Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  Cole assumed that Ahmar was Muslim, which meant he shouldn’t drink, but was one of the many who did. And like any woman Cole was sensitive to what she thought of as “the vibe.” And the vibe was mixed.

  Ahmar was clearly ready to talk business. But champagne, the candles on the table, and the regimental silver suggested something else. It would pay to be careful. “Of course,” Cole answered. “I would love a glass of champagne.”

  After allowing Ahmar to seat her Cole watched the officer open the champagne and pour. The same liquid, from the same bottle, filled both glasses. A good start. And when Ahmar raised his to make a toast, she was careful to follow his movements. “Confusion to the enemy!”

  Cole echoed the words, but waited for Ahmar to take a sip, before tasting the champagne herself. “It’s very nice,” she said truthfully.

  “Thank you,” Ahmar replied. “Back before the war Egypt produced half-a-million gallons of wine a year. That in spite of the fact that 75 percent of the population is Muslim. Our wine is however, almost uniformly bad, so who knows where the swill goes? This however, is from France. I hope their vineyards survive the war.”

  Thus began a lengthy, and interesting conversation about Egyptian history, and the country’s politics. “That’s where I failed,” Ahmar confessed. “It was my job, our job, to protect the president above all else—yet he was assassinated. Yes, others share responsibility. But that fact in no way shields the Republican Guard from blame.”

  Cole took the plunge as a military orderly removed the latest set of dishes. “I understand how you feel General … Yet the possibility of redemption remains.”

  Ahmar pushed his chair back. “Really? I hope you are correct. Please tell me more.”

  “You know about the dam, the bomb, and Hezbollah’s threat.”

  Ahmar nodded. “Everyone does. They have a knife at our throats.”

  “Yes,” Cole agreed. “They do. But the Allies sent a force up the Nile.”

  “And I sent helicopters to attack it,” Ahmar said. “A mistake for which I must apologize.”

  “Your perspective was clouded by the fog of war,” Cole said, even though it was only partially true. In the wake of his failure Ahmar had seen the flotilla as another violation of Egypt’s sovereignty and struck out at it. Never mind the big picture.

  Ahmar shrugged. “You are too kind.”

  Yes, Cole thought. I am. Get him back on track.

  “So,” Cole said. “There is reason to hope. Our forces are 30 miles from the dam. And, if we can find a way to capture it without triggering nuclear explosion, 10-million Egyptian lives will be saved.”

  “May Allah make it so,” Ahmar responded. “You came here to tell me this?”

  “No,” Cole replied. “I came here to talk about the problem we will face after the dam has been recaptured and secured. Hezbollah has shown the way. He who controls the dam, controls Egypt.

  “Yes,” Cole continued, “the Allies could send troops to protect the dam. But we don’t want to. That would mean diverting resources away from the war effort. Plus, your countrymen might see the move as an invasion, leading to more bloodshed.

  “There’s an alternative however. And that would be to place the dam under the protection of the Republican Guard which, led by you, would protect the facility until such time as Egypt can reconstitute its government.”

  Ahmar stared at her. Cole watched the comprehension dawn in his eyes. Then a spark appeared, followed by what might have been a flame. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious,” Cole assured him. “Of course such a role would be very demanding. And some of the warlords might resent your power. So rather than leave your family vulnerable to kidnapping attempts we will take them to the United States. Your wife and children will live in a very nice home, and your daughters can attend college.”

  Ahmar stared at her. “Hostages! You plan to use my wife and daughters as hostages.”

  Cole took a sip of champagne. “That seems prudent, don’t you think?”

  Ahmar was silent for a full ten seconds. Then he nodded. “Yes, it does.”

  “Good,” Cole said. “So, there’s only one thing left to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “To take control of the dam.”

  ***

  Aswan City, Egypt

  The sun was rising as Kantar departed for the Sudan. He began the journey by descending down through the interior of the dam and exiting onto the peninsula of land that pointed north. The same peninsula Kantar and his loyalists used the night they went after Boustani and his mutineers.

