INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  ‘Hang on,’ Steve warned, as he wrenched the wheel hard left and followed the lead vehicle into a dark, tree-lined side road a hundred metres short of the junction of the A1. Eddie caught a sign as they drove along the narrow lane, and he thought it said Care Home. That was confirmed when they stopped outside a flint-walled building. Gathered by the main door, a group of worried nurses huddled beneath their umbrellas.

  Orders were issued, and Nine Platoon started spreading out through the hamlet of grey stone houses, evacuating the buildings, sending the civvies back towards Newcastle and out of harm’s way. Some didn’t want to leave and slammed their doors shut. Eddie didn’t blame them, and besides, the settlement was well hidden from the nearby roundabout behind a thick screen of leafless trees and a boundary wall. Three Section gathered in the dark.

  ‘We’re the first ones here,’ Mac told them, ‘so we’re gonna deploy across the southern flank of this hamlet and watch the roads until the rest of the company gets here. Spread yourselves along that boundary wall and keep your eyes front. The boss is setting up back at the care home. You see anything, call it in.’

  ‘We’ve got no fire support,’ Digger observed. ‘If there’s armour on its way, we’re fucked.’

  ‘The boss is on it, so stop your bitching and get into position.’

  They moved out into the open ground beyond the hamlet. The flint wall loomed out of the dark, wet and shiny in the rain. It was thick too, Eddie noted, resting his rifle on top. He squinted through his battle sight. There was another 50 metres of dead ground to their front, before the trees thinned out at the roundabout. Their fields of fire were restricted but they’d be hard to spot from the roundabout and the A1 overpass which was good news. Mac came over and gave them some more.

  ‘The rest of the company is inbound, ETA, 15 minutes. First, Second, and Third New Yorkers are taking the train south to the town of Birtley, about five klicks that way,’ he told them, pointing into the darkness. Their mission is to secure the big road junction to the south of the town, block the major routes to the north and west, but they might not get there in time to intercept the Haji convoy. Things are fluid, boys, so stay sharp, watch your front and keep your ears open.’

  Then he was gone, melting into the dark. Eddie stared through his battle sight again. He caught a movement to his right, and two Ripsaws hummed past the roundabout and disappeared to the south.

  He heard Steve mutter something. Eddie leaned closer.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said, I’m only 18 miles from home now. Getting closer all the time.’

  ‘Put it out of your head,’ Eddie warned. ‘And for chrissakes, don’t let Mac hear you.’

  ‘That’s what, a 20-minute drive?’ Digger said.

  Eddie flashed him a look. ‘Let’s stay focussed, yeah?’

  ‘Nipper’s right. Twenty minutes in a car, half-hour tops.’

  ‘Steve, please…’

  All of them heard the whistle that rose to a scream—

  ‘Incoming!’

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Eddie curled up tight against the wall as the earth shook and a sky full of rock and mud rained down on them.

  Eighty-six miles to the west, the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit had begun their assault on the Cumbrian coast. First to make dry land were the MV-22 Osprey transports, skimming low across the sea, then rising over the bluffs at St. Bees Head before tilting their rotors and setting down in the flat fields surrounding the village of Sandwith. Within minutes the aircraft had disgorged over 600 US Marines before heading back to their respective assault ships to reload with more troops.

  As the Marines advanced towards the unsuspecting harbour town of Whitehaven, landing craft appeared out of the darkness of the sea and nosed their way into St. Bees beachfront, a mile-long stretch of sand and shingle already secured by US Navy SEALs. The landing craft pilots lined up their vessels and took it in turns to run them up onto the concrete slip road used by the local RNLI. The first vehicles ashore were four M1 Abrams battle tanks, and they roared into the abandoned hamlet of St. Bees itself, past the burning wreckage of the Haji missile launchers and the scattered corpses, men who’d had the serious misfortune of engaging in a gunfight with a SEAL Team Task Unit.

