INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  Edith stood in the darkness of her unlit study and stared out of the window. There was nothing much to see other than the shadowy expanse of the gardens below and the sharp outline of nearby rooftops. But the sound, that terrible wailing, filled the wood-panelled room.

  She heard police sirens too, rising and falling across the city. The sky above was clear and moonless, but there was nothing in the heavens to alarm her. She crossed the room to her desk and scooped up her mobile phone, speed dialling a number. It was answered after two rings.

  ‘Edith, I was just about to call you.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  She heard Governor Davies’ muffled voice barking orders as he covered the mouthpiece of his phone. Then he was back, crystal clear.

  ‘Sorry, Edith. It’s bedlam here.’

  ‘Just tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘We know nothing yet, but I’m hearing rumours of an explosion in Folkestone. Some kind of air attack. There’s something happening up north too. The army has issued a general alert, and Congress has ordered me to impose martial law. I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Assembly.’

  Now it was Edith’s turn to clamp her hand over the mouthpiece. The situation was kinetic, but there was nothing to concern her, not until the picture became clearer. Instead, she turned her mind to potential opportunities.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ she told Davies. ‘It’s important we get ahead of this and lend support to our stakeholders.’

  She heard Davies scoff on the other end of the line. ‘This isn’t a bloody procurement meeting, Edith. This could be it, a full-scale invasion.’

  ‘All you’re hearing are rumours, Hugh. You must try to calm yourself.’

  Davies lowered his voice. ‘Have you started cleaning house yet? There’s still a way out of this, you know.’

  ‘A way out?’

  ‘Yes, for God’s sake. I’m talking about the Gulf. I’ve told Molly and the kids. They’re packed and ready to go, just in case.’

  ‘In case Wazir orders a withdrawal from Britain, you mean?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, it’s like pulling teeth,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Please, Hugh. I’m seeking clarity, nothing more. Now, to be clear, you’re preparing to leave the country, yes? Abandon your post?’

  Davies’ voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘If things fall apart, yes.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should show leadership at this time?’

  ‘I’m not going to be left behind, Edith. You know what’ll happen to us both if that happens.’

  Edith heard raised voices in the background. She imagined the panic, fed by Davies himself.

  ‘I’m sending a car for you,’ he told her. ‘We convene in an hour.’

  The call ended, and she checked her phone. The recording was short, but it would be enough.

  She plucked the business card from her handbag and dialled the number printed on it.

  In one of the large tributary spurs dug beneath Newcastle, a shaped charge blew out a large section of wall close to the metro station at Haymarket, and the first of thirty-six M5 Ripsaw Unmanned Fighting Vehicles bounced over the rubble, spinning left on its tracks before accelerating up the tunnel. The others followed, humming through the tunnel before breaking the surface just beyond the Jesmond Metro station. Engineers had demolished the dividing wall between the tracks and the street minutes earlier, and one by one the M5s breached the shattered wall and entered the battlefield.

  Ten Ripsaws turned right and headed north to support the anti-armour teams that were watching and waiting for the enemy troops to deploy from their bases at Newcastle Freeman Hospital and the disused International Airport, close to the frontier. The rest headed south, racing through the streets towards the Tyne River, their operators watching the screens carefully from the deep basement beneath the Newcastle City Assembly building, where the roof now sprouted dozens of communications masts, satellite dishes, and whip antennae. The building and its former occupants had overseen the tyranny that had oppressed the city for the last three years. Now it was the command-and-control centre for the King’s Continental Army, and the flood of information flowing in from its multitude of communications and information system nodes was rapidly building a digital, multi-layered graphical representation of the battlefield above.

  And information was power.

  The Bradley armoured vehicles blocking both ends of the Tyne Bridge were the first targets to be hit.

  From out of the darkness, eight Javelin anti-tank missiles screamed towards them and destroyed all four vehicles in a blinding crack of orange flame and showers of sparks. The blackened hulks left behind belched thick black smoke into the air.

