“Nope,” Ducey replied. “You’re in command of the support group. Reporting to Goolsby. Who, by the way, is said to be a by-the-book asshole.”
“Gee, thanks,” Kydd said. “Why?”
Ducey grinned. “Because you did a good job yesterday. Operation Pharaoh is your reward.”
CHAPTER THREE
Aswan Dam airport, Egypt
The sun was up, but just barely, as Mustafa Kantar stood on the tarmac—and scanned the cloudless sky. Two Kenya Airways planes carrying much needed troops were due to arrive. But what if they’d been shot down? What if he and his tiny command would be forced to defend the dam alone? Fear of death, fear of failure, and fear of fear caused his palms to sweat. Why him? Why was he so weak?
“There!” a man shouted. “Coming in from the south!”
Kantar squinted. And sure enough, two specks could be seen. Kantar spoke into the boom mike attached to his headset. “Attention all missile batteries. Two friendly aircraft are inbound from the south. Do not, I repeat, do not fire on them.”
The same message had been sent earlier. But Kantar knew that endless repetition was required to keep some people from making mistakes.
And the fact that members of the Muslim Brotherhood were manning most of the batteries, and doing so under duress, made the situation even riskier. But the incoming planes were carrying Iranian missile technicians who would replace the brothers. So that problem would be solved.
The first plane circled the airport so as to land from the north. The words “Kenya Airlines” were clear to see on the plane’s white fuselage.
The country of Kenya was theoretically neutral. But everyone knew that Kenya’s new railroad system had been financed by China, constructed by Chinese engineers, and was under their control. So, when an Axis country called, Kenya answered.
Engines roared forcing Kantar to pull the earmuff style hearing protectors down over his ears. It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the plane to land, taxi in, and park.
The airport personnel were Sunni. And it seemed safe to assume that many, if not all of them, were sympathetic to the recently defeated Muslim Brotherhood.
But they hurried to do their jobs, and for good reason. Each had been required to surrender a family member, all of whom were housed in the terminal building, where they were being cared for.
That arrangement would end soon however, when 95-percent of the employees were dismissed, leaving a handful of technical experts behind. Just enough to handle occasional Hezbollah flights.
Kantar watched with pride as a company of fighters, all heavily laden with gear, made their way down a set of rollup stairs to assemble on the tarmac. The second plane had arrived meanwhile, and was unloading its passengers.
And that was to say nothing of the machine guns, RPG launchers, and mortars being removed from baggage compartments. The newly arrived weapons, plus those captured from the Russians and the Brotherhood, would ensure Hezbollah’s ability to defend what had been taken.
Allawi appeared at Kantar’s side. The lieutenant’s lips were moving but Kantar couldn’t hear. He pushed the safety muffs up and out of the way. “Yes? What is it?”
“The secretary general!” Alawi said. “He’s here! To see you.”
“No.”
“Yes! I saw him with my own eyes.”
Kantar could hardly believe it. Hassan Haddad! The head of Hezbollah … In Egypt to see him. The visit was unexpected, exhilarating, and terrifying all at the same time. Kantar’s thoughts were racing. “Find a guide … Show the secretary general to a nice room. Summon food and drink. Send the guide back to me. Tell Haddad that I must greet the incoming troops … But I will meet with him immediately thereafter.” Alawi took off at a run.
Kantar forced himself to stroll over, greet the fighters from plane one, and welcome them to Egypt. “Most of you are veterans,” he said. “And that’s why I sent for you. We took Aswan Dam by force of arms. Others will attempt to capture it. But you, the Almuqatlin Alumuqdasin (holy fighters), will send them to aljahim (hell).
A cheer went up, and Kantar smiled. “We’ll get acquainted after you settle in. Ila-liqaa (until we meet again).”
After receiving a positive response from the first group, Kantar saw no reason to invent new remarks for the second. And they were equally enthusiastic.
A second cheer was dying away when an obsequious middle-aged man in a shabby business suit appeared. “This way sir, if it please you, to the executive dining room.”
Kantar followed the functionary through a door, up two flights of stairs, and across an empty room to a waiting elevator. It carried them to the 2nd floor where Alawi was waiting. “Please follow me.”
