INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  ‘Fifty seconds to target.’

  ‘Showtime,’ Purdy muttered inside his helmet.

  The Penetrator lost altitude. Below the nose, the Yarkand River snaked towards the city of Yarkant County, still sleeping in the pre-dawn darkness. Kramer took a deep breath; it wasn’t nerves that made his heart beat fast. It was anticipation, the knowledge that soon – in less than 20 seconds – he’d be reunited with the family he missed so desperately.

  The Penetrator banked, gliding under minimal power, turning away from the city and towards the sprawling military base three miles beyond. This close to the Pakistan border, the Chinese were in a perpetual state of alert, but that didn’t matter to the Predator. She was invisible to all eyes, both human and electronic. And she was close, so close now…

  ‘Ten seconds.’

  Kramer twisted his glove and took Purdy’s outstretched hand. ‘It’s been an honour, Gunny.’

  ‘Likewise, Colonel.’ Purdy winked. ‘See you on the other side.’

  Kramer nodded and turned back to the instrument panel; the altimeter showed 160 above ground level. Kramer’s last glimpse of the world was a vast parade square, devoid of human life but filled with Chinese armour.

  The nose dipped.

  The barometric trigger fired—

  The five-kiloton tactical nuclear weapon detonated in a blast of white light, obliterating the sprawling People’s Liberation Army base below. The shock wave destroyed buildings, vehicles, and every biological entity in a two-mile radius. Of the Predator, there was nothing left. The ship, along with America’s first combat space marines, had vaporised to nothing. All evidence of US involvement erased in a nanosecond. The weapon, however, had left its own mark.

  It took the Chinese nuclear investigators some time before they discovered the truth. Initially an accident was suspected – the base at Huangdizhen also housed a battalion of the PLA’s Rocket Forces equipped with their own tactical weapons – however, after a detailed analysis of the fissile material discovered at the blast site, it was confirmed that the nuclear weapon was of Pakistani origin.

  That made sense to Beijing.

  For years the caliphate had protested against the treatment of Uyghur Muslims, and despite strongly worded denials from the Wazir government in Baghdad, the Chinese were convinced that the nuke was in retaliation against such treatment. In reality, the ageing president and general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party had longed to unleash his vast army against an aggressor before his life ended. He’d always had the means. Now he had the motivation.

  The People’s Liberation Army mobilised on land, at sea, and in the air. Half a million soldiers marched towards the caliphate border in western China. Ten thousand Chinese Muslims were rounded up, put on trial, and imprisoned or executed. A million more were deported en masse in cargo ships bound for the caliphate. It didn’t take long for the missiles to criss-cross the Himalayas, but thankfully the warheads were conventional. Nuclear exchanges left no winners, both sides knew.

  And so, a new front in the global conflict opened.

  Elsewhere, it would change the course of the war forever.

  1

  Judge Dread

  Edith Spencer was 68 years old when she killed her first human being.

  The man had robbed and beaten a uniformed caliphate clerk who’d recently finished his shift at County Hall. The clerk had been making his way home through a dark and deserted Borough Market when his assailant, Bradley Quinn, had struck him from behind with a metal bar. After leaving him unconscious and bleeding on the cobbles, Quinn rifled the clerk’s pockets and stole the rucksack he was carrying. By the time Quinn was arrested, a week had passed and the young clerk’s life support had been switched off due to extensive and irreparable brain damage.

  Edith Spencer remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on Bradley Quinn, a pimply, sour-faced 22-year-old who’d slouched in the dock as she’d taken her seat on the judge’s bench. Edith always tried her cases in Court Number One at the former Old Bailey, renamed after the Great Liberation as the British Central Criminal Court. Determined to make an example of Quinn, Edith remembered the slight tremor in her hands as she’d read her decision to the court. With no jury and a less-than-enthusiastic defence counsel, the criminal’s fate had been sealed long before he’d set foot in Edith’s courtroom.

