The Caliphate Invasion Read online

  Dixon bit his lip. “Nah, an EMP doesn’t make sense. Why does my car still crank up then? It’s got an electric ignition system.”

  The worker glanced over at Dixon’s big SUV. “Yeah, but the ignition system also has a large metal frame over it and some rudimentary shielding to protect against power surges. Now, if you have a dashboard computer protected only by plastic and the windshield, then that might be down. The starter and cables are under the hood and insulated though. Good enough for shielding against the E1 spectrum of overvoltage. Next best thing to a Faraday cage.”

  Dixon nodded, but Rachel wasn’t convinced. “My phone’s not shielded. Why does it still work?”

  “Does it? Can you connect to the cellular network? See any Wi-Fi hotspots around?”

  “Well, no, but it turns on. Why aren’t the circuits fried?”

  “Because your phone is so tiny that it can’t absorb enough radiation to overload the surge protector. Yeah, yeah, in the movies, everything that’s electronic just shuts off after an EMP. That’s typical Hollywood BS. You probably aren’t interested in the math, but the strength of the electromagnetic pulse doesn’t matter nearly as much as the length of the conductor building up the voltage. If this is a high-altitude EMP transmission, which seems to be the case since the damage is so widespread, then the energy dispersion at ground level will be fairly uniform. Or put another way,” he jerked his thumb at a cell phone repeater station a few hundred yards down the road, “that twenty-meter high tower is absorbing at least 2,000 times the voltage as the two-centimeter long antennae in your phone.”

  The lineman rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “That’s why little stuff like computers and pacemakers aren’t harmed. Now the national power grid on the other hand, with a million some odd miles of transmission lines acting as one giant antennae to amplify the effects…”

  He dipped his head down the road. A billowing cloud of gloomy smoke rose above the trees. “Well, you can see for yourself. That fireball was the power-routing substation for this entire side of town. Every substation I’ve visited in the county had arcing fires. I heard over the shortwave radio that the power plants themselves are raging infernos. Every transformer around is kaput. For all I know, it might be like this everywhere.”

  Dixon’s head spun. “You mean in the county area or for your company’s entire network?”

  The worker’s hand trembled as he shook out the last few drops of gas. “I mean everywhere. The whole country. I bet in Canada and Mexico as well. The power grid isn’t isolated into neat segments. Everything’s intertwined nowadays. Do you really believe Florida was ground zero? Think about it! We’re only on the periphery of whatever’s causing this. Believe it or not, but we have it easy.”

  A siren ripped the air. Some fire truck drove right past the burning substation and the smoldering wildfire it spawned. They clearly had something even bigger to deal with.

  Rachel grabbed the electric worker’s sleeve as he climbed in his van. “Fine, it’s bad, but you guys must have plans for this. Be honest, how long are we talking about to get the power back up? A few days; a few weeks?”

  He refused to look at her or Dixon.

  Rachel squeezed him harder. “A few months?”

  The lineman ran a finger over a family photo on the dashboard.

  “Dear, America is starting over from scratch. How many years did it take to build our power infrastructure in the first place? Just be thankful you don’t live up north. At least the winters are mild around here.” He shook her off and sped away without another word.

  Rachel didn’t say anything either until Dixon finished gassing up and they drove off. She gazed back at the neglected forest fire in the rearview mirror. The wall of flames already consumed several football fields worth of pine trees. With tens of thousands of wooded acres ringing this rural town, the fire wouldn’t run out of fuel anytime soon.

  “Peter, please tell me we’re still not going camping?”

  “No, no. Time for Plan B.”

  Rachel giggled. “Oh, we’re calling these fantasies plans now?”

  “Just you wait until we get to my stash. It’s only a minute or two away. I’ve been stockpiling for years.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it, but we need more than canned fruit and freeze-dried potato mash.”

  Dixon shot her a wink. “Oh, you’ve only seen the first unit. I leased two sheds dirt-cheap during the last recession. They’re both packed to the rafters with everything we need. Good food that you actually want to eat, tools, medical supplies, seeds, tobacco and liquor for bartering, even a two-way, shortwave radio wrapped in a nested Faraday Cage. Most importantly…” he grinned wide, “a serious arsenal with beaucoup ammo. Whatever’s going on, we’ll live like kings—shit!”

