Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Bo replied patiently. He knew Leong was on his way somewhere, and would arrive in his own good time.

  “For the most part the war is going well,” Leong added. “Especially in situations where our forces can engage the enemy alone.”

  Bo was quick to pick up on the cue. “And when they don’t?”

  “Then problems arise,” Leong said.

  The tea arrived. Once it was served the civilian employee left. Leong slurped some of the liquid and smacked his lips. “Lu’an Melon Seed, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You are correct,” Bo assured him. “It’s from my private supply.”

  “You chose well,” Leong said. “As I was saying, much as we appreciate our allies, they are prone to errors. Take the Russian plan to invade Alaska for example … That was motivated more by national pride than strategic necessity. Now, to the north of you, there’s another example of how rash they can be. And Iran as well.”

  Bo knew little more than what was available in the Intel briefings that came his way. A team of Russian and Hezbollah fighters had parachuted into Egypt, captured the Aswan Dam, and planted a nuke deep inside of it.

  Then, in a surprising turn of events, the Hezbollah fighters killed the Russians. Now they were the ones who controlled the bomb. And if the Egyptians failed to form a Shia friendly government, and join the Axis, the fanatics were going to destroy the dam. “Capturing the dam was ‘rash’ sir? In what way?”

  “Our government fears that the Egyptians won’t be able to establish a central government,” Leong replied. “And, without the Russians to keep the Shias under control, the Central Committee fears that they will blow the dam.

  “Should that occur,” Leong continued, “Something on the order of 10-million Sunnis will die. That would not only constitute an atrocity, it would stir unrest among the Muslims who reside in our country, all 21-million of them. Most of whom are Sunnis.

  “That’s to say nothing of the damage done to the relationships we built throughout the continent of Africa. We warned our allies about the potential consequences of their plan—but they went ahead.”

  Bo felt a sense of shame. None of those possibilities had occurred to him. Fortunately the men and women of the Communist Party’s Central Committee were more insightful than he was. But, according to Confucius, “Humility is the solid foundation of all virtues.” And Bo felt very humble indeed. “So what are we to do?” he inquired.

  Leong slurped some tea. “We, which means you, are going to take two companies of infantry north—and neutralize that bomb. I brought two scientists in for that very purpose. A primary and a spare.” It was Leong’s idea of a joke. He smiled. “Please return them if you can.”

  ***

  The next few days were very busy. The most pressing matter was the need to acquire transportation for the 865-mile journey from Khartoum to the Aswan Dam. Bo’s first inclination was to hire boats and float down the Nile to Lake Nasser. But because of the cataracts north of Khartoum, Bo’s newly hired guide argued against it.

  The local’s name was John Jal. He had intelligent eyes, brown skin, and prominent teeth. Though born in Sudan, Jal had lived in the U.S. And Jal could speak Dinka, Nuer, Bari, and Zande as well as English. And since Bo spoke English that was the language they used to communicate. “We will use the highway,” Jal announced. “But you must be ready for bandits.”

  “We will be,” Bo assured him. And that was true since his soldiers were trained and ready to fight. But, like many Chinese officers, Bo had never seen combat. So was he ready? I must be, Bo thought. I will be.

  Bo went to work securing the vehicles and supplies required for the trip. He couldn’t take more than two companies of men without weakening the larger force to the point where it would be vulnerable to attack if a Sudanese military officer launched a coup.

  So the expeditionary force would be limited to 160 soldiers give or take. However, based on intelligence estimates, that should be enough to overwhelm the Hezbollah fighters and neutralize the bomb.

  After that the Shia fighters could pretend to have a bomb or leave Egypt if they chose to. The Central Committee didn’t care.

  Would other Axis countries be furious? Yes. But the committee wasn’t worried about that either. “They can’t win without us,” Leong had said. “And they know it.”

  According to Bo’s calculations he would need 12 trucks to carry personnel, plus supplies, along with two gun platforms and a couple of motorcycles for scouting. Thanks to the additional authority granted to Bo by General Leong he was able to commandeer 8, but only 8, trucks from China’s National Petroleum Corporation’s (CNPC) extensive operations in south Sudan.

