The Caliphate Invasion

by Michael Beals

  Day Thirty-Four

  Lake City, Florida

  “Good God! He could have read the entire New Testament out loud and been finished already. What more does this preacher have to add?”

  Neil leaned over the pickup’s hood and waved his lighter at the massive, open-air revival behind them. With Sunday church attendance mandatory throughout End Timer territory, the high school’s football stadium hadn’t been so packed in years.

  Rand chucked her notepad on the dash and climbed out of the truck’s passenger seat. She stretched beside Neil and hollered over the sound speakers booming even in the parking lot. “Yeah, didn’t he start with Revelations, the very end of the New Testament? That was two hours ago. How many deleted scenes can there be from the Bible?” She peeked over Neil’s shoulder at his cancer pouch.

  “Is that just tobacco? Roll me one too, if you don’t mind.”

  Neil snapped his head around. “Since when do you smoke? You know this isn’t exactly organic.”

  “Neither is nuclear war. Nor making deals with apocalyptic cults. Don’t bother with that.” She grabbed the cigarette before he could stick a filter in. Rand torched the end and grimaced as she sucked deep. Her lungs revolted and jumped out of her throat, but the flood of dopamine soon tricked her nervous system into mellowing out.

  One of her escorting Minutemen in the bed of the truck leaned over and flicked a can of Copenhagen. “Want a pinch, boss? This stuff might look nasty, but it won’t ruin your wind like—”

  “What in Heaven’s name are you heathens doing? Sinning on the very steps of God’s tabernacle! Have you no respect for the Promised Land?”

  Several of the Warriors of Christ that had shadowed them for hours raised their weapons and rushed in. Rand stuck out her hand and waved her palm at the ground. Her bodyguards lowered their weapons a few millimeters as the lead Warrior pushed against Rand’s face. She only grinned and blew smoke in his face.

  “Are you freaking serious? You have no problem killing people by the wheelbarrow full but a smoke is too much? Get out of my face, boy.”

  “Who do you think you are? For a woman to speak like that to a Warrior… I…!” The youngster snarled and drew back his palm. He froze in mid-slap as something cold and steely pressed against his crotch. A dozen safeties from both sides clicked off simultaneously.

  “Stand down, Warrior! They’re here under a white flag.”

  A barrel-chested man in some weird khaki uniform screamed from the stadium entrance. He rushed over as the young man bowed his head.

  “I’m sorry, Group Leader. I meant no disrespect, but sinners must be punished…”

  “Sinners? These are guests of the Preacher himself! Are you questioning his judgment? You’re dismissed. Get your team out of here before I have you transferred to the martyr company!”

  The newcomer rolled his eyes as the young Warriors rushed off. “Sorry about that. Some of these freaking morons take the propaganda way too far. Something about the end of the world seems to bring out the religious zealotry.”

  Rand snapped her head around at the first foul language she’d heard since they arrived in this surreal land. “It’s been a long time, Killebrough. Good to see you haven’t lost your marbles like the rest of your comrades. What’s a ‘group leader,’ by the way? Did you get promoted?”

  “Thanks in no small part to you. Swapping several ransacked libraries worth of our ‘worthless’ books for most of your harvest? I still think we were ripped off, but the Preacher’s convinced I’m a slick son of a bitch. Which is why he sent me to negotiate on his behalf.”

  Rand frowned. “We were promised over the radio that we’d have an audience with the head honcho himself. Trust me, he’ll want to hear my proposal.”

  Killebrough’s wide grin couldn’t hide his eyes blinking a mile a minute. “No, trust me when I say this is for the best. The Preacher has been… somewhat unpredictable recently.” Killebrough leaned in close. “Pantsuit or not, you’re still a witch in his eyes. I mean that quite literally. One wrong word and he’ll have you burnt at the stake. Hell, maybe even me too just for knowing you.”

  “You think so? Is he so mad that he’d spark a war over nothing?”