  Above the hotel, the circling Black Hawk had no time and no chance against the incoming Stinger missiles that blew its engines out and severed its rotor blades. The aircraft nosedived 500 feet into the hotel’s courtyard entrance where it exploded, killing the caliphate soldiers taking cover in the reception area.

  From hundreds of rooftops, windows, and vantage points overlooking the southern bank of the Tyne, a thousand weapon systems opened up on pre-selected targets, chewing up men and machinery in a wave of devastating fire. Tracer rounds lit up the streets like lasers, and when the firestorm ended 60 seconds later, any enemy troops still standing – and there were very few – scattered for their lives.

  At the power station on Shields Road, electricity was cut to the rest of the city, plunging the battlefield into darkness. For the waiting British troops, it was all about speed now.

  ‘Move! Go!’

  Eddie ran hard and fast across the Swing Bridge towards the southern bank. He glanced to his left, saw the burning Bradleys up on the Tyne Bridge, glimpsed soldiers streaming past them, racing to the other side.

  Eyes front.

  Focus…

  Looming ahead, the Hilton hotel burned brightly in the darkness, its windows blown out, fires raging on almost every floor, throwing flickering orange light across their path.

  Bravo Company veered right towards the west side of the hotel. Charlie Company turned left, spreading out across Bridge Street as they hard-targeted towards the up-ramp of the Tyne Bridge and the road junction beyond. As platoons started peeling away towards their objectives, Eddie realised he was point man, with Digger and the others just behind him. Ahead, dark figures broke cover, and Eddie slowed, bringing his M27 up and opening fire. The others joined in, and the volley of outgoing rounds cut down three of the runners. As they reached the bodies, Digger shot them all again for good measure.

  Eddie kept going, eyes moving left and right, watching the doorways, the windows, the side streets. The burning hotel threw long, suspect shadows. His headset was alive with company-level chatter, and he caught snatches of intel from around the city and beyond. Enemy forces were mobilising, and now it was a race to see who could dominate the battleground first.

  They had the element of surprise on their side, Eddie knew that, and the Hajis couldn’t know the scale of what they were facing, not yet. Right now, they probably thought they were reacting to a significant and coordinated terrorist attack. They had no idea that thousands of troops were pouring into both Carlisle and Newcastle city centres, that thousands more were making the 20-minute journey through the tunnels. The Hajis would be unaware of the hundreds of SAMs waiting for the expected aerial counter-attack, but soon they would realise the battle wasn’t localised. And when they did, they would throw everything they had at the Allies.

  So, Newcastle had to be taken, all the way out to Gateshead where The Angel of the North metal sculpture once stood, before she’d been cut down and left to rust. Then they would dig in, because one thing was for sure; Wazir would not give up easily.

  Eddie led the section into the black shadows of the railway bridge at the junction of Askew Road and the Gateshead Highway. He took a knee in the darkness. He’d been running for half-a-click, had survived their first contact,
and was barely out of breath. The exoskeleton was an amazing piece of kit, he realised. He was carrying almost 30 kilos of gear, but he barely felt it. As if to prove his point, a dozen guys from Fire Support Company leap-frogged them, carrying anti-tank weapons, long guns, and belt-fed Sig Sauer M68s like they were nothing. They disappeared into cover across the junction, and Eddie felt a little better knowing they had some decent firepower protecting the Tyne Bridge behind them.

  ‘Hold your ground,’ Mac said over the radio. ‘Friendly armour approaching from the north.’

  Eddie turned and saw two black vehicles racing down the bridge’s off-ramp. They were about the size of a compact car but that’s where the similarity ended. The recent arrivals were running on tracks, and the 30-millimetre cannon that swivelled left and right packed a serious punch.

  ‘Ripsaws,’ Digger said next to him. They slowed and stopped beneath the bridge, their hybrid engines emitting a quiet whine, and then they lurched forward again, out into the rain, their tracks kicking up rooster tails of spray as they headed south along the Gateshead Highway. Eddie stared through the holographic site of his M27 and watched them disappear into the darkness. The OC’s voice hissed in his earpiece.

