Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  The cables led down the stairs, across the 2nd floor landing, and into a room. The door stood open. And, as a man carrying a teapot stepped out onto the parquet floor, Stiles shot him. Twice. The teapot shattered when it hit the floor. The sniper stepped over the body.

  Another man appeared, took two bullets, and collapsed. Stiles entered the room and took a look around. “Room clear, sir … It’s their com center.”

  Kydd nodded. “Okay, let’s find Urabi.”

  That, as it turned out, was easy to do. A red runner ran under a pair of brass inlay doors and into the room beyond. “Let’s take him alive if we can,” Kydd whispered. “Okay Givens, open sesame.”

  Givens took hold of a massive handle and pulled. As the right hand opened Stiles entered. Kydd followed. It was a big room. And seemingly larger because of the mirrors fastened to the walls and ceiling. And there, sitting on a riser, was a king-sized bed.

  A man was on top of a woman, his hairy back exposed, when he heard the sounds of movement. He rolled sideways in a clumsy attempt to reach the pistol that was resting on a side table, but Lopez got to the weapon first. “Oh, no you don’t,” the marine said. “No bang-bangs for you!”

  The man fell back against some pillows. Kydd aimed the HK at him. A red dot drew circles on the man’s furry chest. “Colonel Urabi?”

  The Egyptian shrugged. He had a British accent. “Of course. And you are?”

  Kydd was about to answer when the woman slapped a hidden button. A klaxon began to bleat. Urabi laughed. “So you managed to get in … But, now my American friend, how will you get out?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Esna, Egypt

  “The answer to your question is obvious,” Kydd replied. “I have a hostage. Which is to say you. And, if we’re about to be overrun, you’ll die before I do.”

  Kydd turned. “Stiles, Givens, block the stairway up from the first floor … I saw weapons in the com room. Use those first. Go.

  “Lopez, hogtie the colonel first, and the woman second.”

  Urabi was about to say something when Kydd jammed a rifle barrel into the Egyptian’s mouth. “Shut the fuck up.”

  After using zip ties to immobilize the prisoners Lopez left them lying on the bed. Kydd heard firing and knew the other marines were holding the bandits back. He turned his radio on. “One-Six to Mambo-Four. Over.”

  The response was immediate. “This is Mambo-Four. Over.”

  “We have the target, but we’re under attack, and could use some help. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Lieutenant Sommers replied. “On the way. Over.”

  “First right, second left, next right. And be careful … More bandits are arriving. Over.”

  That was when Cole broke into the conversation. “Sailor boy, is that you? Over.”

  “None other,” Kydd replied. “Where are you? Over.”

  “Directly across from your location. I have two-zero friends with me. Don’t fire into the plaza. Over.”

  “Roger that, over.”

  The steady bang, bang, bang, of an AK-47 could be heard from the 2nd floor landing. “We have hajis coming from above and below,” Stiles said calmly. “Over.”

  Kydd turned to Lopez. “Get on their radio … Chances are that some of Urabi’s men speak English. Tell them to back off, or we’ll cut his throat.”

  Givens followed Kydd out onto the central landing. Stiles was firing down the stairs, and Givens was over at the other stairwell firing up. And, as Kydd went over to join him, a grenade bounced down, to land at Kydd’s feet. Time seemed slow as he bent to grab the bomblet and throw it. The grenade was sailing though the air when it went off. There was a loud bang and shrapnel flew every which-way. Kydd was untouched.

  Givens was climbing the stairs by then, firing short bursts, and yelling obscenities. Kydd hurried to support the marine—and together they were able to clear the third floor. “Stiles … Give me a sitrep. Over.”

  “I took a round, but I’m functional, and I can hear firing out front. Over.”

  “Be careful who you shoot … We have two sets of friendlies inbound. Over.”

  Kydd turned to Givens. “I’ve got this. Check on Stiles.”

  Cole’s voice came over the radio. “The plaza is clear. A perimeter has been set. Over.”

  Then it was Sommers’ turn. “Mambo-Four … Incoming from the southeast. Over.”

