The Caliphate Invasion

by Michael Beals

  The militia leader spent a good ten seconds studying Dixon and fiddling with his weapon. An epic boom down the street made his decision for him. His radio chirped and he whispered something in reply.

  “Give them back their weapons and take your positions. The crafty FEMA demons are trying to flank the ambush site!”

  The militia boss spun around and snagged an extra walky-talky from his assault pack on the coffee table. He shoved it in Dixon’s hand.

  “Take this and monitor preset channel two every hour, on the hour. One of our senior officers will be in touch soon. We might be able to make a deal. The day’s password is ‘Jericho,’ countersign ‘Trumpet.’ That’ll get you through our checkpoints. Stick to the main roads though. We don’t have complete control over the side streets.”

  He turned and yelled at the rest of Dixon’s crew. “Now get out of the city and don’t come back. This is our salvage turf.”

  Dixon nodded and complied without another word, but Rachel couldn’t help tossing out a snide remark as she left the shop. “Don’t you mean God’s turf?”

  The Warrior of Christ yanked a gas mask from his bag and sighed.

  “It’s Armageddon, my dear. The good Lord has his hands full at the moment.”

  Walls of Babylon

  50 miles south of Baghdad

  “I’m out of armor piercing rounds!”

  Kat hugged the machine gun mounted on her turret tight, not exposing one inch of skin more than necessary as she blazed away. She hollered down to Michaels when their 25mm chain gun went silent for the first time in five minutes.

  “Then switch to high explosive and fire twice as many!”

  Over her bursts, a faint voice barked over the radio. “Chalk One is secure in the compound. Chalk Two, your turn to bound forward. We’ll cover you.”

  Kat didn’t waste a second before prodding her driver. “You heard him, Johnson. Get us through the siege lines as fast as you can!”

  Siege was the perfect way to describe the tight perimeter the ISIS fighters kept around the ancient ruins of Babylon. The archeological treasure trove now being used as a sprawling military base hadn’t seen such action since the days of Alexander the Great. Her four Bradley’s on overwatch had smashed two enemy BMP Soviet Infantry Fighting Vehicle’s and a dozen non-standard tactical vehicles, but they’d only managed to carve a small knock in the noose around the Shiite stronghold.

  Worst of all, in direct contrast to the Iraqi army, whose surrendered equipment made up the bulk of the ISIS arsenal, combat only enraged the terrorists. Like a smelly, bearded hydra, every terrorist you killed simply enticed more to show up.

  As soon as Kat’s track jerked forward, the dune they had been using for cover fountained into the sky. “That wasn’t a mortar… son of a bitch! Michaels, do you see the shooter? Three O’clock, 1,000 meters. The bastards have an Abrams tank!”

  “Not for long… TOW up!”

  Kat held her fire and her tongue. She buttoned down the top hatch as the box on the turret’s left side swung parallel to the ground. Her gunner would need every ounce of his concentration, since they couldn’t afford such luxuries as stopping to aim.

  The seven seconds it took Michaels to prep the TOW anti-tank missile were the longest of her life. She spent the time wondering how much experience the ISIS tankers had accumulated. A well-trained crew could reload, aim and fire that monstrous 120mm gun on an American Abrams in only five seconds. Sure, the US hadn’t given the Iraqi army the very latest generation of M1 main battle tanks, in the wild chance that they might fall into the wrong hands, but even the older models were equipped with highly advanced fire control computers.

  Most troublesome, in the modern world of computerized tank combat, one thousand yards was practically a knife fight. Even an amateur would have trouble missing so close.

  “On the way!” After the agonizingly slow build up, the missile’s speed disappointed her. Rocketing away at 450 meters per second, she never saw the wire-guided missile launch. She couldn’t miss the 70-ton enemy tank going up in a cloud of smoke two seconds later though.

  Kat and Michaels both held their breath for the black shroud to clear. “Should I fire another? We only have one more…”

  A berm flashed across her viewport and blocked out their target. Her driver hooted. “We’re in!”

  Some of the civilians in back cried with joy. Kat spun around in shock. She’d forgotten all about them. They needed a more permanent and less, well, explosive home for the civvies. Sticking her head out the turret hatch, Kat searched for some type of cover.

