Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  I could have fallen for it, Kantar thought. He couldn’t let his sympathy show though. Maybe their superiors would write the loss of 21 men off to the hazards of war. If so, Alawi would go unpunished. But, if someone has to suffer it will be Alawi, Kantar decided.

  “You made a mistake,” Kantar said coldly. “A serious mistake. I assume that the Christian woman fled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to find her. Who would you recommend to lead the effort?”

  “Sergeant Boustani, sir.”

  “Bring him here.”

  Alawi returned a few moments later with a noncom in tow. Kantar recognized him as being one of the men who had arrived with Secretary General Haddad. Boustani was an ex-ISIS fighter, if Kantar remembered correctly, and a devout one judging from the darkened callus located at the center of his forehead.

  The zabib, or “raisin,” was the result of frequent prostration in prayer. The callus was a sign of piety and devotion. The more a man prayed, the larger the callus, or “raisin.” And Boustani’s was the size of a pebble.

  But there was something more about the man as well … A fervor that was visible in his eyes—and seemed to surround him like a cloak. If anyone could find the fugitive Boustani would. He came to attention. “Sir.”

  “A Christian woman let the bomber through. Find her, but under no circumstances will you harm her, do you understand?”

  Boustani’s eyes were alight. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Take your men and go.” Boustani did an excellent imitation of a British soldier doing an about face, and departed.

  Kantar turned to Alawi. “Interrogate the nurse and the others seated close enough to observe the bomber. Be sure to take notes.”

  Alawi nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  Kantar gave orders. Alawi and his platoon would remain behind to conduct the investigation. The unit’s dead were loaded onto trucks, and would be buried near the dam. The wounded were placed in cars. The rest sat or stood wherever they could, clinging to vehicles, weapons ready. And for good reason. Kantar put the odds of being ambushed during the return journey at 80-percent.

  But despite Kantar’s fears the attack never came. And for that he was grateful. After seeing to the wounded, and giving instructions regarding the dead, Kantar retired to the gallery adjacent to his bedroom—which was to say the room directly above the sleeping bomb.

  It hurt when a medic cleaned his wound, but Kantar made no complaint, knowing the entire unit would hear about it if he did. Then it was time to take a sponge bath next to a utility sink, put on a clean set of clothes, and eat a surprisingly good kebab sandwich prepared by the group’s newly hired Nubian cook.

  Kantar was still seated at a table when Alawi and Boustani escorted a female prisoner into the gallery. “Sergeant Boustani found her, sir,” Alawi said. “This is Marta Abdelmesseh (servant of Christ.) She was hiding in a Coptic church.”

  Abdelmesseh appeared to be middle-aged, had a white scarf over her head, and was dressed in baggy clothes. Her eyes darted all around. “Please show mercy, sir … I have children.”

  “And dogs produce puppies,” Kantar replied coldly. “You killed 21 of my men. Who paid you to let the bomber through?”

  The woman looked at Alawi. “I told him.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “His name is Rafa Jabr.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a Sunni. From Baranis Troglodytica.”

  The name meant nothing to Kantar. He looked to Alawi. “It’s a city, sir,” Alawi put in. “Directly east of here on the Red Sea.”

  Kantar frowned. “Why would someone from Baranis Troglodytica attack us? Because we’re Shia?”

  “A man named Maaz Nadwi was in charge of the dam when we arrived,” Alawi replied. “He died in the fighting. And a man named Kamran Nadwi rules Baranis Troglodytica now.”

  Kantar stared at him. “Brothers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  So that’s it, Kantar thought. It’s more than a religious thing. It’s a family grudge. “You did well,” Kantar told them.

  “What shall we do with this?” Boustani inquired, as he pointed to the woman.

  Kantar gave the matter some thought. Had Aswan’s Sunnis been aware of the impending attack? Sunnis so loyal to Nadwi that they’d been willing to let him slaughter their own? That seemed unlikely. So he had no reason to punish the Sunnis.

  But Christians? Everyone hated them … And Marta Abdelmesseh had admitted her guilt. “Go to Aswan,” Kantar said. “Find a Christian carpenter, and order him to construct 13 crosses. One for him, one for the bitch in front of us, and 11 more. You can choose the other apostles at random. Then, once everything is ready, crucify them. Our Sunni brothers and sisters will thank you for it.”

