Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  Bo made contact with Major Zhou by radio, told him about the firefight, and the need for an air evac. “Make sure they have a doctor on board,” Bo said. “And notify the embassy. Ask them to contact the Sudanese government. There are a lot of people to bury here.”

  There were minor wounds to cope with too … But nothing the surgeon and his medics couldn’t handle themselves.

  Three soldiers had been killed in action. Bo decided to bury them outside the town. Zhou would send a platoon north to disinter the bodies and take them to Khartoum for cremation.

  Bo led a platoon of troops west toward the Nile and two palm trees. “There,” he said, pointing to the ground. “Side-by-side. Make sure they have their tags on. Take a picture of the palms—and get a GPS fix on this location.”

  The shifting sand made it difficult to dig the common grave. As quickly as the men shoveled sand more poured in. And it was hot. Very hot … That meant the grave diggers had to take turns and drink lots of water. Eventually the job was finished.

  The dead soldiers lay on their backs, blind eyes staring up at the sun, as their comrades formed two ranks before them. How many? Bo wondered. How many of Genghis Khan’s warriors were laid to rest thousands of miles from home? Now we’re going to found a new empire, a Chinese empire, and a price must be paid.

  There was no Buddhist funeral prayer as such, and with no monks to assist him, Bo had to improvise. “After fighting bravely, our brothers fell in battle, freeing their spirits to enter samsara or nirvana–the end of suffering. They live on in our memories.”

  Then, as soldiers shoveled sand into the grave, Bo allowed himself to reflect. His battalion had been blooded. He’d been blooded. And emerged free of shame. His parents would be proud. Bo opened his eyes to discover that the grave had been filled in, and a platoon of soldiers was staring at him. “Don’t just stand there,” Bo said. “Get to work. We have things to do.”

  And that was true. The loss of a gun truck, and a supply truck, were very much on Bo’s mind. Especially the supply truck which had been loaded with 25% of the battalion’s ammo supply. The rest was divided equally between the other trucks.

  Jal was waiting at the edge of town. Bo felt a sense of shame. The possibility that Jal had been wounded or hurt hadn’t occurred to him. “Jal!” Bo said. “What happened?”

  “The truck did a somersault,” Jal replied. “The driver and I were strapped in, but our gunner was killed.”

  Bo hadn’t made the connection until then. Private Chen had been riding in the back of the truck, and now he was lying under a foot of sand. It was hard to keep up. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Bo said. “Did any of the townspeople survive? And if so, were you able to speak with them?”

  “Yes,” Jal replied. “I found an old man. He hid in a shed along with his goats. And that’s where he was, when a Land Rover pulled up, and a warlord named Hussain Urabi got out.”

  “He knew the warlord?” Bo inquired skeptically. “That seems unlikely.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jal agreed. “But the old man says that Urabi and his men passed through Wahat Saghira a month ago. And he saw Urabi quite clearly.

  “And that isn’t all,” Jal added. “A woman identified Urabi as well. She says he’s Egyptian.”

  “Perhaps we killed him,” Bo said hopefully.

  Jal shook his head. “No such luck, Boss … I made the old man look at everybody.”

  It was unfortunate that Urabi had escaped, but it wasn’t critical to the mission, and that was Bo’s focus. “You did well,” Bo said. “I won’t forget.”

  There was a roar as a helicopter passed overhead, banked, and came in for a landing next to a column of red smoke. Bo went over to watch as the wounded men were loaded onboard.

  The helo took off five minutes later and turned south. ”They have a pretty good chance of making it,” the battalion surgeon said.

  “Thanks to you,” Bo replied.

  The sun was hanging low in the western sky by that time, and any hope of logging 150 miles was lost. But Bo wasn’t about to spend the night near Wahat Saghira. That would be hard on morale—never mind his nose.

  So with Xu’s help Bo put the convoy back together minus two trucks. Then they headed north. The plan was to camp in the desert. But not just anywhere. What the battalion needed was a position that it could defend should it be necessary. Would Urabi attack during the night? Bo didn’t think so. But assumptions could get people killed. As was the case in Wahat Saghira. Explosives hidden inside people. A lesson learned.

