The Caliphate Invasion

by Michael Beals

  As soon as the chopper’s door drew parallel to the Fire Direction Center truck cluster, Brown simply stepped out. He didn’t even need to jump. The swirling Jayhawk’s momentum shot him out like a cannon ball.

  Brown finished three involuntary combat rolls before landing on his knees. With Dixon’s Gatling gun still chopping the air over his head, Brown lobbed hand grenades at each truck. He depinned and chucked four frag balls out in as many seconds before unslinging his rifle. While Dixon loaded a new ammo belt, Brown bolted to his feet and charged through the shrapnel rain. He ran a fast loop and double-tapped every last one of the stunned and wounded support staffers.

  Dixon stopped firing and just stared at the Grim Reaper strolling away from the slaughter. Brown pried a handset from a still twitching corpse sprawling out of the nearest truck. His steady, almost bored voice chimed in over the Warriors of Christ’s radio net and cut through the chaotic chatter. All stations went silent and quit begging for status reports.

  “Mr. Preacher man, I’ve found something that belongs to you. How’d you like to swap? I’m sending a helicopter to collect my boss. If they aren’t safely in the air and on their way home in ten minutes, then my team and I are going to turn these rockets on downtown Lake City. For you hardcore Warriors listening in… how many of your wives and children have a gas mask?”

  He switched over to their local net and barked at Dixon. “All right, just play along. Go get Rand and get your ass back home. Don’t worry about me. I’ll link up with one of my recon teams nearby and…”

  The mike fell out of Brown’s quivering hand. He melted to his knees and heaved, shitting and pissing himself in the process. Dixon was still staring at Brown’s bleeding eyes as Danny jerked the helicopter up and away. Only at a hundred feet did Dixon notice the creeping mist weaving through the smoke around the Fire Direction Center.

  “Damnit! We can’t leave him! Go back and hover. I’ll find a rope…”

  Dixon stuck his head out the gunner’s hatch in time to see Brown reach inside his vest. The blast flipped the remaining Fire Direction Center trucks and their irreplaceable computers a good fifty feet in the air.

  The pilot put the nose down and redlined the turbofan engines. He whispered over the intercom while Dixon beat his fists against the gun mount in impotent rage.

  “Sorry, buddy, but the Warriors don’t know what happened. It’ll take time to puzzle things out. I don’t see why his crazy plan couldn’t still work, as long as we haul ass. Hey, is that offer to extract my family still on the table?”

  Dixon ignored the pilot and glanced at Brown’s squawking personal radio. He couldn’t have simply forgotten to take it with him. Dixon pulled it close and caught one of the infiltration teams begging for a sit-rep.

  “Iron Main, this is Ghost 1-6. All hell’s breaking loose in Lake City. Lot of rumors about a mutiny. They’re going door to door and rounding civilians up. We have to abandon Safe House # 2. Unless you have a mission for us, we plan to extract back to rally point Alpha. How copy, over?”

  Dixon clicked the mike on and off three times before he could force the words out. “Iron 6 actual is KIA. This is Dixon. I’m… I’m taking over for now.”

  The familiar voice on the other end kept it short, but Dixon could hear cussing in the background as he gave the challenge word.

  “Tripoli.”

  Dixon held the radio at arm’s length and puffed out his cheeks. He pulled out a little slip of paper wedged inside the back clip. How many contingency plans did Brown have? He read off the one-word response.

  “Montezuma.”

  The net was quiet for a few seconds before the grim voice came back on. “Roger, Iron Main. Do you have new orders for us?”

  Dixon glanced up to see the pilot twisting around and chewing his lips. “Yeah, Ghost element, we’ve got some high-value assets that need extraction. Civilians. Wait one…”

  He handed the radio over to Danny. “Where are they going?”

  The pilot gave his directions and handed the radio back. “Thank you. You won’t regret this. Now we’re almost to the field headquarters at the airfield. I can see it from here. Some woman is standing in the middle of the tarmac. Could you do me one more favor and put a gun to my head? You know, for appearances?”

