The storm leader narrowed his eyes and leveled his weapon. “Bullcrap.”
Brown peeled the top pouch of his plate carrier down a few inches. Instead of a black ballistic insert, blocks of greasy white Play-Doh peeked out.
“Even you amateurs know what this is, don’t yah? This is C-4, the real deal. Captured it from the Feds. None of that homemade fertilizer bomb shit. Hey, slow your roll, jackass!” Brown wagged his hand at the portside gunner and his ridiculously slow draw. Brown pried up the end of his thumb, holding the dead man’s switch with just the joint.
“See you in hell!”
“Wait! Lord forgive us. Okay, you win.” The team leader tapped the pilot’s shoulder and growled into his intercom. “You heard the heathen. Take us west and set her down somewhere in Confederate territory.”
Brown clucked his tongue. “Who said anything about going home? Well, I suppose you fellas can. You’ve served your purpose. Hey, flyboy! Give us a touch-and-go landing at the next clearing. I don’t care where.” The bald man in front, sporting a grey goatee and a buzzard’s sunny disposition, flipped his Night Optical/Observation Devices up and craned his neck around.
“Sure thing. Whatever will end this Loony Tunes version of the OK Corral. A shootout would crash us just as surely as a bomb.”
The assault team leader lowered his rifle, but didn’t touch the safety. “We’re still thirty plus miles behind Fed lines. You might as well kill us now.”
Brown shrugged and lifted his hand higher. “Suit yourself. Let’s go meet your boss. Ooh-rah!”
The youngest End Timer trooper shifted his weapon… towards his leader across the row of crash seats. “Sir, come on. Why you in such a rush to give your life for the Preacher? Who do you think’s going to be comforting that pretty young wife of yours when you’re gone? You know damn well what he’s done to help all the other martyrs’ widows.”
“Ah, gosh darn it!” The storm leader slammed his elbow pad against the door’s window hard enough to break the Plexiglas. Through the cracks, dark silhouettes of pines replaced the starry skyline. The whole chopper rattled as it bled speed and dropped like a stone.
“All right. Lock and load, Warriors! Looks like we’re going for a little stroll.”
Brown wished him luck as they dived out the side door. The storm leader just made a highly non-Christian gesture as Brown waved and Dixon crawled across the empty helicopter to the door gun behind the pilot’s seat.
The pilot chuckled as Brown popped his head inside the cockpit. “I never cared for those psychopaths any, but they don’t deserve to go out like that. Let me do a few random dust-offs on the way to confuse any Fed patrols in the neighborhood. We’ve got plenty of fuel.”
“Yeah? Have you done this before? Something tells me you aren’t in the Coast Guard.”
“Not recently, no, but I did my share of insertions during Desert Storm and then Kosovo. Been medically retired from the Army for fifteen years, not that it matters anymore. The Preacher has a healthy fear of idle hands.”
“Then why don’t you get out? Leave his weird little kingdom and join us. Or head somewhere. Anywhere else.”
“What rock have you been living under? Moving is akin to desertion, which is just another synonym for blasphemy to the Warriors of Christ. Sure, maybe I could get me and the misses out, but I’ve got a whole brood of kids and grandbabies that’ll catch hell on my behalf. What do you care? Just tell me where we’re going so I can get you off my damn bird. I’m assuming back to the field headquarters so you can get your boss lady back?”
Dixon squeezed the M60’s trigger guards until his knuckles burned white. “You never said anything about Rand being back there. She’s a damn hostage, isn’t she?”
Brown switched hands on the bomb detonator. “We’re all hostages to this insane world right now. We’ll get her back, but we have to make a detour first. There’s bigger game in these woods.” He turned back to the pilot.
“So where are the chemical weapon rocket launchers located? Don’t even try playing games. They must have given you some info so you could stay clear of their trajectories.”
The pilot snorted. “I can explain away losing some of the Preacher’s cannon fodder. Maybe take some lashes in the town square at worst, but if I help you, then that’s treason. They’ll slaughter my whole bloodline. I’ve seen it happen.”
