“So what’s the problem then? Where do we come in?”
“Well, things changed last night when we lost contact with the Turkish detachment garrisoning Al Raqqa, Syria. That’s the old capital of ISIS’s so-called ‘caliphate,’ and now their black flags are flying all over town. Propaganda aside, Raqqa is deep behind what passes for our lines. Can’t have that. We sent in a large force this morning to retake the city, but ISIS pushed them back with heavy losses. It was a slaughter, really. The terrorists are armed with some exotic advanced weaponry that we’ve never seen before.”
He slid over a stack of black-and-white aerial surveillance printouts. The center of each picture needed no caption. “This alien vessel landed late last night and hasn’t moved since. We believe it’s some type of transport. My Air Force colleagues prefer the term ‘dropship.’ Whatever the case may be, the direct alien assistance for ISIS that you survived down in Babylon wasn’t an isolated case. Our attackers seem to have found themselves a friend Earth-side.”
Dore scooped up the photos and shook his head. “Of all the crazy armed gangs in the world, why the hell would they ally with ISIS?”
The major cleared his throat a couple of times, struggling for something classier than shrugging his shoulders.
Kat ignored the photos and crossed her arms. “Who cares? Maybe the historians can figure it out someday. Sir, all we need to know right now is how are we going to kill these bastards?”
“Killing them is the easy part, Sergeant. What we really need is for your team to take that dropship in one piece. These ships are launching constant snatch-and-grab raids around the world, but this is the first time we’ve heard of one staying in place for an extended period of time. We believe it’s acting as a command & control center, as well as supply depot, for ISIS. Could you imagine the intelligence treasure trove if we took them intact?”
Captain Dore took a break from jotting notes. “And we’re supposed to accomplish this all by ourselves? Sir, if you haven’t noticed,” Dore ground his teeth and forced out the words, “I’ve lost half my team. Even at full strength, I’d need a small army to fight our way through a few thousand insurgents, which appear to be dug in and waiting. Do we at least have some fire support for this suicide mission?”
“Relax, Captain. I wasn’t being flippant when I said breaking their lines would be easy. Six B-52’s made it out of Diego Garcia before it was destroyed. With our Iranian, um, partners providing the armaments, we’ll dump more than 400,000 lbs. of ordinance. All at once. That’ll sanitize every ISIS fighting position in and around the city.”
Dore’s jaw dropped. “The hell you say, sir! Carpet bombing the entire area? Jesus, there could be a hundred thousand civilians still in town. They didn’t sign up with the militants. They’re nothing more than hostages. This is immoral, illegal and a clear violation of the Law of Land Warfare!”
The Iranian major joined the conversation and slammed his fist so hard the giant table buckled. “This isn’t a fucking war anymore, Captain! This is the end of the world. At least two billion people have been killed in the last few days. Maybe twice as many. Get it through your head: the human race is being exterminated. Your ‘laws of war’ have become pretty damn flexible. If you’re worried about war crime tribunals, don’t be. The Hague is a smoldering crater.”
The American major grimaced, but bobbed his head.
“What he means to say is that we aren’t bombing indiscriminately. GPS targeting might be a lost luxury, but we can still deliver our bombs quite close to the target. Trust us, Captain. In this day and age, we can’t afford to expend ordinance willy nilly. We’ll do our best to make sure every bomb counts and isn’t wasted on civilians.”
He turned to yet another board and flipped a clear plastic overlay on top of the Raqqa city map. This sheet had phase lines steadily advancing towards the city center.
“On the heels of the bombardment, we’ll launch an overwhelming force of armored units to attack the town from all sides. That’ll crush any ISIS survivors no matter how fancy their weapons are, but it’ll take time. We estimate between three and five hours to carve a hole through the remaining IED’s and snipers and push to the Landing Zone, which gives the alien supply vessel far too much time to launch and escape. That’s where your team comes in. Your goal is to infiltrate ahead of the main force and then secure that ship until the cavalry arrives. At any price. Of course we’d love a live alien prisoner to interrogate, but that’s a secondary objective. The ship and its weapons technology are crucial. Consider every one of your soldiers expendable to that end. Speaking of which… Major Hussein?”
