Red river, p.1
Red River, page 1
Other Books by William C. Dietz
THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES
Red Ice
Red Flood
Red Dragon
Red Thunder
Red Tide
Red Sands
Red River
AMERICA RISING SERIES
Into the Guns
Seek and Destroy
Battle Hymn
MUTANT FILES SERIES
Deadeye
Redzone
Graveyard
LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES
Legion of the Damned
The Final Battle
By Blood Alone
By Force of Arms
For More Than Glory
For Those Who Fell
When All Seems Lost
When Duty Calls
A Fighting Chance
Andromeda’s Fall
Andromeda’s Choice
Andromeda’s War
RED RIVER
WILLIAM C. DIETZ
Wind’s End Publishing
Copyright © 2022 by William C. Dietz
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Damonza To
This book is dedicated to the men and women of the brown water navy.
Thank you for your service.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Middle East
Nigeria
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Author’s Note
About The Winds of War Series
About William C. Dietz
THE MIDDLE EAST
NIGERIA
CHAPTER ONE
The Gulf of Oman, west of Gwadar, Pakistan
The boats of Riverine Squadron 12 wallowed gently as an endless series of slow rollers nudged them east toward Pakistan. And that was fine with Navy Commander Leo Baxter who, along with the patrol boat’s commanding officer Russ Weller, were standing on the PB-006’s bridge. There were seven boats in the squadron. Their running lights were off, and they were waiting for an Iranian sub tender to leave Gwadar, Pakistan, and put to sea.
Though victorious, roughly a third of Iran’s navy had been sunk battling Allied ships, as they attempted to pass through the Strait of Hormuz. Furthermore, the fact that an equal number of Iranian vessels were trapped inside the Persian Gulf after the battle was a pyrrhic victory.
Meanwhile the rest of Iran’s navy, including what were estimated to be ten mini-subs, was still at large in the Gulf of Oman where they continued to attack shipping. The latest victim was a container ship which went down with all hands.
But the subs had to be supplied. And it was no small task, because the tiny boats could carry only two torpedoes and enough provisions for five days.
That’s where Pakistan and China came in. Thanks to their support, a sub tender put to sea every three or four days—always at night.
Baxter’s thoughts were interrupted by an information systems technician named Digby, better known to his fellow sailors as “Diggs.”
“The drone has eyes on a vessel that matches the tender’s description,” Diggs said. “It cleared Gwadar, and is headed our way.”
The drone Diggs referred to was an RQ-21A Blackjack that had been launched from the Swedish Tapper-class patrol boat Tenacious.
Baxter turned to enter the open Combat Information Center where sailors were monitoring the boat’s radios and radar. Two steps then took him to a console where he could see the same image the sailors on the Swedish boat saw. The sub tender looked like a white ghost ship riding a black sea.
Diggs was waiting for a reply. “Tell the Tenacious to continue tracking,” Baxter ordered. “And to let us know if the target slows, changes course, or stops.”
“Roger that,” Diggs replied, and turned to the radio.
Baxter returned to the bridge where Lieutenant Weller was waiting. “Here’s hoping. If the bastard stops, we’ll bag a tender and a mini-sub. And if he doesn’t, we’ll sink his ass anyway.” Two or three sailors could hear him.
After reporting to Baxter for a month, Weller knew that Baxter used such asides as an unofficial way to communicate with the crew. Because if a CO could guide the squadron’s scuttlebutt even slightly, that was a win.
The minutes seemed to crawl by, and eventually turned into hours, before Diggs passed on the news Baxter was waiting for. “The tender has started to slow.”
Baxter felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Pirate-Six actual to all units … Start engines, sound battle stations, and prepare to engage.
“The tender is an important target. But we want to score the mini-sub too! And it might be half submerged. Watch for it.
“And be sure to monitor incoming IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) signals before you open fire up on someone. The command boat will lead the way. Over.”
Baxter turned to Weller. “Let’s go topside. We’ll see more from there.”
That wasn’t true because, thanks to the screens in the pilot house, they could see everything right there. But Weller knew that his CO liked having the wind in his face. “Yes, sir.”
In this case “topside” was a three-person flying bridge. A coxswain was already present. The handoff from the helmsman below to the flying bridge was indiscernible.
Rather than sit, Baxter preferred to stand, feet spread, as the boat continued to gather speed. The Mark VI was nearly eighty-five feet long, equipped with two 5,200 horsepower engines, and capable of doing fifty-two miles per hour.
And now, with the wind battering Baxter’s face, the PB was hauling ass. As white water flew away from the bows, Baxter sensed the slight hesitation each time the hull cut through a roller, followed by a forward surge.
That was the kind of moment when Baxter felt a kinship with the PT boat skippers of WWII, the PBR commanders in Vietnam, and the River Rats who fought in Iraq.
It was that feeling which had caused Baxter to choose the brown water navy over the blue water navy and what might have been a better shot at promotion. A decision he didn’t regret.