  As he rounded the last corner before the storage yard, someone shot out their front-right tire. “Stay down!”

  Dixon steered through the blowout and fought the urge to slam the brakes or jerk the wheel. He eased the top-heavy SUV into a gliding stop just abreast of the storage park entrance. Draping himself over Rachel, he drew his own weapon and searched for the shooter.

  It was an easy hunt. The firestorm engulfing the storage yard and surrounding woods raged across a mile-long front. Rachel wiggled out from under him and peeked over the side door.

  “So what’s your Plan C?” She laughed with tears in her eyes as more rounds cooked off from the fire. One gouged a hole in the backseat passenger door and ricocheted through the roof.

  “Come on!” Dixon dived out and tried to drag her with him, but the girl leapt past in a flash and beat him to the drainage ditch across the street. They hunkered down together, struggling for every inch they could sink below the acrid smoke clouds.

  Dixon had no idea how long they waited. In the rush for cover, he’d left his phone in the car. He had an old analog watch stuffed in his bug-out bag in the trunk, but the rucksack with all its goodies wasn’t worth braving the random gunfire.

  Eventually, the fire’s front moved on and the immediate flames toned down to a low simmer. A strong coastal breeze helped dissipate the black fog even as it fanned the fire. He waited a good five minutes after the last cooking round craaacked off before rising to a knee. “Ok. Stay put and keep an eye out. I’m going to change that tire faster than a NASCAR pit crew and then we’re getting the hell out of—”

  A line of strange tanks with oversized barrels clanked down the road towards them. Rachel hissed and slinked into the grass. “Oh God! Are those Russians?”

  Dixon hopped to his feet and flapped his arms. “Those are ours, baby! Mother freakin’ artillery. The cavalry has arrived!”

  He stopped his whooping as all six howitzers halted a few yards down the road. They swung their turrets to the east and raised their giant barrels in unison.

  “Cover your ears and open your mouth!” Dixon wedged himself next to Rachel just as the 155mm guns boomed. The closest cannon was only 20 yards away from them, but mere inches from his SUV. Dixon tilted his head up enough to witness every remaining window on his overpriced ride shattered by the overpressure. Flames licked out from the interior, ignited by the muzzle flash.

  He dropped back down as they fired again. Then another volley. A total of six in the first minute. Between thunderclaps, Rachel kept trying to get to her feet while Dixon pinned her down.

  “Get off me! Let’s either run for it or grab a weapon, but I won’t lie here while the bad guys attack!”

  “Calm down. These cannons have a range of 25 miles and their barrels are pointing straight up. Whatever they’re shooting at is far away. We just need to wait until they stop to reload… there! Follow me!”

  He scrambled out of the ditch as the ammunition carriers arrived. Six mirror-replica tracked vehicles, missing only the cannons, mated with the howitzers. The rear doors of the two nearest tracks swung open and robotic arms transferred fresh 100-pound shells to the guns. Dixon ran up and hollered at the crews buttoned down inside.

  A helm
et popped up from some hatch on the nearest artillery piece. The soldier swiveled a fifty-caliber machine gun in their general direction. “Stay back! It’s not safe here.” He shooed his hand. “Skedaddle! Run, while you still can.”

  Dixon and Rachel skidded to a halt in utter shock. A National Guard utility Humvee rolled up behind them and some grey-haired soldier leapt out. “Keep moving, folks. We’re going into harm’s way. Trust me; you don’t want to come with us. FEMA has a civilian refugee camp set up on the northeast side of Gainesville. At the racetrack right outside of town. Just follow the highway west and you’ll see the signs.”

  The first sergeant shoved past them, hauling a pair of Vietnam-era Light Anti-Tank rockets in his arms. “Take these, boys. That’ll give you some muscle if the bastards get too close.”

  Rachel tugged at the old man’s bulletproof vest. “When what gets too close? Who’s doing this?”

  “Sweetie, do I look like a general? Whoever or whatever the hell blew up New York, Dallas, LA and DC. Maybe even more cities. We’ve been out of the loop for a while.” He relented a little, smiling at the blend of fear and rage in the girl’s eyes.