  Friendlies flooded the mansion two-minutes later. And Cole was among them. She surfaced on the 2nd floor accompanied by two heavily armed civilians. Both wore skull masks. “So,” Cole said, “where is he?”

  “In there,” Kydd said, as he pointed to the double doors.

  “Is he alive?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Kydd replied. “I appreciate the help, but why are you here?”

  Cole frowned. “This is what I do sailor … What? You thought no one else would go after Urabi? Goolsby sent me.”

  “And your friends?”

  “They’re contractors,” Cole replied enigmatically. “All right, let’s collect our prize, and get out of here.”

  In actuality it took nearly an hour to scour the house for Intel, free the prisoners being held in the mansion’s cavernous basement, and retreat to the river. At some point during the journey Cole’s “contractors” vanished into the night.

  Dawn was an hour away … And it looked as if every light the Nile had was lit. An order was waiting: “Report to Colonel Goolsby immediately.”

  Kydd ignored the directive long enough to make sure that Stiles was receiving medical attention. “After taking a bullet in the left shoulder, and holding the stairs by herself, Lance Corporal Stiles continued to fight until relieved.” That’s how Kydd planned to write it up.

  “All three of your marines deserve medals,” Kydd told Sommers. “Let’s push some recs through.”

  Then, like a criminal on the way to the electric chair, Kydd made his way up to deck three, where Cole was waiting. “You lucked out,” Cole said. “We’re on hold while Goolsby chats with General someone-or-other.”

  “His boss probably.”

  “Probably,” Cole agreed. “Shed the hardware, or the sentries won’t let us in.”

  After surrendering his weapons, Kydd was about to sit down, when the door swung open. “You can enter now,” a sergeant told them.

  “Oh, goody,” Kydd said sotto voice, as he followed the CIA agent through the door. Goolsby was seated behind his desk. And, for the first time in Kydd’s experience, the marine had a smile on his face. “Congratulations on a well-fought naval engagement Commander Kydd … Even if you did exceed the scope of your orders.

  “As for you, Agent Cole, an excellent performance as always. I, for one, appreciate the manner in which you saved Commander Kydd’s ass.”

  Kydd couldn’t help but admire the way in which Goolsby had been able to dole out a lump of praise, and dress him down, all in two succinct paragraphs. Never mind Goolsby’s failure to share information related to Cole’s activities. But Kydd felt lucky to get off so easily.

  Goolsby’s face turned somber at that point. “Please accept my condolences regarding the loss of Ensign Miller, her crew, and one of my marines. I will write a letter to each family for inclusion with yours.”

  Kydd nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “All right,” Goolsby said, “the locks belong to us. But, from what the captain of the Nile tells me, it will take an entire day to push the convoy through. Get some sleep. The dam is still 100-miles away.”

  ***

  After a hand-over to Lieutenant Altman, and an hour spent reviewing all of the documents Evans had prepared for him, Kydd hit the rack. It was midmorning by then … And time for the convoy to move upriver. Despite the noise associated with that process Kydd slept like a log. His alarm went off at 1500 which, according to the way he felt, was far too soon. But, considering all the things that demanded his attention, he didn’t dare sleep longer.

  Kydd felt better after a shower and a shave. After donning
a fresh set of cammies, courtesy of the Nile’s civilian laundry service, Kydd was ready for breakfast.

  Upon finishing the meal Kydd made use of his radio to request a pickup. SURC-2 was idling at the bottom of the stairs when Kydd arrived. Murphy stood waiting to greet Kydd as he crossed the gap. “Good morning, sir … And welcome to crazy town.”

  “Uh, oh … What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” Murphy replied. “The lockmaster took off during the fighting last night, nobody’s been able to find him, and there’s the language barrier to deal with.

  “A combat engineer is working the problem, but the lock controls are thirty years old, and hard to figure out.”

  “How’s the colonel taking it?”

  “Not well, skipper … Not well at all.”

  “Alright, Murph … Let’s head upstream and see the craziness firsthand.”