Focus, Baxter told himself. Who am I fighting? A fanatical member of the Islamic Republic of Iran? Or a civilian contractor? One thing is for sure, it takes balls to go to sea without any escorts, knowing that the enemy is looking for you.
Baxter was wearing a headset with mike. He recognized the voice as belonging to an electronics technician in the Combat Information Center (CIC). “The target is a thousand out and closing.”
Baxter strained to penetrate the darkness. Then a parachute flare went up, produced a blue-green glare, and began to sway as it floated down.
There were at least six RIBs (Rigid Inflatable Boats) coming straight at the patrol boats! Each inflatable had a light machine gun (LMG) mounted in the bow, and half of them were firing. Bullets pinged the hull.
RIB boats were notoriously hard to spot on radar. But what about the drone? The RQ-21 was equipped with a day/night camera which should have spotted the enemy boats long before they attacked.
Then Baxter realized his mistake. At some point, only minutes earlier, the inflatables had been launched off the tender’s stern! A possibility that had never occurred to him. Or to Central Command for that matter.
And though much smaller than the Mark VI, the zigzagging boats were a threat. Not the machine guns so much as the RPGs (rocket propelled grenade launchers) the passengers were likely to have. Weapons which could inflict serious damage if the Iranians got close enough. “This is Six actual. Kill them! Over.”
Each Mark VI was armed with two .25mm chain guns, one forward, and one aft. They were remotely operated from the CIC.
The PBs had .50 caliber machine guns, both port and starboard. All of the weapons opened fire as the RIBs came into range.
Three Israeli Shaldag-class fast patrol boats were speeding along behind the American PBs. They mounted 25mm guns, Oerlikon 20mm cannons, and machine guns.
The Swedish boats were trying to catch up, but weren’t likely to join the battle for ten or fifteen minutes.
But even though the Allied patrol boats had them outgunned, the Iranian RIBs were highly maneuverable, and that gave them an edge. PB-006 was the first boat in line.
Machine-gun bullets raked the boat’s bow and the superstructure, forcing the men on the flying bridge to duck. The windshield shattered and safety glass cascaded onto the deck.
The first RIB had passed the 006 by then and a second inflatable was alongside.
Baxter staggered, but managed to catch himself as a rocket-propelled grenade hit the PB’s port side, and exploded. Razor sharp s hrapnel scythed through the air, took the helmsman’s head off, and wounded Weller. “I have the con,” Weller said, as he stepped up to the controls.
The second RIB was closely followed by a third. A hail of bullets and cannon shells tore into the inflatables as the Mark VI’s port fifty and stern-mounted chain gun came to bear.
One RIB exploded and the other took off for Saudi Arabia with a dead man slumped against a motor.
Because the PB-006 was headed east, and the fast attack boats were headed west, the command boat cleared the enemy formation first. That gave Baxter a moment in which to focus his attention on the tender.
A second flare was floating down by then. And Baxter could see the ship’s silhouette, plus muzzle flashes, as the tender’s deck-mounted LMGs opened fire.
“This is Six actual … Clear the tender’s decks! But stay off the hull. We’re going to board. Over.”
Weller collapsed. “Corpsman to the flying bridge!” Baxter yelled, as he stepped in to take the controls. “Drop fenders to starboard! Prepare to put lines across! Issue weapons!”
The PB-006 had a joystick and two throttles rather than a wheel. Years had passed since Baxter had conned a ship. But the skills were there.
The trick was to slide in alongside the tender and let the fenders absorb the punishment as the hulls collided. There was a bump, followed by an exchange of small arms fire, which ended quickly.
The corpsman arrived and knelt next to Weller. “He’s bleeding out!” the medic exclaimed. “I need backup.”
That was when Baxter realized he was standing in a pool of blood. “Send two sailors to the flying bridge! Now!”
Shortly thereafter a boatswain appeared to take the controls along with an IT tech to assist the medic. That freed Baxter to make his way down to the main deck where Master Chief Crawford was waiting. “There will be five of us,” the noncom warned, as he offered Baxter a shotgun. That amounted to half the PB’s crew. The rest had to remain at their duty stations or had been wounded.
“This is the XO,” a female voice said. “PB-007 will come alongside soon.”
“Well done,” Baxter replied. “But we have to go aboard now … The tender’s crew might try to scuttle her.”
Going aboard was easier said than done. The larger ship’s main deck was at least ten feet higher than the patrol boat. You’re an idiot, Baxter told himself. You should have considered that.
Baxter was about to cancel the boarding attempt, when a sailor threw a grappling hook, caught a rail, and began to haul himself upwards.
“Suppressive fire!” Crawford bellowed. “And don’t shoot Okada!”