  Boustani nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir … And where should the crucifixions take place?”

  “In front of the Coptic church,” Kantar answered. “Where else?”

  The woman was sobbing as they led her away. Kantar barely noticed. His thoughts were on the city of Baranis Troglodytica, and a man named Kamran Nadwi.

  ***

  Two days had passed since the crucifixions in Aswan. Kantar told Alawi that he was too busy to attend. That was a lie. Two years earlier he and a company of his peers had been forced to watch a noncom execute a western journalist. The executioner performed the task with a knife, sawing back and forth until the German’s head came free, and Kantar threw up. And a Wahda couldn’t afford to show that kind of weakness.

  But according to what Alawi told him, the executions had drawn a large and mostly enthusiastic crowd. The exceptions being the people nailed to the crosses.

  As for Kantar’s dead, they had been laid to rest in graves adjacent to those of men killed during the initial assault, each with a carefully inscribed metal marker.

  Now Kantar was free to kill Kamran Nadwi, and secure his eastern flank. The intelligence reports suggested that the Allies would attack from the north. But who knew? What if that was a feint? So, it made sense to establish an outpost, and rely on it to provide him with an early warning should the kafirs land in force.

  Kantar felt a jolt of fear as he felt the Russian-made Mi-17 helicopter lift off the ground. The aircraft had been Muslim Brotherhood’s property prior to the moment when the liberators took control of the dam. But this was Kantar’s first ride in a helo. And, when it wobbled, he felt the desire to grab something. But that wouldn’t do. Not with Sergeant Boustani sitting across from him, eyes watching.

  At some point along the way Kantar’s feelings regarding the Ex-ISIS fighter had shifted from admiration to wariness. What was the brute thinking about anyway? Could he detect the fear in Kantar’s belly? No, Kantar decided. He’s thinking about women. Or lunch.

  But the feeling persisted as the chopper began to follow the two-lane road east. Kantar had done his homework. Baranis Troglodytica had been founded in 275 BC by Ptolemy II Philadelphus (285–246 BC), who named it after his mother—Berenice I of Egypt.

  Troglodytica referred to the aboriginal people of the region, known as the “Troglodytai” or “cave dwellers.” The settlement subsequently became a trans-shipping point for trade between India, Arabia, and upper Egypt.

  The town had an indifferent harbor, but improvements had been made over time, and the bay was sheltered from the northeast wind by the island Ophiodes—which was known for its topazes. But that was then. Now, according to what Kantar had been able to learn, the port was nearly filled in—and a sandbar kept large ships from entering. A fact that might explain why the Allies were going to attack up the Nile river valley.

  The “city” consisted of 20–30 wood houses, and a store that catered to fishermen, smugglers, and slavers. And that’s where Nadwi came in. He owned the store which, thanks to the complete absence of competition, did very well. So well, that Nadwi could give money to a Sunni group which did his bidding.

  Kantar couldn’t see the road that led east. Only s
ome of the limitless desert was visible through the open hatch. But he knew that their destination was an hour away.

  Kantar closed his eyes. Engines droned. Hot air buffeted his face. He fell into a reverie. Death. Was it waiting for him at Baranis Troglodytica? Not if Allah wanted him to control Egypt. Kantar felt for the remote. It was there, safe in a pocket under his chest protector.

  But was that wise? What if he was killed, or captured? Someone else would have the remote … And what then?

  Kantar opened his eyes to find that Boustani was staring at him. Why? Then it came to him. Boustani was thinking about the remote too! Would the noncom kill in order to control the bomb? No, yes, Kantar wasn’t sure. But the possibility still lingered in the back of his mind when the pilot spoke into his ear. “We’re there, sir.”

  Kantar wanted to see. He released his seatbelt, made his way over to the hatch, and felt the slipstream tug at his clothes. As the helo banked Kantar saw acres of tan-colored sand and a scattering of buildings. Some were larger than he’d been told to expect.

  And there, moored to a substantial pier, was a small ship. So that aspect of the intelligence he’d been given was wrong as well. Larger vessels could access the harbor.