  From there Kantar stepped into an open fishing boat. The felucca carried him to Aswan City where a squad of his men were waiting. They took him to a Christian carpenter’s house where a coffin was waiting. The kind Coptics used.

  Then, with Kantar inside, the oblong box was loaded onto a truck, and driven up to the cruise terminal located a half mile from the dam.

  That was where six black clad pallbearers, all of whom were Hezbollah fighters, carried the coffin onto a steamer. The sun was up by then. If the eyes in the sky were watching, they had every reason to believe that a dead Christian was on his, or her, way to Sudan for burial.

  Other passengers, all of whom were Hezbollah dressed as civilians, milled about as the coffin was lowered into a hold. That was where Kantar left the box.

  “I’m back from the dead,” Kantar announced, and his men laughed. A nice cabin was ready for Kantar up on the main deck. And that’s where he spent his time during the two-day trip to the town of Wadi Halfa in northern Sudan.

  Kantar felt it was safe to venture out by then. And, as he stood in the stern, looking back across Lake Nasser, Kantar knew he was looking at thirty-one cubic miles of water. All backed up behind the dam. And, if he triggered the bomb, the lake would empty into the Nile valley all at once.

  Kantar’s thoughts were interrupted as the ship’s whistle blew. He made his way forward as the steamer neared the dock. The pier wasn’t much to look at. Nor was Wadi Halfa itself. There was no business area to speak of. Just a scattering of flat-roofed warehouses and mudbrick homes.

  The town of 15,000 people had been the terminus of the rail line from Khartoum, and the point where goods were transferred to ferries, for the trip into Egypt. But that was before the SLM (Sudan Liberation Movement) destroyed three key bridges. Now, without the railroad, Wadi Halfa was a ghost town. Three grubby children were waiting on the pier. They waved, and Kantar waved back.

  Orders were shouted, lines were passed, and the boat bumped into the dock. A gangplank was lowered shortly thereafter and the captain went ashore with a leather folder tucked under his arm. To pay some sort of fee? Probably.

  Kantar needed to hire some trucks in order to find the Chinese and kill them. He was about to follow the captain ashore when a man with dark skin and prominent teeth walked up the gangplank. “Good afternoon!” he said, cheerfully. “My name is John Jal … Is this steamer available for hire?”

  Kantar was carrying a pistol, but it was hidden under a blue gallabiya. So there was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a member of the ship’s crew.

  It was tempting to dismiss Jal, or refer him to the captain, but why did the man want to hire a steamer? Unless he was planning to move a lot of something to Aswan. And, for the moment at least, the city of Aswan belonged to Kantar. “It could be available,” Kantar allowed cautiously. “What do you need to move?”

  “People,” Jal replied. “Tourists.”

  Jal was lying. There weren’t any tourists. Not any more. So who was he working for? Could it be the Chinese? They would need to cross the lake at some point. Maybe they were that close. Kantar smiled. “Come my friend … Be truthful. I heard that a group of Cambodian soldiers are headed this way.”

  Jal made a face. “Yes, they’re soldiers, but Chinese soldiers, not Cambodians. And they pay well.”

  “Then a deal can be struck,” Kantar said. “Come, we’l
l drink tea, and go over the details.”

  Kantar herded Jal across the deck to a narrow set of stairs. They led down into a lounge filled with Hezbollah soldiers. They were preparing to disembark. Jal had just started to take that in when Kantar barked a name. “Sergeant Safar! Take this man into custody!”

  Jal turned to flee but Safar blocked the stairs. Two soldiers hurried to help. “Who are you?” Jal demanded.

  “Wahda Kantar.”

  Jal flinched. “Yes,” Kantar said. “I’m the man your Chinese friends want to kill.”

  ***

  Kerma, Sudan

  After eating and drinking in the city of Dongola, and traveling north to Kerma, 75% of Bo’s command had been infected by what his surgeon said was cholera. Then after three days of continuous vomiting and shitting the man died.

  The cure for cholera, if administrated in time, was to rehydrate patients with clean water.

  To protect themselves Bo’s troops had to draw water from the Nile and boil it. So those who weren’t infected had to work long days providing assistance to those who were.

