So Kydd was standing in the Nile’s bow as the riverboat’s port paddle stopped turning, and the starboard wheel churned the water, causing the boat to turn upstream.
As Kydd looked south he could see the lead patrol boats cruising along both banks in an attempt to keep the feluccas from relaunching, and to respond to an attack, should one come. But there was no attack. And, thanks to the soft morning light, the scene took on a magical feel.
Kydd was amazed by the way the eastern desert dunes crowded the Nile. Dark shadows marked each dune just as they had when explorers like Richard Burton, John Hanning Speke, and David Livingstone passed by.
As for the right bank, it was as different from the left as night is from day. It was lined with palm trees, greened by well-irrigated crops, and postcard perfect. Women carried jugs of water on their heads, a distant call to prayer could be heard over the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the Nile’s engine, and a stork took to the cool morning air. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Kydd turned to find that Cole was standing next to him. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “How is Mr. El-Baz doing?”
“Pretty well,” Cole said, “although he’s worried about his wife.”
“That’s understandable,” Kydd said. “And you? How are you doing?”
Cole looked away. “A little better with each passing day. John was killed in Europe. His tank took a direct hit from a Russian missile.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Cole said, as she put her sunglasses on. “So am I.” Then she was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Aswan Dam, Egypt
Kantar awoke in what felt like a cold, clammy tomb. He didn’t want to sleep in the chamber located over the nuclear bomb. But the door could be locked from the inside. And, while he was in the room, no one else could gain access to the nuke.
That seemed even more important after his conversation with Alawi two days earlier. Most of the noncoms liked Alawi and were willing to share information with him. “There are rumblings, sir,” Alawi said. “Expressions of discontent among the troops.”
When asked to be more specific Alawi shrugged. “All of our troops were chosen for their dedication to the Shia cause, but some are more fervent than others, and they grow impatient. The overall strategy means nothing to them. They want to blow the dam, kill millions of Sunnis, and claim their places in Jannah (paradise).”
Kantar asked if Sergeant Boustani was one of the fanatics, and Alawi answered by saying, “Boustani is their leader.”
Kantar was reminded of what Secretary General Haddad had said. “Don’t kill millions of Sunnis unless you must. Such an act would strengthen Sunni resolve, and turn the world against us.”
But Boustani and his kind lacked the capacity to appreciate the big picture. It had been Kantar’s hope that the fanatical noncom would get killed during the mission to Baranis Troglodytica. But the bastard emerged from the battle unscathed. Maybe I can come up with another way to get him killed, Kantar mused, as he rolled off the cot. It’s something to consider.
Kantar checked to ensure that the bomb’s trigger was securely zipped into a pocket, before leaving the chamber, and making his way down the hall to a restroom.
Following a sponge bath, and a shave, Kantar donned a fresh uniform. Then after taking his shaving kit and dirty clothes to the chamber, and locking the door, he made his way to the control room. The engineers were at their consoles and running the dam with the same efficiency they had prior to the takeover. But they were Sunnis … And it was safe to assume that they would vehemently oppose the sort of mass slaughter that Boustani and his fanatics had in mind. Still another variable to track.
Kantar walked past them to the office once occupied by the dam’s chief engineer. A ragged Egyptian was seated outside with a guard stationed beside him. The man’s eyes were focused on his sandal clad feet.
Alawi stood when Kantar entered. “Good morning, sir. Your breakfast will arrive soon.”
Kantar smiled. “Thank you. Why is a beggar sitting outside my office?”
“His name, or one of his names, is Burhan Al-Bishi,” Alawi said. “And in spite of appearances Al-Bishi isn’t a beggar. He’s a thief, a bandit, and an informer.”
“Oh,” Kantar responded as he sat behind the desk. “My mistake … I hope Mr. Al-Bishi will forgive me. Like I said, why is he here?”
“Al-Bishi works for a warlord named Hussain Urabi,” Alawi explained. “He was with Urabi’s men when they attacked a Chinese army unit in Sudan. A unit which is coming our way.”
Kantar stared. “Chinese? You’re joking.”
