Red Flood (Winds of War Book 2)

by William C. Dietz

  Automatic fire lashed back and forth between the Hezbollah fighters and the marines. There was no contest however. The leathernecks had night vision gear and the tangos didn’t. That, plus the winnowing fire from Givens, brought the fight to a speedy conclusion. “We own this place,” Meeks announced.

  “Did we take any casualties?” Kydd inquired.

  “Wells caught one, and the Doc’s on it,” a marine replied.

  Kydd had a decision to make. His mission had been completed. So he could wrap things up and retreat downstream if he chose. But what if he and his team could enter the dam? And catch Kantar by surprise? The choice was, in the final analysis, a no brainer.

  ***

  “We’re five minutes out,” Urabi announced over the intercom. “We won’t be on the ground for long, so be ready to jump. Flares and explosions are visible to the north.”

  Kantar could hardly wait. He wanted to retrieve the remote as quickly as possible. He wished he could look out a window but there was none.

  The helicopter hit hard. “The immediate area appears to be clear,” Urabi informed them. “Secure the dam. I’ll be in touch.”

  Cool night air rushed in as Urabi’s crew chief opened the door. With duffle bag in hand Kantar jumped to the ground and paused to look around.

  Two sentries were on duty behind the sandbagged gun emplacement that fronted the door. They came to attention as Kantar paused to watch the ancient helicopter lurch into the air.

  Once aloft the aircraft turned onto a northwest heading. A course that would take the helo away from the fighting in Aswan City. The bastard is running for his life, Kantar thought. I hope the kafir kill him. He turned to the door, returned a salute, and went inside. The remote. He had to retrieve the remote.

  ***

  After rowing ashore Bo and his soldiers made their way up the steep slope and onto the road that crossed the dam. That’s where they were when a helicopter appeared out of the west, lost altitude, and landed in front of them. Six men left the helo before it took off. They entered the building leaving two sentries outside. Bo turned to Sergeant Chen. “Send Khoo forward.”

  Khoo arrived moments later. He was armed with a QBZ-95 bullpup-style assault rifle, and a PLA issue crossbow, which was slung across his back. Bo gave him the glasses. “Look across the street … Can your crossbow reach the sentries from here?”

  Khoo gave the binoculars back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Kill one of them. When your target falls the rest of us will charge.”

  It would have been nice to kill both men. But reloading a crossbow takes time. Khoo nodded, freed the weapon, and brought it around. Then he settled in. A minute passed.

  Bo had fired almost every weapon the PLA had, including crossbows. So he understood the challenge. Especially for a shot that far away. Elevation was the key. It would be necessary to aim high, so as to allow for the effect gravity would have on the bolt, but not too high lest Khoo overshoot.

  There was a dull thud. The quarrel flew across the street and hit one of the sentries in the forehead. That was no accident, and Bo understood Khoo’s reasoning. Military targets are likely to wear body armor. He jumped to his feet. “Follow me!”

  The second sentry was bent over his buddy, trying to understand what had occurred, when Bo shot him with a suppressed Norinco Type 92 pistol. It produced a popping sound.

  “Hide the bodies behind the sandbags,” Bo ordered. “Assign two men to take their places. Try the door.” Sergeant Chen obeyed. It opened smoothly. They were in.

  ***

  Goolsby’s marines were due to arrive soon. So Kydd put in a call to the battalion surgeon who promised to send help within fifteen-minutes.

  It didn’t take long to find the access door which, not surprisingly, was unlocked. What remained of the team totaled thirteen men counting Kydd. A PFC named Jayson was armed with a shotgun—so Sergeant Meeks sent him up the switch-backing ramps first.

  Kydd expected to encounter heavy resistance but there was none. Because Kantar was elsewhere? Or because a lot of the Hez fighters were in Aswan City?

  Whatever the reason Kydd welcomed it. He was in the two slot with Meeks on drag. Jayson rounded the first turn and hurried up a ramp. Kydd could hear the thrum of generators, smell the ozone in the air, and feel the emptiness in his gut.

  The ceiling appeared to be a hundred feet high, color-coded pipes twisted and turned down along concrete pillars, and warning signs decorated the walls.