  The former lord chief justice of the United Kingdom remembered the shiver of power as she’d announced Quinn’s sentence: death by hanging. Quinn himself had sniggered, and his eyes had darted around the courtroom, seeking confirmation of the prank. The anguished wails of his ill-educated brood crowded into the public gallery confirmed that he’d heard correctly.

  Afterwards, in the privacy of her chambers, Edith had reflected on her decision and discovered she was untroubled by it. Her liberal outrage against such ghastly legal mechanisms was a matter of public record, but that was before the Great Liberation. Since then, she’d seen things differently. Later that day she’d taken a phone call, from the chief judge of the Supreme Judicial Assembly of Europe, Abdul bin Abdelaziz. He’d congratulated her on her decision, and she’d been extraordinarily flattered. After his kind and wholly supportive words, she’d decided to attend the execution in person, in order to appreciate the gravity of her jurisprudence. It was not the experience she imagined.

  What she did imagine was watching a hooded Quinn dropping through a trapdoor, the thick rope around his neck snapping taut and instantly ending the boy’s life. She’d imagined the corpse dangling out of sight, and her solemn pronouncement about justice being served.

  The reality had been very different.

  After being driven to Wormwood Scrubs in her official Mercedes, Edith had been escorted to a fenced-in exercise yard. There she’d been invited to stand facing the rusted steel scaffold frame that dominated the yard. Edith remembered thinking it resembled an oversized climbing frame, the kind one would see in a children’s playground. How wrong she’d been.

  A large group of people stood off to one side; the clerk’s family, Edith had assumed, and she remembered their angry yells and distraught wailing when a phalanx of guards had appeared, marching towards the yard. In their midst she’d recognised Quinn, wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hands and feet shackled in chains. What Edith wasn’t expecting were the other two orange-clad prisoners shuffling awkwardly behind him.

  She’d steeled herself, not knowing quite what to expect. The crowd had wailed and cursed as the guards herded the prisoners beneath the scaffold. Quinn had looked right at her as a short steel wire was looped over his head and tightened around his neck.

  ‘Please,’ he’d spluttered, his eyes locked on Edith’s, but she didn’t respond. Instead she’d concentrated on keeping her expression impassive. There had been no master of ceremonies present, no official proclamation; Quinn was simply lifted off his feet by two of the biggest prison guards Edith had ever seen, and his wire noose looped over a hook. The other two were similarly dealt with, and within thirty seconds of them appearing, all three men were dangling from the scaffold.

  The small crowd had fallen silent. None of the prisoners wore hoods, and Edith recalled summoning every molecule of self-control to keep from turning away. She’d watched Quinn as he’d kicked and twisted, his head cocked to one side as the wire dug deep into the flesh of his neck, his face purple, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding from his mouth. The others were no different, bucking and twisting violently, their strangled chokes competing with the violent rattling of their shackles. Quinn was the last to die, and Edith imagined it was his comparative youth that had kept him going longer than the others. Finally – thankfully, in Edith’s case – his legs had stopped kicking and his body hung limp. His mouth and chin were covered in snot and blood, his eyes wide and bulbous, his jumpsuit damp with urine. Then the shouts drifted down from the black walls of the prison that surrounded them, the other prisoners hurling abuse, screaming and protesting. The guards stepped back as the families surg
ed forward and began clubbing and raking the corpses with their shoes and bare hands. Edith would never forget the spectacle. Both appalled and fascinated, she’d stood her ground until the warden had intervened with an invitation to his office for refreshments. She’d declined of course. Bearing witness to an unexpectedly barbarous execution was one thing, but drinking cheap tea and engaging in pointless small-talk with a lowly prison warden was quite another.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Edith?’

  She looked over the rim of her glass, realising she’d drifted away from the surrounding conversation. She smiled and shook her head. It was time to reengage with her guests. She was the host, after all.

  ‘I’m sorry, a memory distracted me. My first execution.’

  The chatter faded around the table. All eyes turned towards her.