“No sir,” Alawi replied.
“Why did Al-Bishi come to us?”
“For money,” Alawi answered. “The gold you brought back from Baranis Troglodytica has been very useful.”
“What about proof?”
“Al-Bishi took some photos prior to the attack,” Alawi answered. “Here’s his phone.”
Kantar accepted the device, and swiped from photo-to-photo. All were wide shots taken from a hilltop. So he couldn’t see faces. But there was no mistaking the flag that flew from a long whip-style radio antenna. Kantar saw five gold stars on a field of red. He handed the phone to Alawi. “You did well, Amir … Bring him in.”
Al-Bishi was ushered into the office and ordered to sit on a chair. The informer’s eyes darted from face-to-face as he dry washed his hands. The story was revealed in fits and starts. Urabi wanted to kill the Chinese and take their weapons.
But the Chinese were more capable than expected, and Urabi’s men were forced to leave Sudan empty-handed. That meant no pay for fighters like Al-Bishi, who made their money looting dead bodies.
No, Al-Bishi didn’t know why the Chinese were headed north. He assumed they’d been sent to help Hezbollah. China was aligned with Russia, Iran, and Pakistan after all.
But, Kantar mused, if there was an agreement to send Chinese troops his way—why hadn’t he been notified?
Kantar thanked Al-Bishi, warned him to keep the conversation to himself, and urged the informer to keep Alawi up to date regarding Urabi’s activities. Al-Bishi promised that he would, stuffed some gold coins into a pocket, and left in a hurry.
The more Kantar thought about the Chinese, the less he liked the prospect of their arrival. Yes, more troops would be helpful, but at what cost? Kantar had Shia fanatics to cope with, a contingent of Sunni engineers he couldn’t entirely trust, and was about to enter negotiations with a warlord named Umar al-Hudaybi. And a battalion of Chinese would sap some of his attention.
Even worse the officer in command of the Chinese troops might try to take over. And Kantar would have more mouths to feed. “Call the airport,” Kantar said. “Tell them to prepare the helicopter. I want you to fly south, locate the Chinese, and find out what their orders are.”
Alawi was visibly surprised, and pleased, to be trusted with such an important mission. “Yes, sir!” he said enthusiastically, and rushed out of the office.
Kantar smiled. In spite of all the difficulties that faced him, there was one person he could count on, and that was Amir Alawi.
***
Dongola, Sudan
Rather than a single day as Bo first imagined, the journey from the village of Wahat Saghira to the ancient city of Dongola consumed four days. Two of which had been spent in the city of Al Dabbah waiting for engine parts to be flown in. Now, rather than travel at night, the battalion was hunkered down in the town of Dongola.
After establishing a defensive perimeter within a U-shaped wall built by the British, and setting a schedule for patrols, Bo gave two-thirds of his troops permission to do as they pleased. Some wandered about buying trinkets and snapping selfies.
Others, far too many in Bo’s opinion, sat in scraps of shade playing a card game called Dou Dizhu, or Fighting the Landlord. As for Bo—he’d done his homework, and knew Dongola had been a center for Nubian civilization. Traces of which were still visible. Bullet shaped to
mbs dotted the surrounding desert, crumbling walls suggested structures long gone, and a row of free-standing columns marked the remains of an ancient temple.
There was military history to contemplate as well. Dongola was the location of British Field Marshal Herbert Kitchener’s victory over Mahdist tribes in 1896.
Of course Kitchener was equally well known for his scorched earth tactics against the Boers in South Africa, and the creation of civilian concentration camps, where thousands died of starvation and disease. Not the kind of career Bo wanted to emulate, no matter how celebrated it was at the time.
Bo was touring the open ruins of a 900-year-old tomb when a helicopter roared overhead. That wasn’t especially remarkable since Dongola had a small airport. It wasn’t until 20 minutes later that Xu’s voice came over the radio. “Sorry to bother you, sir … But we have a visitor. Over.”
“What does he want? Over.”
“He claims to a member of Hezbollah, sir … And part of the unit that controls the dam. Over.”