Brown squinted to read the pilot’s nametag in the red cockpit lights. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Danny. Why are you so terrified of these goons? This preacher fella isn’t some boogieman. Just another two-bit warlord who can’t be everywhere at once. I have several recon teams that infiltrated End Timer territory days ago and are just waiting for a command. Help me, and we’ll get your family out of there and to safety in hours. You have my word. One officer to another.”
Danny stared at Brown’s Annapolis ring clenched around the detonator. “If I thought for a second you could deliver, I’d follow you...” The pilot banged the back of his helmet against his seat rest. “Screw it. There’s nothing you can do to stop them anyway. I’m sorry. I truly wish things were different.”
Brown shoved his plunger against the pilot’s head as the old man tugged at his thigh pocket. Danny just ignored him and plucked out a waterproof notebook with a map folded inside. Brown dropped down into the cabin and held the map against a red interior light.
Dixon snagged the notepad from his grip and double-checked the grid coordinates. They perfectly matched a square kilometer marked off in red on the map. A narrow, but twenty-kilometer long purple corridor, leading from the target to a blue circle south of Lake City, was shaded in as a no-fly-zone. “I don’t get the target. That’s still the border between us and the Feds, right? Why are they aiming at the middle of nowhere?”
Brown closed his eyes. For the first time since Dixon met him, he struggled for words.
“Those are our main defensive positions for the expected Fed counterattack. It was part of the deal… most of the Free American Army is dug in there. Once they’re gone, our small reserves won’t survive the night. I wonder if the End Timers will split our land or if they’ll race the Feds to see who can gobble us up the fastest.”
Dixon leaned against the mini-gun and hefted his bandaged legs on top of a grenade crate. “Can you reach our people on the radio?”
“Not a chance. Way too far away.”
“According to the timeline here, we’ve still got fifteen minutes before the strike. How fast can we get over there?”
The pilot sighed. “Maybe 10 minutes, if I push it… but come on, what can one nutjob and a cripple do? The launch site is heavily guarded. Unless you have some artillery of your own stashed away, you ain’t getting close.”
Brown perked up at the mention of heavy weapons. He rooted in the duffel bag of supplies the assault team stripped from the dead Feds and yanked out a walky talky. “Just get us to the rockets post-haste. Hopefully we won’t miss the action.”
The pilot dipped the Jayhawk’s nose down and to the northwest without hesitation, but glanced over his shoulder as he shoved the throttle forward.
“What action? What are you smokin’ back there?”
Brown didn’t answer. He just flicked through encrypted Fed frequencies until he found one with heavy traffic.
“Any station this net, we’ve got a fire mission…”
Wilayat Napoli of the Final Caliphate
(Formerly Naples, Italy)
“Relax. I have them paid real good. They make show only.” The smug Libyan just kicked his feet up in the captain’s chair and nibbled on a slab of fried Feta cheese.
Since the smugglers had patted Kat and Dore down, quite thoroughly in her case, she didn’t have many options. Kat gripped the ship’s railing and glared out of her hijab headwrap at the squad of Final Caliphate fighters driving up to the dock below. They hollered in Arabic at the local Italian guards, who cowed in appropriate meekness even if they didn’t understand a word. The newcomers began throwing open s
hipping containers in a fury as a pair of “pure” Caliphate men, sporting full-body liquid armor and exoskeletons, stomped past the ship and headed into town. A half dozen towering warbots trailed in their wake, but paid the freighter and local guards only cursory attention.
Dore ignored the search below and lounged a little too casually against the freighter’s railing. He slapped a bored look on his face, but his right index finger kept massaging an invisible trigger while he tracked the future men. He and Kat shared a frenzied glance. Even after all the weeks of fighting, those were the first “aliens” they’d seen since the Battle of Armageddon.
Al-Zuwara finished his snack and strolled out the bridge door. He tapped Dore’s twitching arm and ran a way too familiar hand over his calloused palms.
“These are not hands of businessman. You told not all truth. Do you miss your guns?” He winked as Dore faced him and spread his legs into a loose fighting stance. “Ok, Captain America. You are right. It pays not to ask many questions, but tell me...” He scratched his beard and tilted his head at Kat. “Does this mean she is no wife?”
