Lake Nasser, Egypt
The atmosphere in the vehicle had been tense and silent since they crossed the Egyptian border, over two hours ago. The headlights from the lead SUV carved a dual cone of illumination into the darkness. The second, identical black SUV stayed right on their tail, its headlights two pools of light on the tinted back window.
Rocky shifted in the passenger seat, wanting to crack a joke or do something to ease the tension. Instead, he retightened the straps on his body armor, the sound of ripping Velcro unnaturally loud in the quiet cabin.
They had crossed the Egyptian border with Sudan in the desert to avoid detection. Before they linked up with the highway again, Nasri, who was driving, stopped the caravan and told them to gear up. During the stop, he also divided the explosives between the two vehicles.
Rocky had been on countless ops with this crew and knew what to expect. They were professionals, ready to do whatever was required, which usually came down to whatever Kasim told them to do.
Like Rocky, most of this crew had worked for Kasim for the last decade. They’d come a long way from their early days in the Janjaweed. From there, they’d been absorbed into the Sudanese Defense Forces as a paramilitary wing of the regular army.
Working outside the system was something Kasim was good at. He always found a way to get them paid.
Nasri slowed the car as a large painted sign loomed out of the darkness: MUBAREK PUMPING STATION, in Arabic and English lettering.
Nasri keyed his radio. “This is it. Just like we planned it. Fast and furious.” He grinned at his own joke. Nasri was a big fan of the American movies of the same name.
The road was crushed gravel, but it was fast and flat. Nasri switched off the air-conditioning and rolled down the window. Chill desert air rolled in.
Rocky could smell the water, a humid, rotten smell left when fresh water receded from the banks of the lake. He squinted into the darkness, looking for a gleam of Lake Nasser.
Rocky could feel his nervous energy building in anticipation of the raid. He could hear the two guys in the backseat checking their weapons again. The Uzi submachine guns harnessed to their chests, the handguns. There was a zwick sound as one of the guys slipped out his blade and then reseated it into the sheath.
This raid was different. For months, Kasim had emphasized covert action. Nasri and Rocky had bribed the food truck guy to take a bomb into the Ethiopian dam work site. Another time, they impersonated a road crew and set IEDs on the highway at Ad-Damazin.
But tonight was different. They were there to make a show.
Those were Kasim’s words: Make a great show. He finished off with that deep rolling belly laugh of his.
Nasri took a curve in the road at high speed and nodded to the windshield. “That’s it,” he said.
Rocky craned his neck to get a look. The destination was a concrete block structure set in the middle of the lake, like an island. A bridge connected the island and the mainland.
According to Nasri, the building pumped water from Lake Nasser into a canal where it flowed a hundred miles into the desert. The Egyptians were trying to build a new Nile River Valley. Sounded like bullshit to Rocky.
There was a guardhouse with a steel bar that blocked the road. Two guards, according to the mission brief.
It was nearly three in the morning, the perfect time for a raid. A man in a blue uniform appeared in the glass door of the guardhouse. He rubbed his face like they’d woken him up.
Nasri started to slow down, then hit the accelerator and the SUV surged forward. The steel bar twanged back like a paper clip.
Rocky twisted in his seat. The second SUV had stopped at the guardhouse to finish the job. He counted two sparks of handgun fire, then two more.
The pumping station building was huge, at least thirty meters high, and washed in harsh floodlights that showed the imperfections in the concrete as rough shadows.
Nasri took the quarter-mile-long bridge at speed, grinning. Rocky gripped the armrest. Dark water flashed beneath them.
The bridge opened onto a wide courtyard in front of the pumping station. Nasri spun the wheel and skidded the SUV to a halt twenty meters from a pair of massive steel loading doors.
All four of the vehicle occupants bailed out. Nasri and the two guys in the backseat moved to the lift gate. Rocky walked to the front of the SUV, flipping off the plastic end covers on an RPG-22 antitank rocket launcher as he moved. He extended the weapon with a snap and manually cocked it by raising the rear sight. He checked to make sure the backblast area was clear and shouldered the weapon. He sighted on the center of the doors that led into the pumping station.
“Fire in the hole!”
A tremendous whoosh, a gout of flame erupted behind him, and the rocket corkscrewed into the doors. The resulting explosion nearly knocked Rocky off his feet.
When the smoke cleared, one of the blasted doors was on the ground, the other hung at a crazy angle.
Nasri whooped as the second SUV roared past Rocky, driving straight into the blown-open doorway.
Rocky dropped the spent RPG-22 and moved to the open lift gate of the SUV. He hoisted a rucksack loaded with explosives onto his shoulder and hustled after his team into the pumping station.
The inside of the concrete building was open, like a stadium. A deafening whining noise filled the space. Enormous mechanical structures, each the size of a small house, were linked by a series of meter-wide pipes. The scale was such that it took Rocky a second to realize they were pumps.
Over the din, Rocky could make out the pop-pop of small arms fire. That would be the second car taking out anyone in the control room.
Nasri slapped him on the shoulder. “Stop gawking! This way.” He pointed to a set of double doors labeled POWER DISTRIBUTION and a red HIGH VOLTAGE sign.
The four of them crashed through the door together. After the deafening hum of the pump room, the power distribution room was almost silent. The room was full of gray-painted steel cabinets, each as tall as a man, arranged in four rows.
The team raced to their assigned places in the room. Two in the far corners, one in the center, and one by the door. Rocky dropped his rucksack and ripped open the zipper.
Inside each rucksack was a demolition charge of ten C-4 blocks wired together and attached to a timer. A bright red lanyard was attached to a silver pin—the arming mechanism.
“Everybody ready?” Nasri yelled. Even without the radio, Rocky could hear him in the quiet room.
Three positive responses.
“Arm your charges on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!”
Rocky pulled the pin.
They had ten minutes to get clear.
Back in the noisy pump room, Nasri paused to gawk at the pumps.
“Damn,” he said. “Those are big fuckers.”
Rocky tugged on his arm. “C’mon, man, we’re on the clock.”
Nasri did not budge. “Gimme the RPG.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me—and get back.”
Rocky handed him the spare weapon and jogged with him to the blasted exit doors. “What are you gonna do?”
Nasri grinned. “Boss said put on a show.”
He extended the RPG casing, cocked it, and aimed at the nearest pump.
“Fire in the fucking hole.”