  Now, after six fatalities and nearly two weeks of delay, the unit had arrived in the ancient city of Kerma, and was ready to proceed. Or would have been ready, had it not been for the latest weather forecast from Khartoum. It called for a major haboob (dust storm) of the sort that often resulted when a surge of moisture arrived from the Gulf of Guinea. And that, Bo knew, could be extremely dangerous.

  Prior to leaving Khartoum Bo had gone to great lengths to download every scrap of information he could regarding the battalion’s route and the dangers it might face. And that included the way dust storms were created.

  Haboobs were caused by strong winds that flowed down, and out of thunderstorms, picking up dirt and sand as they did so. A process that could result in a wall of dust that was 60-miles wide and a mile high.

  So instead of running the risk that he and his men would be caught in the open, Bo decided remain in Kerma until the threat had passed.

  Kerma was a sprawling scimitar-shaped city that bordered the Nile. And rather than try to take shelter in the town’s one-story buildings Bo chose to place his troops in among the sprawl of ancient temples, buildings and burial markers located immediately to the east.

  Bo didn’t have respirators for his men. But there were enough dust masks to go around, plus goggles, and plenty of water. There were three groups. Bo placed each in the lee of a major structure with an officer in charge. Then all they could do was wait. Bo stood out in the open. The air was moist. Lightning crackled in the distance. The storm was coming.

  ***

  Mustafa Kantar heard the roll of thunder. He and his men were hiding around the base of a rocky outcropping just north of Kerma, and had been since 4:00am. After hiring trucks in Wadi Halfa, and driving for hours, the Hezbollah troops were within half-a-mile of the enemy. The Chinese were camped in the ruins east of Kerma, and clearly preparing for the coming dust storm.

  It was difficult to get an accurate headcount. But, as Kantar panned his binoculars across the area, he estimated that his force was outnumbered two to one. Fear began to seep into the pit of his stomach. Had he come so far, only to die in an obscure firefight?

  Another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky—and Kantar felt raindrops hit his face. They were warm, blood warm. And suddenly, by the grace of Allah, Kantar knew how to win. Alawi, Kantar thought. We will kill them for Alawi.

  ***

  The battalion was ready, or as ready as Bo could make it, as the sky grew even darker. Rain began to fall. “It’s on the way,” Bo said over the radio. “Take cover.”

  After a final 360 Bo followed his own advice. The group he had chosen to weather the storm with were camped in the ruins of an ancient temple. The intersection of two intact walls and a partial ceiling formed a cave. Tarps had been used to screen a large opening. One of them began to flap as the wind picked up. The temperature was starting to drop.

  ***

  The Chinese soldiers had taken cover. It was time to move. The more distance the snake-like formation could cover before the storm struck the better.

  Kantar held his compass in the palm of his hand. His men were roped into a line that was stretched out behind him. “Now!” Kantar yelled, knowing that the company’s radios, like their weapons, were wrapped to protect them from the dust storm. A well-established trail led from the rocky outcropping onto the desert floor and toward the ruins.

  The going was easy at first. That was to be expected. But as the sky continued to darken, and as the air became colder, Kantar could see the towering wave of dust coming from the west. It was huge! And it looked like a tan tsunami.

  Then, with a degree of speed that caught Kantar by surprise, the haboob consumed them. Suddenly Kantar found himself inside a pitch-black maelstrom of airborne grit. The compass, he thought. Keep your eyes on the compass. The ruins are due south.

  The rope seemed to assume a life of its own as men struggled to keep up. The line was slack one moment—and taut the next.

  At one point Kantar was jerked off his feet when someone fell. He swore, struggled to stand, and eyed the compass. South. Go south. A slight turn to the right put Kantar back on the correct course. He had to shake dust off the glowing compass in order to read it.

  In spite of Kantar’s efforts to button up, the dust found its way into his clothing and filtered into his shorts, where it started to chafe. His thoughts turned to the company’s weapons. Would the makeshift dust covers and the barrel plugs work? Or would he and his men arrive only to discover that they were helpless? The Chinese would slaughter them. I made a mistake, Kantar decided. Now I’m going to pay for it.