That was a surprise. Bo felt his pulse quicken. “Thank you. Offer him refreshments. I’ll be there shortly.”
A brisk walk took Bo back to the compound. A tan tarp was stretched over crisscrossing ropes. It threw shade onto some folding chairs. A tea set sat atop an ammo crate.
Xu, and a young man in desert camos, were waiting for him. They stood. “Colonel Bo,” Xu said, “This is Lieutenant Alawi, 2nd in command of the Hezbollah commando detachment that controls the dam.”
Alawi snapped to attention and offered a salute which Bo returned. Then they shook hands. “Welcome to Dongola,” Bo said. “Please, have a seat. We have tea … Would you care for some?”
“Yes, please,” Alawi said, as he sat down.
Once they were settled, Bo poured, and each man took a sip. “That’s delicious,” Alawi said. “What kind is it?”
“Lu’an Melon Seed,” Bo replied. “I’m glad you like it. So, Lieutenant, what brings you our way?”
The answer to that was obvious, but Alawi recognized the question for what it was, an opening gambit. And chess was a game he knew well. “Our intelligence agents keep a close eye on the North Sudan,” Alawi lied. “One of them told us that you were attacked by a warlord named Urabi. Wahda Kantar sent me to see if you need assistance.”
Bo couldn’t help but be impressed by the fact that Hezbollah not only knew that the battalion had been attacked, but knew who was responsible. As for the offer of help, that was clearly spurious, because if Hezbollah knew about the attack—they knew about the battalion’s state of readiness as well. “We don’t need any help,” Bo replied. “But thank you.”
“Good,” Alawi replied. “May I inquire as to your plans?”
Bo took a sip of tea. Alawi’s commanding officer was clearly concerned about the fact that a battalion of PLA soldiers was traveling north. And that was understandable. But how should he play it? Should he claim to be on a mission unrelated to the dam? Such as securing a site for a drone base? Or, should he claim to be Hezbollah’s best friend?
Bo decided that the answer, like so many answers, could be found in The Art of War. A book written more 2,500 years earlier by a Chinese general named Sun Tzu.
“True excellence is to plan secretly, to move surreptitiously, to foil the enemy’s intentions and balk his schemes, so that at last the day may be won without shedding a drop of blood.”
“Our plans are simple,” Bo lied. “My orders are to travel north, place my battalion under Wahda Kantar’s orders, and to defend the dam. Of course your commanding officer may decide to flood the valley. Or is that a bluff?”
The Chinese were going to help. That’s what Alawi wanted to hear. But he didn’t believe it. First, Kantar was suspicious of the Chinese, which meant Alawi should be suspicious as well.
Second, the reference to a “bluff” was jarring, because anyone who was familiar with Hezbollah’s history, would know that the threat was very real.
Third, if Colonel Bo’s battalion was going to help, why hadn’t the Wahda been notified of that in advance? “That’s good news,” Alawi said. “The sooner you arrive the better. The Allied expeditionary force is moving up the Nile as we speak.”
“We’re agreed then,” Bo said with a smile. “Please join us for lunch … And invite your pilot. It won’t be fancy, but we’re soldiers, and used to hardship.”
Alawi thought it was best to accept the invitation, and agreed to inspect the battalion with Xu, while arrangements were made. And it would have been fun to talk to Xu if he hadn’t had so many things on his mind.
Lunch consisted of Haricot beans in a spicy tomato sauce with chunks of lamb. It was served in a local restaurant under a slow-motion fan. A boy wearing a red fez and matching vest stood by to swat the flies.
Much to Alawi’s surprise the food was good. So good that his pilot requested more. The fact that the principals didn’t know or trust each other meant that conversation was stilted.
Pleasantries were exchanged once the meal was over. Alawi and his pilot left for the airport shortly thereafter. Bo and Xu were back at the battalion’s compound, hands shading their eyes, as the helicopter took off.
Bo held out his hand so that Xu could place the remote on it. I’m sorry Lieutenant Alawi,” Bo thought. But, based on your organization’s track record, I know your Wahda will press the button when the time comes. As would you.
