INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  The clock had run down.

  All across the city they watched and waited. The airspace to the south was covered by surface-to-air weapons, and all major land routes, bridges, and intersections were being watched by anti-armour teams with enough munitions to stop a motorised brigade. The King’s Continental Army was tooled up to the max, primed and ready.

  As for motivation, none needed any. Many had lived through the initial invasion, and most had lost count of the people who’d died or vanished in the chaos of war. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, friends and comrades, all gone. They were angry. And they were ashamed.

  They’d taken for granted the freedoms that had been hard-fought and won by previous generations. They’d become blind to the determined dismantling of those same freedoms, psychologically manipulated by an enemy who’d recognised tolerance and compassion as weaknesses to be exploited. They’d stood idly by as Britain’s institutions were subverted, its history rewritten, its statues torn down. A mirror had been held before the face of the nation, and it had looked away in shame. Britannia had been defeated, long before the truck bomb had detonated outside Downing Street.

  It was almost three years since that fateful, terrible summer’s evening. Three long, bitter years in which those troops lying in wait on the rain-swept streets of Newcastle had had time to mourn, to lick their wounds, and to reflect. They knew now that they’d been taken for fools, blinded by enemies both foreign and domestic, but now those eyes were wide open. Now they were back on home soil, and when it began, the roar of battle would be carried on the wind to every corner of their green and pleasant land. The call to arms, so desperately anticipated, would finally be heard.

  And the fight back would begin.

  General Faris Mousa leaned back in his chair and swung his boots up on the desk. He folded his arms and stared at the wall, his face blank, his tired eyes vacant. The room was stuffy, and he knew he should climb the eight flights of stairs and get out of the command bunker for a while, but frankly, he was exhausted.

  The last few days had been a desperate exercise in damage limitation, and Mousa’s thoughts once again turned to the traitor Al-Kaabi. He wondered again how much damage the man had inflicted. Right now, it was hard to tell because he was still waiting for the report from the Information Management team. Mousa knew there was a reluctance to submit their findings because he’d had their senior officer summarily executed in a fit of rage, which is why he couldn’t blame them. He would visit their office tomorrow morning and offer his personal guarantee that there would be no more punishments, no more bloodshed. It was counter-productive. What he needed were answers.

  He saw a shadow lurking beyond the frosted glass of his office door, heard the respectful knuckle-tap.

  ‘Enter.’

  The duty sergeant appeared with a steaming mug. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but I thought you might like a coffee.’

  Mousa nodded at the desk, and the soldier put it down. ‘How’s it looking out there?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘The same, general. The usual spikes of radio chatter and radar emissions. The last satellite pass revealed an increase in enemy traffic across the frontier, but nothing significant. There’s been a surge in seaborne transmissions from the Irish Sea, but the Ops Team believe it’s minesweepers, clearing sea lanes to the south. A drone reconnaissance operation is being organised.’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant.’

  With the loss of Ireland, the Welsh coast was dangerously exposed, Mousa knew. He needed those Chinese anti-ship missiles fast. He’d get an update on their progress after he’d had his coffee.

  Mousa frowned as the faint tapping grew into the sound of running feet. He swung his legs off the desk and yanked the door open. A young orderly was racing along the subterranean corridor towards him. His boots squeaked on the linoleum floor as he pulled up short and threw up a hasty salute.

  ‘Tried to call you, sir,’ he said, puffing.

  ‘I said I didn’t want to be disturbed. What is it?’

  ‘There’s been an attack on the Eurotunnel terminal in Folkestone, sir.’

  Mousa felt the blood drain from his face. ‘What?’

  ‘They hit the missile shipment coming out of the tunnel. The damage is…’

  The orderly hesitated. Mousa screamed. ‘Speak!’

  ‘The damage is total, sir. The train has been completely destroyed. The eastbound tunnel has caved in too, and there’s not a single working track left across the terminal.’

