Invasion (48 page)

Major-General Mousa shielded his face as the Kiowa Scout helicopter behind him leapt back up into the air and twisted away over the rooftops. Bodyguards in tow, he straightened up and headed through the rain towards a nearby stairwell, the last gusts of the rotor blades whipping
around his uniform. He made his way down to the fire escape stairs of Corbridge city centre police station, currently being used as the temporary headquarters of the Northern Army Group. And General Mousa, taking those stairs two at a time, was its
newly appointed
commander.

He dismissed his bodyguards and strode along the busy corridor to his office, ignoring the hurried salutes of his staff. Colonel Karroubi, recently promoted on Mousa’s
personal recommendation, got to his feet in the outer office as Mousa entered. He beckoned Karroubi to follow him into his inner sanctum and slammed the door. Mousa flopped into a high-backed swivel chair and swung his boots up on the desk, waving Karroubi to a seat. The wood panelled walls were decorated with dozens of maps and high-definition photographs.

‘How was the field inspection?’ his subordinate asked.

Mousa scooped up a remote control from the desk and powered up the command system screen mounted on the wall to his right. He called up the military dispositions of the Northern Army Group and the display filled with electronic information.

‘Unsatisfactory. Those three brigade commanders
you reported? I’ve had them arrested for gross negligence, amongst other crimes. The military court in Baghdad will hear their pathetic excuses in due course, but in the meantime it leaves our assault capability undermined. We need replacements flown in from Arabia and brought up to speed as soon as possible. Here are the names.’ Mousa fished inside the breast pocket of his combat jacket and produced a slip of paper.

‘They’re all Iraqis,
A
shira men,
so they can be trusted. And the LDDs?’

‘En route. They passed through Gibraltar yesterday.’

The
Layered Defence Destroyers
were enormous armoured bulldozers, powered
by massive turbo-charged
diesel engines and fitted with giant bulldozer blades which were used to literally scoop out and bury enemy defences. Armed with
mini-missile launchers
and electronic guns, the
LDDs could deliver a withering storm of fire as
they approached dug-in positions while, inside their cavernous holds, a platoon of infantry would be ready to storm enemy positions once they had been breached. In addition, wide caterpillar tracks and Kevlar plated bodies allowed them to surmount almost any terrain and sustain considerable damage, making them a formidable weapon indeed.

After studying camera footage from penal troops and LARVE surveillance birds, Mousa had ordered two LDDs to be shipped from their base in North Africa. The Infidel defences along the Scottish border were multi-layered and complex, he knew. There were concrete road blocks, anti-tank pits and vehicle traps and other obstacles too numerous to mention. In border towns, approach roads had been excavated and buildings demolished to form enormous rubble mountains. In sprawling forests, the roads and tracks had been blocked by felled trees and anti-tank teams watched and waited along every possible approach.

Elsewhere, thousands of artillery and mortar crews changed position on a daily basis, adding further complications to the attack plans. And that was just the ground forces. While British air assets had been depleted, the sky above the border hummed with air-search
radars, an indication that the Infidels still possessed significant surface-to-air
capability. Mousa had to be careful, particularly with his own air assets. He couldn’t afford another debacle.

With such formidable
defences facing him, Mousa had decided that the LDDs would be invaluable. Deployed skilfully, they would clear a path clean through the British lines, scooping up concrete and dirt, weapons and bodies, and allowing the tanks and troops behind to breach the defences and attack the enemy from the rear. Once that happened it would be over very quickly.

But the LDDs were still en route, lashed down inside a transport ship that was at this very moment steaming up the western coast of Portugal towards the port of Sunderland, a mere sixteen kilometres from where Mousa now sat. He did the calculation in his head. Seven more days at sea, a day to offload, three days to move them along a specially-cleared route to their new bases, another three days for their crews to prepare them for battle – the huge blades were removed for shipping – and another two days to advance them towards their jump-off point. Three weeks then, maybe a month. A long time. Still, since his exile to Damascus Mousa had learned to become a patient man; besides, the delay would give the replacement officers more time to familiarise themselves with their new commands.

‘What about our sea defences?’ Mousa enquired. ‘I needn’t remind you of the importance of security in our northern ports.’

‘Of course,’ Karroubi acknowledged. ‘Since the sinking of the two transport ships in Sunderland, we’ve erected anti-mine nets and doubled our sea patrols. However, the British still own the waters further north. Their submarines pose a significant threat, coupled with the prolific use of sea mines.’

‘They can keep their cold waters,’ Mousa sneered. ‘Besides, the Russians will deal with them soon enough. As long as our ports and the shipping lanes to the south are secure, the Infidels can do what they like. It will be of little consequence in the long run.’

Karroubi shifted in his chair. ‘May I ask, General, how was the funeral?’

‘Tiresome,’ Mousa sighed. ‘The multitude of wailing relatives, the
screaming brats, the obituaries; I
had a headache for most of the day, I can tell you. Still, Al-Bitruji would’ve enjoyed the send-off, in particular the media coverage. Did you see it?’

‘On Al-Jazeera,’ confirmed Karroubi, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
‘We can only pray that Paradise has welcomed him like a true soldier. It seems he underestimated the anger and determination of the British rebels.’

Now it was Mousa’s turn to smile. The attack on Al-Bitruji’s three-vehicle convoy as
it headed to the Regent’s
Park Mosque for Friday prayers was particularly devastating. While negotiating the narrow s
treets to the east of Park Lane
a team of masked attackers had unleashed a hail of anti-tank rockets and automatic weapons fire that destroyed
all three vehicles and left Al-Bitruji
plus
th
ree of his most senior officers
and thirteen other personnel dead, not to mention eight bystanders. One terrorist even fired four rounds into Al-Bitruji’s corpse to be sure.