  Gun truck 2 was in the one-slot. Rather than ride in the cab, Bo stood in the back, and peered over the cab. That gave him added height and a 360-degree view. It was an exhilarating experience. The dry wind in his face, the desert all around, and the speed with which the landscape flew by.

  But there was nothing at first. No sign of the refuge Bo had been hoping for. He was ready to give up after fifteen minutes, and settle on a spot in the desert, when a rocky outcropping appeared in the distance. It was the sort of elevation that would give the battalion an advantage if attacked.

  Bo opened his mike. “This is the colonel. I see a hill up ahead. It’s on the west side of the highway. I want all vehicles to slow down and pull over while I take a look. Over.”

  Bo heard a chorus of “Yes sirs,” as he spoke to the driver. “You heard me Hu … Turn off the highway—and circle the hill.”

  Bo’s primary concern was the depth and consistency of the sand. The trucks had six-by-four drives, but the buses didn’t, and if one of them was to bog down, the wrecker would have a hard time pulling it free. Bo had to grab the gun mount as the Toyota bounced off-road.

  The first thing Bo noticed was the fact that they weren’t the only people to turn off there. Tire tracks led to the hill. And that wasn’t surprising, since others would want to climb the hill, and take advantage of the view.

  “Pull up,” Bo ordered, as the gun truck rounded the north side of the hill. As Bo jumped down he noticed that the ground was solid. And once the vehicles were parked on the west side of the elevation they would be screened from the highway.

  “Follow our tracks,” Bo said over the radio. “Buses first, followed by the trucks, and the wrecker. Captain Xu … Once all the vehicles are off the highway, send a squad out to sweep the first fifty-feet of our tracks away. Over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The moon was up by the time all of the vehicles were parked, tents were erected, and guards posted. That was when Bo gave himself permission to climb the hill. Two lookouts were there to greet him. Both had night vision gear.

  Bo made his way along the ridge to a ledge where he could sit and look out over the moonlit desert. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Quiet Night Thought, was a famous poem written by the Tang Dynasty poet Li Bai. It spoke to the moment.

  “Moonlight before my bed

  Perhaps frost on the ground.

  Lift my head and see the moon

  Lower my head and I miss my home.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bani Adi, Egypt

  Though doubtful at first—Kydd was thankful for his combination cabin-office aboard the Nile Queen. It was air conditioned for one thing … And he had to have a place where he could fill out the endless reports that Colonel Goolsby not only insisted on, but clearly delighted in, never missing a chance to dot an “i” or cross a “t.”

  Fortunately Kydd’s yeoman, a first class petty officer named Marty Evans, was able to handle most of the work on his own. He was working in a corner when Cassandra Cole entered. Evans turned to look. “Agent Cole is here to see you, sir? Are you in?”

  Kydd, who was only six feet away from Cole, frowned. “I am, but I’m busy. Ask her to take a seat in the waiting room.” Both men laughed.

  Cole made a face. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Yup,” Kydd replied. “Please have a seat on the guest stool that Evans liberated from the ship’s bar.”

  Cole perched on the
stool, and Kydd moved his laptop around, so the agent could see the screen. The satellite photo showed Bani Adi, a large island immediately to the south, and a small island just beyond that.

  The town of Ezbet Sherif was west of the smaller island. That’s where an Egyptian engineer named Asem El-Baz had chosen to retire after working on the Aswan Dam for 27 years. The Allies would need a guide after they took control of the sprawling structure. Would El-Baz be willing to serve in that capacity? That was Cole’s problem.

  “This is where we’re going,” Kydd said, as he pointed to Ezbet Sherif.

  “I know that,” Cole said. “It’s my mission. Remember?”

  “I do,” Kydd replied. “But what you don’t know is that some yahoo moored a barge here, between the small island, and the west bank.” His pen tapped the spot. “And he has a Russian Kord-12.7mm heavy machine gun mounted on it. And that’s all he needs to make commercial vessels pay his tolls. The fishermen can avoid the barge. But, if we were to motor past, the odds are pretty good that he would open fire on us.”

