Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  The sun rose above a calm sea. A tanker followed a warship across the horizon while contrails clawed the sky. A seagull perched on the radio mast. A pair of bottlenose dolphins came by for a look as a shot-up life raft floated by. And, as the sun sank lower, the light gradually faded. Once darkness fell the cycle started over.

  The following day was no different. Nor the one after that, except for the increasingly choppy seas. When night fell Kydd decided to call it quits.

  The Galene was running low on fuel, all of the fresh food was gone, and one of the seaman had a terrible toothache. A problem hospital corpsman “Doc” Parley couldn’t do much about.

  After setting the course, and passing the con to Hanson, Kydd stepped outside. His favorite resting spot was on the steel deck, with his back to the wheelhouse. Other people liked it too. So a beat-up cushion was available to sit on.

  The bow rose and fell as the Galene broke through the low-lying waves. And there, high above, thousands of the galaxy’s 100-billion stars glittered. It was a sight never seen by people who spent their entire lives in cities. “Excuse me, sir,” Wilson said. “The XO wants to see you. He’s down below.”

  That’s where the radar was. Kydd felt his pulse quicken as he stood. “Thanks, Wilson. Who knows? Maybe our luck is about to change.”

  After entering the wheelhouse, he placed his feet on the side rails, and slid down. The Galene’s Operations Room was so small it barely qualified as such. The radar and radio operators sat back-to-back separated by a narrow passageway.

  The boat’s “blip chaser” was a young man named Peterson. Hanson was looking over the operator’s shoulder, and turned when Kydd arrived. “Two targets, sir. They’re southwest of us, and headed west.”

  Kydd stepped in to look. And sure enough, there they were, two blips headed west. “How fast are they going?”

  “No more than 10 knots,” Peterson replied. “If that.”

  Kydd considered what he’d heard. He was expecting to encounter cigarette boats. But cigarette boats were unlikely to travel so slowly. He turned to the radio operator. “Hey, Lee … Did you try the IFF?” (The Identification, Friend or Foe system.)

  “Yes, sir,” Lee answered. “There was no response.”

  Kydd took a moment to consider that. The failure to respond could indicate that they were tracking enemy vessels. Or, it could mean that the radar targets were friendlies, who couldn’t receive or transmit for some reason.

  This wasn’t anything like the kind of situation Kydd expected to find himself in. It took effort to put his brain in gear. He turned to Hanson. “Change course to put us behind the targets and add power. Oh, and pass the word … The crew will report to battle stations. This is not a drill.”

  It was a pro forma order for the most part because, with the exception of those who were asleep, the rest of the crewmembers were at battle stations. Hanson said, “Yes sir,” and turned to climb the ladder.

  Kydd remained where he was, watching, and waiting to see what, if anything, the other vessels would do. If the unknowns had radar, they would see the Galene change course, and turn to meet the threat. Or run like hell.

  The deck shifted under Kydd’s feet as the Q-ship turned. The engine noise grew louder and there was no reaction from the blips. Kydd turned to Lee. “Try the IFF again.”

  Lee tapped some keys, waited, and shook his head. “Nada.”

  Kydd thanked Lee before climbing the ladder to the wheelhouse. Hanson lowered a pair of night vision binoculars. “No visual as yet, sir. What’s the plan?”

  “The first priority is to see what we have,” Kydd replied. “I think one boat is towing the other. Maybe they don’t have any electronics due to a power failure.”

  “So both of them had power failures?” Hanson inquired skeptically.

  Kydd grinned. “You’ve got me there, Ralph … How long before we catch up?”

  “No more than fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “Good.” Kydd turned to the intercom. “Lee … Get operations on the horn. Give them our position, course, and speed. Tell them we’re about to make contact with two unidentified vessels, one of which might be under tow.”

  “Roger that,” Lee replied.

  Time slowed. The bow rose and fell. The helm made soft clacking sounds as the helmsman turned it right and left. A fan blew warm air at the back of Kydd’s head. Then the call came in. “Bow here, I see a vessel dead ahead. I don’t see any weapons.”

  “Prepare to light it up,” Kydd said. “And prepare to engage.”