A carpeted corridor led to a door guarded by two men. Both carried AK-47s. They had sour expressions and matching beards. “This is Captain Kantar,” Alawi told them. “The secretary general wants to meet with him.”
The security measures weren’t surprising since there had been two highly publicized attempts on Haddad’s life during the last 12 months. “Surrender your pistol,” one of bodyguards demanded, and Kantar complied.
“Face the wall,” the second man ordered. “Put your weight on it and spread your legs.”
The ensuing pat-down was very thorough, too thorough for Kantar’s comfort, but necessary in the age of suicide bombers. “All right,” the second bodyguard said. “You may enter. The pistol will be waiting when you depart. The lieutenant will remain here.”
Kantar opened the door and went inside. A huge window looked out onto the sunbaked runway. Heat waves shimmered around the planes. A table large enough to seat 12-people occupied the center of the room. Two additional guards stood with their backs to an inside wall.
Secretary General Haddad rose from a chair. He was wearing a black turban, glasses, and a gray-streaked beard. He was fat in a way that even his voluminous robe couldn’t conceal.
Both men stepped forward. “Marhaban,” Haddad said. (Hello, greetings.)
“Ahlan wa Sahlan,” Kantar replied. (Welcome.)
Kantar was ready for the handshake. But not the kiss on both cheeks, normally reserved for close friends and family. “My apologies for the wait,” Kantar said, as they parted.
“Those who fight must come first,” Haddad replied. “Please join me lest I consume everything. I am on a diet.”
They sat across from each other, and as they ate, Haddad launched into a stream-of-consciousness rant. Kantar welcomed the narrative because it allowed him to remain silent and absorb any useful information that could be gleaned from it.
“The entire world was astonished by what a handful of Hezbollah fighters could accomplish,” Haddad told him. “Meanwhile the Russians are unhappy, very unhappy. They came close to accusing Hezbollah of murder. But without support from the Iranians, or the Iraqis, the kafir must allow the matter to rest. But I wouldn’t vacation in Moscow if I were you.”
It was a joke, and Kantar laughed, but felt slightly nauseous too. The possibility that his name had been added to a Russian hit list hadn’t occurred to him.
Kantar put his fork down. Haddad continued to talk between bites of fuul (cooked mashed fava beans) on pita bread. “Our spies claim that the Allies will attack up the Nile valley,” Haddad said. “But that’s a waste of time. You can kill the kafirs whenever you choose. But that isn’t our goal … Our goal, no your goal, is to reconstitute Egypt’s government—and bring the country into the Axis. Then we will attack Saudi Arabia from the west. Oil is critical … Without it Europe will fall to the Russians.”
“And remember,” Haddad added. “Don’t kill millions of Sunnis unless you must. Such an act would strengthen Sunni resolve, and turn the world against us.”
The overall plan was brilliant, or so it seemed to Kantar. And the extent of his enthusiasm must have been clear to see. “You’re a good boy,” Haddad said, as he wiped a gob of fuul off his lips. “I have a present for you.”
Haddad snapped his fingers. A gua
rd came forward with a case—and the secretary general stood to open it. And there, sleeping on a bed of satin, was a beautifully crafted scimitar. It had a gently curved blade and an oval shaped pommel. Such weapons were perfect for mounted warfare because of their lightweight and saber-like design. That’s why generations of Arab horsemen favored them.
“Come,” Haddad insisted. “Come and receive your gift. The blade is made of stainless steel. The hornbeam handle is wrapped with the finest leather and hand-stitched in place. ”
The secretary general turned as Kantar rounded the end of the table. “Take it Wahda (colonel or general) Kantar,” Haddad said, as he offered the weapon with both hands. “For this is the Sayif al-Dawla (sword of state). Use it to conquer Egypt.”
Kantar felt tears roll down his cheeks as he accepted the gift. “Inshallah.” (If Allah wills it.)