M4 carbines clattered, Okada disappeared, and Baxter made a jump for the line. His fingers closed around it and, with help from his legs, he shimmied upwards. Okada was waiting by the rail. The shotgun was on a sling and Baxter hurried to pull it around as Crawford arrived. “Take two sailors and head for the engine room, Master Chief.
“Check to ensure that everything works. I’d like to take the tender into port under her own power if possible. Okada and I will head for the bridge.”
Okada followed as Baxter stepped over a dead body and made his way to the steep ladder that led up along the tender’s superstructure to the bridge above. He half expected someone to fire down at him and was relieved when they didn’t.
The stairway terminated at an open bridge wing. An LMG was pointed up at the sky and a gunner lay wounded on the deck. The man moaned but Baxter couldn’t provide first aid until the bridge was secure.
With his back to a bulkhead Baxter edged his way toward a hatch, exposed his head long enough to peek inside, and was rewarded with a series of rapid-fire pistol shots.
Baxter jerked his head back to find that Okada was ready with a flashbang grenade. Baxter accepted it, crushed the spoon, and pulled the pin. Then it was a simple matter to toss it in through the hatch, wait for the bang, and enter.
The Iranian was firing as Baxter entered, but he couldn’t see, and the bullets went wide. Baxter charged the officer and knocked him down.
The scuffle ended when Okada arrived to help. And, thanks to the flex cuffs attached to the sailor’s tac vest, they managed to subdue the enemy officer.
The Iranian refused to talk but Baxter didn’t give a shit. Interrogating prisoners wasn’t his job. All he had to do was deliver the bastard to the authorities on the island of Masirah in Oman.
A sailor named Ellis entered with a radio. “The master chief says that we have power. Reinforcements arrived. We have control of the ship.”
Baxter felt a sense of relief. “Good. What about the sub? Do we have any word about it?”
Ellis grinned. “Yes, sir … The Tenacious rammed it, the sub broke in half, and sank. There were no survivors.”
“That’s good news,” Baxter replied. “Get Ensign Pawley on the horn … Tell her to notify CENTCOM that we captured the tender, and we’re headed for Masirah Island. How is Lieutenant Weller doing?”
The expression on the sailor’s face told Baxter everything he needed to know. Weller was dead. Baxter tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Were there others?”
Ellis nodded. “Two. One American and one Israeli. Four people were wounded. None are critical.”
Baxter knew that CENTCOM would classify the mission as a success. But each death felt like a failure. Was that stupid? Probably. But what was, was.
Crawford arrived. “Orders, sir?”
The engines were running. Baxter could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots. “Notify the squadron that we’re returning to port. The Israeli boats will lead the way, followed by the tender, and the rest of the squadron. And one more thing … ”
“Sir?”
“Tell our sailors that I’m proud of them. That will be all.”
***
Masirah Island, Oman
There was no natural harbor on Masirah Island. Only a concrete jetty behind which small freighters, ferries and fishing boats could shelter.
And that’s where Riverine Squadron 12’s boats were anchored. Each vessel floated over a reflection of itself which shimmered as wavelets passed by. Flags drooped and the temperature continued to climb as sailors cleaned weapons and chipped paint.
The water taxi had an awning and Captain Al Fenton was grateful for its shade, as the launch crossed the water to the area where the patrol boats were anchored.
The taxi wallowed in the wake produced by a passing fishing dhow, and Fenton’s boatman shouted something, then yelled what might have been an obscenity.
Fenton gestured to the nearest boat. “That one! Pull alongside!”
The Omani didn’t understand English. But the gesture was clear.
The boatman took careful aim and, as if determined to ram the PB, motored straight at it. At the last second he put the tiller over, slipped the engine into reverse, and cut power in a series of smooth motions. The boat coasted into position and stopped.
The Israeli Shaldag MK II loomed above. A line of pock marks ran half the length of the hull. Each dent marked the spot where a bullet had struck.
An Israeli officer appeared overhead, looked down, and saw Fenton’s rank. He tossed a salute. “Yes, sir … How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Commander Baxter. Which boat is he on?”
“That would be the PB-006, sir … She’s right over there.”
The Israeli was pointing at an American Mark VI-B patrol boat.
Fenton thanked the officer, ordered the boatman to head for the Mark VI, and pointed the way. White water surged away from the taxi’s bow as the Omani opened the throttle.
As Fenton drew closer, he could see signs of the battle damage that the boat had suffered during the engagement with the Iranian tender’s fast boats. Fenton knew about the fight because he was on General Langston’s staff.
Sailors could be seen shooting the shit while a black sailor worked to patch a hole in the boat’s superstructure. The sailor turned his welding gun off, and removed the protective “hood” from his head, as the water taxi made contact with a fender.
The seaman was drinking from a water bottle when Fenton called up to him. “I’m Captain Fenton. Is Commander Baxter onboard?”
“Yes, he is,” the man replied, as he looked down. “Commander Leo Baxter at your service, sir.”
Fenton frowned. “You do your own welding?”