  It was pitch black by then. And Kantar found the temple by running into it. The unexpected contact frightened Kantar, and men began to pile up behind him, as he ran a hand over smooth sandstone. They had arrived!

  Kantar turned to reel the rope in as dust sleeted in around him and threatened to clog his mask. Could the men see him? No better than you can see them, Kantar thought. But we’re still roped together.

  After watching the Chinese Kantar knew that the entrance to the temple was to his left. He felt along the wall, found the edge of a doorway, and located the tarp. Kantar turned to tug on the rope. Men gathered, freed themselves, and readied their weapons. They were little more than half-seen shadows as the dust sleeted in around them.

  Kantar drew his knife, raised it high, and stabbed. The blade went through. Then, with one long stroke, he sliced downward.

  It was pitch black inside the refuge. Kantar brought the men in by feel. Then, hoping for the best, he lit a flare and threw it. Dozens of faces were revealed by the reddish glare. They looked confused. “Fire!” Kantar shouted. “Kill them all!”

  It was nothing less than a slaughter. Chinese solders jerked spastically as the withering automatic fire swept across them. Then, in less than a minute, it was over.

  “Stop!” Kantar told them. “You’re wasting ammo. There are more. We will follow the Chinese ropes.”

  Kantar led his men back to the entrance, felt for the rope, and found it. Then it was time to step out into the raging storm again. There were more kafirs to kill. Then, and only then could he return to the dam, and the work that awaited him.

  ***

  Bo floated up out of the darkness. His head hurt. Memories stuttered through his mind. A flare … Sudden gunfire. Soldiers dying. A blow. Darkness.

  Then came the knowledge that he’d failed. Followed by a deep soul-etching grief from which he would never be able to recover. His men … So many dead … So many …

  “Look!” a voice said. “His eyes blinked!”

  Bo tried to force them open. All he could see was a fog. “Here,” the voice said. “This will help.”

  Bo felt someone place a wet compress over his eyes. The warmth felt good. After the washcloth was removed a face swam into focus. Medical specialist Huang! “Can you see me?” the medic inquired.
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  “Yes,” Bo croaked. “How many, Huang? How many are left?”

  Huang’s normally cheerful face darkened. “Twelve, sir. Counting you.”

  “No, it can’t be.”

  Another face appeared. Sergeant Chen was wearing a patch over his right eye. “It wasn’t your fault, sir. They captured Jal … And he told the bastards where to find us.”

  Bo tried to sit, failed, and fell back against the pillow. He was in a tent. “How do you know?”

  “They put Jal’s head on a stake,” Huang replied. “Then they left.”

  Bo could imagine it. After being sent to Wadi Haifa to hire a boat Jal had been compromised somehow. Tears began to flow. And Bo couldn’t make them stop.

  “Don’t worry,” Huang said, as if speaking to a child. “Things will get better.” Bo felt the needle prick. He tried to object, but darkness pulled him down.

  Days passed. They were bad at first. Very bad. But gradually, bit-by-bit, Bo began to recover. He couldn’t forgive himself. But, by concentrating on the objective he’d been sent to accomplish, Bo could ease the pain. If he could reach the dam, if his remaining expert could neutralize the bomb, the deaths would have meaning. The thought gave Bo strength.

  Bo’s head wound was healing nicely, and by day three he could walk without assistance. Decisions had to be made. Bo could request reinforcements from Khartoum. But that would weaken the battalion’s capacity to respond to an emergency.

  So Bo wrote a report by hand, and filed it by radio, being careful to enumerate his failings as he did so. Then he hired locals to make markers and bury the dead. Bo apologized to each man as sand was shoveled onto his face.

  When the burials were complete Bo hired two trucks. After loading the unit’s excess equipment onto them, the vehicles were sent to Khartoum, with four soldiers to guard them.

  Bo watched as the trucks departed, dwindled to specks, and disappeared. Then, with the seven men who remained, Bo turned to look north. The dam was waiting for him. And so was Mustafa Kantar.