Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

Kantar felt a sense of relief. It had been a scouting mission then … The sort of thing he should expect. “All right,” Kantar said. “Give orders to fire on any boat that comes up river during the hours of darkness. Smugglers included. That will make it even harder for the holdouts to remain in Aswan City.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marwan said.

  “And make sure that our men receive proper burials,” Kantar added. “I would attend, but I’m supposed to be elsewhere, as you know.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  Good. Keep a sharp lookout Babak … And stay in touch with our spies. If the Allies begin to move notify me immediately.”

  “I will,” Marwan assured him. “Allah be with you.”

  Kantar handed the mike to the tech. Would Allah be with him? Kantar hoped so. He was scheduled to leave for an important meeting in two hours. If it went well Egypt would have a Shia friendly government. If the talks failed he would have no choice but to blow the dam.

  The gathering had been arranged by warlord Hussain Urabi for the purpose of enriching himself and others like him. That was distasteful. But Kantar was willing to pay the price so long as the right result was forthcoming.

  The next couple of hours were spent getting ready. Then, along with five handpicked to accompany him, Kantar left for the meeting. The possibility of a drone attack was on his mind. Marwan swore that the SAMs would protect Kantar while on the dam. But what if the kafirs tracked him to a point beyond the missiles’ effective range? What then?

  But everything hinged on the meeting. So Kantar had to leave the relative safety of the dam. No one could be trusted, especially Urabi, so it would be stupid to take the remote with him. That’s why Kantar slipped away to hide the device. Once the task was complete Kantar made his way back to the control area.

  A pair of identical Land Rovers were waiting outside. The streetlights that ran east and west across the top of the dam imbued the scene a greenish glow. A man in a white thobe came forward and bowed. “Greetings Wahda Kantar,” the man said. “My name is Abdul Fadel. Please choose a vehicle and make yourselves comfortable. The journey will last approximately four hours.”

  Both SUVs were equipped with puddle lights that threw the Land Rover logo onto the pavement when a door opened. Kantar chose to ride in the front passenger seat next to the first SUV’s driver. The seats were covered with butter-soft leather. A bottle of water and a bag of snacks were waiting on the floor. This, Kantar thought to himself, is decadent. But I like it. Is that wrong?

  No one answered as the Rovers left the curb, and proceeded west across the top of the dam. The road led past the airport on the left and out into the vast desert beyond. They were on Highway 75, otherwise known as Aswan-Abu Simbel Road, which soon left civilization for the wasteland beyond.

  The driver wasn’t the talky type, or was afraid to speak, lest he make some sort of mistake. And the bodyguards were no less withdrawn. Prior to departure a noncom had taken the fighters aside and lectured them on decorum. “Do not spit, do not fart, and do not say one damned word unless spoken to. Do you understand?” They understood.

  So the four men sat in silence as the sun rose behind them, and threw its harsh glare over the desert land, as if determined to kill anything larger than a lizard. Time passed and Kantar napped.

  But, when the Rover lurched from side-to-side, Kantar awoke to find that they were turning off the pavement and onto a dirt road. That caused Kantar to sit up and look around.

  They were off-road, but other vehicles had passed that way, and recently too—judging from the tire tracks. Finally. They were getting close to their destination. Or so Kantar assumed.

  He was wrong. The trip continued for another 15- miles before the Land Rovers stopped at a checkpoint. A large awning was held aloft by metal poles. Folding chairs plus a cooler sat in the shade.

  The Bedouins got up and ambled out to meet the incoming vehicles. They were armed. But anyone who wished to circumvent the guards could have done so. And that led Kantar to believe that their purpose was to let Urabi know who was on the way rather than try to stop them.

  Kantar’s driver offered an ID card and a guard waved him through. The makeshift road continued for half-a-mile, before entering a dry wash, and climbing over the embankment beyond. That’s when the sprawling encampment appeared.

  The SUVs passed a herd of camels. The noisy creatures were under the supervision of young boys, and due to the smell, were well separated from the crisp white tents visible in the distance. Next came a parking lot for the vehicles and trailers, all baking in the sun.

