He put his hands on the back of his head and pressed down, trying to present the smallest target imaginable to the gunners in the helicopters. He’d seen enough Apache footage online to know that he couldn’t hide from their thermal cameras. His only hope was to become a much smaller target than the rest of the jihadists. A hand gripped the back of his ammunition vest, yanking him off the ground.
“Get on your feet and honor Allah,” his platoon commander screamed.
Aariz twisted free, ending up on his back. The bearded militant snarled and reached down to grab him, disappearing in a scarlet burst of gore and pieces. He stared at the suspended remains of the man’s body, vaguely aware of his truck exploding in the background. The detonation shook the sand, knocking the shredded corpse on top of him. He lay in complete stillness, praying for mercy, as the helicopters strafed and rocketed the convoy.
Nor did he move after the attack when the men prodded his blood-soaked, body-part-covered “corpse.” He stayed there until dark, long after the convoy departed. Rising slowly, he scanned the dark road next to the closest smoldering truck. Several dark lumps littered the ground, giving him hope. The men sent to examine him hadn’t been interested in the sustainment pouch attached to his vest—only the rifles.
His first priority would be to search the bodies for food and water. They had been issued two bottles of water and a vacuum-sealed, Chinese meal upon boarding the trucks in Ramadi. He saw five more wrecks spread out along the road, each likely surrounded by more dead fighters. Aariz planned to load up and get off the road. He’d head east toward the Mediterranean, hoping to run into a true Arab brother—if they hadn’t all been wiped out by the Caliphate.
Chapter 13
West of Ramadi, Iraq
Major Ilan Katz watched the featureless, purple-gray landscape race below his F-15E Strike Eagle.
“Sixty seconds to maneuver point alpha,” said Captain Jacob Eshel, the aircraft’s Weapon Systems Officer. “ESM is clear. Spotlight One reports radar clear to target.”
An Airborne Early Warning (AEW) aircraft circling over the empty desert fifty miles south kept a close eye on their approach. ISIS had no known aircraft-intercept capability, but the quality of military equipment arriving in Iraqi ports left mission planners nervous. The nations backing these extremists had deep pockets, and it was only a matter of time before their commitment to the Caliphate started to include trained pilots.
“Very good. Run final weapon diagnostics,” said Katz.
“Running diagnostics now,” said the captain.
The aircraft rumbled, hitting an early evening temperature gradient common to low-level desert flying. With the sun below the horizon, the ground radiated heat into the cooling air. Evenly distributed near the ground, it didn’t create a problem, but the temperature differentials occasionally concentrated in a single location and created a “bump.” Nothing to get worked up about.
“I have a clean diagnostics check. Ready to arm the weapon,” said Eshel.
“Stand by,” said Katz, opening the designated command and control frequency.
“Forge, this is Hammer One. Approaching maneuver point alpha. Request failsafe instructions. Over.”
Failsafe was the point of no return for the mission. Once the weapon left the aircraft, they couldn’t take it back. He was giving them one last chance to call off the mission.
“Hammer One, this is Forge. Proceed with Clean Sweep,” said a voice through his helmet speaker.
“This is Hammer One, copy proceed with Clean Sweep,” he replied, switching back to the cockpit communications circuit. “Jacob, arm the weapon.”
“Weapon armed,” said Eshel, moments later. “Toggle the consent-to-fire switch, and the fire control computer does the rest—except fly the aircraft.”
“Eventually, they will fly themselves for missions like this,” said Katz.
“Let’s hope there are no more missions like this,” replied Eshel.
Katz saw the status of the weapon change on his helmet-integrated HUD. He selected “Special” with a toggle switch on the center control stick and changed the status to “Consent Release.” All he truly had to do from this point forward was follow the maneuver pattern calculated by the computer.
“Maneuver point alpha in five, four, three, two…here we go,” said Katz, easing the control stick back and increasing the throttle.