  Jayson made another turn and continued upwards. His head was on a swivel and for good reason. If Hez fighters were waiting to ambush the team Jayson would be the first man to die.

  ***

  The bodyguards followed single-file as Kantar ran the length of the vast turbine room. The ramps were located at the other end of the cavernous space. Kantar felt a sense of relief as he passed the last turbine and spotted the first ramp.

  Kantar was on it, and hurrying down, when he saw a man with a shotgun below. Kantar fired his pistol, heard the bullet spang off metal, and withdrew just in time. The shotgun blast passed through the space where Kantar had been standing.

  Hezbollah fighters rushed forward to pour automatic fire down on the invaders. Kantar was frantic. The Americans had passed the point where the remote was hidden! The only way to retrieve the device was to push them back down. “Grenades!” Kantar shouted. “Throw all of them!”

  Half a dozen Russian “limoka” (lemon) hand grenades arced through the air. They clanged, bounced and rattled as they rolled downhill. Then they exploded. The Americans had to withdraw. “Hold your fire!” Kantar ordered, as he made his way down the first ramp.

  The aluminum panel was located at the first turn. Kantar fumbled with the multipurpose pocketknife, managed to deploy the screwdriver blade, and went to work. He had to remove four stainless steel screws and his hands were shaking.

  A weapon began to fire from below and the bullets produced a clang each time they struck the metal ramp. Something buzzed past Kantar’s right ear. Ricochets! The kafir were trying to bounce a bullet into his body. He couldn’t stop. A screw fell to the floor, followed by another, and a third.

  Then a grenade landed ten feet away. But, thanks to the downward sloping ramp, it rolled back toward the Americans! The resulting explosion produced a loud scream.

  Once the final screw was loosened the panel rotated down and out of the way. The remote was waiting. Kantar grabbed the device, turned, and ran. The Americans surged up the ramp, firing as they came.

  Kantar felt a sense of relief as he arrived on the main floor, only to have it snatched away, as soldiers fired on his men from the opposite direction!

  Kantar caught a glimpse of an Asian face as a man backed into cover. The Chinese! It appeared that some of them had survived the slaughter at Kerma. And here they were blocking his line of retreat. “Kill them!” Kantar ordered, and half of his men obeyed. The rest were busy trying to hold the Americans at bay.

  ***

  Jayson was dead, Alvarez was wounded, and Kydd was pissed. He had taken the point position. He fired the AK-47 until it ran dry. After tossing it aside he drew the pistol.

  As Kydd neared the top of the ramp it was necessary to drop to the floor and elbow his way forward. A bullet spanged off the rail to his right. But that didn’t explain the firefight that was under way. It seemed as if the Hez fighters were caught between his team and another group. Goolsby’s marines were the best bet.

  Meeks led the rest of the team up onto the floor. “One grenade would get you all,” he told them, “so spread out!” They joined the fight and it soon became obvious that the Hezbollah fighters were about to lose. A voice shouted, “Surrender! Or I’ll blow the dam!”

  “Hold your fire,” Kydd ordered, as a man stood. There was something in his right hand … The remote! Kydd got to his feet. “Captain Kantar?”

  “Wahda Kantar,” the man said defiantly, his eyes aglow. “Place your weapons on the floor.”

  He wants
hostages, Kydd thought. Well, fuck him. It was a reckless thing to do, and Kydd knew that, as he brought the pistol up. What if he missed?

  But there was no going back. Don’t get fancy, Kydd thought. Hit him in the torso. The gun bucked. The sound of the shot rang in his ears. The bullet was high. So high it blew the top of Kantar’s skull off.

  Kantar jerked, the remote went flying, and a Hezbollah fighter pounced on it. The man shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” (Allah is great) and thumbed a button.

  Kydd waited to die. Nothing happened. The fighter thumbed it again. And that’s when a man in an unfamiliar uniform stepped out of hiding and aimed a weapon. Kydd heard what sounded like a cough. The Hez went limp.

