Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Read online

  The 70-foot fishing boat Galene (named for the Greek goddess of calm seas), was shoehorned in between a German destroyer and an Italian tug. The Galene was what had been referred to as a “Q-ship” back during WWII, when armed merchantmen were used to lure enemy submarines in close, in an effort to sink them. The strategy met with only limited success.

  But with the advent of WWIII Q-ships were back in fashion. Not to combat submarines, but to combat pirates, who were preying on small boats. A crime made considerably easier by the chaos of war.

  Civilian workers were onboard the Galene, working under the watchful gaze of Ralph Hanson, the boat’s XO. The wheelhouse had been blown to splinters during the boat’s most recent engagement—and tools clattered as a replacement was bolted into place.

  After being removed from an ancient trawler, the wheelhouse looked right at home on Galene’s 63 year-old metal hull. Fishermen don’t salute each other, so Hanson nodded, as Lieutenant Commander Harley Kydd appeared from below deck. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Really?” Kydd inquired. “What’s so good about it?”

  Hanson grinned. Kydd was generally even tempered. But he’d been summoned to what promised to be a tongue lashing from flotilla commander Rear Admiral Hal Ducey. “We’re alive, sir.”

  Kydd nodded. “Barely. Keep them on it Ralph … And count the tools before they leave.”

  “We will, sir,” Hanson assured him. “And our wallets too.”

  Kydd was careful to step over the cables that crisscrossed the deck, as he made his way to the head of the gangplank. That’s where gunner’s mate Mary Kay Wilson was stationed. She was small, leathery, and busy splicing an eye into a length of rope. A Heckler & Koch MP5 was within easy reach. Some of the workers were Muslims. And even though they’d been screened, terrorist attacks weren’t unknown. “Morning, sir.”

  Kydd forced himself to be civil. “Good morning, Wilson. Who knew that a gunner’s mate could splice?”

  “A gunner’s mate can do anything,” Wilson replied. “But don’t tell the chief … I have enough work already.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Kydd assured her, as he stepped onto the ramp. It led to the top of the breakwater. It was a steep climb but the cross cleats helped. A two-lane road occupied the top of the seawall. Trucks both large and small growled in both directions. There wasn’t any sidewalk. That meant Kydd had to share the street with the trucks, and be ready to jump when they approached.

  The prefab that served as Flotilla Six’s headquarters was a mile away; the sky was mostly clear, and the sun was halfway up. So it wasn’t long before Kydd’s ball cap, tee shirt, and trousers were damp with sweat.

  When the breakwater came to an end, Kydd took a right, and made his way between the low-lying buildings to a prefab. It had been red once. But years of harsh sunlight had turned it pink. According to the sign the nondescript “fab” was the home of “Kinzo Marine.”

  An old pickup was up on blocks next to the building, and two men were working on it. Or pretending to work on it because, despite the civvies, both of them were marines.

  One came forward to intercept Kydd, while the other watched, prepared to draw a concealed weapon. “Lieutenant Commander Kydd. Here to see Admiral Ducey.” His ID was ready in the palm of a hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” the marine said. “Today’s door code is 4112.”

  Kydd made his way to the entrance and entered the code. A green LED appeared, followed by a click. An artificially chilly room waited beyond. A yeoman was stationed at the front desk. The 9mm went back into the in-box. “Good morning, Commander. The admiral is on the horn. Please take a seat.”

  The waiting room was equipped with four chairs and one magazine. The much-thumbed issue of Vanity Fair was a month old. An actress in a fanciful uniform graced the front cover.

  Kydd was two pages into an article about the many ways in which New York’s elite were suffering from the war, when a door opened and Admiral Ducey appeared.

  He was sixty-something and handsome in a Ralph Lauren sort of way. After investing over 30 years in the navy Ducey had retired, only to be called up weeks after the war started, and shipped to the Med. Something he welcomed. Kydd rose. “Good morning, sir.”

  Ducey frowned. “You look like hell.”

  “That’s the plan, sir.”

  “Maybe so,” Ducey responded. “But there’s no need to look that authentic. You are a navy officer after all. Come in.”