His G-suit responded immediately, squeezing his lower extremities. The maneuver wasn’t extreme, but the aircraft’s computers were programed to counter the G-forces diverting blood and oxygen away from his brain. He steadied the Strike Eagle in a forty-degree climb, watching the altitude rapidly increase. A dark orange sun appeared over his left shoulder, bathing the cockpit instruments in a rusty glow.
“Fire control radar detected bearing zero-niner-three,” said Eshel.
Hundreds of black-clad jihadists were no doubt scrambling to ready their shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile launchers, in case his jet stumbled into missile range—which it wouldn’t. Their payload would be released far outside of ISIS’s surface-to-air missile range. Satellite imagery and agents stationed in the ports reported nothing more sophisticated than short-range missile systems mounted to several of the new armored tactical vehicles rolling off Chinese-registered merchant vessels.
Katz maintained the climb, keeping an eye on the fire control computer indicator. He was well within the parameters for a successful release. Fifteen seconds into the pop-up maneuver, his HUD flashed “Special Released.” He never felt the bomb detach, which wasn’t unusual.
“Confirm weapon release,” said Katz.
If the bomb remained attached to the aircraft, they would be forced to abort the mission, and a second aircraft ten minutes away would take their place.
“Visually confirmed,” said Eshel, who had access to a camera view of the aircraft’s weapons pylons.
Katz rolled the Strike Eagle starboard and dove for the deck, maintaining a tight turn. His G-suit fought the maneuver as his facial muscles rippled from the extreme G-forces. A few seconds later, he steadied the aircraft at one thousand feet, heading southwest. He’d take a circuitous route over northern Saudi Arabia, steering clear of Safawi.
Hammer Two, piloted by their squadron commander, would release a smaller yield, precision-guided nuclear bomb in less than two minutes—erasing ISIS’s forward staging area. He increased the throttle, breaking the sound barrier and continuing to Mach 1.5. They needed to put as much distance as possible between Ramadi and the aircraft.
“Time to target?” said Katz.
“Thirty-two seconds. At this speed, we’ll have a twenty-one-mile buffer. We’re good,” said Eshel, easing both of their fears.
The 700-pound, GPS-guided nuclear bomb had been tossed on a trajectory toward Ramadi, where it would detonate six hundred meters above the center of the fully exposed ISIS training camp—at the optimal height to unleash the full damage potential of a twenty-kiloton blast against ground targets. They flew in silence, the gravity of the act weighing heavily on their consciences. The immediate death toll would be in the hundreds of thousands, stretching close to a million within a few days.
Ramadi and Fallujah would essentially cease to exist, along with the imminent threat to his motherland. He could never forget that. The use of nuclear weapons had been a last resort—the unavoidable response to a planned invasion by millions of crazed fanatics. The Caliphate had been days away from launching the first wave of an attack that would have assuredly destroyed the State of Israel.
The dark blue sky brightened, a flash momentarily revealing the khaki terrain as far as he could see. The artificial light faded just as quickly, returning the darkness. He activated his helmet’s integrated night-vision system, regaining the horizon. Katz resisted the temptation to look back. He absolutely didn’t want to see it.
“Detonation visually confirmed,” said Eshel, sounding less than enthusiastic.
“Copy and concur,” said Katz, opening the
command and control channel.
“Forge, this is Hammer One. We visually confirm detonation of the weapon.”
“This is Forge. Satellite feed confirms detonation on target. Stay thirty miles south of Safawi. Forge, out.”
That’s it? Just a standard radio transmission? He supposed that was all the situation warranted. He hoped that was all it warranted. No celebration back at base. He’d be happy if nobody mentioned the mission again, in any context. Colonel Ilan Katz wanted nothing more than to turn his aircraft over to the on-duty maintenance team and drive home to his family—secure in the knowledge that their home was safe. That Israel was safe.