  All of the vehicles had been manufactured by a state-owned company called JAC motors. And they were, according to CNPC’s regional operations manager, “… in excellent condition.”

  Bo didn’t believe that … But he hoped the trucks would be serviceable.

  That left Bo 4 trucks short of the number he needed. He was about to go shopping when Jal intervened. “I know people, who know people,” Jal said mysteriously. “I will find what you need.”

  That freed Bo to buy two used Toyota pickup trucks and put mechanics to work converting them to Middle East style gun trucks. The greatest challenge involved through-bolting the KPV-14.X114mm weapons to the trucks’ frames so that the recoil wouldn’t break them loose. Then came the need for rotating pintle style mounts, seats for the gunners, and bullet proofed ammo bins.

  Once that work was underway Bo and Jal went shopping for motorcycles. After looking at nearly two-dozen dirt bikes, they settled on two Suzuki RM2450s, both of which were about four-years old. Bo rode each machine before putting his country’s money down.

  When he arrived at work the following morning Jal was waiting in his office. “Good news, boss. I have them. They’re parked outside.”

  “You have what?”

  “Two buses,” Jal replied. “They can carry 60 passengers each, more like 40 given how much gear your soldiers have, and they’re air conditioned! All you need to do is pay for them.”

  Bo made some calculations, and decided that Jal was correct, two buses would fill the gap. But what kind of condition were they in?

  A mechanic was summoned and the three of them went out to the driveway that fronted the hotel. The Mercedes-Benz buses hadn’t been washed in quite a while. Their owner was a voluble man in a white turban and a blue jellabiya. He aimed a torrent of Sudanese at Bo, waved his arms wildly, and continued to babble as Jal led him away.

  Bo ordered the mechanic to check both maintenance logs, and spot check some of the work recorded in them, prior to driving each. Then he left for breakfast.

  He was at his desk when the mechanic entered his office three hours later. The man popped to attention. “Corporal Lau Chang, sir.”

  Bo looked up from the pre-operation report he’d been working on. “Yes, corporal … What did you conclude?”

  “Both vehicles are fully operable, sir, and appear likely to function without breaking down.”

  “How likely?”

  Chang’s eyes were fixed on a point over the officer’s head. “About 90 percent, sir.”

  “Good,” Bo said. “Dismissed.”

  Chang performed a smart about-face and marched out of the room.

  The trucks had arrived from the south by then, been inspected, and pronounced serviceable. Bo sent for Jal. Time was of the essence. They would leave in the morning.

  After working far into the night, and grabbing what sleep they could, Bo’s soldiers rose to confront something rare: A rainstorm.

  The balcony outside Bo’s two-room suite faced the inner courtyard. Clothed in nothing more than a pair of white boxers, he went out to stand in the downpour.

  The raindrops hit hard. But they were blood warm, and Bo delighted in the rare feel of the rain, as water trickled down the length of his body. He closed his eyes. Should he take his soldiers north? In spite of
the flash floods that they might encounter? Or should he give the thirsty desert time to swallow?

  The rain will slow us down, Bo decided. But every mile matters. And the men expect to go. They want to go. And, come to think of it, so do I.

  Bo went back inside, took a second shower, and got dressed. His pack and personal weapons were waiting. The expeditionary force was ready an hour later.

  After shaking hands with Major Zhou, and assuring him that all would be well, Bo climbed into the first truck’s front passenger seat. Jal was in the back, legs up, reading a magazine.

  Bo felt sorry for the gunner, and assistant gunner, both of whom were exposed to the rain. But nothing could be done about it. An attack could come at any time.

  The gun truck was followed by 2 tarp-covered troop trucks, 2 supply trucks and a bus. His executive officer was riding in gun truck two—followed by the same combination of vehicles. Should the convoy be cut in two, both halves would have leadership, troops and supplies.

