INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  It’s not your fault, his other voice consoled. Yes, he’d been away for two years and more, but he’d spent much of that time in Baghdad restructuring the armed forces, overseeing the redeployment of new formations, redrawing the maps of Europe, and carving up the continent into its new protectorates.

  There were also additional threats to be anticipated, not just from local resistance groups but from the global players – China, Japan, and the United States among others. Mousa had always suspected the Chinese, despite the pacts made with Beijing. The Chinese trusted no one but themselves, and there was still lingering resentment from some quarters in Baghdad regarding Beijing’s historical mistreatment of the Uyghurs. Many of them had moved to the caliphate, but many had stayed in China. After the nuke and the massacres that followed, there was no going back to the era of détente. Diplomacy was failing. War loomed in the east, one that might end them all.

  A vile curse brought his attention back to the room. Major General Kalil Zaki, Commander of the North-West Territories, was berating a junior officer while the rest of the room pretended not to notice. Mousa walked over, and Zaki saw him coming. He grabbed the junior officer by the arm and spun him around.

  ‘Tell General Mousa what you just told me!’

  Mousa could see the boy was terrified. There was a time and a place for verbal assaults, but now was not one of them. Mousa raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Enemy troops have landed south of Whitehaven, General Mousa. Size and composition are unknown, and the report is still unconfirmed. I’ve been trying to re-establish contact—’

  ‘Try harder, idiot!’

  Mousa glanced at Zaki. ‘Let’s hear the boy out, shall we?’

  The young officer’s hands and voice shook. ‘I’ve been trying to confirm that message but the local transmitters are being jammed, sir.’

  Mousa leaned closer. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Zaki said.

  ‘I’ve tried the coastal battery too, but they’re not responding at all.’

  ‘Get that confirmed,’ he told the young officer, and the boy scuttled away. Mousa turned his back on Zaki and walked to the large digital map display. Sure enough, an area of the north-western coast now glowed red. They had lost communications.

  ‘Divert a reinforcement battalion to Whitehaven,’ he told the comms officers lined up behind their laptops. ‘I want to know when they’re close. Do it now.’

  ‘A prudent move, General Mousa.’

  Mousa saw that Zaki had sidled up next to him. He was shorter than Mousa, with thin shoulders and thinner grey hair that was slick with pomade. He sported a thick grey moustache, and his dark green uniform was tailored to his slight frame and bedecked with medals and ribbons for achievements and campaigns that Mousa knew he’d neither earned nor deserved. He was the kind of career officer that Mousa despised, and for good reason.

  It was Zaki who’d seriously overestimated his ability to prepare for the Alliance assault on Ireland while underestimating the motivation and determination of the invading troops. When that grim reality had finally dawned, Zaki had abandoned the battlefield and decamped to a military bunker in Wales, from where he hoped to direct the defence of Ireland. The resulting string of costly defeats, and the disorganised escape across the Irish Sea, had been an embarrassment. More than that, Mousa had learned of the death of his former 2IC, Colonel Allawi, a loss that still stung. Allawi’s death, and those of his men, had been avoidable. They’d died after being ordered to hold an untenable defensive position outside of Belfast, and Mousa discovered later that it was Zaki’s crippling indecision that had got his protégé killed. For his crimes, the incompetent blowhard should’ve dangled kicking and choking at the end of a hangman’s noose. Instead, Zaki had ordered the execution of several of his own staff officers to mask his failings.

  Mousa despised the man, but he had to swallow that frustration because Kalil Zaki was the only male nephew of the caliph himself, Mohammed Wazir. The man was untouchable, and he knew it. So did everyone else. And now the spineless toad was standing next to him, and the proximity made Mousa’s flesh crawl. He took a subtle step away as Zaki’s pungent cologne assaulted his sinuses like a blast of tear gas.

  ‘I was just about to order that diversion myself,’ the Major-General told him, smoothing his moustache. ‘We have two mobile missile launchers armed with ship-killers on that headland. If we lose them, we also lose significant sea defensive coverage.’