  “Look, they’re only landing in small parties, mainly along the coast. Keep moving inland and you should be safe. Now get out of here. We’ve got some ass to kick!” He turned his back on the civilians and offloaded some more gear from his truck bed.

  Dixon took one last glance at the smoldering storage shed full of his dreams and his burning ride. Was this Plan D already? “Hey, First Sergeant. I’m prior service. Did a tour in Helmand province as a sixty-eight whiskey.”

  The first sergeant paid attention to him for the first time. “You were a medic, huh? Are you lookin’ to reenlist? We’ve got plenty of business for the medical staff piling up fast.”

  Dixon sucked in a deep breath and squeezed Rachel’s slender shoulder. “Sure. If you take my stepdaughter to safety at Camp Blanding, then consider me drafted for the duration. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  The first sergeant shook Dixon’s hand solemnly, but Rachel flipped out. “Screw that, Peter! You’re not sending me off to some safe zone while you go play hero. I’m a better shot than you ever were!”

  The first sergeant laughed, despite the situation. “I love your spirit. You remind me of my own granddaughter, but safety is a moot point anyway. Camp Blanding is gone. We only made it out because we were off in the woods training when the enemy attacked.”

  He shed his K-pod helmet and wrung out his sweat rag. “Tell you what. The remnants of the Florida National Guard, plus any police and armed civilian volunteers we can scrounge up, are staging on the other side of Palatka. We’re trying to organize a counterattack against the enemy’s bridgehead in St. Augustine. Tag along with us to the rally point and I’ll see if the field hospital needs a few extra little hands. How does that sound?”

  Both men looked at Rachel. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Can I at least help unload this gear?”

  For the first time in hours, the monkey of dread climbed off Dixon’s back. The world might be going to hell in a hand basket, but at least they weren’t alone. Order still existed. He could finally offload some of his weighty responsibility.

  The first sergeant dug in the back of his Humvee. “Here, take this. I know it’s heavy, but that’s the smallest size I’ve got.” Rachel hooked her arms through the Interceptor Multi-Threat Body Armor tactical vest, straining hard to keep her back straight and not hunch under the 35 pounds of steel-backed ballistic plates.

  Dixon took one as well and frowned at the dark stains on the neck flap of the Kevlar lining. The first sergeant met his gaze and set his jaw. “I wish we had a medic earlier.” He clapped Dixon on the shoulder. “I’ve got a combat life saver bag in the back. It’s not a complete medkit, but that’s better than nothing—”

  “Contact!” Tracers from the artillery unit’s dozen machine guns ripped out and spotlighted the threat behind them.

  Dixon didn’t bother turning around. He just reached into the Humvee and snagged an M4 rifle. Before he could insert a magazine, the nearest M109 howitzer and ammo carrier exploded. The blast wave punted him a good five meters in the air.

  Dixon squirmed on his back like a drunk beetle, fighting the urge to give in to his shrieking brain and just pass out. The thin tunnel of his vision narrowed to a bright pinprick. A familiar scream on the far side of reality brought him back to this world at the last second. Despite his nausea, he managed to hike himself up on his elbows.

  Ten feet away, Rachel slithered out from under the first sergeant. What was left of him, at any rate. The old man’s tight embrace was the only reason she wasn’t a charcoal-roasted hunk of meat as well. Some black, flying thing zoomed past Dixon. Several National Guard vehicles farther away blew apart in its wake. Dixon paid the slaughter no mind while he hustled over to Rachel. He snagged the combat lifesaver bag, little more than a trauma-oriented first-aid kit, out of the Humvee without slowing.

  Rachel wrapped her arms around Dixon when he slid next to her. Her voice was a faint squeak.

  “Peter, he saved me. Why? He didn’t know me!” Rachel was in full calculator mode now. Dixon slapped a dressing on the charred flesh of her arm. The blackened meat slid off, revealing Rachel’s pink skin underneath.

  It wasn’t her burnt flesh.

  Dixon grabbed her head as she peered down at the source of the gut-wrenching, scorched hair scent. “Shh. Don’t look. It’s all right. You’re fine. Take steady breaths.”

  He held Rachel’s head firmly and forced her to gaze away while he wiped the first sergeant’s melted remains off her body. She was in enough shock already.

