Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  “Incoming!” a sailor yelled, as bullets clanged against the armor plated hull.

  “Got ’em,” a gunner named Ellis responded. “They’re on the port side at seven o’clock. Requesting permission to fire.”

  “Take evasive action,” Kydd said, as he looked through his glasses. Kydd had to steady himself as the helmsman turned the wheel. The red tracers looked like beads on a string as they floated his way. “The port fifty only,” Kydd said. “Fire!”

  The .50 caliber machine gun began to chug. Brass casings flew through the air, landed on the deck, and rattled as they rolled back and forth.

  “Two-boat,” Kydd said over the ship-to-ship frequency, “Fire. Three-boat, fire.”

  Now three fifties were pounding the shore target. One of them found a stash of ammo. A sudden flash of light rippled across the river, flames shot high, and a loud boom echoed between the shoulder-to-shoulder skyscrapers that lined the waterfront. “Cease fire,” Kydd said. “Secure weapons.”

  It was amazing how well the Riverines were able to respond given how quickly the unit had been thrown together. One week earlier Kydd had been in Port Ashdod getting new orders. That was followed by the handoff to Lieutenant Hanson, a helo flight to the ship on which the patrol boats were traveling, and the subsequent hurried preparations.

  Now the RCB was headed upriver on its way to rendezvous with Colonel Goolsby near Bani Adi. The command boat passed under a bridge. Someone fired down at it but missed. There was no time or need to respond.

  Kydd entered the wheelhouse to eyeball the sat map. The flotilla could travel at night if forced to do so, but Kydd hoped to avoid it. According to what he’d read the Nile was littered with shifting sandbars, old wrecks, and underwater cables. Some of which would be more visible during daylight hours.

  That meant it would be best to drop anchor. But where? An island caught Kydd’s eye. It was located 25 miles upriver, just short of a town called, Al Ikhas Al Qibliyyah. A diminutive ET (Electronics Tech) was standing next to him. Her name was Chu, better known to the rest of the crew as Chu-Chu, and “a good sailor” according to Jones. That was a considerable compliment coming from the chief. “We’ll anchor there,” Kydd said, as his finger stabbed the screen. “Pass the word.”

  There was barely enough light to see by as the flotilla neared the island half-an-hour later. The water was deep enough for the shallow draft boats to pull in close. The quartermasters kept their engines running just fast enough to counter the current as Kydd gave his orders. “The three-boat will circle the island and report back. The one and two-boats will put armed personnel ashore and secure the area. Over.”

  It took the three-boat, under the command of Ensign Miller, about ten minutes to complete the circuit. “This is Three-Six. The island is being farmed. But there are no signs of habitation. Over.”

  “So they commute to work,” Kydd observed. “All boats will put lines ashore and stop engines. We’ll set three four-hour watches with the command boat going first.

  “I want two people on each boat at all times, the duty crew will post lookouts to the north, east, and south and monitor radio traffic. Sweet dreams. Over.”

  There was a lot more to do, such as distributing meals, performing routine maintenance on the boats, and digging privies. But the individual boat commanders, and their noncoms, could not only handle such matters—they’d be resentful if Kydd tried to micromanage their activities.

  Once the boats were properly moored, Kydd went ashore. The temperature was likely to drop to about 60 degrees during the night, so the crews were busy deploying their army issue patrol bags, and a dozen headlamps could be seen moving around. Once settled they would heat their MREs using the flameless ration-heaters.

  When Kydd came across a sailor digging a latrine by himself, Kydd offered to lend a hand. That wasn’t required of course, but it was good for morale, and gave him a chance to shoot the shit with one of his sailors. The dirt was soft and black. But, according to what Kydd had read, the soil wasn’t as nutrient-rich as it had been in the early 1950s. The Nile flooded every year back then, and the process swept fertile soil downriver.

  But, once the high dam was built the natural cycle came to and end. Now it was necessary for farmers to buy expensive fertilizers in order to maintain yields.

  Still, the more the river narrowed, the more land was exposed. And the entire population had access to electricity. Even if it was increasingly expensive.

  “Bug juice,” a voice said loudly. “You need it, and I have it.”