  Mousa tried and failed to keep the edge from his voice. ‘We have lost them, Kalil, otherwise they would’ve reported enemy activity and launched their weapons. Their silence speaks volumes.’ He pointed to the map. ‘We must also assume that the enemy has landed a considerable mobile force in this area. From Whitehaven they can link up with their troops in Carlisle, or they can push east to Penrith and cut off the M6 motorway from the south. If they can achieve that, our western flank could be compromised.’

  ‘I agree,’ Zaki said, puffing his chest. ‘The situation is troublesome. What are your orders, general?’

  ‘Get those fighters and drones in the air. Send a reinforcement division to Kendal, here, in the Lake District, then rush another one north to Penrith. The 77th Airborne Battalion is standing by at Manchester Airport. I want them on the ground, at Penrith, to seize and hold the town before Alliance forces can get there. Every other military unit north of Nottingham is to deploy to their defensive positions as per standing orders.’

  ‘Understood. Anything else, general?’

  ‘Yes. I want all of our fighter-bomber squadrons in the Dutch and Belgian protectorates to be fuelled, armed, and ready to deploy.’

  ‘I’ll send the orders immediately.’

  Mousa found a spare chair and sat down, his eyes studying the digital maps and TV screens. There were skirmishes erupting here and there, and a probable landing force south of Whitehaven, but there was no powerful gesture of intent, no artillery or rocket attacks, no mass movement of troops. What the hell is happening?

  Whatever this thing was, Mousa’s gut was telling him that things were about to get a lot worse. It was also telling him something else, something he’d suspected for a long time, a suspicion that had recently been confirmed.

  And one that would change the course of a war that was about to engulf the country.

  27

  QRF

  ‘Incoming.’

  The platoon commander’s transmission was unnecessary. The whole of Nine Platoon saw the convoy of Humvees racing down the hill towards them. Eddie looked left and right along the wall. Digger was on one side, Steve on the other, both with their eyes glued to their gun sights. The Humvees slowed for the junction, and Eddie saw that the earlier intel was correct. Only two of the vehicles had heavy weapons mounted in the top turret, and the vehicles, though stuffed with troops, were soft-skinned, their open windows bristling with gun barrels.

  The platoon commander again…

  ‘All sections stand by. Watch your rounds. Wheels and engines intact.’

  The Humvees were dark shapes against a darker background, but Eddie’s holographic sights made them jump out. The vehicles stopped. Three Section’s target was the second vehicle, and Eddie was going for the driver. He saw the guy’s face in his sight, settled his red dot just beneath the man’s eye. He was looking straight ahead, unaware of the gun barrel pointed at him. Eddie heard voices talking in rapid-fire Arabic.

  ‘Engage—’

  Eddie squeezed the trigger and the M27 kicked in his shoulder. He saw the driver’s head snap backwards, and he fired again. Eddie switched targets and pumped rounds into the passenger seat, saw the guy there jerk and slump over. He switched again, firing several more rounds at the guys in the back before he clicked on empty and swapped his magazine out. That’s when he saw the rear vehicle attempt to escape. It made a wide, desperate turn, wheels screeching, engine screaming, and then the windscreen blew out and the doors were peppered with dozens of five-five-s
ix millimetres. The Humvee stalled, jerking across the road before coming to a stop.

  By the time Eddie had his rifle back in his shoulder, the order went out.

  ‘Cease fire, cease fire!’

  Thirty-six guns were trained on six immobile, bullet-riddled vehicles. Smoke hung in the air as the rain fell across the intersection.

  ‘Movement, rear vehicle!’

  Suppressed weapons opened up around him. Eddie didn’t engage. He had a full mag on, and besides, his rounds were unnecessary. The firing stuttered away. Whoever had moved in that vehicle, it was the last one they’d ever make.

  ‘Three and Four Sections, advance. Watch your step, lads.’

  They got to their feet, and Eddie was moving fast through the rain towards the front of the convoy. He headed for the lead vehicle, watching over his sights, Digger moving up on his right. The engine was still running. Eddie scanned the bodies for any signs of movement. Digger didn’t bother. He rested the barrel of his M38 on the door and pumped rounds into the corpses. They jerked lifelessly, heads lolling, mouths bloodied and gaping.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Digger!’