  ‘His name was Quinn, a distinctly repulsive individual. He’d beaten a young clerk half to death, and the poor boy had never recovered. Sentencing Quinn was a decision I didn’t take lightly, and the execution was a ghastly affair, but these things are necessary if we are to maintain a sense of order.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been easy,’ said the wife of the Berkshire assemblyman. ‘It’s not something we’re used to seeing in Britain.’ Her eyes wandered across the faces of the other guests. ‘Has anyone else seen one?’

  ‘I saw a beheading in Trafalgar Square,’ Timothy Gates admitted, taking a deep breath. ‘I was working at the National Gallery organising the salvage of artworks damaged during the liberation when I heard this frightful hullabaloo outside. There was a young man on his knees near where old Nelson used to stand, surrounded by a group of soldiers. A crowd had gathered, and there was a lot of shouting and cat-calling, then a big, bearded chap with a bloody great sword swiped the poor bugger’s dome off his shoulders. Damnedest thing I ever saw.’

  The other diners chuckled, and Edith smiled. Timmy was one of her oldest and dearest friends, which is why she hadn’t denounced him as a homosexual during the purges. Others hadn’t been so lucky.

  She looked along the table, at the great and the good of British society, their faces lit by soft candlelight and flushed pink by the splendid food and excellent wines that Edith, in her capacity as Britain’s foremost judge, had provided for them. With the royal family brooding in exile across the Atlantic, a new Republic had risen in their departure, and Edith and her dinner guests now represented the pinnacle of Britain’s elite, a status they enjoyed by the good graces of the caliphate.

  ‘I’m not convinced the death penalty works,’ the white-haired Victor Hardy chipped in. He was Edith’s closest ally, and as judge advocate, second in line to her legal throne. ‘Especially with these resistance thugs. It can often lead to a wider resentment against the ruling classes.’

  ‘I’ll let you take that up with the chief justice.’ Edith smiled. There was laughter around the table, and Victor held up his hands in mock defeat.

  Edith swirled the 74 Burgundy around her glass. ‘Quinn was a common criminal, and an example had to be set. As for these resistance people, well, I think it’s important we show our support for the administration. They’re here to stay, and it’s incumbent on us, as the new establishment, to lend that administration the breadth of our experience and wise counsel.’

  At the other end of the table, Victor raised his glass. ‘Well said, Edith.’

  The conversation moved swiftly on to other matters, primarily the reopening of the Globe Theatre on the Southbank, where pre-approved productions were scheduled for the coming summer. Edith and her guests were looking forward to the resumption of cultural life. She’d missed the theatre desperately; however, her courtrooms continued to provide their own drama, something she was always thankful for.

  After dessert the party drifted away from the table and into the magnificent drawing room for coffee and brandies. She sat in her usual seat by the fire, enjoying the conversation and regaling her guests with amusing anecdotes from her long and illustrious career. As the chimes of midnight echoed through her elegant and sprawling Edwardian residence, her guests left. Soon she found herself alone with Victor and Timmy, her inner circle, her true confidants and friends. Trustworthy, discreet. Qualities that Edith favoured above all others.

  Timmy stretched his legs out, teasing his brandy around the enormous balloon glass in his hand.

  ‘A splendid evening, Edith. Most enjoyable.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Victor echoed between puffs of his Monte Cristo. ‘I have to say that the food has been markedly excellent these last few months. Please pass along our compliments.’

  ‘I will.’ Edith chuckled. ‘He’s a former TV celebrity, a rather gruff and foul-mouthed individual, but once very successful, I’m told. He lives below stairs now.’

  ‘That’ll teach him.’ Victor sneered, exhaling a fog of cigar smoke. ‘Nothing more satisfying than seeing the nouveau riche toppled from their gaudy pedestals.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Edith’s eyes were drawn to the fire, where the flames danced hypnotically in the hearth. She shifted in her favourite wingback chair, smoothing the material of her oriental silk dress as she crossed one leg over the other. Her fingers caressed a large spider brooch pinned to her breast, the firelight reflecting its myriad crystals. She was content, she decided. The political circumstances were not ideal; however, she had embraced the liberation as if she herself had been freed like a common slave.

