Chapter 2
Greg felt the water coursing beneath his skis as he held on to the ski grip, the rope before him stretching out to connect to a bright-red speed boat. Grins were on the faces of those on the boat that were looking back at Greg, and he grinned back. Off to the left, Greg saw a woman sunbathing on a pier, and his smile widened. He motioned to the people on the boat and gestured in the direction of the sunbathing woman.
The driver looked over to his right, saw the woman and nodded, an evil grin plastering his face. The boat began to bank to the right. Greg juked his skis so as to swerve to the right. At just the right moment, Greg banked hard on the skis, cascading a large wall of water onto the bathing woman. He whooped in triumph, and he swiveled his head to watch the woman's reaction.
Greg watched as the woman, thoroughly peeved, rose in disgust and swung her menacing gaze toward him. Then he saw what appeared to be concern replacing her anger. She waved at Greg, seeming to warn or wave him off. Puzzled, Greg turned back to the front – just in time to see the giant tin wall of a boathouse.
SLAM!
Greg awoke to a deafening thunder. A monstrous explosion rocked the ground beneath him. He was already partially dressed as he was thrown from his cot. Shouts of men around him seemed only slowly to replace the memory of his dream, and in the distance, Greg could hear what sounded like the WHUMP of not-so-distant thunder. They were under attack, but from whom? Were Saddam's troops really that stupid – to attack a US heavy brigade combat team?
US Army brigade combat teams were usually referred to by their acronym, BCT.
Greg remembered the news from the day before, and he recalled the orders that had driven both battalions deeper into the desert. He had very little time to think about any of that though, because his M577 was already fired up and preparing to move. Forgetting his cot, Greg stumbled over to HQ20, the M577 specifically designated for the Battalion S2 section.
"What the hell is going on, Sir?!" shouted Greg to his boss as he poked his head into the rear of the track.
"We're under attack! Now get your butt in here, because we're moving out now!" replied Captain Anderson.
Greg scrambled through the hatch in the rear of the now-closed ramp, which he then closed and secured. The tracked vehicle lurched forward. Through the dust inside of the vehicle, Greg could see two legs sticking up through the top hatch. He looked over at his boss.
Captain Anderson had two "dog bones" (hand microphones) pressed to each side of his face, which was fixed in concentration. The M2 machine gun on top of the vehicle stuttered loudly, and Greg could see occasional spent cases fall through the top hatch and bounce about on the track floor. He glanced over at a small map board with taped on map of the local Kuwaiti desert that hung by some green 550-cord on the wall. No red markings denoted enemy positions – nothing was indicated on the acetate template. Whatever was attacking them was not depicted on that map.
A hand with a dog bone was shoved at Greg, and he looked up to see Captain Anderson trying to hand off one of the handsets. He took it and pulled out some paper and a pen from his uniform pocket.
"…is Assassin Six, roger! We've spotted three red-air contacts. Unable to identify type, but two of them are shaped kind of like flying bowties, two large dark panels flanking an orb that likely contains a pilot, break."
"…one in the middle looks a bit different. It's the one dropping ordinance on our positions. We've got…wait, break."
"...My wingman clipped one of the bowtie-shaped aircraft with his coax and it appears to be breaking off from the other two."
"…Break, break, break, this is Deathbringer Six. Want all air guards and TCs to target those aircraft now, and dismount those stinger teams. Out!"
Track Commanders were often referred to as TCs, and they were the officers and NCOs in command of various tracked vehicles, be they armored personnel carriers, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, M1-A1 tanks, or even wheeled vehicles like Humvees. Air guards were soldiers with weapons given the task of scanning for aerial threats.
"Deathbringer Six, this is Cougar Six! I've lost up to sixty percent of my combat power. Those bastards are pounding us with those bombs and those green beams of theirs. We've taken…"
Static replaced the transmission.
"This is Deathbringer Six. Dragon, I want you to engage close…"
"Break, break, break, this is Bandit Six! Have three contacts moving Northeast at Grid November Victor two tree six, fife four one. Appear to have two legs – walking vehicles of some kind, over!"
"Bandit Six, Deathbringer Six, are they close enough to engage with your tanks, over?"
"Negative, the threat victors are out of range. Do you want me to break off a platoon to engage them, over?"
The radio went silent for about five seconds.