  As the Rovers drew closer Kantar saw the white tents had vertical stripes. They were aligned with military precision, and connected by a network of red carpet runners, to ensure that guests wouldn’t have to walk on hot sand.

  A second parking lot was visible to the right where three upscale SUVs were parked under a large awning. And there, beyond the encampment, a radio antenna and a satellite dish were visible. A sure sign that even though they were in the desert, Urabi and his friends could communicate with the outside world.

  Something else could be discerned as well. The encampment was well protected. Guards with automatic weapons were patrolling the camp’s perimeter.

  And, as Kantar’s Land Rover passed a sandbagged gun emplacement, he spotted a man with Russian-made shoulder-launched Verba missile. He’d been trained to fire Verbas and knew they were effective against aircraft, drones and cruise missiles. That made Kantar feel more secure.

  The SUV came to a stop. A servant wearing a thobe and a white skull cap hurried to open the door. A tall dignified looking man stepped forward. He was wearing a red and white keffiyeh head scarf, a thobe, and sandals. “My name is Bashar Nohas, Wahda Kantar, and I bring you greetings from his excellency General Hussain Urabi.”

  Kantar tried to remember. Hadn’t Urabi been a colonel? Not that it mattered. “Thank you. Please inform the general that I am most impressed by the quality and extent of his hospitality.”

  Nohas was clearly pleased. “Of course, that would be my pleasure. Your tent is waiting, and in accordance with your wishes, a second tent for your staff.”

  Kantar and his men followed Nohas along a sand-drifted red runner to a pair of side-by-side tents. “This,” Nohas said, as he paused in front of a shelter large enough for six people, “is yours.”

  The other equally spacious tent was for Kantar’s bodyguards who took their gear inside. “Dinner will be served early,” Nohas said, “so that you and the other guests can watch the camel race before it gets dark. Entertainment will follow. Breakfast will be available at 8:00am in the dining tent, and the meeting is scheduled for 9:30. Do you have any questions?”

  Kantar didn’t want to watch a camel race or the entertainment. All he wanted to do was make his pitch, convince the principals to participate in a new government, and return to the dam.

  But Urabi was in charge. And the warlord clearly believed that a show of ostentatious wealth was necessary in order to make the sale. Kantar forced a smile. “No, I don’t have any questions. Thank you.”

  That left Kantar free to enter his tent. It was fully carpeted and furnished with a king sized bed, two side tables, a dangling chandelier, a wardrobe and a spacious cubicle that boasted a tank-fed shower, sink and chemical toilet. It was all very posh compared to the cold-damp “bomb room” that Kantar normally slept in.

  After conferring with the noncom in charge of his security team Kantar took a nap. The air inside the tent was too warm. But Kantar managed to sleep in spite of that. He awoke to the clatter of a helicopter passing overhead. A servant arrived shortly thereafter with a pitcher of iced tea and a bowl of chilled fruit.

  After slaking his thirst, and eating a snack, Kantar emerged from his tent to find that two of his bodyguards and a teenage guide were waiting for him. The boy led Kantar along freshly swept carpeting and out to the point where a three-sided tent faced onto open desert.

  Urabi was present
, along with three other men, all wearing thobes. “Here he is!” Urabi said enthusiastically. “Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce Wahda Kantar. You are, needless to say, acquainted with his exploits.

  “Mustafa, please meet my friend Sattar Amari, a businessman of considerable renown, Baki Shamon, Egypt’s ex-finance minister, and Fathi Wasem, a spiritual leader with whom you are likely to be familiar.”

  Kantar was familiar with Wasem. Most Muslims were. That was due to the fact that because of his moderate teachings, Wasem was a fixture on television, and a wide variety of social media platforms, largely. He’d been quick to condemn Osama bin Laden and Hezbollah, which was why Wasem was critical to the plan.

  Everyone knew that Shias had taken control of the dam. But if Wasem was to announce an interim government comprised of Shias and Sunnis, which would not only neutralize the threat to the Nile river valley’s population, but restore the country to its former prominence—then most Egyptians would go along. Even if that meant hostilities with Saudi Arabia.

  The relationship between the two countries had once been cordial. But after the Saudis backed the Egyptian military coup in 2013, followed by friction over Saudi Arabia’s stance toward Syria, the relationship had cooled.