***
Three days had passed since the Kenyan planes had departed, taking Secretary General Haddad and his bodyguards with them. And that was a good thing because Kantar had a lot of work to do. The first task was to establish checkpoints on the roads that led south from Aswan City, and close that section of the Nile as well, in order to keep former residents and looters from flowing back in. The last thing Kantar needed was to have more than a quarter-million Egyptians living 10-miles from the dam. Should a Sunni activist manage to mobilize the locals things could get dicey.
Kantar’s second priority was to make sure that the missile systems were operating properly and training was underway. Kantar planned to install at least one member of Hezbollah on each missile crew to ensure that the Iranians couldn’t trick him. Did he expect trouble from that quarter? No. But Colonel Gortov didn’t expect to get shot in the face either.
In addition to the external threats Kantar had to face, there was a religious challenge as well. It was Thursday. And while it was permissible to pray at home, or at work if necessary, Muslims were expected to gather for the Jummah prayer time on Friday.
That’s why Kantar felt he had no choice but to arrange for a trip to Aswan City. Half of his men would go, and half would stay, knowing their turn would come the following week.
So when Friday came a wild menagerie of vehicles was waiting to transport half the battalion into town. All of them had been “borrowed” from the locals.
Because the Hezbollah fighters hadn’t been required to organize a convoy before, mistakes were made, and time was wasted. But Kantar welcomed the process knowing that his men would learn from it.
With the exception of a single heavily laden donkey, the dusty road was empty at first, and for good reason. Kantar’s men had a checkpoint at the outskirts of Aswan city. And motorized traffic was forbidden south of that point. The fighters manning the checkpoint waved the 15-vehicle convoy through.
Kantar was seated with a squad of heavily armed fighters on the back of a flatbed truck. He knew, as all leaders did, that riding in a car could be suicidal. Especially a fancy car like a Toyota SUV. The Americans were so rich they thought nothing of firing a $115,000 Hellfire missile at suspicious looking targets. Just in case. So it paid to blend in rather than stand out.
A great deal of Aswan had been destroyed by the Russian missiles and the fires that jumped building-to-building afterwards. But hints of the old city remained. Clusters of palm trees stood untouched and a scattering of one, two, and three story buildings endured.
And signs of life could be seen even in the ruins. Kantar spotted a line hung with brightly colored clothes, a tendril of gray smoke curling up from a hidden cooking fire, and a mangy dog foraging in the rubble.
The first vehicle in the convoy was a dump truck with a dozer blade mounted up front. Metal screeched, and sparks flew, as the blade hit a wreck and pushed it out of the way. Then Kantar heard a cry of pain as rocks fell on the convoy.
“Don’t fire!” Kantar ordered, as the people around him ducked. “They hate us enough. Don’t make it worse.”
Had the rock throwers known the convoy was coming? That seemed likely given the security preparations Alawi had made. If the rocks had been bullets the column would’ve been destroyed. A lesson learned.
The ambush fell away as the truck picked up speed and started uphill. Kantar had thrown rocks as a boy. One of many provocateurs sent forward to harass the Israeli soldiers in the hope that one of them would shoot a child. Not him the young Kantar assumed, but someone else, so the Jews would look bad on the news. “Look!” a fighter said, as he pointed. “A minaret!”
Kantar stood to peer over the top of the cab. The El-Tabia mosque was famous for its central dome, as well as the minarets that flanked it, except that one lay broken on the ground. Mosques were neither Shia nor Sunni. They were Muslim. And Kantar felt a pang of guilt. Could Allah forgive him? Maybe, Kantar thought. If what I accomplish is sufficient.
Alawi and a platoon of fighters were waiting when the convoy arrived. They’d been sent to secure the mosque, set up the tent where female worshipers would be searched, and to provide force protection during the service. By the time the convoy arrived the local muezzin was up in the remaining minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. Kantar never tired of hearing the melodic rise and fall of the eternal words:
Allah is most great.
I testify that there is no God but Allah.
I testify that Muhammad is the prophet of Allah.
Come to prayer.
Come to salvation.
Allah is most great.