“It means stay focused. Looks like you didn’t pay them enough. They’re inspecting our CONEX’s next. Then we’re screwed.” Kat pried Zuwara’s excessively friendly hand from her waist and pointed below. The head Caliphate searcher moved to a separate line of long shipping containers and waved for the crane operator to stop. Five more minutes and they would have all been aboard. It didn’t matter if the guy was paid off to ignore the guns and explosives in the first five containers. The Russian and Euro troops inside the last one didn’t know the plan. They’d turn him into Swiss cheese the second he cracked the door open. How long would it take before the drones joined the fight? Seconds? A full minute?
Dore gave Kat the slightest hand gesture, but Zuwara somehow caught it. He took a wide stride back and snagged the handle of the Glock holstered to his side. Kat and Dore sidestepped away from each other simultaneously, making it impossible for the Libyan to drop them both before one of them got him. She twisted around to make the first move when a Caliphate soldier stuck his ear to their container and smiled...
Then nodded, waved the crane operator on again and spun around to read something on his clipboard.
Al-Zuwara guffawed. “Do you think this is my first time? I charge so high price because I am best in the business. I never smuggled people into Libya, but the details are all the same.”
He studied the rich foreigners as they waited breathlessly for their cargo to be hauled on deck and strapped down. No one said a word until the gangway finally lifted and the old diesels roared to life. Nothing else happened in the few short minutes it took to clear the harbor and reach open water. Just as Dore and Kat let out a collective breath and took a step towards the hatch leading to their tiny berths, Zuwara chirped something into his walky talky.
“Please, moment. There is still business to do.”
Two armed crewmembers trumped out of side hatches and blocked their way. Over her shoulder, Kat spotted another pair of AK-wielding smugglers take up positions in front of the CONEX with the rest of the team hiding inside.
“You lied and only paid tonnage rates. There are special price for passengers.”
Dore turned slowly to Zuwara, keeping his hands in plain sight, while gently nudging Kat out of the line of fire.
“Let’s cut the bullshit. We have no more gold with us. If you get us to Benghazi, our partners there will pay whatever you want. On the other hand, if we don’t arrive, then that will all become a bounty on your head.”
Zuwara’s perpetual leer only widened. “I have heard every type of threat. Typical Ami’s. So you have no more money and think the rules are different for you? Africans, Syrians, Americans—I don’t care. All must pay.”
He drew his weapon and barked in English into his radio. “Bring me 10% of the female cargo. The younger and prettier the better.” He snagged Kat by the arm and shoved his Glock barrel between her ribs.
“I told you I have been doing this many years. There are always other ways you can pay.”
Dore just crossed his arms and shook his head. Zuwara squinted at his grin but a whistle from the cargo deck drew his eye. The head of his brother, one of the armed men searching the CONEX below, popped into view and nodded.
Zuwara waved him up the ladder. “Let’s see if you find this funny...”
The Libyan’s eyes popped out as his brother’s severed noggin flew across the deck and struck his leg with a wet thwack. Zuwara jerked his weapon up at the same time both of the remaining guards dropped under a hail of controlled pairs.
Dore lunged forward, but he was far too slow. Kat reached Zuwara’s outstretched gun hand first, twisted his wrist down and leapt over his arm for leverage. She couldn’t hear his arm popping out of the socket, but his howling was loud enough. She handed the Glock over to Dore and ripped off her hijab. With one surgical kick in the groin, Kat knocked Zuwara to his knees and wrapped the knotted up face wrap around his neck.
Dropping to her butt, she straddled him from behind. She leaned back, taking her sweet time choking the flopping smuggler to death. Captain Kolchak climbed up and wiped the blood from his bolo knife on the gasping man’s leg.
“Damn human traffickers. Worse than terrorists. At least Jihadis believe in something. Can I get in on some of the action?”
Dore ignored the shooting as the Russians fanned out and finished sanitizing the ship’s crew. “Can’t you leave us at least one to interrogate? Or maybe, I don’t know, steer the Goddamn boat!”