  As Kydd turned the blob of light from his headlamp came to rest on the face of the always affable “Doc” Niles. Each boat had its own medic, and Niles was the senior hospital corpsman. “Bugs?” Kydd demanded. “What kind?”

  “Mosquitoes, sir. But this stuff should keep ’em at bay.”

  Kydd accepted a pump bottle, as did his ditch digging companion, a fuzz-faced storekeeper named Bartley. They finished the job five minutes later. As Kydd left Bartley was preparing to “test” the latrine.

  The night passed peacefully for the most part. The single exception was the moment when an empty felucca (small fishing boat) struck the two-boat’s starboard side, causing a resonant boom, and scaring the crap out of the watch keepers. Then the Nile carried the felucca toward Cairo, and a rendezvous with its new owner.

  Kydd called a command meeting for 0830. His officers and their senior noncoms were present, all clutching coffee mugs. Kydd sat on a log. “So, Jim,” he began. “Did you change your shorts?”

  Lieutenant JG Jim Altman was the twenty-something heir to a tech fortune, and known for his easy going personality. As the flotilla’s XO he would take command if Kydd fell. “Yes, sir. So much for my constipation.” The rest of them chuckled.

  “The drifter was a wakeup call in more ways than one,” Kydd told them. “What if the felucca was carrying an IED? A whole lot of people would be dead, and the two-boat would be history. So pass the word … We won’t anchor in the current unless we’re absolutely forced to do so. And if we do we’ll rig booms to deflect anything that drifts downstream which, come to think of it, could include naval mines. Although it’s hard to imagine where the bad guys would get their hands on them. Agreed?”

  Kydd heard a chorus of, “Yes, sirs.”

  “Good. Let’s go over the plan for today. Our destination is Bani Adi which, judging from satellite photos, is a good sized town. That’s where we’ll join Colonel Goolsby and his marines.

  “Bani Adi is about 170 miles from here. So, assuming that we can make a steady 30 miles-per-hour, we’ll arrive in six hours. Here are some factors to keep in mind: First, due to the fact that the river twists and turns, our forward visibility will be limited.

  “And remember … This is a heavily populated area. So we can expect to see a lot of boat traffic. That means hostile forces could blend in. Tell your lookouts to stay sharp, and report anything that looks suspicious.

  “Second, there are sections of the river where thick foliage grows to the water’s edge. Enemy forces could use it for cover.

  “To the extent possible stay in the middle of the river and out of RPG range. And be ready for anything if the river narrows. All right … Do you have any questions? No? Okay … Recall all personnel. Take a headcount, single your lines, and prepare to pull out.”

  Crews were at battle stations, guns ready, as the patrol boats pushed their way upstream. But as the west bank slid past there was nothing other than peaceful countryside for Kydd to look at. A heron took to the air with a great flapping of wings. Two women, water jugs balanced on their heads, stared. Armed vessels were a rarity. Especially those with American flags snapping in the morning breeze.

  Further back from the Nile green fields could be seen. All dependent on water from the Nile. Columns of smoke were visible too, along with spindly minarets, and cell phone towers.

  The scene changed as the boat passed under a steel bridge. Had hostile forces wanted to attack the flotilla th
e bridge would have been the perfect platform to do it from. But as Kydd looked up he saw three children. They waved, and he waved back.

  The patrol boats passed the town of Nazlat Ilyan soon thereafter. It was on the left bank. Buildings crowded the river as if daring it to rise.

  Kydd thought about that as he sipped his coffee. If the Allied mission failed, and Hezbollah destroyed the dam, all the residents of Nazlat Ilyan would die. Along with his sailors and millions more. It was a sobering thought.

  River traffic had picked up by then. Most of it consisted of 12-foot metal feluccas. Some were rowed with clumsy two-by-fours functioning as oars.

  Others bore triangular sails, and tacked to and fro, constantly getting in the way. Tanaka was at the wheel, and he swore a steady stream of oaths, as the river traffic forced him to steer the RCB through a veritable maze of unpredictable small craft.

  When Kydd looked astern he saw that the RCB’s wake was a very unprofessional twisting-turning thing. Boats two and three could plow through the waves. But the feluccas weren’t so lucky. They pitched and rolled. Kydd knew very little about local customs, but assumed the palm-out gestures were the Egyptian equivalents of “fuck yous.”