The Iranian major stood up. “Yes. To make up for your losses, my team will operate as your second chalk. I’ll personally lead ten of my best fighters. These are all men who have been combating ISIS for years.”
Kat cut her eyes at him and curled her lip. “And probably us for years before that, huh?”
The American officer stepped between them. “At ease, Sergeant. We need them more than they need us right now. Captain Dore, you’re in overall command, since you have the most experience fighting the aliens. You’ll also have a detachment of Marines to cover your insertion.”
Dore studied the picture, hiding his annoyance. The target ship sat in an open soccer field surrounded by a low wall. It was less than two hundred yards from the north bank of the Euphrates River, but smack dab in the middle of the city.
“And just how are we supposed to infiltrate anyway?”
Major Hussein smiled and slid over enough recon photo. “With this, via the river. We can fit the whole team on board without attracting attention. I’m thinking that boat ramp between the alien vessel and bridge would make a good Landing Zone.”
Some genuine respect edged Dore’s voice. “You sneaky bastard. That’s just crazy enough to work.”
Steinhatchee Wildlife Management Area
Five miles west of the Commune
“So why are we meeting your militia friends all the way out here?” Rand fiddled with the handgun in her pants, as distraught over carrying a gun as why it was necessary. “Whose great idea was it to make sure there were no witnesses around?”
Dixon stared across the cow pasture as the Warriors of Christ honked their horns. Six trucks, more than he expected, but no rifles or machine guns around. Didn’t mean heavy weapons weren’t stashed under the seats or that a hundred shooters weren’t hiding just out of sight in the tree line, but at least they made the pretense of honoring the agreement.
“Boss, remember: we’re a mystery. A ghost organization. Existing everywhere, yet based out of nowhere. We’ve got a rumor-rich reputation to maintain. We need to feed their imaginations if we’re going to appear powerful.”
Rand tsked. “Being powerful is like being a lady... if you have to tell people you are, you’ll never be one. You talk too much, Peter. Just stick to your sexy, quiet brooding and let me handle the negotiations. God knows what other fantasies might pour out of that twisted mind of yours.”
“Hey, it takes guns and uniforms to create a militia, but only heaping piles of bullshit can build an army.”
“Yeah, well, it’s cute until your fictitious army gets in a real war…”
Rand uncrossed her arms as the Warriors of Christ rolled up. The militant leader came over and stuck out his hand at Dixon.
“I’m Storm Leader Killebrough. You must be this famous Minuteman boss I’ve heard so much about. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Any foe of Heinrich is a friend of the Lord’s.”
Dixon kept his hands at his sides and glanced sheepishly at Rand.
The storm leader faltered under Rand’s bored gaze. “Oh, I see. You’re the head honcho. My apologies. I just, um…”
Rand cut him off with an impatient twirl of her finger. “Let’s wrap this up. I have far more important things to do than micromanage every little trade deal.”
The storm leader’s eyes widened and he nodded with a new measure of respect. “A woman a
fter my own heart. You’re quite right. So, from what my scouts tell me, you run some type of distribution center for the majority of farms and ranches in the tri-county area. If true, that’s perfect. We’ve been looking for a single bulk supplier… Oh, say, is that okra?”
He nodded at the four commune pickups loaded down with bushels of leafy greens. Behind him, the rest of his skinny Warriors jittered about, practically salivating.
Rand cocked her head. “Answer me something first. We’re understandably suspicious about your militia’s newfound reasonableness. They say your organization comes out of Lake City and controls everything along the I-75 corridor down to western Gainesville. Those are rural areas. If your empire is as large as everyone claims, then you should have plenty of farmland. What’s so special about us?”
Killebrough lowered his voice and stepped closer. “In the Preacher’s rush to bring peace and order to the Godless lands, some of our, ah, pacification efforts have been a little overzealous. Combined with the extreme manpower requirements for the war against Heinrich and his so-called Department of Homeland Security… well, we’re producing far below capacity.”