  The man with the pistol placed it on the floor, and took three paces forward. “Colonel Shin Bo, the People’s Liberation Army. And you are?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Harley Kydd, United States Navy.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Commander … My men located the bomb with help from an Egyptian engineer.”

  “And you disarmed it?”

  “No,” Bo replied. “That will take more time. We removed a metal floor plate, cut the wires connecting the radio receiver to the bomb, and replaced the lid. Your experts will be able to carry out the work required to neutralize the device.”

  Kydd stared at him. “You and your men came all this way … Why?”

  “I’m a soldier,” Bo replied simply. “Such were my orders.”

  ***

  Esna, Egypt

  Urabi was in a hurry, and for good reason. After speaking to his field commanders the situation was clear. British Paras had engaged the Hezbollah irregulars stationed in Aswan city and the kafir were winning. So Urabi ordered his people to pull back and let the Shias to fend for themselves. Allah would be pleased. And now, as his helicopter passed over Esna, the warlord was trying to salvage what he could.

  The helicopter hovered over the mansion prior to settling on its flat roof. Guards were waiting to greet him as he left the helo. Their faces were hidden behind scarves and their weapons ready as they accompanied Urabi to the stairs.

  Then, as the warlord disappeared below, the guards turned to fire on Urabi’s bodyguards. The suppressed submachine guns produced little more than a series of clacking sounds. The helo pilot saw what was taking place and tried to take off. Bullets riddled the windscreen. The aviator slumped in his harness.

  Urabi took the stairs two-at-a-time in his rush to reach the bedroom, remove the box of Canadian gold wafers, and depart. But Urabi entered the room only to find a blond woman seated in his favorite chair. She smiled. “Well, well … Look at what we have here. Welcome home.”

  Urabi frowned. “How did you know I would come here?”

  “I figured you would have a stash,” Cole replied. “Plus I have eyes in the sky.”

  Urabi sighed and offered his wrists. “Nope,” Cole said. “It isn’t going to be that easy this time. If you want to live, which I assume you do, you’re going to accompany me on a trip to Lebanon.”

  Urabi stared. “Lebanon. Why?”

  “That,” Cole replied, “is for me to know, and for you to find out.”

  ***

  Beirut, Lebanon

  Lebanon was theoretically neutral. But, since Hezbollah was in control of the nation’s coalition government, it called the shots. Had it been left to the Hez hotheads, the country might belong to the Axis.

  But Hezbollah did what the Supreme Leader in Tehran told it to do. And the Ayatollah knew that if Lebanon were to join the Axis, Israel would invade, and take control within two days.

  Besides, Lebanon gave Iran access to the Mediterranean via the client state of Iraq. All of which meant that while Beirut was an “open” city, it was lousy with spies, more of whom had just arrived.

  The sleek, 68-foot long super yacht Alexis was registered to a Lebanese business tycoon named Giorgio Asmar, who was living in the Virgin Islands while leasing the vessel to the CIA. Thanks to that provenance the Alexis had been allowed to enter the well-defended harbor, and tie up to the customs dock, shortly after 9 a.m.

  Though unfailingly polite, the Lebanese customs officers were very conscientious, and spent the better part of an hour searching the yacht from bow-to-stern. All while stealing surreptitious looks at the scantily clad blond woman. She was sitting in a lounger next to an older man who they assumed to be her husband.

  The crew consisted of young males dressed in white Polos, blue shorts, and deck shoes. Some spoke Arabic, and some didn’t, but that was typical where large yachts were concerned.

  Eventually both the Alexis and her passengers were cleared for the marina, where a long, and very expensive slip was waiting. Once the mooring lines were secured, and the shore power was on, the operation began. In and out. That was the plan.

  Urabi was supposed to be himself … A task he was well suited for.

  As for Cole, she was to play the part of Urabi’s bodyguard, and planned to look the part. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her red lips matched her nails and high heels. The shoes would be a liability in a fight. But they served a purpose, and that was to get men to perceive Cole as a sex object, rather than a threat.

  Once everything was ready Urabi, Cole, and a crewman left the boat, made their way down a long dock, and passed through a gate. A parking lot lay beyond. That’s where the black Mercedes was waiting. The driver stood next to the rear door which was open.