Kolchak slapped his back hard enough to send Dore sprawling forward. “What can you learn from a cockroach? And besides, why else did we bring those French sailors, hmm?”
Dore just shrugged and whistled at the tall guy cowering behind Kolchak, doing his best to keep his eyes on the sky.
“Washington! Do you have it?”
The bald man blinked twice, but then went green as he slipped in a blood slick. “Uh, yeah. My Artificial Intelligence broke the ancient encryption on their laptop a while ago. Been waiting on you to, uh... finish. Passwords, call signs, safe routes, paid off guards—got everything. Do you really need me for...” He made eye contact with Zuwara just as the man’s pupils rolled back in his head. Washington dashed across the deck and heaved over the rail.
Kat shoved the still twitching corpse off her lap. Dore gave her a hand up, but she rushed to Washington and patted his back.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, but couldn’t look at her.
“Does it... the killing... ever get easier to deal with?”
Kat sucked in the salty air, finally free of the endless acrid smoke now that the European coast slipped over the horizon.
“Better hope so. Because we’re just getting started.”
Osceola National Forest
“Here comes the flippin’ cavalry. Hang on!”
Danny howled as he stalled the Jayhawk and dropped it, tail-rotor first, back to Earth. Milliseconds later, red machine gun tracers lashed out only inches from the helicopter’s nose. A quartet of Cessna’s zapped overhead just as he regained control of the bird.
Dixon kept his eyes on the Fed planes rather than the pine needles scraping the chopper’s hull. He shoved out a snapped tree branch that wedged through the gunner’s window and grabbed the weapon’s charging handle. Brown reached over and clapped his shoulder.
“Save your ammo. Doesn’t look like they’re making a second pass.”
“Yeah, maybe not right this moment, but remember why they were able to respond so quickly. The assholes were out hunting us.”
“And now they have some bigger prey. All right, Danny boy. Get me in the middle of that shit show right now!”
The chopper skirted the tree line, looping around the rocket launch site from the rear. After the final turn, Danny tilted the nose up and raised his Night Optical/Observation Devices instead of charging across the field. The target was easy to find in the dark. Especially since the
four Skyhawks left plenty of blossoming explosions in their wake. There was little order to the chaotic strafing passes, but with each dive the Jerry-rigged .50 caliber’s slung underneath the birds left their flaming mark. A few random tracers from the ground managed to reach up and tap one of the prop planes. It erupted in a flash and cartwheeled into a truck full of spare Grad rockets. The fireball only seemed to enrage the other airborne cowboys.
Danny flinched and hovered the Seahawk in place. “Holy shit! Let’s just hang back a minute. Let the Feds handle the dirty work.”
Several launchers and ammo carriers were already flaming wrecks. A dark mist, much heavier than smoke, clung to the ground and embraced the rest of the firing line. There were plenty of bodies lying around, but none rested in peace. Every wounded fighter in the fog spasmed uncontrollably.
Brown jabbed a knife hand over the pilot’s shoulder. “Bingo. There’s the fire direction center, at the far edge of the field. Two O’clock, six hundred meters. Let’s hustle. Drop me like a hot potato, man. Dixon, cover me and keep him honest.”
Danny freight-trained his Jayhawk across the cow pasture, clipping more than one armadillo with the landing gear. The Fire Direction Center guards blazed away at the whomping death trumpet heading their way. With their night vision ruined by the hellish geysers from the firing line, every rifleman blindly and reflexively aimed high, gunning for the stars.
By the time the farthest perimeter guard corrected his mistake and dropped his aim to ground level, the chopper pitched to the side and spun out.
As he dropped the hammer, Dixon caught a brief flash of the End Timer’s gaping jaw. His first mini-gun burst scalped the frozen support soldier, but didn’t disturb Dixon’s aim. Not much could throw him off, since all he did was brrrtt off 100-round Rambo bursts straight ahead while the chopper’s fuselage swung a full 90 degrees.
The Caliphate Invasion Page 40