  The next town was Al Misandah on the right. And, like Nazlat Ilyan, structures extended down to the water’s edge. But in this case Kydd saw that a rectangular harbor had been excavated from the river bank. And there, moored side-by-side, were half-a-dozen colorfully painted tour boats. All sidelined by the war—and left to bake in the sun.

  The flotilla passed a burned-out oil storage facility minutes later, a sure sign that Egypt’s civil war had been visited upon Al Misandah, and a reminder of how deceptive the pastoral countryside could be. That was when the shit hit the fan.

  The attack helicopters were on the ground, hidden behind the fire-blackened oil tanks. The pilots knew the kafir boats were coming upstream because everyone south of Cairo knew. No more than 30-seconds passed between the time the Russian-made “Black Shark” attack helicopters took off, and the moment when they appeared.

  Ellis had already opened up with the minigun when Kydd gave the order to fire. But Egyptian rockets were on the way by then. Twin explosions bracketed the RCB and sent columns of water high into the air.

  That was when the second Shark scored a hit on the two-boat’s bow. Armor plating prevented the weapon from penetrating the hull. But the splash effect destroyed the boat’s minigun, killed a kid named Bowers, and smashed the windscreen. Lieutenant Altman stepped up to take the wheel as the helmsman went down.

  The fifties in the command boat’s stern swung around to follow the enemy aircraft as they attacked the three-boat. Armor piecing shells stitched lines through the water, cut a felucca in half, and scored hits on the PBR as the helos passed over.

  It was impossible to say whether the three-boat’s mini found the first attack ship, or the two-boat’s fifties deserved the credit, but the result was spectacular. The orange-red fireball was so bright Kydd had to avert his eyes. Chunks of flaming wreckage tumbled out of the sky and produced clouds of steam as they hit the water.

  But the battle wasn’t over. The second helo was circling the boats preparing to make another gun run. A fully prepped FIM-92 Stinger was racked against the starboard bulkhead. Kydd took the weapon, brought it up onto his right shoulder, and took aim.

  A steady tone signaled that the seeker head had achieved lock-on. Kydd pulled the trigger. He felt the weapon jerk as the launch rocket fired, quickly followed by the solid rocket that propelled the Stinger toward its target. The missile was traveling at 1,500 miles-per-hour when it sensed the heat produced by a whirling rotor and homed on it.

  The explosion destroyed two rotors. That caused the Ka-50 to whirl like a top. Kydd watched what remained of the helo lose altitude and disappear behind a clutch of palm trees. A dust cloud marked the spot where it crashed. Kydd expected an explosion. There was none. He turned to the right. “Chief! If that pilot is alive I want him. Take the doc and two gunners. Oh, and grab some photos. The Intel people will want to know who attacked us.”

  “Aye, aye sir,” Jones replied. “Doc! Ellis! Collins! Gun up and launch the RIB boat. We’re going ashore.”

  Kydd turned his attention back to the flotilla. “One-Six to two and three … Remain at battle stations. Hold your positions relative to shore. What’s your status, two? Over.”

  “This is Two-Six actual,” Altman replied. “We can fight if we need to. Bowers was KIA. Sanchez has a chest wound. The doc says he’s stable. Over.”

  Kydd took a moment to consider his options. Should he send two upriver by itself? Send two and three? Or call for a med evac? The latter being the fastest. He turned to Chu. “Get battalion on the horn. Tell them we need to air evac a casualty.”

  Chu nodded. “On it skipper.”

  The reply came quickly. “They can’t respond at this time, sir. Their helos aren’t available.”

  Kydd swore. “Okay … Raise the chief.”

  There was a burp of static, followed by the sound of Jones’ voice. “This is One-Seven. We’re on the scene. The pilot is alive. He’s got some minor cuts and a broken leg. Doc Niles is splinting it. Over.”

  “What about security?”

  “We’re drawing a crowd, sir. No firearms that I can see, but a lot of shovels.”

  Kydd felt a rising sense of concern. “Fire over their heads, and pull out now! Over.”