Rand leaned against her truck and flicked a deer tick off her arm. “You mean to say, for some crazy reason, the surviving serfs aren’t motivated to work any harder than they have to, huh? You expect us to support your medieval system?”
The storm leader clasped his twitching hands behind his back. “The Preacher may be a little unforgiving, but that’s what it takes in this new world. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished, even if we’ve had to stoop to the devil’s level. Listen, if you think we’re the bad guys, then try doing business with Heinrich and his scorched earth policy.”
Killebrough took a deep breath and scratched at his shaved head. “And at the end of the day, isn’t that all that matters? Doing business? You can let all this extra food rot or you can put it to use feeding starving people. Now, we’d be happy to take any excess supply off your hands. Pay top dollar, too. With real money, of course. I’d like to fill my trucks right now and then we’ll work something out for future deals. What do you say?”
He dug a few shiny coins from his pocket and winked. “That should be more than enough for the first shipment, but I want to show you that we are people of means. We’re looking for a long-term supplier, and we’ll pay handsomely.”
Rand snickered, but didn’t touch his gold bullion. “Pay with what? I hope you don’t mean this crap. We already have plenty of scrap metal to keep our handful of smiths busy.”
“Are you kidding? That’s 100% pure gold, lady! Oh, do you prefer silver? That’s easy enough to arrange.”
He snapped his fingers and another Warrior came over with a jingling satchel. Rand shook her head.
“You misunderstand. Perhaps if we had an electrician we could do something useful with these metals, but our current needs are much more mundane. There’s plenty of copper and steel we can recycle to make any tools and spare parts we need. Unfortunately, there’s no shortage of raw materials in the abandoned office parks.”
Rand slid her clipboard out from the truck’s cab. “Hmm, do you have any high-purity bronze? What about sulfur or other basic chemicals? Those are harder to come by and have real value. This stuff, I’m afraid, is worthless. There’s nothing important we can make with your so-called precious metals.” She hefted the coin sack off the truck hood and handed them back. The storm leader blanched.
“Are you friggin’ messing with me? That’s ten troy ounces. A small fortune! I could feed a brigade of militia recruits for weeks on that.”
Dixon winked at Rand and snagged a gold piece. He took a bite out of the metal and spit. “Really? Tastes like shit. Do you melt it down into a soup or spread it like butter?”
The Warrior toyed with the radio clipped to his tactical vest, but soon let it go and laughed. “Okay, okay. I get it. You drive a hard bargain. Fifteen ounces then, but not a gram more. The Preacher will already be hopping mad at me.”
Rand shoved her hands into her blue jeans and rolled her eyes. “Listen. We aren’t screwing around, and neither should you.”
“But you’re holding over $20,000 worth of precious metals! Are you honestly telling me that means nothing to you?”
“Twenty thousand individual dollar bills would be more useful. We could bleach the ink off them. Durable paper is always in demand. If nothing else, we’re running low on toilet paper and I’m getting sick of using leaves.”
The Warrior commander barred his teeth and clenched his fist, but Rand cut him off.
“Don’t give me any of that ‘intrinsic value’ bullshit. There’s no currency anymore, be it paper or metal, that’s universally recognized. Maybe this counts as a medium of exchange in your little empire, but foreign exchange has to be much more practical. What part of barter don’t you understand? You can’t expect us to give you something to eat, something that keeps people alive, in exchange for damn decorations. If we can’t eat it, shoot it, or build with it, it has no damn value. So why don’t you quit wasting my time and come back when you’re serious about trading?”
Dixon kept his lopsided grin on, but edged slowly away from the confrontation. He picked out a pine tree for cover and leaned a casual shoulder against it. There might not be any long-arm weapons in sight for this friendly meeting, but he wasn’t naïve enough to believe no one was packing. Dixon carefully slipped a hand to grip the Glock on the back of his belt. Several Warriors of Christ snaked their hands behind their own backs and spread out.