  But right in the middle of things, was a big one-story building. The roof was home to solar panels and a small antenna farm. Nadwi’s store? Yes, Kantar thought so, and it soon became apparent that the helicopter hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Tiny figures spilled out onto the flat roof. Some were armed with RPGs. Kantar was wearing a headset and trailing a wire behind him. “Kill the men on the roof.”

  “We’ll use rockets first,” the Iranian pilot replied. “Followed by gun runs. Hang onto something.”

  The Russians sold Mi-17s in a variety of flavors, and that particular model was half-transport, and half-gunship. The pilot entered a tight left-hand turn and fired. Rockets flashed off the ship’s pylons and explosions rippled across the roof. Satellite dishes fell, solar panels shattered, and bodies were tossed into the air.

  “Good work,” Kantar said. “Finish them off, and land on the roof.”

  The pylon-mounted, four-barreled rotary machine guns roared as the helo made a second pass. Gunmen fell as twin streams of 7.62mm rounds chewed them up. Kantar turned to his men. There were five of them. Six including Boustani.

  But they were, according to the noncom, the most lethal fighters in Kantar’s command. And they certainly looked the part. Each and every man was gunned to the max. “We’re going to land on the roof,” Kantar told them. “We’ll fight our way down through the building, and out onto the street, where the chopper will pick us up. Kill everyone you see. Do you have any questions?” None of them did.

  Kantar returned to his seat. As the helicopter started to lose altitude small arms fire pinged the fuselage. It seemed some of the defenders were still alive. Boustani grinned happily. Keep him in front of you, Kantar thought, as the pilot spoke. “Everyone out, and make it quick … We’re taking fire.”

  Rather than put his aircraft down on the now uncertain roof, the pilot hovered above it so the team had to jump. Boustani went first, followed by Kantar, Tharwat, Salah, Rasi and Fahri.

  Kantar let his knees absorb the shock. Because of the need to handle radios and maps Kantar preferred to enter close quarters combat armed with a pistol. Or, in this case, two pistols—both acquired from dead Russians. They could hold 18 rounds each—and Kantar had 4 spare magazines.

  A man with an AK-47 emerged from the drifting smoke. Kantar fired twice. One bullet missed. The other destroyed a knee and dumped the defender onto the roof. Boustani shot him in the face.

  Every team member had a radio and headset. “Stay together!” Kantar told them. “Head for the stairs at the northeast corner of the roof.”

  Two men appeared from that direction firing as they came. Massed fire from everyone other than Kantar cut them down. He arrived at the stairway first. That left him with no choice but to precede Boustani and risk being shot in the back. Kantar braced himself for an impact that never came.

  The door at the bottom of the stairway was unlocked, and Kantar held it open, as the team poured through. The warehouse had high ceilings and was spotlessly clean. Yellow storage racks were filled with shrink-wrapped barcoded boxes. The air was relatively cool.

  Kantar was taking all of that in when a shot rang out and Tharwat collapsed. Boustani yelled, “Sniper!” and fired his rotary grenade launcher. A flash of light marked the top of a stack. The sound of the explosion was still echoing between the walls as the body fell to the floor.

  Kantar knelt to check Tharwat’s pulse. But when he saw the finger-sized hole in the fighter’s forehead he knew there wouldn’t be one.

  Kantar stood. That was when he noticed the neatly painted yellow line and turned to see where it led. “Follow me!” Kantar said, as he took off at a run.

  But he hadn’t gone far when a motorized forklift rounded the stacks ahead. The operator was invisible behind the steel bin that he held high. Two men were riding inside of it. They fired AK-47s without showing themselves. Bullets flew every which way. The Hezbollah fighters were forced to take cover. “RPG!” Kantar said. “Hit the bastards.”

  Corporal Rasi was carrying an RPG-7. He took a knee. The rocket propelled grenade flew straight and true. Kantar saw the flash and heard a resounding BOOM! The forklift slewed sideways and came to a stop.