  The highway took them through light traffic, over the Blue Nile, and north through Alkadroo, El-Kabashi, Al-Sagi, and Wad Ramli before delivering the column into the Sudanese version of a traffic jam. The back-up consisted of a heavily loaded flatbed truck, a donkey cart, an ancient tractor and about twenty rain-drenched pedestrians.

  The rain continued to fall as Bo got out and made his way forward. A wooden bridge had been washed out. And because of the rushing water no one could cross. Bo turned to find Jal at his side. “Ask them how long it will be before someone comes to repair it.”

  Jal spoke to an old man in a rain slicker. Then he turned back. “He says it will be a day or two, boss.”

  “So why are they waiting?”

  “We have a saying,” Jal replied. “Patience is beautiful.”

  Bo understood the sentiment, but was in no mood to practice patience. He brought the handheld radio up to his lips. “Xu … Send supply truck 4 forward—along with two squads of men. They’ll need shovels, axes, rope and a chainsaw. We’re going to build a bridge.”

  Bo’s XO was a young officer named Captain Xu. And, if the mission went well, it would be the making of him.

  The first step was to clear away some of the debris, being careful to preserve key cross beams, so that the perforated steel planks (PSPs) would have something to rest on. Next a squad had to battle its way through the raging torrent of water to the north bank. And repeat the process until all of the necessary gear was in place.

  Then, and only then, could they manhandle the 12-foot long sections of PSP over the eight-foot-wide channel and drop them into place. Given how wide the truck/bus tires were Bo thought it best to lay down 2 sections of PSP on the left and the right so that there would be very little chance of straying off the temporary span.

  And it was then, just as they finished, that the rain stopped. Not gradually, but all of a sudden. As if a giant faucet had been turned off. It was only a matter of minutes before the clouds dissipated and the sun appeared. Ground fog rose to shroud truck 4 in mist as a noncom drove it out onto the PSP bridge. Civilians watched in wonder as the steel planks gave, wood creaked, and the truck’s diesel engine spewed black smoke into the air. Then with a final bump and rattle the truck was across. A cheer went up.

  One-by-one the rest of the vehicles followed. “Allow the civilians to cross,” Bo ordered. “And retrieve the planks. We could need them later.”

  While the civilians crossed Bo consulted his map. The original plan was to reach Al Dabbah before darkness. But it was a good 300 miles away, and Bo didn’t think it made sense to travel at night. So he settled on a goal of driving 150 miles prior to making camp. That would leave the battalion with enough daylight to erect tents, establish a perimeter, and eat before darkness fell.

  Even though the two-lane highway ran parallel to the Nile, which was five-miles to the west, all signs of agriculture vanished as the convoy continued north. There was nothing to see but brown desert to the left, right, and straight ahead.

  Drifts of windblown sand covered the pavement in places. Wrecked vehicles, some of which were half-covered by dunes, marked the locations where accidents had occurred.

  The convoy had to stop after two hours so the troops could relieve themselves and stretch their legs. Bo took advantage of the opportunity to have both motorcycles unloaded. Then with a sergeant acting as his bodyguard, he took off. It felt good to escape the close confines of the gun truck, and feel the hot air buffet his face.

  With very little to break the monotony, Bo was looking forward to reaching the town of Wahat Saghira (Little Oasis) which, according to Jal, was little more than a truck stop. Still, something was better than nothing. So when Bo saw the water tower up ahead, and the tops of some palm trees, he felt his spirits rise. Maybe the store would have something cold to drink. Some iced tea would be nice, and … Then Bo noticed the vultures circling above the town. He spoke into the boom mike. “Slow down. Something’s wrong.”

  The sergeant downshifted. Bo saw the bodies as they approached the edge of town. They were badly bloated. Some lay in the streets. Others were sprawled by vehicles. Men, women, and children. All had been shot. A halo of dried blood surrounded each corpse.

  Bo stopped to scan the scene for any signs of danger. A dog nosed its dead master. A red toy lay next to a child. Flies buzzed. Other than that the town was still.

  The sergeant’s name was Wong. The machine gun that had been slung across Wong’s back was in his hands. Bo got off the motorcycle and drew his pistol. “We’ll stay together. Check the store first.”