  At the southern end of the beach, more landing craft powered inland, their forward ramps slamming down into wet shingle and disgorging ten ARVs and the same number of Ripsaws. The ARVs roared up the beach and into the visitor car park, quickly linking up with the tanks and forming two distinct elements. One headed south to secure the nuclear power station at Sellafield, currently being held by another SEAL Task Force. The other element headed towards the outskirts of Whitehaven, providing cover on the approach roads leading to the town.

  As the first hour passed, the Marines encountered little resistance. There were several sporadic small-arms fire engagements, and an ARV was taken out by an anti-tank weapon on the road into Whitehaven. As the harbour there was seized, the ships of a Marine Expeditionary Brigade had already cleared the rocky coast of the Isle of Man and were steaming towards the Cumbrian shoreline. The brigade comprised another 12,000 combat Marines and their support elements, and their mission was to reinforce the bridgehead and push inland towards the Lake District National Park, sealing off every route to the north-west coast.

  To achieve its mission, the Atlantic Alliance needed to dominate the airspace over the frontier.

  Over a hundred Global Hawk surveillance drones took to the night sky from the runways of Belfast, Glasgow, and Edinburgh airports. They climbed to a cruising altitude of 6,000 feet, where they grouped into loose formations that stretched along a front of over 50 kilometres.

  The drones were not the sophisticated and hugely expensive Global Hawks, however. These aircraft were a new variant constructed especially for this mission, stripped-down of all essential parts, with unpainted fuselages, shorter wings, and reconditioned engines. They had no sensors or aerial surveillance equipment of any kind. These were ‘dumb’ drones, equipped only with IFF transponders, a guidance package, and a swarm-management software program that enabled a single ground operations team to control dozens of Global Hawks at any one time.

  Turning in fuel-efficient circles behind the frontier, the ground controllers programmed the UAVs into intelligent swarms. As the software took over their guidance, they moved into combat formations, making flight corrections in absolute synchronicity. On a command from their operators, the swarms turned to the south and increased power. As they approached the frontier, their transponders began announcing their presence to the world.

  The blind, defenceless aircraft were about to play a hugely critical role in the unfolding campaign.

  As bait.

  30

  Coup de Grace

  The warning buzzer screeched around the walls of the operations room, startling Major-General Zaki out of his dream-like wanderings.

  ‘We’re getting something, general! Multiple inbound bogeys approaching our airspace from multiple vectors.’

  Zaki hurried across to the seated operator. ‘Show me.’

  ‘I’ve put it up on the primary screen, sir.’

  Zaki glanced up at the wall display and saw clusters of red icons heading towards caliphate territory from the Scottish border and the Irish Sea. As they approached, the red icons faded, disappeared, then glowed again.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Intermittent jamming, sir. It’s difficult to get a fix.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  Zaki glared at the young hijab still tapping at her laptop. ‘Take a wild guess.’

  She turned her veiled head and looked up at him with cautious eyes. ‘Judging by speed, altitude, and vector, I suspect they are fighter-bombers or similar ground-attack aircraft, sir.’

  Zaki watched the screen, the angry red bees swarming towards caliphate territory.

  ‘We’re burning through the jamming,’ reported anothe
r seated technician. ‘Target acquisition is imminent.’

  ‘How many SAM units can we engage?’

  ‘Because of the recent bombing, we’ve lost significant coverage,’ the hijab told him, ‘however, our tactical envelope along the frontier remains intact. All SAM units are currently running in passive mode to avoid enemy counter-batteries.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Zaki. ‘And someone turn that fucking buzzer off!’

  He watched the screen, the swarm that was approaching caliphate airspace along a 60-kilometre front. He glanced to his left, to the gaggle of Ops Team officers who stood watching, waiting. He knew they hated him, knew he was tolerated only because of his lineage, and yet he felt an irrational desire to impress them.

  What would Mousa do? he wondered. He’d be decisive, that was for certain, but Mousa wasn’t here. He’d stepped out, and now Zaki could feel the tension in the room, the furtive looks, the doubt. The expectancy…

  ‘Enemy aircraft have entered caliphate airspace,’ the hijab announced.

  This is no time for uncertainty, the voice whispered in his ear. It was the same voice he’d heard these last few nights, a low, gravelly whisper from the shadows of his private quarters. Last night, that voice had taken form and emerged from the shadows. Last night it had sat on his bed.