  Day Thirty-Seven

  Wilayat al-Fizan

  (Formerly Benghazi, Libya)

  “Relax, guys. When’s the last time everything went according to plan? Can’t you just savor it for a moment?” Washington sucked in the fresh Mediterranean air and slapped Kat and Dore on the back.

  “When, in the entire friggin’ history of mankind, has telling someone to ‘relax’ ever worked? Just shut up and keep your head on a swivel. Who knows if there’s a bounty on your head?”

  “Even if there was, do you think these guys could be bothered to collect?”

  Washington jerked his thumb over at the Port Authority guard station two piers over. All the local militia folk sported advanced, Caliphate-supplied gauss rifles. That was quite clear, since all their gear was left leaning unattended against the side of the fortified building. A dozen or so port guards lounged across the street in an outdoor Chai shop, nursing ultra-sweet teas and bickering about something on the television. The lone armed militiaman with a weapon dozed in a lawn chair by the harbor’s only gate, his fancy rifle muzzle balanced on the same sandbags as his feet to keep it from falling.

  Kat crossed her legs and leaned against the gangplank leading up to the freighter, careful to ensure the old-fashioned carbine under her burka left no tell-tale panty line.

  “How the hell are these Arab rednecks kicking our ass? If we pushed, I bet even our scratch team could sack the whole city by nightfall. Wouldn’t even need a single rebel to rise up.”

  Dore fought the urge to fiddle with his own weapon, tucked so far away in a gym bag at his feet. “Maybe you’re right, but that’s the problem. Look at this place. It hasn’t been so safe and complacent since Qaddafi was in power. Why would the locals want to stir up trouble?”

  Commander du Casse came out of the main admin building with one of his French-Algerian crewmen in tow. Dore tensed immediately as they casually lit cigarettes and strolled down the peer, laughing easily with hands in their pockets.

  Du Casse’s sly smile vanished as soon as he made it to the gangplank. Dore hefted his gym bag and slipped one hand inside. “What’s the problem? Do they want more gold?”

  “No, everything’s smooth as fifty year old Tuscan wine, which never happens in this part of the world. They’ll bring around the crane in just a moment. Apparently all berthing and handling fees are being waived for so-called ‘prize ships’ from Europe. They didn’t even ask for the customary token bribe to do their job. The whole thing scares the shit out of me. Are you sure we have to do this here? Maybe we can find a smaller port...”

  A towering, sleek black drone emerged from a nearby warehouse and skidded across the pier. Dore ripped his rifle out of his bag and hollered. “Contac—”

  Washington was even faster. He snatched the weapon away easier than taking a pacifier from a baby and chucked it out of sight.

  “Stand down!”

  Up on the ship’s railing, even Captain Kolchak paused, with a rocket-propelled grenade halfway to his shoulder, at the titanium in Washington’s sudden command voice.

  The warbot, completely oblivious to its near destruction, just trumped up to the side of the ship and extended a pair of retractable arms. In seconds, the impossibly efficient machine had unstrapped every tie down from each CONEX and swung the first ten-ton container on its back. The box rested precariously on the four round rail gun turrets, while the robot stomped over to a waiting tractor-trailer bed a hundred meters away.

  “I told you these things were simply modified worker drones. The Caliphate just slapped weapons and an aggressive Artificial Intelligence upgrade on standard industrial bots. It’s a harmless, loyal slave right now. But show that thing a weapon and it’ll tur
n into your worst nightmare.”

  Dore growled and spun around. “That’s not the point. You’re a damn civilian. Touch my weapon again and I’ll...”

  Two more drones appeared from nowhere, casting them all in a shadow as they hovered above and helped unload.

  Kat tried hard to steady her nerves and act like she belonged. “Come on, Captain. Even you can admit he saved our asses. Again.” She patted both of the strutting roosters’ arms and pried them gently apart. “So... what’s the deal with our contact? These damn things are going to be finished unloading a lot faster than we planned. What the hell are we going to do then?”

  Dore wagged his head and crossed his arms. “They were supposed to meet us here. We’ll just have to find some way to connect to the internet and check the dead drop. As peaceful as this place is, there has to be an internet café or something around.”