Killebrough eyed Rand for a solid minute before raising a clenched fist over his shoulder. With luck, that particular hand signal hadn’t lost its universal meaning of “halt.”
“Okay, Ms. Rand. If you want to be difficult, then allow me to be blunt. You realize why we need this food so desperately, don’t you? Having so many mouths to feed is our Achilles’ heel, but also our big stick. I could marshal an expeditionary force of a thousand well-armed fighters with a single radio call. Wouldn’t even need to touch the border guards or reserves. I’m asking you, in the Lord’s name, to do the Christian thing. Before we’re forced to do things the medieval way.”
Dixon released his Glock, but stepped in the middle as Rand put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know much about your God, but he won’t be doing the smiting himself. The question isn’t how much do you outnumber us, but how much blood is this okra worth?”
Rand didn’t bat an eye while Dixon pulled fantasies out of his ass. “The Minutemen might be a small force, but it’s made up mostly of ex-military combat veterans, with plenty of firepower salvaged from the National Guard. They love nothing more than playing insurgents. We’ve littered every trail and road in these woods with IED’s and that’s not even counting our defense pacts with the nearby towns and farms. You might still win, by sheer weight of numbers, but can you afford the victory? How many of your most loyal followers and how much expensive ammo are you willing to sacrifice just to avoid sharing some of your supplies? And, of course, do you think Heinrich and his army will just sit on their asses while you’re reenacting the Afghanistan war down here?”
The Warrior ground his teeth before leaning forward and whispering. “Of course you’re right. I’m not an idiot. Nor am I one of the hardcore religious fanatics, but my leadership sure are. If one word of this conversation gets back to the Preacher, it’ll mean war. Holy war, do you understand? He’s got a reputation to maintain, no matter the cost. If I don’t come back with a deal, then the Preacher will come back personally. Leading a crusade.”
He raised his voice. “Last chance, people. Trading weapons, medicines or valuable resources is off the table. Perhaps I could offer you services in exchange for produce? You mentioned not having an electrician. We have several. Plus dentists, engineers of every stripe, or just about any skilled craftsman you can imagine. I could arrange to send some specialists to work for you, on a temporary basis…”
Rand spit in the grass. “Yeah, right. Spi
es, you mean. Or maybe you’ll tell your people they’re hostages. Justify a war, eh?”
The Warrior’s sad eyes underlined his icy voice. “The Preacher brought peace and order to the chaos. For better or worse, he rules the county like a king. One word from him is all the justification our people need for war.”
Rachel abandoned her overwatch position and appeared at Rand’s elbow. Before Dixon could say a word, she grabbed the Warrior leader.
“What about a compromise? We really need reference material. Do you have a library?” She turned to Rand. “One truckload of potatoes for every truckload of books. What do you say? Sounds like a fair deal.”
Dixon pushed her back. “Hon, this is serious.”
Rachel stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. “Think about it! This is the next best thing to having the internet. One mechanical engineering handbook or calculus textbook is worth a whole harvest of corn. What’s that prepper creed you used to swear by? Food rots, gas goes bad, ammo runs out, but knowledge lasts forever. Now that’s real power. How much time could we save, how much more productive could we be, if we had some reference books and didn’t have to reinvent the wheel every day?”
Dixon just blinked and forced his jaw closed. He shot a pleading look at Rand. The ghost of a smile flickered across her face.
The Warrior of Christ took advantage of the silence and seized the initiative. “You got a deal. We have several libraries within our salvage territory. More than you can read in a lifetime. It’s all yours, no matter how much food you can spare.”
Rand’s smile evaporated. “Really? What’s with the sudden generosity?”
“To be honest, the preacher was going to have all ‘secular’ books burned anyway. Basically all fiction and any science works. I’ve managed to stall him with excuses so far, but it’s only a matter of time until he gets serious. Better you folks have the books than let them be lost forever.”
Dixon clapped him on the back and winked. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt your own standing with your boss to negotiate a trade that costs him nothing he cares about.”
The Caliphate Invasion Page 19