"Negative Bandit Six, continue your course and engage them only if they come into range. Do the threat victors seem to be closing with you?"
"This is Bandit Six. Negative, they aren't moving as fast as we are, we… break."
"Those threat aircraft have broken off and are moving Southeast."
The radio went silent again. Greg could feel his track changing course a few times over the next half hour, so they were not heading in the same direction. He overheard two company commanders warning the battalion commander of Class Three shortages.
Those tanks drank JP8 fuel like it was going out of style, and they had lost one of the fueling vehicles to the bowtie aircraft. They had to be going somewhere. He leaned over and shouted a question to Captain Anderson, who replied with a shrug. Well, his boss didn't know where they were going either.
They were heading for Iraq. Of that, Greg was fairly certain. But that made no sense, since there were no friends in that direction. Those walking things were coming from the Southeast, from the direction of Kuwait City. Greg knew of no nation, friendly or otherwise, that had walking armored vehicles, so who did the things belong to? Without some fuel, often referred to as Class 3 re-supply, they weren't going to get far.
…
Later that night, Soldiers were moving in all directions, and the darkness was nearly complete, except for the twinkling stars overhead. Most soldiers were wearing night vision devices, and only inside SICUPs and tracks did red light scatter darkness, no red light escaping into the night. Peering upward, Greg now knew that those twinkling points of light held a newly menacing aspect to them. Through local news reports and HF radio, he had learned that the attacks they had been under were not from any traditional enemy but apparently a threat from the stars themselves.
Alien invaders! He still chuckled at the absurdity of it but then swallowed. Many good men were now dead on the desert floor, attacked by those bowtie aircraft. From what he and his boss could gather over various radios, a very large invasion force using exotic weapon systems had assaulted nearly every major city on the planet, and resistance, although initially heavy, had died down to what now amounted to insurgency in most areas, including the United States.
Belatedly, the Brigade Commander had ordered strict radio discipline within the BCT. An enemy from the stars certainly had the ability to triangulate and likely intercept their radio transmissions. For all Greg knew, that is how those bowtie craft found them in the first place. They were actually working off of printed signal operating instructions (often referred to as SOI) now and using rotating code words and phrases, instead of simply relying on their SINCGARs to scramble their transmissions and frequency-hop. They were also transmitting any FM over low power, when they were transmitting at all.
Greg's eyes were heavy, as sleep had been no friend to him over the past few days. The BCT was relatively scattered, and his battalion was spread out fairly thinly. Greg knew that enhanced their force protection, but while he knew that their moving every three hours did too, he didn't have to like it. He was off shift now, so Greg shuffled over to his track. It was backed up to the S3 track.
The Fire Support M577 was next to the S2 M577, and the signal M577 was next to the S3 M577. All four tracks were backed up to each other with their ramps down, and a couple of ponchos were strung overhead with 550-cord. This was known as a "hot TOC" configuration, because it could be torn down and moved on almost no notice. From inside of the S3 track, Greg could hear a radio. From the tinny sound of it and occasional whining in the background, he figured it was either AM or shortwave.
A British voice droned on about events, "…and all citizens are asked to remain calm. The white-clad troopers are here to assist us for a smooth transition to rule by the Empire. You are warned to do whatever they tell you to do and do nothing rash, for they while they want to help, they are well-trained and fully capable of dealing quickly with troublemakers. Her Majesty the Queen spoke today asking all British subjects to comply with…"
Greg walked to his own track. It was late, and he was so tired – much too tired to listen to that.
As Greg stretched out his foam sleeping pad on top of his track, he thought of home. Was Fort Stewart now occupied by these white-clad troopers? What of Hinesville itself? Were those troopers walking around in Hinesville? His mom and dad lived in Tampa. Was Tampa bombed? Were those troopers there, walking around? Were they shooting at people? Removing them from their homes? Visions of menacing white-clad troopers patrolling the streets of his hometown filled Greg's head as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
…
The day was horribly bright, and the sand reflected that brightness also in the form of heat. Greg could see waves of heat lifting off of the desert floor. To his left he saw movement on the ground. Glancing in that direction, he saw a large tan spider dart beneath a Humvee, looking for shade. Greg shook his head. Those camel spiders were everywhere. In the distance, Greg saw the shape of a camel, now two of them. He could barely make out human forms perched atop them. Though they were too far away, Greg knew those were most likely Bedouins. Those nomads probably knew nothing of news about invaders from the stars, nor would they likely care if they knew. Their lifestyle had remained pretty constant over thousands of years in this unforgiving desert, and wars had come and gone; civilizations and empires risen and fallen. Still, the Bedouins went about their age-old business. Several officers were now gathered about him, many standing and shading their eyes against the sun, others sitting cross-legged and chattering among themselves.