  Washington blinked and stared up at the sky before frowning. “Found a local wi-fi network...yeah, I’m not seeing any updates on any of the dark net sites. The last coded message acknowledged our departure from Italy, but not a peep since then.”

  Dore cocked his head. “Can you really get such range from that neural implant thing? Could you steal us another dropship like in Rome?”

  Washington grunted and rolled his ashen eyes. “Popping into some local tactical net in the middle of a chaotic battle is one thing. Here, where everything’s tied to the Caliphate’s central network and monitored by quantum-scale Artificial Intelligence programs? Come on. I’d be less conspicuous running around butt naked.”

  Kat and Dore shared a sadistic grin. “Then we’ll have to see if we can catch us one of these future men off-duty. I’m sure we could persuade him to share his password.”

  Washington took a step back. “The disgusting things you people would do for the slightest advantage... well, it’s a moot point anyway. The millisecond my node becomes active, no matter what credentials I’m using, they’ll be on to me. The Caliphate has the same primitive mindset as you all, and they sure as hell don’t need me. Those motherships are never taking off again. Knowing their standard procedure, they wouldn’t even bother trying to capture a ‘traitor.’ Bet you anything they’d just drop a bomb on the whole area.”

  Dore cocked his head. “Really? If you’re right...” He winked at Kat. “Maybe we just found some fire support.”

  Kat’s eyes twinkled under the face wrap. “You’re a dirty old man, but I love it. What do you say, time on target ten minutes?”

  Washington cocked his head. “What the hell are you—”

  She tugged on Washington’s arm as Dore grinned and circled a finger over his head. The rest of the team emerged from their overwatch positions and rushed off the ship.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll wait until we’re ready to mount up. Then you just pop in and try to take over the drones for a brief second. Just a little chaos and then we haul ass. One of those mini-nukes here would level the whole port without doing much damage to the city. Seems like a great start to the campaign...”

  Dore jerked his head as a shadow fell over them. Two of the warbots finished loading the last shipping container and swerved around, blocking the pier. “Woah! Wait until we’re mounted up on the trucks!”

  Washington froze and sputtered. “I’m not controlling them!”

  Both machines retracted their arms and spun their gun turrets into play. A lone, potbellied man sauntered out of the main admin building. He barked something in Arabic up at the drones before leaning against one of the shady legs. The newcomer scowled at the sea of white faces scattered around the pier.

  “I know that cargo is for the masters, so I’m not stupid enough to touch it, but you have other bills to pay.”

  “Peace, brother. Zuwari sent—” He stuck up one finger as Du Casse stepped forward, causing the warbots to tilt their weapons straight down.

  “Don’t waste your breath. I don’t care if you’re working for Zuwari or have taken over his business. Either way, this ship is up to its antennae in debt. It’s mine now. If you have a problem with that, then you’ll all die right here.”

  Du Casse threw up his hands and spun around to hide his grin. Captain Dore managed to feign some appropriate righteous indignation for a brief moment. “You son of a... Well, you hold the whip hand. Fine, you win.” He slung his gym bag over his shoulder and slipped a protective arm around Kat’s waist. “Let’s go everyone. Don’t fight him.”

  The port manager sneered as the surprisingly young and fit freighter crew hurried off under the legs of the drones. They moved so fast that one bot scurried to the side to keep an eye on them. In the process, its half-meter thick steel leg swung out and clipped Captain Kolchak.

  “Ah!” The open duffel bag on his shoulder went flying in one direction, and Kolchak in the other. Washington snagged him back with one blazing fast hand before he dived headfirst in the bay. They both scurried to scoop up the bag of weapons, but slowed when they caught sight of the port manager.

  The Libyan ignored the rocket-propelled grenade warhead rolling down the pier and bumping against his foot. He just pursed his lips and squinted at Washington, his dark gaze bouncing back and forth between the big man’s eyebrow-less face and the tiny black neural implant mole on the base of his neck.