  Kantar stood and began to run. Salah tossed a grenade into the bin as they passed. Kantar heard a bang but didn’t turn to look back. The office was up ahead. Was Nadwi holed up inside? They were about to find out. “Open the door!” Kantar ordered. There was a loud boom as Salah fired his shotgun and half-a-dozen holes appeared around the lock. Kantar rushed forward to finish the job with a kick.

  The door slammed open to reveal a startling tableau. Kantar saw a desk, the body sprawled next to it, and two men beyond. Their backs were to an old fashioned safe. They raised their hands.

  Kantar fired, saw his target slump sideways, and knew he couldn’t nail the second man in time. But Salah could. The blast from his shotgun struck both targets and splattered blood all over the safe. Kantar put his pistol away and drew the other one. Gun smoke drifted on the air as he spoke. “Boustani, Rasi, Fahri … Stand guard.”

  Kantar knelt next to the body by the desk. He felt for a wallet and found it. An Egyptian driver’s license was inside. Sure enough, the man lying in front of him was Kamran Nadwi.

  Kantar tucked the ID away as he looked up at Salah. “Take his picture, grab the laptop that’s sitting on the desk, and go through the drawers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Salah went to work as Kantar approached the safe. It was necessary to drag a dead body out of the way. The safe’s door was open. Kantar could imagine the scene. Nadwi had been there, intent on salvaging what wealth he could, when two of his own gunmen entered the office. They saw the opportunity, and killed him. They were loading gold into Nadwi’s briefcase when Salah blew the door open.

  Kantar chose a coin at random, felt how heavy it was, and took a closer look. It was a Saudi Arabian one guinea piece. The gold, combined with the money Colonel Gortov had brought with him, would keep the battalion going for quite a while.

  Kantar hurried to sweep the rest of the coinage into the case and zip it closed. Then, after a quick 360, he left the office. A yellow line led the team to an open door and the blistering heat beyond. There weren’t any gunshots. And no wonder. The chopper was aloft, and circling overhead. Kantar turned to Boustani. “Pop smoke.”

  Then he spoke to the pilot. “Kantar here … Land by the smoke.”

  “Will do,” the pilot replied. “How did it go?”

  Kantar’s thoughts turned to Tharwat. “As well as it could. Alhamdulillah.” (All praise is due to God alone.)

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cairo, Egypt

  The navy patrol boats had been underway for more than six hours, and the sun was starting to set, by the time
they reached Cairo. The red-orange disk was barely visible through the perpetual haze that hung over what travel brochures called “the city of a thousand minarets.”

  Their journey had begun near the city of Izbat Al Burj, which was situated at the mouth of the Damietta River, a major tributary of the Nile. From there the Riverines had to follow the river’s twisting-turning flow past hundreds of villages, towns and cities before arriving in Egypt’s capital.

  Lieutenant Commander Harley Kydd was aboard a rakish looking 53-foot Riverine Command Boat or RCB. Its appearance was similar to the patrol boats (PBRs) that followed. But the RCB was equipped with a broad array of command and control gear the other boats lacked.

  Kydd was standing just aft of the wheelhouse, sipping a Coke, when Master Chief Lester Jones approached him. “Jones” was a big man with a shaved head, ebony skin, and a square jaw. “The crew wants to play their theme song, skipper … What do you think?”

  Kydd frowned. “Theme song? What would that be? Anchors Aweigh?”

  Jones grinned. “No, sir. Fortunate Son, by Credence Clearwater.”

  Credence was a very retro group … But Kydd was aware of it, and knew that Fortunate Son was a Vietnam War era protest song that was critical of the draft. The draft was back now, and so was the song.

  A lot of COs would have dismissed the request out-of-hand. And Kydd understood why. Protest songs were assumed to be bad for morale.

  But, as the senior noncom in Kydd’s command, Jones was the critical link between the enlisted personnel and the officers. And the fact that the chief had asked permission implied that he was comfortable with the request. “Sure,” Kydd responded. “Let the bastards know we’re here.”

  The boat’s external speakers were good, too good to be navy issue, but Kydd wasn’t about to go there. The music was so loud he could understand the lyrics in spite of the noise generated by the RCB’s twin diesels. The combination of the music, along with the sensation of speed and the cityscape, reminded Kydd of the famous helicopter scene from Apocalypse Now.