  The last surviving howitzer snapped off a cannon blast as the grim reaper above hovered in place. Against all odds, the direct fire hit the enemy machine a couple hundred yards away. Half of the flying death dealer disintegrated. The rest spun end over end and crashed somewhere inside downtown Palatka.

  Rachel whooped and Dixon fired off a prayer of thanks. Not at killing the attacker, but at Rachel’s reaction. He could stop someone’s bleeding or set a broken bone, but he didn’t have a clue what to do if the girl shut down emotionally. Dixon helped Rachel to her feet, while thanking God she was truly her cold-blooded mother’s daughter.

  “Come on, let’s move—”

  Yet another shockwave knocked them both on their asses. Dixon gritted his teeth at the mushroom cloud rising over the crash site and engulfing most of Palatka. “Sons of bitches are even deadlier when dead.”

  The last surviving howitzer and ammo carrier clanked past. None of the crews paid them the slightest attention as Dixon shoved Rachel into the damaged Humvee. The engine rattled like a broken pinball machine, but the old workhorse cranked up on the first try.

  “Well, relying on the government wasn’t a part of the plan, but maybe we ought to try that refugee camp, huh? For a little while. Should at least be more soldiers there.”

  Rachel slid deep into the seat beside him and hugged herself. She wiped her face and grimaced at all the burning hulks around them.

  “Yeah, but is that a good thing?”

  Somewhere Over the Eastern Saudi Arabian Desert

  “I’m sure they’re fine, Kat. Whatever’s going on, Florida has got to be too far out of the way to mess with.” Sergeant Michaels squeezed Kat’s shoulder. She flipped over the Kevlar helmet in her lap, hiding the photo inside. It was one of her favorites. A rare picture where Rachel actually smiled at Peter. Kat sniffled. The hell if she’d let these guys see her cry.

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” She shoved the pain down and patted his knee. It was good to see her old battle buddy talking again, even if he struggled with something in his eye as well. “Hey, don’t you worry either. Hunkered down back at the base, your girlfriend’s the safest of all.”

  “Tina isn’t at Fort Bragg. She wanted to be with her family during the last trimester. They live in Queens. Just a few miles from Manhattan.”

  “Oh
God, Mike! I didn’t know. I’m so sorry…” Michaels shook her sympathetic hand away and changed the subject. He stared out the viewport at a long line of headlights fleeing along the highway below. With the Osprey barely a hundred feet off the ground, they couldn’t see far, but the river of refugees stretched to the horizon.

  “What do you think that’s about? There’s nothing south of here but desert for a thousand kilometers. Where could they all be going?”

  Kat whispered as loud as possible without waking the snoring civilians. They’d been through enough already. “Does it matter? Wherever the natives are heading, it’s safer than any city. I wonder if they’re looking up and cheering for us, or saying a prayer.”

  Michaels just grunted and glanced up at the smoky sky. “When the hell is sunrise around here?”

  Kat licked her lips and stared at the never-ending twilight. “Should have been an hour ago.”

  One of the civilians nearby wasn’t asleep. He lifted a borrowed uniform cap from his face and sat up. Unlike the other Westerners they’d freed, mostly young journalists and even younger aid workers, the wind-blasted wrinkles on this guy’s visage spoke to a long life spent outdoors.

  “This is our new dawn. Oh, down here by the equator we might get a few hours of real sun around high noon, but it’s going to be a long winter for the rest of the world.”

  Kat cocked an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? It’s only June.”

  His leathery face broke out in a rueful smile.

  “Nuclear winter is its own season.”

  Michaels shook his head like a pit bull. “I call bullshit on that. Nuclear winter is completely theoretical. There’s no real world proof. Besides, didn’t you hear Smith? The bastards are dropping rocks from space, not nuking us.” He turned his attention back to Kat.

  “That’s why I’m saying you and the captain are wrong. Neither the Russians nor Iranians could be behind this. It’s got to be the Chinese. Didn’t they land on the moon last year? Probably a cover story for setting up a firing base to throw moon rocks at us. I read a book about it once. Something called ‘The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.’ I bet these so-called ‘ships’ up there are just secret space stations. Forward observation posts for their meteorite artillery, or something like that.”