  “Why would a master...” His bushy eyes bulged as he sprang back and screeched at the warbots. “Trait—”

  Three hundred yards away, an old Toyota Corolla parked on the curb next to the guard-filled cafe disintegrated, opening a portal to hell in the process. The blast drowned out the screaming port boss even as both drones trotted off to the crater. The manager cupped his hands.

  Only a gurgle managed to bubble past Kolchak’s blade in his windpipe.

  “You didn’t have to kill him!” Washington’s eyes were wider than the dying man’s.

  Kolchak just shoved Washington down the pier, racing to catch up with the others.

  Neither warbot paid the murder any mind. Instead, they hopped the port’s fence and pivoted in unison to the west. All eight turrets lit up as a heavy machine gun farther down the residential street opened up. The shells weren’t explosive, but the sheer volume of lead from the drones devastated the apartment better than any bomb.

  As soon as they were fully engaged, a pair of non-standard tactical pickup trucks drove into the street from the east... each mounting a 23mm anti-aircraft gun. They shredded both drones in less than a second, but then the crews jumped out of their vehicles and dashed inside the nearest building.

  Washington dived behind one of the cargo-laden semi’s just inside the port fence, nearly crashing into Kat.

  “Wha... why are you all just standing there? There’s still one more drone!”

  Kat peered around the grill of the truck and wagged a finger. Her rifle was out, but never left the low-ready. “Take a breath, big boy. Whoever’s out there put a lot of planning into this. The last thing they need are a bunch of cowboys gumming up the works. See? Watch this...”

  She tilted her head as the third reserve drone launched itself out of the warehouse and annihilated both abandoned non-standard tactical vehicles under a tsunami of lead. The mechanical beast charged across the street, barreling into the building the attackers retreated into like a bulldozer. Less than fifty yards away, the grim reaper bounded over an old pickup truck that was riding particularly low on its back axle.

  “Shit! I’m glad they’re on our side.” Kat spun back around to cover and giggled as shrapnel zinged down around them. Washington dropped to his butt and rocked on his knees as the dark cloud from the blast swept over them.

  Which was followed by a chirping wave of “Allahu Akbar’s.” Washington didn’t open his eyes until Kat whistled. “Holy hell!”

  One unarmed man strolled through the smoke, giving casual suggestions to the dozens of whooping insurgents rushing about.

  “Sorry about waiting till the last minute. We were hoping to extract you with a little more...” he stepped over a ch
arred hunk of meat from the cafe blast, “subtlety. How you been, Sergeant Walker?”

  He extended his hand, but Kat swooped him up in a hug. “Smith! If it isn’t my favorite civilian contractor. Thank God you’re still working overtime.”

  “Good to see you all survived your little Swiss vacation. Good thing you never came back for me!”

  Captain Dore and the rest of the gang pumped his hand, but Dore jerked his head at militia looting the port around them. “Where’d you get your own private army? So these rebels are real? So organized already.”

  Smith’s perpetual grin never wavered. “Oh, these guys? Remnants of the local Al Qaeda network. They’re still sore about ISIS stealing the spotlight. Yeah, I have to sleep with one eye open, but as long as I keep showing them how to kill more of their archrivals than they could with a suicide vest, they tolerate me.”

  “So what... you’re commanding them?”

  He gave a sheepish shrug. “Hey, I’m not the leader type. Just give little tips here and there.”

  Kat peeled back and spit on the ground. “The CIA is running Al-Qaeda? You’ve been trapped behind the lines far too long. If we’re fighting with the terrorists, then whose side are we really on?”

  Smith’s endless smirk faltered. “Not the winning one, at the moment. That’s all that matters. We don’t have time for this shit. If we don’t extract pronto, you can take up your complaints with the next batch of drones.”

  Dore gritted his teeth and tugged on Kat’s arm. For once, she didn’t struggle and just climbed into the nearest truck cab. “All right. But your Al Qaeda escorts stay well in front of the convoy where I can see them. And you’re riding with us.”

  Smith jabbered at a nearby bearded local for a second, while another came up and reluctantly gave him an rocket-propelled grenade launcher and quiver of rockets.

  “Just like old times, huh? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  ***

  “Boy, I was expecting more out of your grand rebel base.”