  “No, a war would be short. He’d call it a crusade. Just like all the other pointless battles we’ve started.” He licked his lips and fought his twitching cheek to a standstill.

  Killebrough guided Rand away from her entourage. “Neither of us needs that headache. Heinrich’s the real enemy. So let’s get down to brass tacks. I’m assuming you want our help in getting General Dixon free?”

  Rand slapped on her poker face instead of recoiling. “I’m interested in discussing options, that’s all.”

  “Options? You don’t have many. According to our spies, Dixon and the other high value prisoners are kept in the basement of the Alachua County Courthouse. I could show you pictures of the defenses, but you get the idea. It’s crawling with Feds. The only slim chance of getting your guy back is with a massive, long-range artillery barrage to pin down the enemy, followed by a lightning airborne strike. I take it the High Springs Confederacy is short on artillery and helicopters, hmm?”

  “You can say that. Well, if you know what we’re here for, then let’s skip the foreplay and go right to the money shot. You must have heard how far the Confederacy has expanded. We’ve come a long way from a simple trading post. Folks seem to like doing business with somewhere that tries to respect the old Constitution. While everyone else is hoarding whatever they can before winter, we’re running out of storage space. We could triple the foodstuffs we bring to market and still have no problem feeding ourselves. I’m prepared to give your followers first call and a steep discount. Say, half off?”

  Killebrough chuckled without mirth. “A week ago that would’ve been too good to pass up. In the last few days though, we’ve found, um, another source of supply.” He shot a weary glance at the sky. “Let’s just say things aren’t so dire as they used to be. We’re no longer on the verge of starvation.”

  “We can offer far more than food. We have some light industry starting back up, especially a vibrant cottage arms industry. How well do you know this new supplier? Can you trust them? Maybe we aren’t BFF’s, but our communities have at least been trade partners since the Collapse. We’ve never missed a delivery. Doesn’t trust count for anything?”

  “Trust? Not nearly as much as profit. Your trading post has always come out ahead in our little deals. Especially since you refuse to accept gold and silver as currency, like civilized folk. Even some of our own people are using your script as money.”

  Rand puckered up and stared over his shoulder at the revival beyond. She dug her nails into her clenched palm until red rivulets trickled over her knuckles.

  “Fine. You win. We’d be willing to abandon our neutrality towards your kingdom. If we were to ally, then you could easily turn the tables on Heinrich. No more living in fear that he could swoop in and—”

  “Rand, no offense, but how’d you ever become president of your mini-republic? Your intelligence is way behind the times. Since we’ve withdrawn from Gainesville and pulled back to our own county, the Feds have left us alone. And with our new allies, we are far from defenseless. We’ve found the closest thing to real peace that anyone can enjoy around here and you expect us to throw that all away? I really expected more from you. This is the most transparent trick I’ve ever seen. Do you honestly expect us to just jump into your war and take the heat off your backs? Do all the fighting for you?”

  Rand turned her back on him and studied the cheering stadium. Her rage gave way to quiet tears.

  And then to a smirk that would spook a hyena.

  “Group Leader, you are far too rational for your own good. Do you think that mob is interested in nuanced negotiation and realpolitik? Think they give a shit about strategic balance?”

  Killebrough opened his mouth, but a raucous “amen!” from something the Preacher bellowed cut him off. Rand c
rossed her arms and set her jaw. “Talk is cheap. We’re stuck in a total war against Heinrich. The Feds might crush us or they might collapse, but either way, the glory will be all ours. We’re the only ones fighting the ‘antichrist,’ while your vaunted preacher sits on the sidelines. You’re the ones that have been fanning the flames of extremism, but you’ve manipulated the masses far too well. Way beyond your preacher’s skill level. He’s playing soccer while we’re in the freakin’ NFL. We’ve already taken in scores of defectors from your Warriors of Christ without even trying. How many volunteers could I find if I sent out recruiters? At least among your most zealous, front line troops. You’ve got your people all worked up and chomping at the bit for blood. So who do you think they’ll follow when things get real? An old man full of hot air, or a woman on the front lines of Armageddon?”