  Urabi paused, as if looking for a way out, but the driver and the crewman were only a few feet away. The warlord slid inside.

  Cole paused to speak with the driver. He looked like a local, but hailed from Hoboken, New Jersey. There was no chitchat. Cole spoke first. “What’s in the sky?”

  “The Israelis have an IAI Heron over the city, and the Iranians have a Fotros II in the area.”

  “How ‘bout the US of A?”

  “An RQ-4 Global Hawk is watching the watchers.”

  “And if we run into trouble?”

  “We’ll dump the car, make our way to a MOSSAD (Israeli Intelligence Agency) safe house, and travel from there to Israel.”

  Cole nodded. “Good. You have the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  As the Mercedes threaded its way through narrow streets Cole saw stunning buildings clad with golden stone, drab apartment blocks decorated with graffiti, and mirror-bright banks which reflected their surroundings.

  Christian churches sat side-by-side with mosques, political posters drooped from balconies, and fashionable men and women, many of whom wore western clothes, shared the streets with people in traditional dress. It was a beautiful, yet ominous city, where politics seethed just below the surface.

  There was a lot of traffic, but that was to be expected, and had been built into the schedule. They were stopped at a light when Urabi made his move or tried to. But the attempt to open the door failed. “The driver controls the locks,” Cole told him. “Behave yourself.”

  “I have money,” Urabi pleaded. “You could be rich.”

  “Not any more you don’t,” Cole responded. “We have the gold from your mansion, and we know where your loot is. Your ex-girlfriend has been most helpful.”

  Urabi stared at her. “So, I have nothing.”

  “You have your life,” Cole replied.

  “You won’t kill me?”

  “Not if you’re a good boy.”

  Urabi turned away. It took the better part of an additional half-hour to reach south Beirut. Some of the buildings still showed signs of the damage suffered as a result of past bombings.

  Others, strangely modern in among the drab structures of the past, occupied sites where damaged apartment buildings had been demolished.

  When the sedan came to a stop, it was in front of a bank, so solid it looked as if it could withstand a direct hit from a 1,000 pound bomb. That made sense because the bank was the local branch of Bayt al-Mal Lil Muslimeen, which meant the “House of
Money,” and served as Hezbollah’s financial arm.

  “This is it,” Cole announced, as the car pulled over. “Let’s review your story again. Once the Allies took control of the dam the plan to form a Shia-Sunni government collapsed. But the pieces remain, just waiting to be assembled, and you’re the man who’s equipped to get the job done. Got it?”

  “That’s it? That’s all?” Urabi inquired.

  “Yes,” Cole said. “It is. We can’t script it further than that. He might tell you to fuck off. Or, he might buy in hook, line and sinker. If he does, then play him.”

  Urabi brightened slightly. “You can count on me.”

  “Unlock my door,” Cole said.

  There was a click. Cole got out and paused to look around the way any good bodyguard would. Then she went around to the other side of the car. The passenger door was unlocked. Urabi got out. That was his chance, or would have been, except that the driver was there to stop him. “Don’t,” the agent said. His right hand hovered near his belt buckle. A pistol was only inches away.

  Urabi straightened his tie, turned, and made his way toward the bank. Cole followed.

  Other people were entering and leaving the bank. Cole was carrying what felt like a lead weight in her stomach. Could they make it through security? That was by no means certain.

  And, if the guards took Cole away for a strip search, Urabi would run. But there was a tracker in his left shoe … And the CIA would find him. Even if Cole was dead.

  Urabi opened the door, Cole followed him in, and the security checkpoint was directly ahead. Muslim women couldn’t submit to full body scanners so there weren’t any. Cole was counting on that.

  Personal possessions could be scanned however. So both Urabi and Cole were required to place their cell phones and wallets in baskets and put them on a conveyer belt.

  Armed guards motioned for them to step forward and hold their arms over their heads. Cole could feel the weight of male eyes and knew the guards were staring at her tits.

  Handheld scanners were used to determine whether either one of them was carrying something metallic. And, with the exception of zippers, they weren’t.