  Kydd wasn’t wearing night vision gear, and didn’t want to take the time to put it on. All he could see was the black-on-black bulk of something to starboard. If the other vessel’s crew was aware of the Q-ship there was no sign of it. “Hit ’em with the spots,” Kydd ordered, and watched as the mystery ship popped into stark relief.

  Kydd wasn’t looking at a fishing boat, but a yacht. And there was something familiar about it. Why?

  Then it came to him. He was looking at the Sea Star! The boat that had, along with its owners, been captured by pirates! And judging from appearances the yacht was definitely under tow.

  Suddenly everything changed. Who was towing the Sea Star? The pirates most likely. Something had gone wrong. An engine failure perhaps, forcing them to tow the unwieldy yacht to their home port, wherever that was. And what about Mr. and Mrs. Abdel Kubar? Were they on board? “Don’t fire on the yacht,” Kydd ordered. “Even if it fires on us. Hostages may be aboard.”

  “The lead boat dropped the tow!” a lookout announced.

  “It’s a cigarette boat!” a second voice added.

  “There are two cigarette boats,” the bow lookout warned.

  Kydd’s brain was churning. Two cigarette boats? How could that be? He’d seen two blips on the radar. They were side-by-side, Kydd told himself. And both had towlines out. But, being so close together, they looked like a single image.

  That was when the first speedboat opened fire with a deck mounted LMG. Bullets clanged as they struck the Q-ship’s metal hull. “Smoke ’em,” Kydd ordered, as the minigun rose from its hiding place in the forward hold.

  Wilson was sitting on a plastic chair, protected by a ballistic shield. The minigun produced a sustained roar as he pulled the trigger. A steady stream of 7.62X5mm slugs, mixed with tracer, drew a straight line between the Galene and the oncoming boat.

  There was no contest. The incoming fire shattered the cigarette boat’s composite hull. And, when a tracer found a fuel tank, the vessel exploded.

  Burning chunks of debris continued to fall as the second speedboat attacked from astern. It had turned, and circled around the far side of the yacht, in order to get in position. And Wilson couldn’t fire on it without hitting the wheelhouse. That left the stern gunners to handle the job.

  The machine guns began to thump as a spotlight found the incoming target. The heavy weapons hit, and hit hard, but it was a grenade from Chief Lazio’s launcher that finished the job.

  The explosion blew a hole in the bottom of the boat and it went under in a matter of seconds. “Cease firing, but standby your weapons,” Kydd ordered. “Drop fenders. We’ll go alongside. Lieutenant Hanson will lead the boarding party.”

  “Three people on the bow with hands in the air,” a gunner announced.

  “Two on the stern!” another added. “A man and a woman.”

  The Kubars? Quite possibly.

  Kydd was forced to put a hand on the wheelhouse, as the Galene bumped into the yacht, and the chief’s deck crew took lines across. “Don’t fire unless fired upon,” Kydd ordered. “Search the prisoners, and watch for IEDs. Chief Lazio, have the crew rig a cable. We’ll take the yacht in tow. Lee, get operations on the horn, and explain the situation. We need air cover.”

  Two extremely frightened civilians were brought aboard minutes later. They were disheveled, and Kydd could see that the man had been beaten. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” the man replied. “Who ar
e you?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Kydd, United States Navy,” Kydd replied. “And you’re Minister Kubar, if I’m not mistaken.”

  A look of relief appeared on the woman’s face. “The pirates took us to Cyprus,” she said. “Then, after two days, we left. But there was a fire in the engine room.”

  “All of the electronic controls were destroyed,” Kubar explained. “And the pirates couldn’t figure out how to operate them manually.”

  “They hit him,” Mrs. Kubar added. “But Abdel said he didn’t know. So they tried to tow us.”

  “I’m glad you survived,” Kydd said. “Simms will take you below. I will notify the Naval Operations Center—and they will contact your government.”

  The planes arrived five minutes later. A tugboat announced itself an hour after that, and with a fine display of seamanship, took the tow.

  Then, when the Q-ship was still three hours from port, a sleek Super Dvora Mk III patrol boat arrived to take the Kubars off. Once they were gone the Galene was all alone.