“Talk of Secession”
Chapter 14
Belfast, Maine
February 2019
Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady took a sip of water from the CamelBak hose clipped to his shoulder, swishing the over-chlorinated liquid around his mouth. That’s how he brushed his teeth these days. Toothpaste hadn’t been a high-priority stockpile item, and the limited quantity uncovered in the storage buildings had been delivered to the FEMA camps in New Hampshire.
The younger Marines joked that the toothpaste was meant to supplement camp rations. Not everyone laughed at their sophomoric attempts at “keeping it real.” The sprawling camp system had struggled to keep up with the constant influx of refugees throughout the winter. There might be some harsh truth to their raw humor, and most of the Marines didn’t want to picture anyone eating toothpaste to stay alive.
Little had gone right once the weather turned bitter cold. Less than ten percent of required camp capacity had been constructed. Regional Recovery Zone leadership had refused to assign security or border units to civil engineering tasks. The militia scare in September left the bureaucrats skittish, afraid to venture out of their compound at Sanford International Airport.
Instead of solving the problem with a few thousand well-fed, structured soldiers, Governor Medina let a hundred thousand severely malnourished and categorically disorganized refugees assemble the camps from scratch. What should have taken two weeks in late September, lasted until December. Countless thousands died of exposure and related sicknesses while building the camps. It had been the closest Grady had come to storming the RRZ compound and putting an end to the endless stream of indecision and incompetence.
Two things kept him from crossing that line, and they were both intimately connected. Family and Corps. He had a duty to protect his Marines, which extended to their families. If he acted on his instinct to mutiny against the RRZ, he’d jeopardize the safety of his Marines and the families successfully relocated to Fort Devens or Westover Air Force Base. He had no idea what would happen to the families if 1st Battalion, 25th Marines was declared a domestic terrorist organization, and he had no intention of finding out. He owed that much to the Marines under his command, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that promise. There was a good chance he might break it today.
He sat in the lead Matvee of a heavily armed eight-vehicle convoy sent by Governor Medina to secure the Searsport Marine Terminal. “Capture” it was a more accurate description of his mission. Elements of 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment, a Maine-based National Guard unit aligned with the Maine state government, had been reported at the terminal. Satellite surveillance indicated a small garrison of soldiers at the facility. Nothing larger than a platoon.
The garrison was established after hostilities flared between RRZ officials and state government representatives over the use of state infrastructure assets. The RRZ wanted everything funneled south to support the security zone, while the state backed a wider approach to the disaster-relief efforts. It was clear from the beginning that the two sides would never reconcile this difference, and it certainly didn’t help that the state governor refused to acknowledge the RRZ’s authority. The disagreement created more anxiety than either side needed in the aftermath of the event.
The low-intensity political contest between the two entities hadn’t progressed past threatening words and a few tense blockades of military convoys headed into central Maine. He guessed that was about as far as the state government was willing to take it. Actually, he prayed that was the case, because Governor Medina’s light-handed response to the issue had nothing to do with diplomatic savvy. The RRZ had its hands full securing the border and administering the various programs associated with the refugee camps. That was about to change, which was why Grady had been sent north with two platoons of Marines, supported by four UH-60M Black Hawks. He hoped this could be resolved without incident. The last thing any of them wanted was a fight.
A snow-shrouded house tucked between a stand of thick pine trees caught his attention. The long driveway leading to the house had been recently cleared. The barrier of snow left at the bottom of the driveway after the last storm had been pushed into the road to melt. He could tell they had shoveled it by hand based on the clean shave they had given the asphalt. Snowblowers left a quarter of an inch, along with the telltale, even track marks. They must have a working vehicle. Nobody would go through that much trouble without a good reason.
The number of houses along the road increased as they approached Belfast. According to the command tablet attached to the dashboard in front of him, they were less than a minute from reaching Route One, where they would turn north for Searsport. He would have preferred to take a less conspicuous route, avoiding towns like Belfast, but only two approaches to the marine terminal area were kept clear of snow, one leading north and one leading south. The trucks delivering refined petroleum products and supplies to the various state and RRZ entities used the routes to reach Interstate 95, where the vehicles could range the entire state.