  ‘We’re pushing south, 200 metres, to the north end of the high street. You know your RVs, so get to them fast. Prepare to move…’

  Eddie straightened up, tensed—

  ‘Move!’

  Then he was running, following Digger out into the rain, leapfrogging their way uphill, cover, move, cover, move, eyes watching the terrain. Unseen drones buzzed above them, scanning the ground ahead, but they couldn’t see inside buildings, where a team might be tracking them, frantically loading their belt-fed heavy guns, racking the cocking handles, zeroing in on Eddie through their optics…

  Move fast! Stay low!

  Eddie did both, heading for the big Tesco superstore on the corner ahead. Digger got there first and brought his rifle up, eye pressed to his hi-powered scope. Eddie bundled in next to him, then Steve, Mac, and the rest of the section. Across the road, the other sections had regrouped and were taking cover. Eddie leaned over Digger and took a quick look at the route ahead. The road sloped gently uphill between lofty buildings, and apart from the line of parked cars, there was hardly any cover.

  Digger winked in the dark. ‘So far, so good, eh?’

  ‘So far,’ Eddie echoed, wondering how and when the enemy would push back.

  Mac squeezed in next to them. ‘All right, lads?’

  ‘We should keep moving,’ Steve said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘And run head-first into a Haji QRF? Yeah, good plan, Steve.’

  ‘Every step south gets me closer to my girls.’

  Mac grabbed him by the strap of his tac-vest and yanked him close. ‘Forget about home, for fuck’s sake! I need you to focus on the here and now, got it? Switch the fuck on!’

  Steve stared right back at Mac. ‘Take your hand off me.’

  Mac pulled him closer, and their helmets banged together. ‘Say the word and I’ll CASE-VAC you back across the frontier on a psych ticket. Is that what you want?’ Steve grimaced, shook his head. ‘Good, because I need you. All of you.’

  Distant gunfire rattled somewhere behind them. As the shots faded to nothing, Eddie realised that the city had fallen quiet. The calm before the storm.

  Mac dropped his chin as he listened to an incoming message. He acknowledged it, then said, ‘Listen in, we’ve got hostile traffic inbound from the south. Four soft-skinned Humvees, two with top cover, no armour support. Probably a recce unit. Get into position, watch your front, and wait until I give the word. Move!’

  Eddie scuttled over to a low wall nearby and picked a spot behind it. He looked up the road, now dark and deserted, the surrounding buildings lifeless. As the minutes ticked by, all Eddie could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the steady hiss of rain as it swept across the empty road. Then he heard something else.

  The whine of approaching Humvees.

  Five hundred metres behind them, troops were still swarming across the Redheugh, the Swing, and the Tyne bridges. Six thousand soldiers had now secured a foothold on an eight-kilometre front south of the river. Ahead of them, spearhead units were pushing further south, securing major road junctions and the rooftops of prominent buildings, establishing communication relay stations and sending drones further south, watching the streets, mapping the battle zone, sniffing the air for the scent of prey. Unmanned ground vehicles raced through the streets, their six-wheeled platforms delivering additional ammunition and supplies to the soldiers guarding the expected routes of enemy counter-attack. So far, those routes were empty, except for the occasional civilian vehicle, and those drivers were quickly appraised of the situation in no uncertain terms:

  Go home!

  Warn your neighbours!

  Stay inside and away from the windows!

  Wait for the all-clear…

  At the Shields Road control room, power was restored to Newcastle Central train station, to the electrified tracks and signalling equipment. On darkened platforms, 2,000 heavily armed troops from the First, Second, and Third battalions of the New York Volunteers Infantry (British) crammed aboard the waiting carriages. When the train was full, the signal was given, and it clanked and clattered out of the station, its lights extinguished, its wheels spitting bright-white sparks. It curved south, rattling past the former Northumbria Police station, where the night shift was now reflecting on their misplaced loyalties in the questionable comforts of their own cells, guarded by a small team of military policemen.