  The sun was approaching its zenith and, if it hadn’t been for the SURC’s speed, the heat would have been oppressive. Spray flew as the open boat came on step—and the twin diesels pushed the SURC up to 30mph. It wasn’t long before the burned-out cruise boat appeared off to starboard, followed by a tug and two barges, all of which had been forced to anchor until the lock opened.

  The helmsman brought the SURC in alongside the dock and, as Kydd made his way up the stairs, he paused to inspect the western gun emplacement. All that remained of the artillery piece was some twisted metal and a blackened crater.

  The road across the top of the dam was crowded with people. Altman and a combat engineer were at the center of a mob of mostly civilians who were bombarding a marine with rapid-fire Arabic. Except the marine was barely out of language school and badly outmatched. “Good morning,” Kydd said, as he approached Altman. “I hear the lockmaster is AWOL.”

  The sun was beating down on them. Altman wiped the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve. “That’s right, sir … These people say they know where he is, and they’ll tell us, for a fee. And I’d pay if I knew who to believe.”

  “In that case,” a man in a grubby thawb (robe) said, “pay me. I know where the lockmaster is.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty-dollars American.”

  “Here’s twenty-five,” Altman said, as he removed the money from his wallet. “Where is he? In town?”

  “No,” the Egyptian replied, “he’s right there.”

  The man in question saw the pointing finger and tried to run. Kydd chased him down, grabbed a skinny arm, and towed the Egyptian back to where the translator stood. “Is this the lockmaster? Ask him.”

  The marine posed the question and received a nod. “He’s the lockmaster alright,” the corporal said. “He was scared to identify himself.”

  “Alright,” Kydd said. “Let’s get to work.”

  The lockmaster’s assistant showed up minutes later. And with both men on the job the locks were open for business 30-minutes later. However the cycle rate for the locks had been notoriously slow before the takeover and still was. That, combined with the number of vessels that needed to pass through, meant the process was going to take at least a day.

  The sun was hanging low in the western sky when Nile arrived, entered a lock, and slowly rose. Kydd was there when the brightly lit cruise ship emerged. He expected her to proceed upriver, to the point where other vessels were anchored, but she didn’t.

  The starboard paddlewheel stopped, while the port wheel continued to thrash the water, pushing the Nile’s bow in next to the riverside promenade. Orders were shouted and lines went ashore. Then a gangplank was extended and secured.

  Though unexpected Kydd welcomed the opportunity to walk aboard, go to his cabin, and take a shower. But all such thoughts vanished from his mind as Colonel Goolsby and Hussain Urabi appeared. Then, much to Kydd’s shock, they shook hands! Urabi waved as he strolled ashore and crossed the promenade to the street where a white Land Rover was waiting for him.

  Kydd felt the anger boil up inside him. Miller, and six more, all dead because of Urabi … And Goolsby let the bastard go! The gangplank bounced as Kydd hurried across, shoved a marine sentry aside, and yelled “Colonel! What did you do? That bastard killed seven sailors and a marine! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Goolsby was walking away. He stopped. He turned. His eyes were narrowed, his lips were drawn, and his body was stiff with barely contained rage. “Corporal … Confine that officer to his quarters.” Then Goolsby turned and walked away.

  The corporal was the same marine that Kydd had pushed. His right hand was resting on his pistol. His voice was tight. “You heard the colonel.”

  “Yeah,” Kydd said. “I heard him.” And with that he made his way up to his cabin, went in, and closed the door. Evans was gone for the day. Would the marines station a guard outside his door? Probably.

  The shower felt good, even if he didn’t, and Kydd emerged feeling refreshed. He was dressed in nothing more than a towel when there was a knock on the door. He went over to open it. A marine was standing outside. “Yes?”

  “You are to report to Colonel Goolsby’s quarters at 1830.” After delivering his message the private turned and marched away. Kydd looked left and right. If a guard had been stationed there earlier, he or she was gone. What, if anything, did that portend? He was about to find out.

  Kydd got dressed and spent the next twenty minutes writing a letter to Miller’s parents. “I regret to inform you that at such and such time, on such and such day, your daughter Ensign Karen Miller was killed in action.

  “I’m not at liberty to say where her death took place, or under what circumstances, except to assure you that she died in the service of our country …” And so on, just like thousands of others being written that day, all over the world.