“Follow the signs to Route One north. Should be coming up,” he said to the driver, switching to the primary tactical channel monitored by the vehicle leaders.
“All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. We’re ten minutes from the objective. Raider will remain in a weapons hold status unless changed by Patriot. Defensive fire is not authorized in response to small-arms or crew-served heavy-caliber fire. Only the confirmed presence and clear intent to employ anti-vehicle weapons justifies defensive fire. Remember, these are Americans. Brothers and sisters in arms. We don’t give them any reason to think otherwise. Out.”
“Turn coming up, sir. Looks like we have to cross over Route One and drive through the town to reach the on-ramp,” said the driver.
“Roger. Keep us moving through the town.”
Grady called the lead helicopter on a separate, dedicated UHF radio channel.
“Night Train this is Raider Lead, over,” said Grady.
“This is Night Train.”
“Raider is ten mikes out from objective. Request Night Train on station in fifteen mikes.”
“Copy fifteen mikes,” said the staticky voice.
“Roger. Weapons hold unless otherwise ordered,” said Grady.
“Copy weapons hold.”
Grady replaced the handset and shifted in his seat, making room to move his rifle. He expected no trouble in Belfast, but he’d learned never to make assumptions about the perceived threat level. The driver crossed the overpass and turned right on a snowplowed, two-lane road paralleled by a string of telephone poles. The town turned out to be little more than a tighter collection of houses. They passed a VFW hall on the right side of the road. An American flag over a Maine state flag sat motionless at the top of a flagpole in front of the cleared parking lot. It looked like the VFW was in business.
He wished they could settle this business inside the hall over a few draft beers. Grady was sure they could reach some kind of agreement if they sat down as fellow service members, instead of pawns in a dangerous power play.
The Matvee turned onto High Street, bringing them to the Route One North on-ramp. On-ramp seemed like an overstatement, since they transitioned from a two-lane road to a slightly better built two-lane road. Quintessential Maine. The driver slowed the vehicle as soon as they straigh
tened on Route One. Two up-armored Humvees blocked the entrance to the flat bridge less than three hundred feet ahead. He should have guessed this wouldn’t be easy.
Son of a bitch.
“Raider units, we have a roadblock at the west end of the bridge. Raider Two-Zero, pull alongside Raider One-Zero. We’re going to approach slowly as two columns. Stop on my mark,” said Grady.
“Two-Zero copies. Moving up.”
The fifth vehicle in the column swung into the empty oncoming traffic lane and pulled parallel to Grady’s vehicle. The rest of Raider Two-Zero’s vehicle troop followed, creating two columns of four vehicles and filling the road. Grady stopped the formation fifty feet in front of the blockade, examining the scene.
He counted eight soldiers on the bridge and two turret gunners. The turrets contained M240 machine guns, useless against his Matvees. This appeared to be more of a symbolic show than anything—he hoped.
“Raider units, this is Raider Lead. I’m heading over for a chat. Stay alert. Out,” said Grady. “I’ll be right back,” he said, getting out of the vehicle.
The cold air stuck to the inside of his nose as he shut the door to the toasty cabin. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and motioned for the vehicle leader behind him to join the greeting party. Staff Sergeant Taylor stepped onto the asphalt next to Raider One-One and nodded. They met next to Grady’s rumbling vehicle.
“What are we looking at, sir?” said Taylor.
“Looks like more of a welcoming committee than a serious attempt to stop us,” said Grady.
“What if they refuse to move?” asked Taylor.
“Then we’ll have to push them out of the way. We outweigh them by about twelve thousand pounds,” said Grady, patting the hood of the Matvee. “Let’s get this over with.”
As they approached the Humvees, a major dressed in digital ACUs, carrying a short-barreled M-4 carbine, stepped between the vehicles. The officer scrutinized Grady’s uniform for a moment before snapping a crisp salute. Grady returned the military courtesy, eyeballing his name patch.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 136