  They treat you as a child, it had told him, and it was right. He was a leader of men, a decision-maker, confident and forthright.

  Zaki took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. ‘Order all SAM units to go active. Stop those bombers now!’

  ‘At once, general!’

  Far to the north, static, mobile, and man-portable surface-to-air launchers went to active-seeker mode and found their targeting radars cluttered with fast-approaching bogeys. All along the frontier, missiles launched in a spectacular display of firepower, the weapons streaking into the pre-dawn sky, the explosions rippling through the massed ranks of Global Hawks, shredding fuselages, igniting fuel tanks, and sending flaming wreckage tumbling to earth and sea.

  Mousa returned to the operations room and saw a smiling Zaki clapping a hand on the shoulder of one of his techs. He hurried across the floor. ‘What have I missed?’

  Zaki beamed. ‘Success, General Mousa. I have stopped a major assault by enemy aircraft in its tracks.’

  ‘An assault? When?’

  ‘Moments ago.’

  Mousa stared at the screen. ‘Play back the recording.’ He watched the enemy aircraft approach, then cross the frontier. He studied their vectors, their IFFs, their altitude and speed. Then he studied their reaction to the incoming missiles. He checked the live screen again; there were two survivors, flying together, still heading south, now deep over caliphate territory. The red icons made no abrupt changes in height, speed, or course. Nothing at all. Mousa closed his eyes.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  They snapped open, and he glared at Zaki. ‘Follow me.’ When they were out of earshot, Mousa rounded on him. ‘Kalil, you just engaged multiple decoy drones.’

  Zaki looked faintly amused. ‘Impossible. Their transponders identified them as fighter-bombers.’

  Mousa shook his head. ‘They were drones. How many SAM units engaged?’

  ‘All of them.’

  Mousa fought to control his temper. ‘They did it to deplete our missile stocks. Now we’re exposed.’

  Zaki faltered. ‘But we have hundreds of missiles and our SAM units—’

  ‘Have been compromised. By the time we finish this conversation, half of them will be lost.’

  Zaki took a step back, his face twisted in confusion. ‘A trap?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  Mousa watched him walk back across the room. Before he could react, Zaki pulled his pistol and shot the female operator through the back of the head. Blood and brain matter sprayed across her terminal, and her body slipped out of its chair and onto the floor in a lifeless heap. Zaki puffed out his chest and scanned the shocked faces around the room.

  ‘She failed in her duty to the Caliph. See that you do not fail in yours.’ Zaki returned to Mousa’s side, holstering his pistol. ‘So, what now, Faris?’

  Mousa was momentarily speechless. He watched the woman’s body being carried out of the room, her veiled head lolling lifelessly. He pulled himself together, now knowing with certainty what had to be done. ‘I’ve been summoned to Baghdad,’ he lied.

  ‘Then do not keep my uncle waiting. I will take charge here.’

  Mousa took a step closer and spoke quietly, ‘Kalil, the Ops Team officers are at your disposal. I would urge you to make use of their knowledge and experience before you make any tactical decisions. Please.’

  Zaki frowned. ‘Do you doubt me, Faris? This is hardly my first operation.’

  InshAllah, it will be your last, Mousa didn’t say. ‘This is a team effort, that’s all I’m saying.’ He threw up a salute and Zaki returned it. ‘I’ll be back in 12 hours. Twenty-four at most. Good luck, General Zaki.’

  Mousa headed for the door. Above ground a waiting helicopter flew him to London City Airport, where a Gulfstream executive jet idled on the runway. As it lifted off and headed south-east, Mousa saw the blinking collision lights of his escort, a single Typhoon Eurofighter, off the starboard wing. It was a discreet escort, and all that Mousa needed. He also needed time to think, because once he was in Baghdad, in Wazir’s presence, there would be no turning back. He would need to choose his words carefully to make his case. If he was successful, it might avert disaster.

  If he was not, then it would be General Faris Mousa’s head on a spike outside the heavily-defended walls of Caliph Wazir’s marble palace.

  31

  Tank Action!