  She recalled that fateful night, the power cuts, then the distant gunfire and the rumble of explosions that had shaken the city. She’d ventured from her house, gathering with her neighbours in their affluent, leafy backstreet of Hampstead. There was frightened talk of plane crashes and terrorist attacks. There was no Internet, no mobile phone service, no police, no help. London had descended into anarchy, and that terrified Edith. As the days of uncertainty had worn on, visions of lawless, angry mobs had plagued her, and it was an enormous relief when order was finally restored. That military rule had replaced Prime Minister Harry Beecham and his administration was neither here nor there to Edith. What mattered was stability and the rule of law, the bedrock of her own life and her raison d’être. In its absence, humanity quickly descended into savagery.

  A month after that terrifying night, Edith had finally summoned the courage to step out of her gated mansion, one that offered impressive views over the city, views now transformed into a disturbing vista of black smoke and shattered towers. A living tapestry of the chaos that Edith despised.

  She’d persuaded Bertie, her regular black cab driver and part-time handyman, to take her into the city. She’d dressed conservatively and had the foresight to cover her head with a chiffon scarf that matched her pale green trouser suit. The only concession to accessorise was a beetle brooch, fashioned from jade and pinned to her lapel. First impressions were paramount back then, and her attention to detail had paid dividends.

  The first roadblock was situated outside the Royal Free Hospital and had been manned by a swarm of heavily armed caliphate troops and local militia. There was a small queue of traffic ahead of Bertie’s taxi, and one by one the vehicles inched towards the checkpoint, watched over by a frightening six-wheeled vehicle with an ugly, long-barrelled gun mounted on its turret.

  Devoid of the correct papers, Bertie was swiftly dragged from the vehicle and beaten. Edith, projecting as much authority as circumstances allowed, had explained to the ring of beards surrounding her that she was a respected judge in both the UK and the European Union, and she wished to speak to someone in authority. She’d provided judicial papers with impressive seals and royal warrants written in old English, not because the men surrounding her would understand them, but the gravitas they implied might make them think twice.

  The gamble had paid off. A month later, Edith found herself working as a legal adviser to London’s interim military council. When the soldiers were replaced with civilian administrators sent from Baghdad, Edith’s former roles of lord chief justice and supreme court justice were fin
ally acknowledged and given the respect they deserved.

  As English common law was reformed, Edith grappled with the complexities of Sharia Law, tenets of which had been quietly adopted in Britain long before Wazir had cast his conquering eye west. The British Territories, as England, Scotland, and Wales were now known, formally adopted a new rulebook, a rigid book of laws that would serve as a compass to navigate the choppy waters of the Great Liberation. Edith had been instrumental in that adoption and was promoted to chief justice of the British Territories. The Lord had been dropped of course, and the honorific title of Lady bestowed on her many years ago by Queen Elizabeth was no longer recognised by the new regime, but Edith could live with that.

  Yes, she’d come far, had made the most of a seismic shift in international power. Victor had also adapted to the new state of affairs. Like Edith, Victor was a titled individual and used to a lifestyle of status and privilege, and Edith had duly appointed him as her judge advocate. Neither of them would allow a military invasion of the former United Kingdom to disrupt the lives they’d become accustomed to.

  ‘Would anyone like a refill?’

  Timmy’s voice cut through Edith’s reminisces, and she was glad of it. The past was the past. What mattered was the future and her role in it. She shook her head.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she told him, tipping back the warm liquid at the bottom of her glass. She set it down on the table by her chair and pressed the buzzer to summon her manservant. ‘Time for these old bones to find their bed. Please stay, relax. Bertie will see you out when you’re ready.’ She got to her feet.

  ‘Wait. I have news,’ Timmy stuttered. ‘Important political stuff.’

  ‘Political?’ Edith frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’