A/N: I wrote this while waiting for ideas to come to me for the next chapter of my other in progress fic – which is another way to say I had a major writer's block. As mentioned in the summary, it's AU with the timeline going up to and including the beginning of episode 2 of the series. The idea for it came to me while I was reading the history of the RAF of all things.

It is complete and I'll be posting it at the rate of one chapter a day.

As always, unbeta-ed but proofread.

All standard disclaimers apply for this and all subsequent chapters.

Washington DC

"Doctor, will she be able to walk again?"

"It's doubtful, very doubtful, I'm sorry my friend."

"But you will try."

"Unfortunately, I can't. I already have too many patients."

"Can't you make an exception for me?"

"No, sorry... But let me tell you what I can do. I can refer you to my best student. She's easily my equal in the field. In fact I've recommended her for a USC fellowship in neurology. She might be able to help." The doctor scribbled on a piece of paper and gave it to his old friend who handed it to his assistant.

"Thank you. I guess this is something," the huge black man said and left. The doctor shook his head. He thought about the girl his friend was referring to and he guessed she was beautiful. He had only seen her X-Rays, MRIs and CT scans, but he knew Langston Graham always hired the best looking ladies.

Southern Afghanistan, near the Pakistani border, a week before

Forward Operating Base Gloria was a hive of activity. Major John Casey, USMC, thought of it as a cross between a Vietnam-era fire support base and a '30s-vintage French Foreign Legion desert fort. Even tonight's entertainment, which consisted of the classic film 'Beau Geste' reminded him of that. Still, it had all the expected twenty-first century tweaks to the old concepts it was based on. Casey stopped and watched as the base's mascot, a donkey appropriately named Gloria, shuffled lazily by. He was bored out of his mind. This place had been built as a home for units engaged in the hunt for a particularly vicious Al Qaeda commander, Hassan Khalid. Yet day after day the air and ground patrols returned empty handed, having found nothing more threatening than nomads or the occasional camel rustler.

In one of the accommodation bunkers a tall blonde meticulously field-stripped and checked her weapons. She was as frustrated as everyone else by the failure to find the target, despite the seemingly solid intelligence and all the high-tech equipment used in the hunt. It didn't help that she disliked and distrusted her own team. They were not CIA personnel like her, but so-called private military contractors, a euphemism for mercenaries. She hated mercenaries. To her they were with few exceptions the lowliest form of men-at-arms, loyal not to a country or a cause, but to money. Engaged in unsavory activities as it might be, the CIA still had a hierarchy, a chain of command and congressional oversight. But these creeps reminded her of outlaws from the Wild West. Just three days ago, a Marine Major had caught one of them trying to plant a miniature wireless camera in the ladies' showers and had beaten the crap outta him. And instead of objecting or complaining, she had praised the officer's action and summarily kicked the offender from the team and sent him back to Kabul. Not something guaranteed to endear her to her team 'mates'.

"Osprey inbound, secure equipment and take cover," blared a voice through the public address system. One of the terps, a young Afghan policeman, hurried to get Gloria to her pen, as others moved to the shelter of the bunkers, prefabricated huts protected by Hesco earth-filled barriers. The MV-22B Osprey had a tremendous downwash when flying in helicopter mode due to its extreme disc loading and special care had to be taken to avoid injury and equipment damage when one came in to land. Casey looked up at the approaching aircraft and then made sure everything was ready in the base helipad area to receive it.

The whole FOB was enveloped in a cloud of choking dust as the Osprey landed. Then, suddenly, disaster struck. The noise of the aircraft masked the scream of the incoming barrage of 107 mm rockets, until they started exploding inside the base. Somehow the insurgents had managed to position their launchers within range of the compound undetected and fired at the most opportune moment, when the antenna of the counter-battery radar had been folded down to protect it from debris kicked up by the Osprey's prop-rotors.

One of the rockets hit the ready ammunition supply for one of the 155 mm howitzers, setting off a spectacular secondary explosion. Another demolished the communications center, while more destroyed storage facilities, the infirmary, part of the motor pool and some of the accommodation huts with direct hits.

Casey had been dragging a wounded Marine to the Osprey, whose pilot bravely kept it on the ground to load casualties and evacuate them to the nearest medical facility, when it disappeared in a blinding fireball. Shrapnel from the exploding aircraft hit him and his charge, killing the young Marine and injuring Casey.

The blonde CIA agent had been running towards one of the base defensive positions when an explosion lifted her off her feet and flung her right on to the side of a parked Maxxpro MRAP. She came to rest by the huge vehicle in a crumpled heap.

As soon as it began, the attack was over. The dazed survivors immediately turned to helping the injured, fighting the numerous fires and policing the area, while on the lookout for a ground assault.

When the young woman came to, she was securely strapped to a stretcher inside an Army medevac helicopter. She couldn't move much, but she could see a medic checking her IV drip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Marine Major giving a medic the stink eye when the latter informed him while changing a bandage on him that he could not light the huge Costa Gravan cigar he had stuck in his mouth.

"Hey," the huge Marine said when he noticed her watching him. "How are you doing?"

"I don't really know," she replied.

"Name's John Casey."

"Sarah Walker; nice meeting you, Major." They awkwardly shook hands. Sarah thought the Major's name was somewhat familiar. She didn't have time to dwell on it, as the medic injected her with a sedative and put her under for the flight to the nearest surgical hospital.

I know it was kinda short, but consider it the prologue.