  A screaming, piercing tone filled his head. His vision swam and his legs felt like jelly, but he could still feel the rifle in his hands and that was something. He felt pain too, shooting up his arms and legs, and he realised he was crawling over a shattered section of jagged flint wall. He didn’t know where he was going because he wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew he had to get away. The ground thumped and shook beneath his body, and a sharp detonation split the air close by. He heard muffled gunfire and screams, but it all sounded far away. He kept moving, dragging himself across sharp stones and wet grass. A figure crawled out of the darkness and blocked his path. Their headgear collided. He squinted through his ballistic eyewear.

  ‘Eddie! It’s me, Mac. Are you hit? Can you move?’

  Eddie recognised the camouflaged face, the voice, and nodded. ‘I’m okay.’

  Mac pointed to the stone cottage nearby. ‘They’re dropping mortars all over! Get yourself behind cover! Go!’

  As Eddie crawled away, he saw others around him, stumbling to their feet and heading for the hamlet. Eddie stayed on his belly, crawling fast, the painful tone fading, the fog of confusion clearing. He knew where he was, who he was, why he was there. That was a start.

  He felt the adrenaline surging. He pushed himself up and ran towards the house, dodging left and right, his boots crunching and slipping on the shingle border that surrounded the property. He made it around the back and crouched against the wall, breathing hard.

  Lucky they were only mortar rounds. He remembered being on the wrong end of a big artillery barrage back in Ireland, one that had shaken the earth and blown 30 Bravo Company soldiers to pieces. They were the lucky ones, Eddie remembered. The unlucky ones had survived but were horribly injured; limbs blown off, guts spilt, clothes and skin burned to a crisp. Worst of all, he remembered the screams. Eddie didn’t want to go out like that. A bullet through the brain, instantaneous, that was the hope. Unless he lived, survived the entire thing, came out the other end unscathed. What are the odds of that happening? he wondered, then pushed it from his mind. The next five minutes, that’s all that mattered. Then the five after that. Anything else was hopeless optimism.

  He checked his gear, weapons, and equipment. Nothing broken, nothin
g missing. He swapped out his mag, then felt for his knife because something told him he’d need it.

  Boots crunched on the gravel, and more guys from Nine Platoon bundled to safety behind the cottage. Steve and Digger were among them, dragging a couple of wounded. Mac was the last to appear.

  ‘Where’s Sarge?’ a voice asked.

  ‘All over that garden. Took a direct hit. OC’s down too.’

  Troops scrambled out of the darkness, guys from Three and Four Platoons. ‘Where’s the rest of the company?’ Mac asked. ‘We’re getting battered here.’

  A breathless corporal jerked a thumb over his shoulder, his black face streaked with green camo stripes. ‘Lead element got chopped up by a gunship a couple of klicks back. The road’s blocked, and they’re still taking fire. Right now, it’s just us.’

  ‘Minus the casualties, that’s what, 50 guns? There’s a Haji armoured convoy heading our way.’

  ‘I know. Four Platoon have got a couple of Javelins.’

  Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘Two Javelins? We’ll be fine then.’

  ‘Our boss is KIA, so the Four Platoon OC will call the shots. Keep your ear to the net, yeah?’

  ‘Got it.’

  The corporal pulled up a map on his tac-tablet and pointed. ‘My guys will set up over there, in the trees between these houses, and Four Platoon will cover the overpass with the Javelins, in case the Hajis try to bypass us and head straight for the city centre. You’ve got the eastern flank all the way out to these fields here, got it?’

  ‘Understood.’ Mac nodded, then said, ‘this is turning out to be a shit day.’

  The corporal’s black face split into a wide grin. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ And then he was gone, into the darkness.

  ‘You heard the man,’ Mac told the rest of Nine Platoon. ‘Spread out, find cover, and watch your front. Last man in the line, get a bug in the air, monitor our eastern flank. You see anything, call it in, pronto. Fallback RV is the care home, but don’t even think about it unless I say so. If I see anyone retreating, I’ll shoot you myself, ya ken?’ Helmets bobbed in the darkness. ‘Go!’