  Michaels hugged Kat tight and yanked her down as the first incoming mortar shells whistled in around them. “Shit! Is this what they call a safe zone?”

  Several mortar tubes responded from a few hundred yards deeper into the compound. The outgoing fire at least drew the attention of the ISIS mortar men. While the two sides shifted their terrible aim and dueled with one another, Kat gingerly stuck her head back outside to see what was going on.

  Captain Dore whistled from a mirror replica of the Ishtar Gate to her left. Kat was in no mood to appreciate the historical beauty. Her boss tapped his badly damaged radio to his helmet and circled a finger over his head. Kat just cupped her hands and shouted.

  “Just a sec! Where can we stash the civilians? It’s got to be torture for them.”

  “In here! Get them over here!”

  Kat clicked on her internal communications network. “Johnson, drop the ramp. Michaels, you and him take over the Brad. I’m going to go find out what the plan is.” She gave Michaels a reassuring slap on the shoulder and dived out the vehicle. All the other Bradley’s released their unarmed civilian cargoes at the same time. Kat hollered over the mortar bursts and collected stragglers.

  “Let’s go, people. Follow me!”

  The mortar duel going on far too close kept any of the shell-shocked civilians from arguing. Even the kids didn’t bother asking questions. Kat led her charges over to the fancy gates like a well-armed mother duck. Captain Dore met them and pointed down a hidden side staircase. Invisible unless you were standing right at the door.

  “All non-combatants get down the stairs. It’s an old bomb shelter now being used as the infirmary. The safest place for miles. Anyone still topside in sixty seconds can consider themselves drafted!”

  Dr. Jenkins shuffled past, hauling one end of the stretcher carrying Atkins. “Let me drop this guy off and then I’ll be right back. I owe those Jihadis some payback!” Captain Dore cracked a little smile and tipped his head, before turning back to the huddle of Iraqis under the archway. The police lieutenant was already unconscious in the aid station, but he had stayed awake long enough to make introductions.

  While none of the black-clad Shiite militia leaders were relaxed to begin with, they stiffened even more as Kat joined the conference. The locals divided their attention between Captain Dore and the towering Sergeant Tamayo, but the religious men refused to acknowledge her presence. One of the old Iraqi commanders, a local banker by trade, took the lead. His English-English dripped condescending authority.

  “Okay, Captain. As agreed, your people are safe. Now it’s time to drive these Sunni bastards out of our homes.”

  Dore nodded politely and let the hometown warlord lecture him on the vileness of their foes and righteousness of his own cause for a few moments. Kat tried hard to bite down on her sarcasm and shut her mouth. How could the captain be such a hard-ass with his own troops, yet such a kiss ass with these jokers? It pained her to admit it, but he did have far more experience collaborating with native militants. All she could do was pray that he knew when to stand his ground.

  When the Shiite commander finally halted his propaganda spiel and got around to the tactical nuts and bolts, Kat was only half paying attention. Captain Dore bowed his head ever so slightly.

  “With the utmost respect, Sayyidi, we don’t have time for this strategy. We cannot just bunker down and wage a war of attrition with the f
oes of Allah. We must strike with the spirit and energy that the Prophet Muhammad himself unleashed during his assault on Mecca. Let us seize the initiative. The longer we delay, the more time the apostates have to dig in and gather reinforcements.”

  While the younger fighters bobbed their heads along, the older Shiite strongmen vacillated and clucked amongst themselves.

  Kat ground her teeth. “So we’re going to sit on our asses? What a surprise.”

  Besides recruiting fighters that did exotic things like aim their weapons or not run away at the first sign of trouble, the initiative was another advantage ISIS usually enjoyed. Of all the professional armies, terrorist organizations and paramilitary groups throughout the Middle East, ISIS-led Sunni rebels were the only ones eager to wage Western-style, sustained offensive operations. All with the ultimate goal of closing with their enemies and engaging in decisive shock combat.

  In short, ISIS wasn’t interested in merely fending off their enemies. They made every effort to charge their foes, slit their throats and take their land. That laser-focused, perpetually offensive mindset was something few Eastern military forces could grasp. Even fewer could resist the onslaught.