  The screen door squealed as Bo pulled it open. The proprietor, or the man Bo assumed to be the proprietor, lay face down on the floor. He’d been shot in the back. His shelves were nearly bare.

  A dead woman was slumped over the counter with an open cash box sitting next to her arm. The smell was horrible. Bo gagged. He led Wong outside. “Bandits,” Bo said thickly.

  The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir.” If Wong felt sick, Bo could see no sign of it on the noncom’s moon-shaped face. He spoke into the mike. “Captain Xu.”

  “Sir.”

  “The town of Wahat Saghira was attacked by bandits. It appears that all of the inhabitants and some travelers are dead. Place the convoy on high alert. Sergeant Wong and I will be waiting for you on the south side of town. Over.”

  Bo turned to Wong. “Take the west side of the street. I’ll take the east. Alert me if you see something suspicious.”

  Bo eyed the street ahead. Except for the bird-pecked bodies it appeared to be normal. The pavement was intact—and there were no piles of trash. The kind that might conceal explosives.

  He stuck his head into a trinket shop. A radio was playing the drum heavy music many Sudanese enjoyed. A blood stained turban rested next to its owner’s head.

  And so it went until Bo arrived at the south end of town and saw gun truck 1. It was getting larger with each passing second and shimmering like a mirage.

  The heat combined with the smell caused Bo to feel nauseous. Did that make him weak? He was trying to decide when he heard a high-pitched whine. It was similar to the noise a mosquito makes only louder. He looked up. And there, hovering above, was a consumer-grade drone!

  Thoughts flashed through Bo’s mind. The bandits were nearby … They were watching … And they were waiting. But for what? Then it came to him. They knew about the convoy, and planned to steal whatever they could.

  Bo turned to the south. The convoy was close, too close to stop short of the town. “Hit the gas!” he ordered. “Go as fast as you can!”

  The gun truck seemed to leap forward. But the larger vehicles couldn’t accelerate so quickly. The drivers were still shifting gears when the gun truck bounced over a woman’s body. The corpse exploded … And that caused the Toyota to flip and skid.

  The first explosion was followed by another, and another, as a dozen command-detonated mines went off in quick succession. That was the moment when Bo realized that the explosives had
been hidden inside the bodies. And, had he taken the time required to roll them over, that would have been obvious.

  A machine gun rattled as Wong blew the drone out of the sky. That was followed by a resounding BOOM, as one of the supply trucks exploded. Pieces of smoking wreckage fell as a bus bounced through a crater, swerved to avoid the burning supply truck, and came back on course. “They’re close by!” Bo shouted into the radio. “Find them!”

  The bandits were nearby. But there was no need to find them—as well concealed bandits came boiling up out of holes, stood on flat roofs, and rolled out from under the town’s elevated walkways. Bo heard gunfire as a wild-eyed man with a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face dropped from above and landed off balance.

  Bo reached out to grab the bandit’s AK-47 with his left hand andfired the pistol with his right. The man let go of the rifle as he fell backwards. Sergeant Wong fired short bursts, and laughed every time a bandit went down.

  A body, or what looked like a body, came to its feet. The AK seemed to fire itself. “And stay down,” Bo said, as he put a slug into the man’s head.

  Wong yelled, “On the roof!” as bullets kicked up geysers of dust around Bo’s boots. Both men fired at a black silhouette. It jerked spastically, and fell head first into the street, where it produced a puff of dust.

  Another bandit left a blood trail behind as he tried to crawl under a car. Bo shot him in the ass with the AK, ran out of ammo, and fired his pistol. He was fumbling for a fresh magazine when someone spoke. “Colonel, it’s me … Xu.”

  The magazine clicked into place, the slide snapped forward, and Bo turned. The gun was pointed at Xu. His hands were up and his eyes were huge. “Sorry,” Bo said lamely, as he lowered the weapon. “There were lots of them.”

  The next four hours were spent dealing with a long list of problems, the most urgent of which consisted of two wounded soldiers, both in critical condition. The battalion surgeon was doing what he could—but feared it wouldn’t be enough.