  Kydd followed Ducey into a small, sparsely furnished office. Blackout curtains hung over the windows to keep light in during the night, and foil snipers during the day. Ducey gestured to a chair. “Have a seat. How are the repairs going?”

  “We’re working around the clock, sir,” Kydd replied. “We hope to make the Galene seaworthy by the day after tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Ducey responded. “Pirates boarded a ferry. Two women were abducted and the rest of the passengers were robbed.”

  Kydd winced.” I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “We’re doing what we can,” Ducey said. “And that brings me to the situation at hand. Saudi Royal navy Captain Abdul Aziz bin Al Saud, better known to his people as Prince Abdul, since he’s one-thousand five-hundred and fifty-sixth in line for the throne, filed official complaints with the Navy and the Department of Agriculture—charging you with numerous offenses, including insubordinate behavior, and the use of foul language during the Princess Charlotte incident.”

  “The Department of Agriculture, sir?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why. And don’t try to change the subject.”

  “Sir, yes sir. The Charlotte was under attack. So we intervened and requested support from the so-called ‘quick response’ vessel captained by Prince Abdul. It arrived forty-five minutes after the engagement was over. I lost two men, and my boat was severely damaged.”

  “True,” Ducey admitted. “Then you called the prince, and I quote, an ‘incompetent asshole.’ I’m sorry about your men,” Ducey added. “But the reality of the situation is that our European Allies no longer receive oil from Russia. That makes Saudi Arabia more important than it was. So, when they whistle, the people in D.C. hear it.”

  “And?” Kydd inquired.

  “And you were up for full commander,” Ducey replied. “But not anymore. The secretary of the navy told the Saudis that we are going to bust you from 05 to 04. So you get to keep lieutenant commander.”

  “Oh, good,” Kydd said. “I feel better now.”

  “It’s going to be a long war,” Ducey responded. “Don’t worry, you’ll make captain before it’s over. If you live that long.”

  The meeting came to a close when a general called. The yeoman was waiting for Kydd in the front office. “I have mail for the Galene,” she said. “Please take it with you. Yours is on top.”

  Like Q-ships, letters were back in fashion. The internet, and the traffic that rode on it, was subject to censorship. Emails rarely got through. That meant everyone looked forward to mail from home. “Will do,” Kydd said, as he accepted the canvas satchel with “Galene” stenciled on it. “Thank you.”

  It was like stepping into a furnace as Kydd left the air conditioned building. He’d been planning to return to the boat. But now, in the wake of the conversation with Ducey, and mail to read, Kydd took a detour.

  The Mariners Club had been founded by the Brits who, as they had for hundreds of years, knew how to make themselves comfortable during a war. Officers from all the Allied powers were welcome to enter the cool interior, and order some refreshment.

  A five minute walk took Kydd to a low, unassuming building. A pair of Royal marines were stationed out front. One, a corporal, was clearly suspicious of Kydd’s appearance. He barred the way. “Can I help you?”

  Kydd presented his ID. “Sorry, it’s my day off.”

  The corporal ignored the attempt at humor. “Welcome, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  The air inside the club was too cold, if such a thing was po
ssible, and Kydd shivered. It was barely lunchtime. So very few people were present. Kydd chose a table in a corner where he hoped to escape being noticed. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot the shit about the war.

  A waiter arrived to take his order, which consisted of a sabich sandwich, a gin and tonic, and a slice of lime. Kydd’s mail was secured with a blue rubber band. An invitation to purchase life insurance was on top of the pile. That made him laugh. What would they charge, he wondered. A hundred dollars a day?

  There was a birthday card from his mother too. It had been mailed a month earlier. Kydd felt guilty. He should write but hadn’t.

  And there, third from the top, was the most precious item of all. An envelope with Jamie Everson’s military style block printing on it. He held it up to his nose. Nothing. No perfume.

  Well, Jamie was stationed aboard the carrier Carl Vinson, and smelly stuff could be in short supply. Kydd tore the letter open and started to scan. “Dear Harley … Sorry to tell you … I met a pilot … Lots in common … I will always be your friend … Watch your six. Jamie.”