  The young soldier ignored him. He was already moving on to the second Humvee. Eddie double-checked the corpses, and he swallowed when he saw the deadly green orbs clipped to their webbing. Grenades.

  Boots crunched on broken glass as doors were thrown open and the bodies dragged to the side of the road. All six vehicles were serviceable, and Nine Platoon was ordered aboard. Mac and the rest of Three Section piled into the second Humvee. There was blood all over the seats, but none of them had time to worry about that now. Steve got behind the wheel and Digger rode shotgun, smashing out the rest of the shattered windscreen with the barrel of his rifle. Eddie sat behind Steve and trained his weapon out of the side window. Next to him, Mac covered their left flank.

  ‘That was lucky,’ Eddie grumbled.

  Mac gave him a look. ‘They didn’t get a single round off.’

  ‘I’m talking about Digger, emptying rounds into dead bodies with grenades hanging all over them. Fucking idiot.’

  ‘Stop whining, Novak. You’re still here, ain’t ya?’

  ‘No thanks to you, you sloppy little prick.’

  Digger swivelled around, his camouflaged face twisted in anger. ‘Go fuck yourself—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Mac said, punching the back of Digger’s seat.

  ‘Problem, Corporal Mac?’

  The platoon commander leaned in Eddie’s window. Mac shook his head.

  ‘All good, boss. The girls were moaning about the weather, that’s all.’

  The commander’s face said he wasn’t buying it. ‘Whatever it is, keep a lid on it, got it?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Right, we’re heading south,’ he told them. ‘Mission is to recce the route ahead, then hold the road junction at the A1. GPS has been linked.’

  Eddie flipped his wrist, thumbed the button on his Garmin watch, saw the new grid reference. Mac checked his too.

  ‘All received, boss.’

  ‘HQ is reporting an enemy convoy mobilising out of Durham, about 15 klicks to the south, so we need to beat them to that junction. We’re waiting on the signal to move, so stand by.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  The commander lingered. ‘Are we good?’

  ‘As gold, boss.’

  He walked away. Mac waited until he was out of earshot. ‘You fuckers are making me look bad,’ he fumed. ‘Whatever beefs you’ve got – grenades, stranded family – I don’t want to hear about it, understood? We’ve got a job to do.’ He punched the back of Digger’s seat again. ‘And you, use your fucking head or you’ll get us all killed. I won’t tell you again.’

  There was silence in the Humvee. When Mac spoke again, his voice snarled dangerously. ‘You’d better fucking acknowledge me or—’

  ‘Sorry, Mac.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Won’t happen again.’

  Outside, the OC spun his finger in the air and Steve gunned the engine, swinging the Humvee around until it lined up behind the others. Now they were facing south, engines idling, rain drumming on the roof and falling through the missing windscreen. The minutes ticked by.

  Steve clipped his NVGs on his helmet and flipped them down. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘Any idea what we’re waiting for?’

  All eyes were on Mac. He was listening to the battalion chatter, his head down, a finger pressed to his ear. ‘That,’ he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  Eddie twisted around in his seat and looked back towards the Tyne Bridge.

  ‘What?’

  The northern horizon lit up in a storm of light and thunder.

  The QRF convoy was travelling south at speed along the A696, using both lanes of the southbound carriageway in two tightly-packed cavalcades. A hundred metres short of the Newbiggin Lane exit, controlled explosions brought the concrete overpass crashing down onto the road in a mountain of rubble, steel, and dust, completely blocking both sides of the four-lane highway. The lead Humvees slammed on their brakes, skidding on the wet surface and disappearing into the rolling dust cloud. One turned hard left, careering up the grassy bank and crunching into the trees by the side of the road. The other hit what was left of the bridge at 40 kilometres an hour, its back end flipping over and slamming down on to the rubble, crushing everyone inside.

  Right behind the Humvees, AFVs swerved, skidded, and ploughed into each other, swiftly followed by the tanks. Collisions rippled along the convoy as panicked drivers stamped on brake pedals and wrenched their steering wheels and stick controls, resulting in a deadly, chaotic pileup.