  The train continued on, escorted by a surveillance drone circling beneath the low cloud above, heading for the town of Birtley six miles to the south, close to where the Angel had fallen, and where one day soon she would rise again.

  26

  Watch and Shoot

  From a weed-choked drainage ditch close to Newcastle International Airport, two ghillie-suited troopers from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment recorded the size, strength, and composition of the reaction force that was surging out from the sprawling installation. They filmed the Humvees mounted with heavy machine guns and grenade launchers, the Bradley fighting vehicles, the Oshkosh M-ATVs, the Chinese Type 96 battle tanks, and the dozen troop trucks stuffed with caliphate soldiers that followed on behind. Thirty vehicles, roaring and clattering onto the southbound A696 and heading for Newcastle. The troopers filmed it all, including the two Apache attack helicopters that flew low and fast over the airport’s perimeter fence and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  The footage was broadcast in real-time to the battle group’s HQ and the subsequent encrypted message was flashed to the troops lying in wait three kilometres to the south.

  Incoming. Standby…

  In the operations room at Northwood, General Mousa stood immobile, his arms folded, his eyes glued to the wall of display screens, his ears filtering the nervous chatter around the room. Inside, his stomach churned and his pulse raced. Something was happening, something big, he could feel it in his bones. His gut told him the invasion was beginning, and his soldier’s nose smelled trouble of the worst kind, but right now, the situation was confused, and in the absence of clarity he had to rely on the facts.

  Fact one; his precious consignment of Chinese missiles had been intercepted and destroyed in a planned attack based on the intelligence stolen by the traitor Al-Kaabi. Seventy per cent of those missiles had been the YJ-78 anti-ship variant, and that was a serious blow to his coastal defence plan. Present stocks were severely limited, crippling his ability to defend the western coast and the Irish Sea beyond, a stormy channel that was even now slowly succumbing to the US Navy.

  Fact two; Newcastle and Carlisle had both suffered major terrorist attacks in that last half hour. Both cities were located close to the caliphate’s northern frontier and at opposite sides of the country. In Newcastle, anti-tank and surface-to-air weapons had been employed against the reaction force, a s
ophisticated level of technical planning and execution that the resistance had never used before now, mainly because of the threat of reprisals against local civilians. But not this time.

  Fact three; in those same cities, all landline and mobile communications had been lost, and power outages had blacked out the streets. And then there were the reports of enemy troops on the ground, a detail that confused and concerned Mousa the most. So, raiding forces had infiltrated both cities in numbers, but how, and to what end? Those locations were behind an impenetrable border and surrounded by thousands of caliphate frontier troops, an army that was even now undergoing further reinforcement. Mousa didn’t disbelieve the reports – his frontier commanders were not fools – but what he needed now was visual confirmation, especially with his own eyes.

  ‘Where are those QRF fighters?’ he asked the room.

  One of his intelligence officers, hunched over his terminal, turned and straightened. ‘There was a problem with the tanker truck, general. A replacement had to be found. All planes are now fuelled and are preparing for take-off.’

  ‘Once they’re airborne, split the formation and vector them to Carlisle and Newcastle. And where are my Seeker drones?’

  The officer hesitated. ‘Still on the ground, general. ETA to target, three-zero minutes.’

  Mousa’s black eyebrows knitted together. ‘That’s the best we can do? Thirty fucking minutes?’

  ‘They were down for a routine maintenance check,’ the intelligence officer explained.

  ‘Both of them? At the same time? Whose bright idea was that?’

  Everyone in the packed operations room was suddenly deaf and dumb. It’s your fault, Mousa scolded himself. He’d been away for over two years, and in that time, the battle to conquer Europe had been won, and a formidable barrier built between caliphate territory and Scotland. As a result, the forces of occupation had become complacent. When the infidel task force had set sail across the Atlantic, that complacency had lingered. Now Ireland was lost and the military build-up in Scotland was gathering pace.