  Driving home that point, the compound’s perimeter suddenly lit up with action. The militiamen at the closest gate laid on the heaviest fire at some unseen attackers.

  The head militia honcho waved a dismissive hand and held a radio to his ear. His interpreter didn’t miss a drop of his pomposity. “Just another suicide bomber. We’ll cut the wannabe martyr apart long before he gets here.”

  Dore jerked a thumb at Kat. “Set up an observation post, now! Everyone else, mount up!”

  She wasted only a second to collar one of the younger militiamen with a long-range radio and some decent English. “Follow me!”

  The conservative Iraqi man hadn’t taken an order from a woman since hitting puberty, but something in her howl made him scurry behind her up the nearest ladder. Kat had no time to appreciate the gorgeous scenery from the top of the reconstructed walls. She whipped up her binoculars and stared over the ancient ruins of Babylon towards the latest invaders.

  “You clever bastards.”

  The Mahdi leader was half-right. A single suicide bomber headed their way… driving a M113 armored personnel carrier. Ten Shiite machine guns pelted the armored sides in impotent rage. A pair of Rocket Propelled Grenades lashed out and penetrated the armor, but missed the driver’s compartment. They blew the right tread off and sparked a raging engine fire, which would have counted as a kill for a normal target, but only slowed this fanatic down by a few seconds. The armored vehicle could theoretically haul at least 4,000 pounds of high explosives…

  Thirty yards short of the gate, the Armored Personnel Carrier disintegrated and opened a portal to hell. Kat had three seconds to gawk at the three-hundred meter long hole carved into the perimeter before the shockwave washed over her. A faint, but frenzied war cry from the Sunni rebels rode in on the heels of the blast.

  The scores of Shiite defenders vaporized or buried under the rubble were not so enthusiastic.

  Kat ignored the epic destruction and studied the distance to that screaming mass of attackers. She nudged the terrified interpreter at her elbow.

  “Relax. For the first time since we entered this damn fight, the enemy is concentrated. Do what I say and we’ll kill them all.”

  The Iraqi fighter simply fiddled with his rifle and muttered a prayer. On the horizon, fifty some odd ISIS armed trucks, armored personnel carriers and even tanks raced their way like an old timey cavalry charge. The friendly Shiite mortars thumped out rounds in the horde’s vague direction, but the amateurs couldn’t land a single one within a quarter mile of the enemy. For their part, the incoming Sunni rounds were sprayed around with the same wanton abandon.

  “God damn amateurs.” Kat double-checked her estimates of the attackers’ speed and range before slapping the militant next to her. “Put down that silly rifle and get your real weapon out. Grab your radio and call the mortars. I’ve got a fire mission!”

  He snorted. “There are too many and our artillery too not accurate. We have not laser bombs like you Americans!”

  “If you’ll listen to me, I can aim those rounds better than a laser could. That’s my whole job.”

  “Ha! Women playing war. Of course you want to use women weapon. Is your rifle too much heavy for you?”

  Kat readjusted her aim since the wasted time let the enemy advance closer. When she had a new set of grid coordinates, she handed him her map. “Just fire everything you have on this grid line. You can thank me later.”

  The tough guy shook his head and tucked the map away. He stopped with it halfway in his pocket. Something in Kat’s eyes made him spring back.

  Too late. She seized and twisted the inside of the militant’s gun-holding wrist with her right hand. Using his own struggling as leverage, she swung her left leg in a roundhouse kick at his head. As he fought for consciousness, Kat squatted over his chest and stuck the radio and map into his hands.

  “Pretty please, with a cherry on top, will you call in the fucking fire mission now?”

  Perhaps it was her contrite face, or the rifle muzzle she wedged in his pants, but the young man grew immediately cooperative.

  For ten long seconds the friendly mortars went silent. Kat had budgeted 15 seconds into her estimate. If they dallied any longer…

  A familiar and terrifying roar stopped Kat’s heart. She snapped her head around just as the Mahdi Army’s rocket battery fired from a mile away. From the far side of Nebuchadnezzar’s restored palace, four Toyota pickups each emptied 40 tubes full of 122mm rockets at the coordinates she provided. The Grads rippled off so fast the volley was just one long Whoooooosh.