  Cole stared at him. “The National Reconnaissance Office didn’t mention any of that.”

  Kydd shrugged. “It’s a barge … And a single gun would be easy to miss.”

  “Then how come you know about it?”

  “I bought a jellabiya and hired a fisherman to take me up-river at 0500 this morning.”

  Cole’s expression changed. “That was smart.”

  “Thanks,” Kydd replied. What does Evans think of this conversation? he wondered. And why am I attracted to Cole in spite of her snotty attitude?

  “So, how do we handle it?” Cole inquired.

  “The water between the large island and the east bank is shallow. But our jet boats are equipped for that. We’ll pass under a bridge here,” Kydd said, as he tapped the screen with his pen. “Once we reach the end of the big island we’ll pass between it and the small island. Then we’ll go alongside the barge and board it.

  “Meanwhile you, and your marines, will be on Lieutenant Altman’s two-boat. He will put you ashore just east of town. You’ll have to hoof it from there. What kind of condition is El-Baz in? Will he be able to reach the two-boat under his own power?”

  “Yes,” Cole replied. “We think so. He ran marathons prior to the war.”

  “Good. I’ll see you on the fuel dock at 1900 hours tonight.”

  ***

  Kydd gave Evans a two hour lunch break after that, took a nap, and awoke feeling refreshed. Then he went down to visit the American boats. Chief Jones was waiting to greet him. “Good afternoon, Skipper … How’s life on the floating pleasure palace?”

  “Terrible,” Kydd deadpanned. “My eggs benedict was cold this morning.”

  “Tell them to turn the AC down,” Jones replied. Both men laughed.

  “So how’s our readiness?” Kydd wanted to know. “According to the scuttlebutt we’re going up-river soon.”

  “The wrench turners can’t replace the minigun on two,” Jones replied. “But they patched the hole—and repaired the wiring. Lieutenant Altman talked the marines out of an LMG. We’re fabricating a mount.”

  “That’s better than nothing,” Kydd replied. “How’s morale?”

  “We rigged awnings over the decks,” Jones said. “But the heat wears people down. Especially since we have to wear full uniforms.”

  “I don’t like what I’m seeing Chief,” Kydd said. “Those boats are filthy. Hose ’em down once a day. That’s an order.”

  Jones grinned. “Our personnel would have to dress accordingly.”

  “Let it be so,” Kydd replied. “But only one boat at a time. In case the shit hits the fan.”

  Jones nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  ***

  After going boat-to-boat, and shooting the shit with the sailors, Kydd went to visit the Brits. Their Scimitar class boats were 52-feet long. They were powered by twin diesel engines, and armed with two machine guns each, both mounted aft.

  Each vessel carried an officer and a six person crew. Senior Lieutenant Fox-Smith was there to greet Kydd as he came over the side. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Are you ready for our outing?”

  “Very much so, sir.” Fox-Smith had an Oxford accent, which meant that he could have passed for an American, had it not been for some of the idioms he used.

  “Excellent.”

  After going over the mission Kydd gestured to the machine guns mounted in the stern. “No offense Lieutenant, but what if the enemy is up ahead? Will you turn? And go full astern?”

  Fox-Smith laughed. “We were on coastal patrol before they sent us to the Med,” he explained. “And one weapon per side was considered to be sufficient.”

  “So you wouldn’t object if we were to up-arm your boats?”

  “No, sir. Please do.”

  “Good. Please inform Sub-lieutenant Hawkins that I’ll be on the fuel barge by 1830.”

  ***

  Kydd ordered the sailor running the RIB boat to take him to the Nile, where a raft, and a set of steeply slanting stairs led to the main deck. It was dinnertime and the dining room was nearly full. Kydd sought permission to join some marine officers at their table, and received a hearty “Welcome aboard,” from a major.

  The leathernecks were discussing the complexities involved in pushing upriver, as well as what would happen when they reached the dam. “Once we’re ten miles away the tangos will blow it,” a captain predicted.

  “Even captains are correct sometimes,” the major said. “So, if you don’t know how to swim, now’s the time to take lessons.”