  From the trees above the now-blocked highway, British troops launched round after round of smoke, CS gas, and fragmentation grenades amongst the pile-up. Within seconds, half the convoy was wrapped in a thick, choking fog of blinding smoke, and grenades detonated amongst the tightly packed traffic jam of tanks and armoured vehicles.

  Two hundred metres behind the convoy, more British troops scrambled down the banks and onto the road. A dozen of them held Javelin fire-and-forget anti-tank missiles, their Command Launch Units pre-selected for the Top-Attack flight profile. Within seconds of their boots hitting the tarmac, the gunners had acquired their targets and fired their weapons. The missiles launched in blasts of white smoke and flew up into the air, screaming skyward before arcing over and slamming down into the thinner top metal of the tanks and AFVs. The targeted vehicles blew spectacularly, and one tank turret spiralled into the air in a ball of fire before crashing to earth. Burning fuel spilt across the highway, flooding the scene in orange light and engulfing undamaged vehicles desperately trying to escape the conflagration. As crews abandoned their burning rides, ammunition began cooking off as blackened and crippled armour began to ‘brew up’.

  But the British gunners weren’t finished yet. Assisted by their ammo-bearers, they loaded new missile tubes onto their CLUs and selected Direct-Fire mode. They launched again, and 12 more HEAT rounds roared down the road, slamming into several more vehicles. Explosions rippled through the convoy, sending more fireballs rolling into the night sky. Two of the HEAT rounds were fired at the packed troop transports, blasting men and machinery to bits and blocking any escape to the north.

  Breaking cover once more, the troops above the destroyed bridge rained down more smoke and gas before making their escape across the surrounding fields to their commandeered vehicles. The Javelin teams had already fled, leaving their discarded missile tubes scattered across the road behind them. The ambush had lasted less than 60 seconds.

  The driver of the lead troop truck had cringed in fear as missiles destroyed everything in front and behind him. As the world around him burned, he glimpsed the nearby off-ramp through the thick black smoke and gunned his truck towards it. As a handful of other trucks followed, the driver failed to see the Ripsaw that straddled the road ahead, nor did he see – or feel – the 30-millimetre subsonic round that pun
ched through his cab and blew his torso apart. The truck lurched to the right, careering down the grass bank before flipping over onto its side. The Ripsaw advanced down the off-ramp, firing its auto-cannon into the other troop trucks, stopping them in their tracks, chopping men and machinery to bloody pieces and cutting down the runners who’d scrambled from their disabled, shredded transports.

  The Ripsaw accelerated past the fleeing figures and down onto the road, spinning around on its tracks and heading for what was left of the convoy. It manoeuvred through the swirling smoke, seeking out still-serviceable tanks and fighting vehicles, its explosive shells blowing out tracks and wheels, punching rounds through engine blocks and turning terrified clusters of cowering troops into wet pulp.

  As the wind picked up and the fog of war dispersed, the Ripsaw started to take incoming rounds, but it fought back valiantly, expending its ammunition in an auto-storm of kinetic violence until its magazines were empty. Only then did it succumb to the RPGs and the grenades thrown its way, but by then the deadly UFV had done its job. As its electrics fried and its CPUs failed, its smoking cannon barrel dipped for the last time…

  Overhead, a Predator UAV broke through the low cloud and circled the ambush site below, sending live footage back to the Battle Group HQ, where it was analysed by damage assessment teams and a group of senior officers. The conclusion was unanimous; the enemy convoy had been successfully neutralised.

  The battalion commander of the Second Mass, Colonel Butler, put it a little more succinctly as he smiled beneath his eye patch.

  ‘Those boys just got their arses well and truly kicked.’

  Several hours after leaving Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana, the flight of B-52s, now split into two formations of eight planes, lined up on their targets and began their bombing runs. Rolling Thunder was about to begin.

  Thirty-two thousand feet below the aircraft, and separated by a distance of twenty-one kilometres, two stretches of no-man’s-land had been pre-selected for the next phase of the ground operation. The target areas were located between the cities of Carlisle and Newcastle, sites that were also home to the dense clusters of surface-to-air missile batteries that populated that barren region of the frontier.