  “Here you are,” the waitress said, as she placed the sandwich and drink on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes,” Kydd replied. “Another gin and tonic.”

  ***

  The next 24 hours were extremely hectic. Once the “new” wheelhouse was secured to the deck, the cables that controlled the boat’s steering had to be repaired, and new electronics installed, including radios, radar, a depth finder and more.

  Ideally that sort of work would have been carried out by civilian contractors. But repairing an ancient Q-ship was at the very bottom of the military harbormaster’s list of things to do.

  So, it was up to the Galene’s crew to do most of the work themselves, while unskilled civilians were left to plug holes and paint. Lieutenant Hanson was in charge of the overall effort. But Chief Boatswain’s Mate Sergio Lazio was the real taskmaster. And “Boats” was everywhere.

  He was a small man, with a big attitude, and a pencil thin mustache. The slightest mistake could set him off. But Lazio was fair … And an important bridge between the boat’s officers and crew.

  While the repairs were being made Kydd sat in his tiny cabin, filling out forms on his laptop, and printing them down. An old fan stirred the air as it swung back and forth but did little to cool him. At 1800 hours the civilians went ashore and Hanson stuck his head in through the open hatch. “Dinner is served, sir … Dress whites are mandatory.”

  Kydd chuckled. “Of course, nothing less would do. Give me a sitrep.”

  “We’re ready for sea trials,” Hanson replied.

  “Excellent,” Kydd said as he stood. “We’ll cast off after chow. Speaking of which please send a sailor up to the road. I’m expecting an important delivery.”

  Kydd was on deck, decorating a cheeseburger with condiments, when three Styrofoam chests arrived. Each was filled with ice cold beer. And not just any beer, but Goldstar, a very popular lager. A cheer went up, moral soared, and Kydd grinned. His crew consisted of 26 people, and there were 52 bottles of beer, which meant the crew would still be sober as the Galene slipped into the night.

  The port was very busy. That meant all arrivals and departures had to be scheduled in advance. So when the harbormaster’s office gave the Galene permission to leave at 2000 hours, they meant 8:00 pm, not 8:15. Once chow was over Kydd ordered the crew to secure all gear, clear the decks for sea, and run the standard systems checks. Amber lights appeared, but were quickly cleared.

  Because the Galene was sandwiched in between a destroyer and tug, and equipped with a single screw, the process of warping out might have been difficult. However, one of the reasons the Galene had been “bought into the service” was her recently installed engine, plus the external bow, side, and stern thrusters added by previous owners.

  All the quartermaster had to do was press a rocker switch to activate the port side thruster and push the Q-ship out of its berth. Skillful use of the bow-stern thrusters was required to prevent yawing. Applause was heard from the destroyer’s aft deck—indicating that the Germans had been expecting the worst.

  Once clear of obstacles Kydd instructed his radio operator to notify the harbormaster that the Galene was underway, ordered “slow ahead,” and felt the deck vibrate in sympathy with the powerful 803hp Mitsubishi diesel engine.

  The oily black waters of Ashdod harbor parted in front of the Galene’s sheer bow and slid back along her hull to produce a V-shaped wake. A buoy swayed in response. Kydd felt a surge of happiness. In command and underway. There was nothing better.

  An inbound frigate passed to port, running lights on, as it returned from a mission. To battle Russian Shmel Class gunboats off Cyprus? To escort a freighter into Athens? Anything was possible. The Galene wallowed as the warship’s wake hit her.

  Kydd had served on large ships, half a dozen of them, since his graduation from Annapolis. But he felt no sense of envy for the officers on the frigate’s bridge. He had chosen the brown water navy, and the boats appropriate for that kind of work.

  Once the Galene was well off shore, and well clear of other vessels, it was time to kill her running lights, don tactical gear, and exercise the boat’s systems. The steering came first. And, thanks to the new cabling, it was more responsive than it had been before.