  What Miller’s parents wouldn’t know, couldn’t know, was that the man responsible for their daughter’s death had been set free. Kydd glanced at his watch, and put the pen aside. He was at peace. He’d said what he’d said … And meant every word of it.

  Kydd left his cabin, made the long trip to Goolsby’s cabin, and showed his ID. The marine nodded. “Thank you, sir … The colonel is expecting you.”

  Kydd opened the door and went in. Goolsby was at a side table with his back turned to the room. “Have a seat Commander … I hope you like gin because that’s all I have. In the absence of tonic water, I’m mixing it with orange juice. That constitutes an Orange Blossom which can be served ‘up,’ like a martini, or on the rocks. The latter being my preference.”

  When Goolsby turned he was holding a drink in each hand. He brought them over, handed one to Kydd, and sat in a guest chair. Then he raised his glass. “Forged by the Sea.”

  Kydd nodded. “Semper Fi.” Their glasses clinked.

  Each took a sip. Goolsby looked Kydd in the eye. “Please allow me to apologize. I lost my temper. If I were you, and if I saw what you saw, I’d like to believe that I would react the way you did.”

  Kydd opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as Goolsby raised a hand. “Hear me out … The U.S. State Department is a big organization. The Under Secretary for Political Affairs has responsibility for the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs, which employs a dickhead named Victor Danby—he’s the Bureau’s Country Desk Manager for Egypt.

  “More than that, from what Agent Cole tells me, he’s a fixture around here. So much so that he refused a promotion to stay in-country. Why you ask? Because the bastard is on the take. How else can you explain the mansion in Cairo, the S-Class Mercedes, and all the rest of it?

  “So, when Danby got wind of the fact that we had Urabi, he sent a 6,000 word screed to the Under Secretary suggesting that although Colonel Urabi had been a bad boy in the past, we could rehabilitate the bastard and use his paramilitary forces to help capture the dam. Thereby lessening the need for conventional forces.

  “And never having been to Egypt, much less Africa, the Under Secretary bought it.” Goolsby drained his glass and slammed it down. “The bitch.”

  “So do
n’t tell me, let me guess,” Kydd said. “Danby and Urabi are friends.”

  Goolsby nodded. “You’re pretty smart for a navy officer. The upshot is that I received orders to turn him loose.”

  “To do whatever he wants.”

  “Pretty much … Although Cole will try to keep track of him.”

  “I was wrong to do what I did,” Kydd said. “I should have told you off privately.”

  Goolsby laughed. “Please do so next time. So much for item one on the agenda. Now it’s time for item two.”

  Kydd swallowed what remained of his drink. “Which is?”

  “We’ve been summoned,” Goolsby said. “As you know Operation Pharaoh falls under Admiral Charles Larson. And, now that we’re within striking distance of the dam, he wants to have a chat.”

  “About what?”

  “About how to keep Kantar from blowing the dam.”

  “There’s no plan?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cole told me there was back in Port Ashdod.”

  Goolsby smiled. “She lied to you.”

  “Shit.”

  “Would you like another drink?”

  Kydd held his glass out. “Yes, please.”

  ***

  The sun was up, but just barely. The air was filled with the hysterical shrieking of the Senegal Thick-knee wading bird. The incessant pvi, pvi, pvi sound originated from the edge of the river, where the Thick-knee was searching for its breakfast.

  The screeching combined with the call to morning prayer produced a strange chorus. What had been a farmer’s field, and would be again, was the site of a makeshift landing zone. Red smoke boiled up into the sky. And, as the call to prayer came to an end, the drone of aircraft engines took its place.

  Kydd was wearing sunglasses but still felt the need to shade his eyes as he looked up. He’d been expecting a helicopter rather than a V-22 Osprey. He’d ridden in them on prior occasions and knew the tiltrotor aircraft were capable of vertical takeoff and landings (VTOL), as well as short takeoff and landings. They could carry 30 passengers, and had a range of 1,000 miles, which would be more than enough to reach the carrier Hornet. The ninth ship to bear that name.