  Killebrough ...

  “Of course, there’s a second option. The Preacher can launch his much-vaunted crusade, but leading a coalition army. My forces will meekly submit to your wise leadership and, of course, cede control of all captured land to the mighty Warriors of Christ. For this one war, at least, you’ll turn us into the vassal state you’ve always dreamed of.”

  Killebrough cut his eyes at her.

  “You mean it? A full blown alliance, no restrictions?”

  “God help me, but yes. Better to work with the devil you know, right?”

  “Damn. Okay, well let’s skip the silly rescue mission and focus all our resources on the war. Get it over with as soon as possible.”

  “No, that part’s non-negotiable. We need to get Dixon and any other Minutemen prisoners out of there first. Only then will we whore ourselves out.”

  “Come on! What’s so special about this guy?”

  Rand just stared ahead. “Can we count on you or not?”

  Killebrough spent a long minute inspecting his boots. “Ok. I think I can swing it with the Preacher, but here’s the deal. This is all too good to be true, so you can understand if we insist that you put your money where your mouth is. Two hours before the operation, you’re going to mobilize every fighter you can scrounge up and stage them east of High Springs. I’ll send you an exact grid later.” He trailed off and frowned briefly, but then shook his head and grinned.

  “That’ll draw Heinrich’s attention. Once the Feds launch their inevitable counterattack against you, then our forces strike from the north and slam their flank.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot of trust involved here, but I guess that’s fair enough. I’ll have to run the details by my military experts, but I think that’ll work. When can you launch the rescue mission?”

  “You mean when can we go. I’m going to make sure you people have some real skin in the game. The Preacher is one wily, suspicious old coot. He won’t risk our only helicopter and put all our cards on the table without some guarantee this isn’t an ambush. If this is really a coalition fight, you’ll have to personally coordinate your forces from our field command post until the job’s done.”

  Rand shrugged. “Don’t get cute. So you’re taking hostages now?”

  “It’s just routine politics in this brave new world. If everything goes smoothly and you don’t have any tricks up your sleeve, well, I think this could be the beginning of a wonderful new friendship.”

  “Whatever you say. I’m nothing more than a figurehead anyway, but if having me under your thumb gives you peace of mind, then fine.”

  “Not just you. We’ll need your senior military commander as well. I believe that’s a Colonel Black? He’s going to ride along with our rescue team. Strictly as an observer, of course.”

  “Good God. You don’t want much, do you?”

  Killebrough put both hands on her shoulders, his eyes pleading for something. “You can always just submit to the Preacher. Full capitulation and there won’t be any need for, uh…”

  “Threats?”

  His baleful eyes belied his stark tongue. “No, not threats. We’re way beyond that point.”

  He nodded at a line of green, six-wheel trucks cruising past. Someone had draped a giant tarp over the bed of each old-timey truck, but the sinister outline of some mammoth box was clear enough.

  “What the hell? I’m no soldier, but even I know those aren’t American weapons.”

  Killebrough just studied his feet. “Still think your guy’s worth the trouble?”

  Rand ground her teeth and stuck out her hand.

  “So when are we going to consummate this marriage made in hell?”

  Killebrough gripped her hand and mostly managed to keep eye contact.

  "How does tomorrow at midnight sound?”

  “Why not. What could go wrong with a shotgun wedding?"

  Part V

  It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we would grow too fond of it.

  - Robert E Lee, Confederate General, US Civil War

  Day Thirty-Five

  Northern Outskirts of Milan, Italy

  “Negative! They’re moving too damn fast. Fire for effect, right 50, drop 300, danger close, over!”

  Kat leaned over the hasty berm and hammered off rounds at the Jihadis bounding across the supermarket’s parking lot just four hundred yards away. Like the rest of the recon team, she didn’t care too much about hitting any of them. They just needed to keep the endless waves of Islamic infantry at arm’s length long enough for the artillery to break them up.

  It was a solid theory, at least.