  Kydd took stock. Two sailors had been wounded, but not badly. And the Q-ship would need more repairs. But, all-in-all, Kydd was satisfied.

  And so, it seemed, was Admiral Ducey. The message read, “Not bad for a fishing boat. Come see me after you get in.”

  ***

  After returning the Galene to the harbor, and getting his wounded sailors ashore, Kydd granted himself six hours of sleep. His alarm went off at 0900. That was when he discovered the sheet of paper someone had slipped under the door. The handwritten note was on Admiral Ducey’s stationary. “Please join us in the Operations Center at 1000. Ducey.”

  Kydd swore. That didn’t leave much time to shower, get dressed, and complete the requisite hike. So he sent for petty officer Simms, better known to his shipmates as “the fixer.” He had close cropped hair and dark skin. A pair of board shorts completed the look. “No problem, sir,” Simms said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Kydd showered in the same grungy cubicle that everyone else used, donned fresh civvies sans socks, and went up on deck. Simms was polishing brass. “Your car is waiting up on the street, sir.”

  Kydd thanked the sailor and climbed the gangway to find that a shiny Hyundai was there, with flashers on, blocking a lane of traffic. Truckers were honking their horns at the driver, but he seemed to be blissfully unaware of it, as he got out to open the rear door. “Commander Kydd? Good morning, sir.”

  Cool air flowed around Kydd as he got inside and the car pulled away. “You know where we’re going?”

  “Naval Operations,” the man said.

  Kydd allowed himself to relax. It took less than five minutes to reach his destination. “What do I owe you?”

  The man eyed Kydd in the mirror. “Nothing, sir. Lieutenant Simms took care of it.”

  Lieutenant? The fixer indeed. Kydd grinned. “Thank you.”

  Kydd got out, worked his way through security, and entered the building. A civilian was stationed behind the reception desk. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Kydd. I’m here to meet with Admiral Ducey.”

  The man consulted a screen. “Your meeting is in room C, sir. It’s down the hall.”

  Kydd followed the pointing finger, saw C, and went inside. A dozen people were in the conference room, drinking coffee, and shooting the shit. Ducey came over to greet him. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Kydd said, as he looked around. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing good,” Ducey replied. “A team comprised of Hezbollah fighters, and Russian commandos, took control of the Aswan Dam in Egypt. They have a tactical nuke, and are threatening to blow the dam, unless Egypt surrenders to the Axis.”

  Kydd stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” Ducey replied. “I wish I was.”

  “That’s terrible,” Kydd said. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, what am I doing here?”

  “That will become clear during the presentation,” Ducey said. “Grab a cup of joe and strap in.”

  After collecting a cup of coffee Kydd sat down. Ducey took the dais moments later. “I believe all of you know me, and vice versa, so let’s dispense with the introductions. As you know we’ve got a major problem to deal with. Cassandra Cole just arrived from D.C., and she’s going to read us in. Cassandra?”

  The woman who replaced Ducey on the stage had short blond hair. She was wearing sunglasses and a set of well-pressed khakis. Uh-oh, CIA, Kydd thought. Never a good sign.

  Cole removed the sunglasses. She had even features and full lips. A remote was waiting for her. “Some of what I’m going to tell you is classified, and some of it isn’t,” she began. “I think the difference will be obvious.

  “About 48-hours ago Russian attack submarines fired two flights of cruise missiles at the city of Aswan in Egypt. Aswan is located just north of the dam bearing the same name, and has a population of a quarter-million people.

  “The purpose of the attack was to destroy key infrastructure, and kill the city’s first responders, in an effort to ensure that a joint Hezbollah-Russian special ops team would face minimal resistance when they fell out of the sky.

  “The secondary objective was to scare the crap out of the civilian, mostly Sunni, population and cause them to evacuate. Both goals were achieved. As I speak tens of thousands of civilians are fleeing north.”