  So Kantar knew it was in his best interest to make a good impression on the cleric. And, based on Wasem’s greeting, that would be hard to do. “I can’t pretend to approve of what you and your men are doing,” the Imam said. “It’s wrong. But General Urabi believes that some good could come from it. So I’m willing to listen.”

  Kantar knew Wasem was likely to be a hard sell. But during the meal that followed there were opportunities to discuss the ways in which a Shia-Sunni government could implement Wasem’s dream of improving society via what he called “Faith Based Development.”

  Beyond that Wasem wanted to bring all Muslims closer to Allah. “Honesty, humbleness, and good manners,” Wasem said. “Those are the values upon which a new Egypt should be built.”

  Though normally served as a family style repast, dinner was served buffet style on the long tables located at the back of the three-sided tent, and there were lots of choices. Once the men were finished eating Urabi announced the camel race. “Come,” he said. “Camel races are as old as the pyramids. And my animals are among the finest.”

  Kantar had never been to a camel race, but he’d seen video clips, and knew the contests were especially popular in Dubai. But unlike the races there, what was shaping up before him harkened back to the days when children rather than robots rode the camels, and enormous amounts of money were wagered on the outcomes.

  The tent was situated on a rise looking out over a natural depression. As the other men settled into their seats Kantar could see that four animals were already in position with jockeys on their backs. And he knew that even though camels look awkward, they can reach speeds of up to 40mph in short sprints, and maintain a speed of 25mph for an hour or so.

  “There’s a camel for each one of you,” Urabi announced. “The Wahda’s animal is wearing yellow livery, Mr. Amari’s steed is dressed in red, Mr. Shamon’s camel has green accessories, and the Imam’s beast is the one with a white saddle blanket. The winner will receive a prize. So be sure to cheer your rider on!”

  Binoculars had been issued to each guest. Kantar brought his to bear on the camel “dressed” in yellow. A boy who might have been six or seven years old sat perched behind the beast’s hump. He was wearing a yellow helmet, had the reins with one hand, and a whip in the other. “Get set!” Urabi yelled. “Go!” Nohas fired an ancient flintlock pistol into the air.

  The whips came down, the camels took off, and the race was on. Sand flew as Mr. Amari came to his feet. “Go, go, go!” the billionaire shouted as he pumped a fist in the air.

  Shamon was standing as well … “Whip it!” he yelled, as his camel fell behind Amari’s.

  Kantar felt obliged to get up and Wasem did the same. “I hope none of those boys get hurt,” the Imam said to Kantar. “Camel races are very dangerous.”

  Rather than imitate Amari, the way he’d been planning to, Kantar switched to a more sober approach. “That’s my concern as well, Imam Wasem. I’m glad they’re wearing helmets.”

  Amari’s animal was in the lead by that time, and the normally staid businessman was literally jumping up and down with excitement. As Kantar looked that way his eyes made contact with Urabi’s. The warlord winked. That was when Kantar realized what he should have realized all along. The race was fixed.

  And sure enough, as the racers finished the third and last circuit of the track, the “red” camel was slightly in the lead. And air horn sounded as the competitors crossed the finish line and Amari was ecstatic. “Did you see that?” he demanded. “My camel was the best!”

  Shamon smiled indulgently. “It was Sattar, it certainly was. Congratulations.”

  Urabi was ready with a filigree covered silver pitcher. “I said there was a prize, and here it is,” the warlord said. “You’ll notice that it’s engraved: ‘To the Victor Go the Spoils.’”

  “I love it!” Amari said. “Thank you.”

  Was it that simple? Kantar wondered. Would Amari agree to a Shia-Sunni government? He would know soon.

  The light was starting to fade by then, the camels were being led away, and the time had come for the “entertainment” Nohas had mentioned earlier. The major domo led the way.

  The air was starting to cool, and in spite of Kantar’s focus on his mission, he was enjoying himself. It was hard not to given the lavish surroundings, and the feeling of bonhomie that followed the men into the dining tent. Except the dining tables had been replaced by five well upholstered chairs, a low stage, and dramatic lighting. “You’re in for a treat,” Urabi promised them. “Nyla Badri has agreed to dance for us.”