  Kat hugged the Iraqi and squealed in delight. “You crazy bastards had Multiple Launch Rocket Systems this whole time and you’re just now using them!?”

  “That was all we had left. You better be correct or Daesh will slaughter us!”

  The advancing Sunnis must have seen the incoming death. With seamless coordination, they distanced themselves from one another without any hint of confusion. Their compact line evaporated into a diffuse mist, but the psychopaths never stopped surging towards the gap in the Shiite perimeter.

  None of the rockets struck the target Kat ordered, but that didn’t matter. With her map grid as a central reference point, the rocket shower plastered everything within four hundred yards. The crude rocket system wasn’t designed for accuracy nor precision. Raw shock value was the name of the game… and the Russian-made terror weapons played the game well.

  Kat and her reluctant translator shared a moment as they shouted the same phrase in different languages. “Holy shit!”

  Dropping 160 warheads all at once, each packed with 20 kilograms of high explosive, was enough to break the nerve of the most hardened warriors.

  “Motherfuckers!” Kat punched the dusty wall in front of her. These suicidal religious nuts were far from your typical warriors. From hell’s darkest depths, ten vehicles escaped the slaughter and pushed forward. Kat didn’t flinch as an ancient T-55 tank breached the ruined main gate and fired into the inner compound. With one shot, a Shiite non-standard tactical vehicle armed with a recoilless rifle, the heaviest piece of firepower the defenders had left, ceased to exist.

  Kat’s companion grasped her arm. “Ninety percent losses, but they come still? Call more artillery before it is too late!”

  Before she could answer, Dore climbed up the ladder and joined them. “Don’t bother. Chalk One is plugging the leak. Good work thinning the herd.”

  Kat peered over the sandy ramparts in time to catch four of her team’s Bradley’s clanking through the maze of retreating Shiites. In just 30 seconds of disciplined fire, they blew apart every ISIS vehicle. A few loose enemy dismounts hid among the reverse berm slope and took potshots at the safe zone, but the final battle was over as soon as it began.

  “Well, that’s that. How long do yo
u think it’ll take to convince our Shiite friends that the fight’s over with? Look at ‘em. They’re still running!” Kat chuckled from on high as the local commanders dashed around and physically rallied their troops.

  “Come on, Kat. Don’t laugh so hard. They aren’t professionals. To be fair, I’d say they’re handling the emotional roller coaster pretty well. It’s a hard thing to go from certain defeat to total victory in two minutes. These people have been on their own for so long that hope is an alien concept.”

  Kat wasn’t in the mood for the captain’s bottomless sympathy. “Whatever you say, boss. If you want my opinion, we’ve done enough. Shouldn’t we head out—”

  A curvy, black hole-dark ship just like the one at Basrah crested the western horizon. It zoomed in and made a touch-and-go landing several miles to the north… deep behind Sunni lines. Kat sighed and rubbed her neck.

  “That can’t be good.”

  Seconds later, four dull-black metallic creatures, each with four legs, galloped over the no-man’s land between the Shiite and the ISIS forces. Dore studied the newcomers and clucked his tongue.

  “Huge sons of bitches. I’d say a good five meters tall, but they don’t look that complicated. Hmm… At least they’re too skinny to be well-armored.”

  Each vehicle was little more than a flat platform with four independent turrets resting atop of four legs. Several arm-like appendages were folded at the sides. Kat steadied her binoculars, struggling to figure out what was so familiar about the attackers.

  “There’s no room for a human operator…they’re damn drones. Those sneaky Russians!”

  Kat tried to plot a fire mission, but the attackers crossed the desert and vaulted over the sand berm in just moments. They fired some type of ultra-rapid chain guns. Seemed like a multi-barreled version of what the flying craft around Basrah mounted. The brutally efficient drones sailed through the air and cut down twenty Shiite militiamen en passant.

  The four American Bradley’s just a few hundred yards away didn’t hesitate. Kat howled as they squirted off a quartet of TOW missiles in a single volley. “Get some, you Russki bastards!”