  Then came the rest of it. The radios, the nav gear, and the boat’s weaponry. The most important part of which was the GAU-17/A minigun concealed below flip-off hatch covers in the bow. The 7.62X5mm NATO six-barrel rotary machine gun could fire up to 6,000 rounds per minute. It was mounted on a hydraulic lift, and could be deployed in less than two minutes, thereby transforming the Galene from a fishing boat to a bullet-spewing sea monster.

  In addition to the minigun there were pintle mounts for two Browning heavy machine guns in the stern, and two medium machine guns mounted just aft of the wheelhouse. Those weapons plus the crew-carried grenade launchers, assault rifles, and shotguns added up to what Chief Lazio called “A bad-assed boat.”

  After an hour of drills, Kydd declared the shakedown cruise a success, and told Hanson to “Take her in.” And that too was part of the training cycle. If Kydd were killed Hanson would assume command.

  Rather than stay, and look over Hanson’s shoulder, Kydd went below. A sign of his faith in the XO, which would be noticed by the crew, and help to build his credibility.

  The bunk was narrow, and too short for Kydd. But it felt good to get off his feet. A breeze had come up by then and the Galene rolled gently as she plowed forward.

  It was a sensation that would have been familiar to a sea captain 2,000 years earlier. Some things never changed while others had. Take Jamie for example. Maybe he had misjudged her. Or maybe the relationship had been more about sex than love. Kydd smiled. Go navy.

  ***

  With the exception of the Galene’s watch keepers, the crew was allowed to sleep in the next morning. And all of them knew why. Once darkness fell, the boat would leave port, and head north.

  Kydd rose early, had two cups of coffee, and left for the local operations center. The one story building was located near Flotilla Six’s headquarters. That made for a long walk. But, thanks to a high overcast, the temperature was in the low 80’s.

  After wading through two levels of security Kydd entered a large dimly lit room. Flat screens covered one wall, Intel techs sat in worshipful rows, and the low murmur of their radio conversations was reminiscent of monks praying.

  A female petty officer was in charge of the “take out” counter at the back of the room, where a uniformed 06 was busy reviewing the latest “buzz.” Something the captain could do aboard her ship if she chose to.

  But lesser beings, Kydd among them, had to visit the OC to obtain the latest weather forecast, eyeball aerial surveillance imagery, and review all of the after-action reports filed during the last 12 hours. Of the thirteen contacts that had taken place during that time Kydd was most interested in tw
o of them.

  The first had to do with an Israeli tug which had been attacked by three armed RIBs (Rigid Inflatable Boats), but been able to fend them off with machine gun fire.

  The second had all of the hallmarks of an attack by the so-called “Lucky Strike” gang. Lucky Strike cigarettes had been discontinued in the U.S. many years before, but were still popular in Europe, and pirates were said to have taken their name from the brand.

  Maybe that had something to do with the “cigarette boats” they used to launch lightning fast strikes against ferries, coastal freighters, and larger fishing vessels. The pirate boats were typically about 30-feet long, powered by a couple of 400hp engines, and capable of speeds up to 60mph in choppy waters.

  And because the low-lying cigarette boats were difficult to detect by radar, except in flat seas or at close range, they were hard to intercept. That’s where the Galene came in. Her job was to look helpless, wait for the Lucky Strikes to attack, and blow them out of the water.

  In this case a pair of high-speed boats had overtaken a 75-foot motor yacht which, ironically enough, was being moved from Benghazi to Israel, where it would theoretically be safer. Unfortunately the boat had been boarded, the crew had been forced into a dinghy, and the owners had been abducted. Making the situation worse, from an Allied point of view, was the fact that the owner, Mr. Abdel Kubar, was an important official in Libya’s Sunni led government.

  Kydd slid the printouts into his envelope-style briefcase, thanked the PO behind the counter, and took a doughnut with him. The air was warmer on the way back—and the doughnut made him thirsty.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. And Kydd felt grateful as the sun began to set. The trip out to sea passed without incident. Then it was time to flip the floodlights on and pretend to fish. A real trawler would drop a net over the stern and pull it along at a specified depth.

  But since Kydd didn’t want to catch fish, only a short length of carefully weighted net was deployed. Not much, just enough to look realistic, thereby inviting pirates to attack.