  The sergeant was wide-eyed. ‘My God, all that ordinance.’

  Mousa turned and stared at him. That’s when he realised…

  ‘They’re going to invade.’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘But that’s impossible, general. The frontier is impenetrable.’

  ‘They’ve found a way. Broadcast an emergency alert immediately.’

  The sergeant snatched at the phone on Mousa’s desk. The general was already out of the door, running towards the operations room, the orderly puffing behind him.

  Mousa had no idea what would happen next, but he knew one thing for sure.

  The mystery of Al-Kaabi’s betrayal was finally solved.

  24

  Witching Hour

  Bertie sat at the kitchen table, nursing a black coffee as he watched the minute hand of the clock creep towards midnight. Only 20 minutes had passed since Judge Hardy had left and The Witch had retired for the evening, and Bertie was feeling anxious.

  He ran over the plan in his head, confident that all he needed was a good start, the chance to put as much distance between himself and Hampstead in the shortest space of time. The other crucial point was the Toyota. It had to disappear without a trace, and he wondered if those deep pools he’d fished all those years ago were still there. The one he had in mind was a former quarry close to the Cambridgeshire border, its waters black and deep, and he would feel a lot better once the Toyota was sleeping with the fishes. From that point on, the rest of his journey would be on foot.

  He would make his way north through the countryside, sticking to empty lanes and footpaths, avoiding human contact, camping in quiet woods and meadows. He had enough food to last him a month, by which time he would be at the farm where he’d start again. New beginnings.

  He finished his coffee and placed the mug in the sink. He thought about George and wondered if there was someone watching the house, waiting for him. Bertie was still struggling, knowing that his former friend had tried to kill him, but he didn’t blame him. He’d rolled the dice and lost. George was just trying to clean up the mess, protect himself. Bertie would probably do the same in his shoes.

  He refocussed, checked the time. It was five-to-midnight, and the house was sleeping. Bertie slipped Chef’s boning knife from its block and held it in his hand. It had a soft red handle and a six-inch blade that Bertie knew would be razor-sharp. He’d seen Chef use it many times, slicing joints of meat with a speed and dexterity used only by the highly skilled. All he needed to do was run it hard and deep across The Witch’s neck and that would be it. No noise, no screaming, just a rapid bleed out. He glanced at the ceiling. She’d be up there now, sleeping soundly, a belly full of good food and alcohol. All he had to do was climb the stairs, enter her room and play Zorro. Easy-peasy, Japanesey.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Despite everything, Bertie knew he wasn’t a stone-cold killer. He’d done Al-Kaabi and Gates in, sure he had, but they’d stood between him and freedom, and Bertie had every right to try to save his own skin. Besides, neither man was an angel. The Witch was in a different league, however. Her murder would send the National Assembly into a vengeful rage and that would be a stupid move. They would hunt him like an animal, and they’d never let up. No, better to just slip away and disappear.

  He pushed the knife back into the block and stepped out into the basement corridor. He took a moment to listen, but the only sound he heard was a faint snoring leaking from under Chef’s door. He cr
ept to his own room and retrieved his rucksack and coat, then made his way out into the rear gardens. The night was crisp, and the air was clear and dry. And no moon, which was even better.

  Beyond a neat row of manicured hedges stood the large double garage. Bertie swung the doors open on their recently oiled hinges and dropped his rucksack into the boot of the Toyota. He stabbed at the starter button and the hybrid engine hummed into life. He rolled the car out of the garage, closed the doors, and got back in. Ahead, the drive curved towards a high wall and the electric gate. He kept the lights off and eased the car slowly towards it. The front wheels tripped the pressure plate, and the gate rolled open—

  Bertie stamped on the brake.