  Kydd remembered what Cole had told the assembled officers back in Port Ashdod. “There’s an additional element to the overall plan. One which I’m not authorized to share at this time.” Kydd hoped there was.

  He finished his meal, excused himself, and went to his cabin. Evans was gone for the day. Kydd’s tactical vest was stored in the closet. It was set up the way he liked it, and since it served well aboard the Galene, why change?

  All Kydd had to do was remove the shoulder rig that carried his M17 pistol, move the semiauto to the vest, and secure it in place. Extra magazines for the 9mm and the suppressed H&K MP7 were already in their slots.

  As Kydd put the vest on he felt the familiar weight, plus the rising sense of fear, and a sense of anticipation. The latter being something he was hesitant to admit to, since no one in their right mind wanted to see action. But action would be required in order to move upriver and seize the dam.

  It was almost dark by the time Kydd left the Nile Queen. A different Cole was waiting on the fuel barge. She was wearing a heavily loaded tac vest and carrying an MP7. “Good evening, Agent Cole …. I see you dressed for the occasion.”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo,” Cole replied. “I was a platoon leader in a previous life.”

  Kydd realized how little he knew about her. A platoon leader … Then it occurred to him. Cole was a member of the CIA’s Special Operations Group (SOG)! That made her the perfect candidate for the job at hand. “I should have known,” Kydd replied. “Even so, I hope you’ll be careful tonight.”

  Cole looked at him. “Why?” It was both a question and a challenge.

  Kydd shrugged. “In spite of your obnoxious personality, you have some latent charm.”

  Cole’s eyes searched his face. “I can see where this is headed sailor boy … And, if things were different, I might go along for the ride. But I lost someone recently … And I don’t have anything to give right now. I hope you understand.”

  Suddenly Cole looked like a little girl playing soldier. Kydd had a strong desire to wrap his arms around the agent, and tell her that everything was going to be okay, even if that was by no means certain. He forced a smile. “Message received. But, like I said before, be careful out there.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the rumble of powerful engines as a British patrol boat pulled alongside. A sailor jumped off to hold the vessel
in place. Once Kydd was aboard the sailor followed. As the first boat pulled away the second arrived.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander,” a voice said.

  Kydd turned to find a British officer standing two feet away. “Sub-lieutenant Hawkins?”

  “At your service, sir,” the young man replied cheerfully as they shook hands. He had a round face, an infectious grin, and the manner of a schoolboy on vacation.

  “Good,” Kydd said. “You were briefed?”

  “Yes, sir. Up the east channel, between the islands, and alongside the barge.”

  Hawkins made the whole thing sound so simple. “That’s correct,” Kydd said. “But here’s something new. Assuming all goes well, you will see three blips from a flashlight as you enter the channel. They will appear on the port side.

  “As you get closer you’ll see a felucca anchored in the stream. I want you to pull in and take the occupant aboard. His name is Jamil. He’s been fishing this stretch of the Nile since he was ten. Jamil will act as our pilot.”

  Hawkins nodded. “Yes, sir. And if things don’t go well?”

  Kydd chuckled. “You were paying attention. I like that. If things don’t go well, we’ll see three blips of light, pull in and come under fire from the east bank.”

  “Because Jamil sold us out.”

  “Precisely,” Kydd said. “But here’s why I’m willing to take the chance … Jamil is a Sunni. And he knows we’re going south to take the dam away from the Shias.

  “Add the fact that he can’t fish the west channel so long as bandits occupy the barge, plus the money I promised to pay him, and Jamil has three reasons to help us.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about,” Hawkins said.

  Kydd laughed. “I like your style Sub … Please pass the word.”

  The log boom had been towed to one side so the boats could pass through. Kydd was in the stern looking back at the ghostly two-boat. Cole was on it. Ah well, Kydd concluded. Some things aren’t meant to be.

  Strangely, given the fact that World War III was raging all around the globe, lights were visible port and starboard. There were two reasons for that. The first was the lack of a central government which, had it existed, would have almost certainly imposed a blackout.