Kantar’s boots produced puffs of dust as he jumped down off the truck. A black tent stood well clear of the mosque and the Hezbollah vehicles. Did Kantar expect suicide bombers? No. But such things weren’t unheard of in Egypt. In November of 2017 a bomb had gone off inside a Sufi Mosque on the Sinai Peninsula. The explosion, combined with the subsequent machine gun fire, killed 305 people–and wounded 128 others. And it was logical to suppose that any number of Egyptian militias would be eager to slaughter the Shia invaders if they could.
But Shia, or no Shia, at least a hundred locals had lined up by then. The women filed into the tent one at a time. The men were searched out in the open.
Once cleared the worshipers were free to approach the mosque and perform the Wudu. The ritual cleansing included prayers and physical ablutions as well.
After completing the Wudu, Kantar entered the mosque, where he paused to examine the interior surface of the dome. It was decorated with alternating stripes of green and red. Beautifully executed geometric designs covered the walls around the dome and an exquisite chandelier dangled from the center of it.
There was nothing in the Qur’an that required men and women to worship separately. But every Mosque Kantar had worshipped in was set up that way. El-Tabia was no different. The sexes were separated by no more than woven mats on wooden frames so that sound could travel freely.
A green and red carpet covered the floor. Kantar led his men forward to kneel, with weapons resting beside them. Would the Sunni congregation disapprove? Probably. But Kantar didn’t care. He and his men were vastly outnumbered, and only a fool would go unarmed.
The imam was a kindly looking man, who began by welcoming “visitors” to the mosque, and emphasizing the many beliefs that Muslims had in common. That was when Kantar heard a male voice shout, “Allahu Akbar!” (God is great.)
The center of the explosion was on the female side of the mat partitions. But the barriers did nothing to protect the neighboring men. The explosive vest was loaded with nails. The pressure wave propelled the shrapnel outwards. Sunni and Shia alike were swept away by the force of the blast. Kantar felt a sharp pain as something struck the surface of his left shoulder. The impact was enough to throw him forward as more metal passed over his head.
A brief moment of negative pressure followed. It sucked hats, scarves, and bits of paper back to the point where the blast originated.
Kantar lay there for a moment staring at the carpet as he struggled to gather his thoughts. His ears were ringing and blood was dribbli
ng from his nose. Kantar’s inner voice spoke to him as he pushed the floor away. You are alive. You are in command. Take action.
Kantar struggled to his feet. Bodies lay all about. A woman was screaming. A man’s galabeya (robe) was soaked with blood. “First aid!” Kantar shouted. “Stop the bleeding! Do we have a doctor?”
They had a doctor. Two of them. And a nurse who, amazingly enough, had been kneeling only yards away from the suicide bomber. But explosions can be fickle. And by the will of Allah she was alive. Kantar left the woman to help the wounded, but made a mental note to keep track of her, as he ordered his men to pitch in.
The hospital had been destroyed by a Russian missile, and most of Aswan’s first responders had been killed, so there was only so much the doctors could do for those who had serious wounds. “This is your fault,” one of them said, as he made use a ballpoint pen to pry a nail out of Kantar’s shoulder. “You are cursed in the eyes of Allah.” Kantar knew the doctor was wrong, but understood his anger, and thanked him anyway.
The final death toll was 58, including 37 Sunnis, and 21 Shia fighters. And as the effort to save lives began to taper off, Kantar told Alawi to detain the nurse, along with five people who’d been close enough to see the bomber.
Some basic facts were apparent by then, including the way the bomber had been dressed. “Who was chosen to search the women?” Kantar demanded. “How could she miss the fact that the bomber was a man wearing a niqab?” (A burqa-like garment designed to hide a woman’s face as well as her body.)
Alawi hung his head in shame. “I thought it would be dangerous to entrust the task to a Sunni, so I chose a Christian,” the junior officer confessed.
That made sense. But Kantar wasn’t ready to let Alawi off the hook. “Did you approach her? Or did she approach you?”
Alawi’s eyes were focused on the bloody floor. “She approached me.”
The other officer’s voice was so low that Kantar could barely hear it. Everything was clear. The advance preparations had been enough to trigger an attack by Sunnis who were willing to kill Sunnis in order to slaughter Shias. And, because they knew female worshippers would be searched, the plotters sent a Christian woman to perform the task. And Alawi fell for it.
Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Page 5