  A police van was blocking the road. What the hell was—

  Then they were running towards him, a scrum of armed black-clad police officers. They surrounded the Toyota, their lights blinding him, their hateful mouths screaming a jumbled cacophony of noise. His window exploded, and it showered Bertie with glass. Powerful hands wrenched the door open and dragged him out. They bent him over the front of the car and secured his hands behind his back with plastic cuffs.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what are you doing?’ He felt hands searching his pockets, then someone grabbed his collar and yanked him upright. Torches blinded him. The voice behind them was unmistakable.

  ‘Oh, Bertie. How could you?’

  He blinked as The Witch stepped into the light. ‘Lady Edith, w-w-what’s going on?’ he stammered. This time it wasn’t an act.

  She looked up at him, her hands thrust into the pockets of a long overcoat, her chin raised, revealing the scrawny throat that Bertie could’ve deboned before he left. Should’ve.

  ‘You’re a liar, a thief, and a murderer, Bertie.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.’

  ‘You murdered poor Timmy and stole his precious things. How could you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Deny it if you must, but the truth will out.’

  Bertie’s stomach lurched. The scenario he’d feared had come to pass. Her word against his. Who’d believe him?

  ‘But you ordered me to kill him!’

  The Witch shook her head. ‘That’s not true, is it Bertie? Still, the point is moot now.’ She glanced at the police officers. ‘Take him away.’

  Bertie struggled as they dragged him down the path. He twisted his head around, and he yelled over his shoulder. ‘There’s a target on your back, you fucking old slag! They’re coming for you, for everything you’ve done!’

  ‘Wait!’ The Witch shrilled.

  Bertie swallowed as she marched down the driveway towards him. She drew her hand back and slapped his face. It stung, but Bertie was more in shock than pain. Her eyes, like dead black coals, bored into his, and then he realised the magnitude of being on the wrong end of that ruthless glare.

  ‘You’ve just made a terrible mistake, Bertie. One you’ll live to regret. Of that, I’ll make certain.’

  She turned on her heel and marched back towards the house. They bundled Bertie into the back of the police van, and as the door slammed shut, the brief flame of defiance sputtered and died.

  He was doomed, he knew that now. The best outcome he could hope for was a long sentence in a small cell, but it wouldn’t be like the old days. There would be no TV, no ping pong, no jazz mags or puff to make the time pass a little easier. Now the regime was brutal. Now it was all work parties and punishment beatings and religious brainwashing.

  You’ve just made a terrible mistake, Bertie. One you’ll live to regret. Of that, I’ll make certain.

  No, The Witch’s promise meant something else, something far worse. Deportation perhaps. George had heard a rumour of some far-off desert hell-hole where thousands of slaves were put to work and life expectancy was measured in weeks. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but George said that no one had ever come back to refute it.

  Bertie held his head in his hands and cursed his stupidity. He’d made the worst enemy possible, and the rest of Bertie’s life would be a living hell.

  Then he lifted his head, the bleak visions suddenly banished from his mind. The sound he could hear was a familiar one, and the last time he’d heard it was almost three years ago before the stricken airliner had roared across the London skyline trailing smoke. A sound that had marked the passing of the Old World. A sound that heralded fear, death, and destruction.

  Bertie pressed his face up against the reinforced window and saw the pigs standing outside, their black helmets tilted towards the night sky. He saw fear on their faces, and for maybe the last time, Bertie smiled.

  Across London, sirens wailed.

  From all points of the compass, swarms of military vehicles descended on the Hilton Hotel in Newcastle.

  As rain lashed across the city, a hundred caliphate troops threw a security ring around the area. Humvees and police cars blocked every approach road and sealed both ends of the Tyne Bridge with M2 Bradley Armoured Fighting Vehicles. A Black Hawk helicopter appeared overhead, turning circles above the Hilton’s roof at 500 feet, its navigation lights winking in the darkness. On the ground, assault teams were assembled and ordered to breach the building at every access point.

  The 14 soldiers who made their way into the Hilton’s service corridor were running on high octane. After months of barrack boredom, they were finally being called upon to do the job they’d trained for. None of them was a counter-terror specialist, but they were proud soldiers of the 17th Light Motorised Brigade of the Islamic State Armed Forces and they were keen to make their mark.