The attack had left a leadership vacuum, one that was quickly filled by Mousa’s appointment
to
Northern Army Group Commander by the Holy One. He was back, without supreme authority it was true, but with the approval of the Cleric and with an army at his disposal, their one aim being to crush the remaining British forces in Scotland and bring the whole nation to heel. It couldn’t have worked out much better, he admitted. And when the campaign was over, when the dust had settled and enough time had passed, he would again travel to the villa on the banks of the Tigris and thank his old friend.

But, for now, there was work to do. For the next hour he filled Karroubi in on his recent trip to Arabia, where he’d consulted with the Holy One and the other European commanders at the Cleric’s marbled summer palace on the shores of the Red Sea. Huge maps of northern England and the Scottish borders had been pored over for weeks, as were thousands of photographs and aerial footage. Plans were formulated, rejected, re-worked and tested.

All the while, Mousa had sensed the mood in the palace, one of a conquering army on the verge of an historic victory, just a single battle left to win before ultimate conquest could be achieved. He’d seen his own eagerness reflected on the faces of the other commanders too, each contemplating their own special place in Arabian history, the desire for a last push on a scale not seen since the days of Saladin, an Islamic army sweeping across Europe, crushing everything in its path.

But the Holy One had urged caution, perhaps sensing the determination amongst his officers in the room. They were close to victory in Europe, he’d said, but they would wait, until the Russians had taken Norway and faced Scotland unopposed across the sea, until Europe was fully pacified. Then, as the world
watched, the final battle would begin. They had the luxury of time on their side, the Cleric had explained. Besides, there’d been enough civilian deaths, even if they were Infidels.

At the time, Mousa had sat at the long, ornate table in the palace conference hall and considered trying to change the Holy One’s mind. By disengaging, it would allow the Infidels time to strengthen their own defences on the ground, which would ultimately result in a longer, more drawn-out campaign. He quickly decided against it, choosing instead to nod in agreement like the other commanders around the table. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Yet, it was agreed that things had gone remarkably well. Of course, other countries across the globe had been outraged at the military campaign and, at the United Nations in New York, several delegates had protested long and loud at the scale of the invasion. Predictably, the US had objected the loudest, but America on her own did not present the problem she might have done at the end of the last century. Instead, the US had pursued a somewhat isolationist policy since its expulsion from the Gulf region, concentrating instead on domestic issues rather than taking its assumed role on the world stage as a leading superpower.

The other big players were Russia and China, the former now firmly in the Arabian pocket and the latter, emboldened by Arabia’s conquests, now eyeing Taiwan hungrily. The other countries that made up the United Nations were either now living under the Arabian yoke or were too insignificant to consider. Their protestations had faded and the more forward-thinking
delegates among the international community were already attempting to open channels of dialogue in the hope of rebuilding pre-war diplomatic and commercial ties, particularly with the now re-shaped European continent.

As Mousa concluded
his debrief, he glanced at the little island of Britain on

the map behind Karroubi’s head. This once-powerful empire had folded
as easily as the rest of Europe and, in a way, Mousa was disappointed. As a soldier, he’d anticipated fast-moving
tank battles across patchwork
green fields and savage street fighting to rival even Stalingrad, but none of these events had fully materialised.

Mousa had expected more from the British. Maybe the coming conflict to the north would provide an opportunity to test their resolve? Or maybe the passing generations had lost their stomach for a fight? If that was the case, it was easy to see why. Before the invasion, life in the West had been very comfortable for most. The sudden loss of utilities and the inability to be able to purchase food at over-stocked shops had terrified a population that had become a demanding consumer society. The West had grown soft and fat, become slaves to greed and the consumption of everything that could be consumed. Western society was a heartless, Godless organism that would pollute and destroy its citizens and the very ground they walked on. The invasion had changed
all that.

Now, only Scotland stood in the way of total domination. How tough a battle that would prove to be, only time would tell.

‘How long?’ Karroubi
asked after Mousa had finished his brief. ‘The Holy
One must know that delay only strengthens the Infidel’s hand.’

‘He does,’ Mousa shrugged. ‘But when he finally issues the order we must be ready. A month, two at most.’ He swung his chair around and stood, ambling over to the window behind his desk. He looked down into the small courtyard below. There were one or two jeeps there and several soldiers hurried to and from the building, bent against the driving rain. He stared across the wet rooftops towards the town centre, contemplating another eight weeks in this damp, dreary town.

The weather in Scotland was even worse, by all accounts. North of the border, it seemed to rain constantly. He made a mental note to address the tactical implications of the weather at the next briefing. Mousa sighed, already missing the hot sun of Arabia on his back, but this is what he’d worked for, had killed for, so the weather be damned. He turned away from the dull landscape outside the window.

‘There’s not much more can be achieved here now,’ he said to Karroubi.

‘I will travel to London tonight and return for the briefing next week. In the meantime, you’ll remain here and oversee the preparations. Think you can suffer the rain for a few weeks longer, Colonel?’

Karroubi’s shoulders slumped dramatically. ‘How do these people stand it? If it’s not raining, then the sky is just a solid grey ceiling. The men are getting depressed. We may have to issue Prozac, as well as ammunition.’

Mousa laughed. ‘An impractical combination, I think. Still, I’ll inform the Holy One of your suggestion.’ As he started to leave the room he glanced at the command display one more time, the smile slipping from his face. ‘Ensure our forces are ready when the time comes, Colonel. This will be our last key offensive in Europe and the Holy One expects it to be a decisive one. We must not fail him. I must not fail. Do you understand?’