  Kantar hadn’t heard of Nyla Badri before, but the other men had, and Amari was quick to sing the performer’s praises. “She’s beautiful!” he said. “And very evocative.”

  Kantar took that to mean that Badri was sexy, and that would be welcome, because he’d been living with men for too long. Refreshments were served once the group was seated.

  The lights went down after that, and the rhythmic rise and fall of shaabi, or Egyptian folk music began. And that was when Badri danced her way out from behind a backlit screen and onto the stage. Rags sharqi, or belly dance, had been around for a long time. And though entertaining the form was very predictable.

  Not Badri though. The first thing Kantar noticed was the scimitar. It was balanced cutting-edge up on the top of her head. A cloth winding covered her eyes. She was wearing a simple top, which like the mask, was black.

  Badri had a narrow waist and flared hips. A black skirt fell all the way to her feet. It swayed as Badri moved. But the way she moved was remarkable. Badri had transformed Rags sharqi into a new dance form that combined belly dancing with modern dance, and martial arts. The sword came off her head to cut the air into geometric shapes familiar to anyone acquainted with Japanese Samurai movies. It was both entrancing and arousing. Badri was, Kantar thought, like an Arabic goddess of war, somehow brought to life.

  But all good things must end, and when Badri came forward to present the scimitar, it was to Baki Shamon. Kantar was reminded of his own sword, the Sayif al-Dawla, and realized that Urabi was using the weapon in the same way that Secretary General Haddad had. As a way to motivate someone.

  Urabi’s clever, Kantar thought, too clever. And once the government is established, and the Axis has its way with Egypt, I will arrange to kill him.

  But for his part Shamon was clearly taken in. And as Badri backed away there was a look of desperate yearning on his face. The lights dipped to black. And, when they came back on, Badri was gone. Everyone clapped. “I’m glad you enjoyed the performance,” Urabi said. “Breakfast will be served at 8:00. I’ll see you there.”

  Kantar slept well that night. There were dreams, wonderful dreams, in which Badri danced—and delivered the s
word to him. Then it was time to get up, take a tepid shower, and shave. Urabi had done an admirable job of setting things up. Now it was Kantar’s turn—and he was determined to succeed.

  Breakfast consisted of warm beans flavored with cumin, onion, tomato, garlic and parsley, plus a variety of side dishes—including flat breads, hard boiled eggs, and salads made of chopped tomato and cucumber. Kantar barely noticed. His mind was on the presentation ahead.

  The meeting took place in a smaller tent set up for the purpose. The chairs used during the camel race had been brought in, along with a circular table, and a blank whiteboard.

  Urabi wasted no time getting down to business. “All of you know why we’re here. And that’s to not only secure the lives of those who live in the Nile valley, but to rescue Egypt from chaos, and restore the country to its rightful place among nations.

  “Doing so will involve a geopolitical realignment in which Egypt will, while providing certain forms of assistance to the Axis, still retain its sovereignty. And with Imam Wasem’s guidance become a bright light illuminating the path that other Arabic nations can follow. And here, to elaborate on that plan, is our friend Mustafa Kantar.”

  Kantar had done his research. And he spoke eloquently about how the Shia Fatimids came to power in 969 AD, how they established a capital called Cairo, and ruled Egypt for the next 200 years. “Even today,” Kantar said, “there are ties. Many Egyptian Sunnis, especially those who follow Sufi denominations, visit Shia shrines and Mosques. And we are Muslims, just as you are Muslims, and natural enemies of the crusader countries.

  “Plus,” Kantar added, “change is coming. Soon after the Axis starts to base aircraft and troops in Egypt, Saudi Arabia will fall, causing thousands of Saudi royals to be captured or killed. At that point a great deal of wealth will be liberated and, I have been authorized to offer each of you 50-million dollars of it, to do with as you please.”

  That was a lie of course, because the secretary general hadn’t agreed to any such thing, but Kantar felt sure that he would if given the chance. “Think of it as compensation for the hard work that lies ahead,” Kantar told them. “Yes, you will receive government salaries, but those will be relatively modest.”