  “Roger that,” came the reply. “Over.”

  Kydd heard the distant rattle of automatic fire moments later. Fifteen long, tension-filled minutes passed before a lookout spotted them. “Shore party at three o’clock!”

  Kydd turned to the helmsman. “Take her in as close you can.”

  Water churned at the stern as the helmsman went slow ahead. When the bottom came up he shifted to reverse. After that it was a matter of turning the bow into the current, and holding the boat in place as the prisoner was hoisted aboard. The shore party followed.

  Once the RIB boat was recovered Kydd ordered the flotilla out to the center of the river and called for more speed. The sooner they could get Sanchez to the battalion surgeon the better. But due to all of the river traffic, 35mph was the best they could do.

  Once underway Kydd took the opportunity to make his way aft. The pilot was seated on an ammo locker with a leg stretched out in front of him. He had a black eye and an assortment of lacerations. Doc Niles was taping a dressing into place as Kydd arrived. “How’s he doing?”

  “I survive,” the pilot answered. “You kill please.”

  Kydd looked at Niles. The corpsman shrugged. “He failed,” Niles explained. “So he wants to die.”

  Kydd sat on a folding chair. “You attacked us. Why?”

  “You destroy dam … Flood valley. Kill me.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “General Ahmar,” the pilot replied. “Republican Guard protect president. We fail. Now our modo: Win or die.”

  “I think you meant, ‘motto,’” Kydd said. If he understood the pilot correctly, the Republican Guard was supposed to protect Egypt’s president, and having failed to do so, they were determined to die. Or was this Ahmar person using them?

  “What’s your name?” Kydd demanded.

  “Hasan Farook.”

  “Listen, Hasan … What the general told you isn’t true. We’re here to fight the people who took control of the dam. Maybe there’s been a misunderstanding. Or maybe General Ahmar has been lying to you. Understand?”

  “No,” Farook said emphatically. “He not lie. Kill me.”

  Kydd stood and turned to Jones. “Chain Hasan to the boat, and put him on suicide watch. We’ll let battalion S2 sort this guy out. Oh, and tell the crew to watch what they say around him.”

  “No worries, skipper,” Jones said. “We’ll take good care of Mr. Farook.” Jones pronounced the name as “far-rook.”

  Kydd was hyper alert as the flotilla made the long run past Al Jazirah Ash Shaqra on the left, Al
Widi on the right, and Al Khurman before closing in on an island east of Bani Adi where Colonel Goolsby’s battalion was based.

  Alhadiqi (Garden) was actually two islands divided by a passageway so shallow even feluccas couldn’t navigate it. So, in the functional sense, Alhadiqi was a single land mass. It was shaped like an inverted V, with the point aimed upriver, and a harbor within.

  But, before the flotilla could enter the harbor, a 38-foot SURC (Small Unit Riverine Craft) had to tow a log boom out of the way. Though not very big in diameter the logs would be more than enough to prevent a hostile boat from invading the harbor. Lengths of chain linked them together.

  Kydd approved. The chains could be cut. But enemy forces would have to do so while taking fire from the bunkers located on both sides of the passageway.

  As for the island itself, other than clusters of palms and some scattered banana trees, neatly aligned tents, rows of steel cargo containers, and a tidy antenna farm had replaced the Egyptian “Garden.” And since all those goodies were well within range from both banks of the Nile, two barge-mounted C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar) systems sat ready to defend the base from incoming fire.

  A couple of self-propelled Avenger Air Defense systems were stationed on barges too. And should General Ahmar send helicopters in to attack the forward operating base he’d be sorry. One thing bothered Kydd however … Why did FOB Pharaoh look so fucking permanent? Wasn’t it supposed to be a jumping off place?

  Kydd put the thought aside, as the boom opened to let the flotilla through. The PO in charge of the SURC threw a salute and Kydd returned it.

  Now that the RCB was in the harbor, Kydd took a moment to assess the boats anchored there, starting with the most eye-catching of all—a three-decked side-wheeler that looked like something left over from the colonial era. Judging from the beautifully varnished wheelhouse up forward, and the rows of red doors that lined each deck, it had been a cruise ship before the war.