  “Shot—” The line back to the artillery battery cut out with a screech just before the first volley roared in. The first and last.

  Instead of a ticker tape parade after their supposed game-changing Rome raid, the Swiss command threw the operators straight into the latest cockamamie scheme before her team even cleaned their weapons. This brilliant coalition counterattack against the Milan pocket in northern Italy, right across the Alpine border, was “guaranteed to take the pressure off the homeland.”

  All the senior officers killed in the first five minutes of the assault agreed on that point.

  Captain Dore punted off his last 60mm “pocket” mortar round and high-crawled over. It took a bit, since he had to detour around the flaming armored bulldozer that had only finished digging a quarter of their redoubt’s walls. “Kat! Just lost contact with the Norwegians. Their last transmission called for artillery on their own position, so I guess we can write off the left flank. Tell me you have some other fire support assets in range?”

  A Caliphate warbot zeroed in on the radio chatter and popped one of its micro-nukes over the hill to the rear. The earthquake drowned out her response. The last surviving tank around, a Stridsvagn from the Swedish contingent, split the warwalker apart with a quick blast and gave them a few rare seconds of peace.

  Kat sunk into the berm and reloaded a fresh 90-round caseless magazine into the railgun Washington had cooked up. “So, yeah, that was my last remote transmitter. Even if we still have some arty out there, how the hell am I supposed to reach them? Boss, this isn’t Waterloo. What’s with this ‘Last Stand of the Old Guard’ crap? We’ve done our job; now who’s going to cover our asses when we fall back?”

  Dore flicked his wrist over and checked his watch. Had it really only been three minutes since the last vehicle retreated north through the valley?

  “Don’t know and don’t care. Every minute we hold out saves countless lives. ‘Sides, you really want to give Kolchak the satisfaction of watching us turn tail?” He nodded across the field at the only other surviving rear guard detachment blocking the opposite end of the valley’s entrance about a kilometer away. The Russians had long since given up on rifles, favoring endless volleys of thermobaric rocket-propelled grenades instead. The twitching stacks of Jihadi bodies ringing their position was an impressive sight to behold...

  But a gruesome tide that flooded closer with every wave.

  Kat just cast a smoke-singed eye at the black sky. Three even darker drone dropships swooped in from the south. “Shit. No point in
running now. We’d just die tired.”

  Dore hopped up to his knees and shouted at another foxhole a dozen yards away.

  “Simon, Dandridge! Bandits incoming, 11 O’clock low and fast. Get those shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles warmed up!”

  There wasn’t a peep in response.

  Some Belgian commando dashed over to the silent pit and disappeared. He stood up a second later and briefly waved a bent and twisted Stinger missile launcher over his head before dropping it and stripping the dead men of ammo.

  “They bought it during the last push, the lucky bastards.” Kat closed her eyes and fired a few random suppressive shots over the berm, while never even moving from her back.

  Captain Dore’s face went as limp as her body, but he summoned the energy to take a knee and try to lead the incoming aircraft with his rifle.

  “Damnit, Kat, at least go out with style! We might even be able to damage one or...”

  The rear dropship’s multi-barreled railguns spun into action long before it was within range of the armed ants below.

  Dore fired impotently anyway. Kat just sighed.

  Both merely blinked as the two leading craft erupted in cartwheels of flame and shrapnel before spinning into the ground. The surviving UFO spun on a dime and darted over to the Russian fire base. Kat was still gaping as it scooped them up and flashed over to her band of survivors.

  A lone, unarmed figure clung to the dropship’s open back ramp and screamed with unbridled panic over the ship’s blazing guns.

  “Kat! Where the hell are you?”

  Captain Dore broke from cover and ran up to him. “Washington? Damn! Thanks, but get back in the air and cover us. We need to give the rest of the army a longer head start. We’ll lay some mines here and then you can—”

  Washington snagged Dore by his tactical vest and chucked him headfirst inside the ship with superhuman strength, all while never taking his eyes off Kat.