  Their leader, a staff-sergeant from the town of Ramallah in Iraq, was the first to hear the furtive whispers coming from the security office storeroom. Creeping closer, the whispers became more urgent before gasping into silence. The staff-sergeant, along with two other soldiers, opened fire with their HK33 assault rifles, shredding the door and silencing the whispers. As blood ran across the floor tiles, it soon became clear that the bullet-riddled bodies piled inside the narrow closet were hotel workers and not terrorists.

  Ordered to the top-floor restaurant, the staff-sergeant and his eager team pounded up the stairs as other units cleared the floors below. Reaching another service corridor, they heard more voices, only this time they were desperate cries of pain. He led his team into the Windows on the Tyne restaurant, and they fanned out across the room, weaving their way through the tables. He saw toppled chairs and broken glass that spoke of a recent mass stampede, and he wrinkled his nose disapprovingly at the sight and smell of so much alcohol.

  Someone cried out across the far side of the restaurant, and they moved quickly, discovering the bodies scattered across the carpet. Some were dead, but others were still alive, groaning in agony. All were members of the Regional Assembly, and the staff-sergeant’s orders were explicit; protect them at all costs and hunt down the terrorists.

  ‘Medic!’ he yelled, and two of his men ran forward. It surprised him to see that they had shot the victims in the legs, and he figured it was probably more of a punishment attack than anything else. The infidels have a lot to learn about terror, he realised. ‘Help them, quickly!’

  He took a step closer and looked down at one of the wounded lying on the carpet, an infidel who wore the black uniform of the security police. He was also close to death, but his lips moved and his bloodshot eyes pleaded. As he knelt down, the staff-sergeant’s nose wrinkled again, only this time it wasn’t alcohol that offended his nostrils.

  It was petrol.

  The man was trying to speak. The staff-sergeant leaned in closer. ‘What?’

  ‘Trap…’ the man whispered. ‘…don’t move.’

  That’s when the staff-sergeant saw it, a bright orange tube tucked beneath the man’s left buttock. He pulled it free—

  The signalling flare erupted in a cloud of smoke and flame, igniting the infidel with a solid whump, and engulfing the staff-sergeant and surrounding bodies in a sheet of flame. Screams shr
illed through the restaurant as the surviving Regional Assembly members burned alive, but the staff-sergeant couldn’t see or hear them because his own eyes were burning and his ears filled with his own screams as he staggered between the tables like a human torch…

  At that precise moment, four of the staff-sergeant’s team were about to breach the kitchen, unaware that the air inside was thick with escaping gas. They were also unaware of the tripwire stretched across the doorway. As the screams of their comrades reached them, they charged into the kitchen, overextending the tripwire and detonating the 50-pound HMX charge waiting for them.

  The blast was instantaneous, and the resulting shock wave, travelling at 26,000 feet per second, punched its way through concrete, glass, and flesh, and obliterated everything in its path. It turned supporting columns to dust, bringing down the roof above as the entire floor of the hotel erupted in a thundering wall of flame, smoke, and dust.

  At street-level, soldiers ducked as debris rained down around them, and a bright orange fireball roiled up and over the collapsed roof of the hotel. The building rocked as the fractured gas main triggered secondary explosions down through the building, killing a dozen more soldiers and hurtling glass and masonry for hundreds of metres.

  Watching from their hidden positions, thousands of British troops heard and felt the rippling detonations that thundered across the city. Weapons were gripped a little tighter, selector switches flipped, and hearts beat a little faster. Adrenaline pumped and blood flowed as limbs prepared to explode into action. All they needed now was the signal.

  As the second hand reached midnight, the order crackled over the encrypted airwaves…

  ‘All units this is Sunray, engage, engage, engage!’

  25

  Tear Up