, filled the center of the room. A dead man sat slumped in a chair, blood pooling at his feet. The rest of the seats were empty. And that made sense because the control room’s staff were standing against the right hand wall with hands clasped behind their heads. “Put your prisoners over there,” Colonel Gortov said, as he pointed to the wall partially obscured by stairs.

  “Good,” Gortov said, as the Egyptians were chivvied into place. “Now, you will act as interpreter. Tell these people that they have a choice to make. They can run the dam for us, and live, or be martyred. Go ahead. Tell them.”

  The prisoners included the 22 people that Kantar’s men had captured, plus the eight individuals who’d been on duty in the control room when Gortov’s troops entered. They were understandably terrified. A man had peed himself, and a woman was sobbing. A strong indication that both understood English.

  “You have a choice,” Kantar told the prisoners in Arabic. “Work for us or die. Please raise your hand if you want us to shoot you.”

  All of the administrators, engineers, and technicians had been employed by the government before the country split into factions, and been forced to work for the Brotherhood after it took control. Now another group had taken over. The decision was easy. Not a single hand went up. Kantar turned to Gortov. “All of them want to work for you, Colonel.”

  Gortov nodded. “Excellent. I believe you have some administrative experts among your men. Am I correct?”

  That was true. The need to supervise the dam’s staff had been apparent from the beginning, and due to the potential language barrier involved, Hezbollah had been chosen to handle the task. Kantar nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Put your men to work,” Gortov ordered. “Capture each prisoner’s name, title and function. Collect the names of off duty personnel and send members of your team to find and bring them in. And last, but not least, pay each prisoner a 1,000 E£ bonus. Tell them they will receive a raise as well.”

  That, in Kantar’s estimation, was pure genius. The Russians had a metal suitcase full of money, and what better way to spend some of it? Especially if the Brotherhood had been forcing the staff to work for free. “Sergeant Burhan, you heard the colonel,” Kantar said. “Execute.”

  The next four hours were spent treating wounds, scouting the area, and feeding the troops. The American MREs were labeled “Dhabihah Halal,” indicating that the meat in the meal came from animals which had been properly slaughtered. The Russians ate the Halal rations too, and none of them complained. How the MREs had been obtained was a mystery.

  Kantar was sitting on a chair in the control room when a Russian came looking for him. “The colonel wants you to join him. He says that ‘it’s time to put the baby to sleep.’ Whatever that means.”

  Kantar knew exactly what it meant. The “baby,” or “Rebenok” in Russian, was a sixty-pound tactical nuke with a yield of 1K, or 1,000 tons of TNT. Though similar to the backpack devices that the United States, Russia, and possibly other countries had developed over the years, the “baby” had been purpose-built at the Budker Institute of Nuclear Physics in the Siberian town of Akademgorodok. And it had been in the possession of a huge noncom ever since the 727 left the ground in Syria. Putting the “baby” to sleep, and doing so quickly was an important part of the plan.

  Kantar set the remains of his meal aside, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and took a final swig from his water bottle. After a quick radio conversation with Alawi he stood. “I’m ready. Lead the way.”

  A door opened onto stairs that led down to the third sub-level, where huge turbines labored around the clock. The ceiling was at least fifty-feet high, rail mounted hoists were mounted on the ceiling, and the smell of lubricants hung in the air.

  The Russian led Kantar past the brightly painted machinery to a numbered door and into the tunnel beyond. It stretched for what seemed like a city block before terminating at a second numbered door. This door opened into a chamber large enough for ten men. A circular plate had been removed from the floor, and eight bolts were resting next to it. The “baby” was dangling above an open pipe. It was supported by a wire cable and a folding tripod.

  Five men were present including the colonel, two Spetsnaz, and two Hezbollah fighters. “Finally,” Gortov said. “Dorkov will take a picture of the moment, which will be uploaded to the internet. Then we’ll finish the job.”

  Dorkov took half a dozen photos. Gortov gave an order in Russian once the soldier was done.

  Kantar watched the “baby” descend into the vertical pipe. He was impressed by how perfect the fit was. The winch produced a ratcheting sound as the bomb sank out of sight.

  “This,” Gortov told them, “is an excellent example of Russian superiority. Back in the fifties, when western nations refused to help Egypt construct the dam, Russia stepped forward with a $1.12 billion dollar loan at 2% interest. Work began in 1958. The Soviet Union sent engineers and heavy equipment to do the job.

  “One of those engineers was a KGB officer named Ivan Dragovich. It was his idea to install this pipe, the compression chamber below, and the blast ducts designed to channel the full force of the explosion into the dam’s core. Tactical nukes hadn’t been invented yet … So Dragovich’s plan called for the use of TNT.

  “Why you ask?” Gortov asked rhetorically. “Did Dragovich intend to destroy the very thing that he and his team were striving to build? No. But he knew that relationships change. He knew that today’s friends can become tomorrow’s enemies.

  “So Dragovich installed the means to destroy the dam. And, if we pull the trigger, the force of the resulting blast won’t destroy the dam directly. But the structure will be weakened. And Lake Nasser’s weight will do the rest. A wall of water will wipe the Nile River valley clean of life.”

  Most of the dead would be Sunnis, Kantar thought. Millions of them. Inshallah. (If Allah wills it.)

  The ratcheting noise stopped and some slack appeared. “It’s on the bottom,” a Russian said.

  “Test the relay
box,” Gortov ordered.

  An insulted wire was wound around the cable by which the “baby” had been lowered. It was connected to a black box, or “sender,” affixed to the bottom of the metal plate. Assuming everything worked properly, Colonel Gortov would be able to trigger “baby” using the remote clutched in his beefy hand. The technician flipped a switch and a green light appeared on the sender. Gortov eyed his device and nodded. “Replace the hatch and bolt it down.”

  Gortov turned to a knapsack at that point, withdrew a bottle of vodka, and removed the cap. Then he raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink before offering it to Kantar. “I know alcohol is forbidden … But a lot of your people drink anyway.”

  “Some do,” Kantar admitted, as he drew his pistol. “But I’m not one of them.”

  The gunshot was very loud in the enclosed space, and echoed by more, as the Hezbollah fighters shot the rest of the Russians.

  A blue-edged hole appeared between Gortov’s eyes and brain tissue splashed the wall behind him. The bottle shattered on the floor as Gortov’s body collapsed. Gun smoke eddied in the air. Kantar opened his mike. “Alawi.”

  “Sir.”

  “Kill them. Snipers first.”

  “Yajib alqiam bih.” (It shall be done.)

  Kantar bent over Colonel Gortov’s body, felt for the remote, and found it. He turned to face his men. Dead bodies lay sprawled all around. Kantar held the trophy high. “Egypt is ours!”

  “Egypt is ours!” the Hezbollah fighters shouted. “Allah Akbar!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Port Ashdod, Israel

  The port of Ashdod was protected from the Mediterranean Sea by a long curving breakwater. And there, within its rocky embrace were freighters, transports, and naval vessels of every description—all waiting to discharge troops, effect repairs, or receive orders.