  Drone footage appeared at that point. Entire sections of Aswan had been destroyed. Columns of black smoke rose to stain the otherwise blue sky. A major highway was clogged with people. “Meanwhile,” Cole continued, “the commandos defeated the Muslim Brotherhood’s militia, and took command of the facility. Then they placed a nuclear device deep inside the dam.” That statement produced expressions of surprise and concern.

  Cole nodded. “Within hours a Hezbollah produced video appeared on internet sites in Lebanon, Iraq, and Iran. But not in Russia,” Cole added. “And there’s a reason for that. Watch this.”

  The video showed a mixed group of Russians and what Kydd assumed to be Hezbollah fighters lowering a cylindrical object into a pipe. “My name is Captain Mustafa Kantar,” a voice said, as the footage rolled. “Many years ago, when the Aswan Dam was under construction, Russian engineers had the foresight to create a repository deep inside the dam’s containment wall. The purpose of that chamber was to receive conventional explosives which, if the need arose, could be used to destroy the dam. And that day has arrived.

  “However, thanks to advances in technology made during the intervening 60 years, we are lowering a tactical nuke into the repository instead of TNT. That means we can destroy the dam with the press of a button. All prayers to Allah, such a moment will never arrive.

  “But if it does,” Kantar continued, “It is my duty to remind you that approximately 6-trillion cubic feet of water will be released into an area where 10-million Egyptians live.”

  A tight shot appeared. Kantar had dark hair, a widow’s peak, and heavy eyebrows. “Please,” Kantar said. “There is no need to die! Accede to our demands and live. The moment that Egypt creates a single government, and that government welcomes Axis forces into the land of the Pharaohs, we will remove the device from its tomb—and embrace our fellow Muslims as comrades in arms.”

  A picture of a soaring monument appeared on the screen. “Sadly our Russian comrades were killed in a firefight after the nuclear device was lowered into place.” Kantar said. “They were buried next to our Hezbollah fighters adjacent to the monument of Arab-Soviet friendship that stands on top of the dam.”

  Cole thumbed a button. The image disappeared. “And that,” she said, “is Grade-A bullshit. Based on satellite imagery we know that Hezbollah troops launched a surprise attack on the Russians, gunned them down, and dumped the bodies into a common grave.

  “And our vodka swilling friends know that. According to signals intelligence the Russians, the Lebanese, and Iran are engaged in a three-way pissing match. But the Russians need the Shia countrie
s. Especially their airbases. So they’re going to back down, and Hezbollah, which is to say Iran—knows that.”

  Cole’s eyes roamed the room. They were bright blue. “So,” she said. “By now you’re asking yourselves what the Allies plan to do. I’ll begin with the things we can’t do.

  “We can’t drop troops in because the Brotherhood placed rings of surface to air missiles around the dam.

  “The second thing we can’t do is destroy those missiles with other missiles. Because if we try to do so Kantar will blow the dam.”

  “The third thing we can’t do is attack from the west, because a 263,000 square mile desert is in the way. That gives us a choice. We can attack from the Red Sea, or straight up the Nile valley. Both strategies have advocates. But the pro-Nile crowd came out on top, and that’s how it’s going to be.

  “That leaves us with a surface attack,” Cole said. “And there are two ways to accomplish it. We can send vehicles up one of the highways that run parallel to the Nile, or we can make use of the river itself. Each option has advantages and disadvantages. Suffice it to say that the brass settled on the river.”

  “So here’s the skinny,” Cole continued. “Operation Pharaoh will be led by Marine Colonel Martin Goolsby, with support from a naval task force consisting of American and British forces. The colonel has orders to take a battalion of marines south, assault the dam, and neutralize the nuke. Do you have any questions?”

  Kydd raised a hand.

  Cole frowned. “And you are?”

  “Commander Kydd.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “No offense ma’am, but that plan won’t work. Barring a political miracle—the tangos (terrorists) will blow the dam once we get close to it. They won’t wait for an assault.”

  Cole nodded. “There’s an additional element to the overall plan. One which I’m not authorized to share at this time. But I can assure you that your concern will be addressed. Are there other questions? No? Thank you for your time.”

  And with that Cole put her sunglasses on and left the room. Kydd turned to Ducey. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. I’ve been assigned to the naval support group.”