Bo pressed the button. There was a bright flash of light as the explosive charge went off. That was followed by a resounding BOOM, and a cloud of black smoke. What remained of the helo spiraled into the ground. A cloud of dust rose. “Take some men,” Bo ordered. “If you find survivors kill them. Bury the bodies.”
***
Aswan Dam, Egypt
Could Allied drones penetrate the dam’s air defenses? The officer in charge of the Iranian missile techs said, “No.” But Kantar wasn’t so sure. Three Hezbollah leaders had been assassinated by Allied drones since the start of the war. And he had no desire to be the fourth. Besides, even if drones couldn’t attack, satellites could photograph him from space. Or so Kantar had been told.
All of which meant Kantar couldn’t go out for the walks that had long been part of his daily exercise regimen. But what he could do was hike through miles of corridors, tunnels and passageways inside of the dam complex.
Some sections of the walk were more enjoyable than others. The enormous power house was his favorite. It had the high ceilings of a world class mosque, sliding gantries, and evenly spaced yellow turbines. And as he entered the west side of the cavernous space Kantar’s thoughts were on Alawi.
The helicopter was overdue, and repeated efforts to reach it by radio had failed. Maybe it had developed mechanical trouble and been forced down. Did the helo carry emergency supplies? Kantar hoped so, because it was impossible to survive in the desert without water.
A shot rang out and Kantar’s lead bodyguard fell dead. Kantar had no idea where the shot came from nor did he take the time to look around. There was a yellow railing on his left. He threw himself over the top and fell twelve feet to the ramp below. Bursts of AK-47 fire raked the area above as the surviving bodyguard was fired on. Then the noise stopped. Kantar drew his pistol. Damn it! Boustani … It had to be.
Kantar’s hand went to the remote. It was buttoned into a cargo pocket. He hurried down the ramp into the depths of the dam.
Bullets spanged off metal as a rifle was fired from above. He recognized the voice as Boustani’s. “Don’t bother to run alkalb (dog)… We’ll find you.”
Kantar fired two shots. Then he followed the ramp down and out onto the face of the dam. He could hear a steady roar and see water shooting out of the pipe located twenty-feet below. There was nowhere to go. A bullet snapped past his head. Kantar jammed the pistol into its holster and jumped. The jet of water from the outfall hit his body two-seconds later and propelled him out and away from the dam. Gravity pulled him down. I’ve never been with a woman, Kantar thought. And no
w I’m going to die.
Kantar’s feet broke through the surface of the roiling water and he plunged down into the depths of the Nile. Swim, Kantar told himself, even though you don’t know how.
Kantar’s arms flailed, his feet kicked, and his lungs started to burn. Then his head broke the surface providing him with a brief opportunity to gulp air.
But not for long. The weight of his combat boots and uniform were pulling him down. Kantar tried to reach his boots in hopes of untying them. But the effort was futile.
So Kantar kicked as hard as he could. He broke the surface again, arms splashing in a desperate attempt to remain afloat. Someone grabbed his belt. “Get a grip boy,” a voice said. “Help pull him in.”
Kantar felt hands grab his armpits and heard the voice say, “Together now.”
Metal scraped the surface of Kantar’s back as the fishermen hauled him out of the water. Kantar fell onto the bottom of the boat where he stared up into the achingly blue sky. Thanks be to Allah. I’m alive.
Kantar managed to sit. Half a dozen perch were sliding around the bottom of the felucca. Two men, one younger than the other, stared at him. “Look at the uniform,” the younger fisherman said. “He’s a Shia. From the dam.”
The older man nodded. “Kill him.”
Kantar fumbled for the pistol, managed to draw it, and fired. The first bullet struck the younger man’s left arm. The second entered his left ear and blew the right side of his skull out.
The surviving Sunni attacked with a spear. Kantar felt a searing pain as it passed between his left arm and chest. He fired again. The slug struck the man’s bare chest. He fell back into the bottom of the boat. Had the shots been heard? Kantar took a desperate look around. No, there were some fishing boats to the north, but none of them were coming his way.
Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2) Page 12