Senior NCOs filtered into the area, most of them congregating together muttering in low voices. Most of the soldiers gathered took occasional swigs from water bottles or canteens. A few munched on parts of tasteless meals, ready-to-eat, called MREs. All of them were there to hear what the "Old Man" had to say.
Lieutenant Colonel Harry Bertha strode into the midst of the crowd. Some of the soldiers who had been sitting began to rise, but Bertha motioned them to stay seated saying, "As you were."
The crowd, which had been chattering, now grew silent as all eyes swiveled to meet their commander. Greg saw that the battalion commander was tired – very tired. His eyes bore red bags beneath them and his face was gaunt. He seemed to have aged ten years in the space of only a few days. His very short steel-gray hair seemed grayer now.
To the commander's left and slightly to the rear stood a slightly taller black man with no hair and a very thin moustache. He wore an iron expression that held also years of experience and compassion. Command Sergeant Major Doug Shannon had been in the Army for nearly 30 years and had experienced combat in both Desert Storm and Panama. Above his left breast pocket, Greg saw the brown embroidered jumpmaster wings with a small gold star embroidered in the middle – evidence of a combat jump.
Greg had heard the stories of how the man had run out of ammunition and been forced to kill in hand-to-hand combat. He also knew that Command Sergeant Major Shannon never spoke of it and would change the subject if a soldier brought it up. The sergeant major peered over the gathered crowd, exuding a quiet confidence in what was certainly an atmosphere lacking of it.
Lieutenant Colonel Bertha spoke, "We last had contact with 3-78 Infantry early last night. We have heard nothing from them since."
Moans and sighs from the crowd followed and the commander held up his hand, "That does not mean they're not still out there! There could be a number of reasons they have been out of contact, including Colonel Pierce's order that we maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary."
The commander gazed out to meet the eyes of his soldiers.
"You all have worked really hard over these past couple of days, and we have engaged an enemy entirely new to us, and I know! I know most of you want to know just what was attacking us the day before yesterday, when we lost so many men to those strange craft," Lieutenant Colonel Bertha lightly sighed and seemed to collect his thoughts.
"Over the past couple of days, we have managed to gather some tidbits of news of what may be causing these attacks. As most of you have already heard, we no longer have any contact with the United States, and even our contact with Brigade is spotty at best, even though they jumped their TOC out to the desert. Many of you noticed that your Pluggers don't work. We think that is because the GPS satellites have been knocked out. From the news reports we have got, the United States, and indeed the whole planet, was attacked en masse by an interstellar empire."
The gathered men exchanged incredulous glances, muttering (and some chuckling) with each other.
"This is no joke!" thundered Command Sergeant Major Shannon, "Now shut up and listen up!"
The men grew silent, returning their attention to Lieutenant Colonel Bertha, a few nervous glances going to the Command Sergeant Major.
Lieutenant Colonel Bertha continued, "I know it sounds ridiculous, but so far as we can tell, it's the truth. I've never seen aircraft before like the ones that attacked us, and we know the Iraqis have nothing like that. We also know that our enforcement of the No Fly Zone would have shot down anything the Iraqis tried to put in the air. No, what we saw isn't owned by anybody….on this planet, and since the things attacked us we know they're not friendly. We also identified two-legged armored vehicles, and no nation that we know of deploys such vehicles.
"The only other pieces we gathered are from news sources supposedly controlled by this new threat force. They call themselves the Empire. Their troops for the most part appear to be clad in white plastic-looking armor from head to toe. According to the same news sources, they have set up governing facilities in every major national capitol. If the news sources we monitored are to be believed, their empire controls millions of worlds."
The men muttered with each other again, alarm on their faces. A few just stared blankly ahead. One of the company commanders stood up.
"Sir, if this empire is so vast and powerful, how the heck are we supposed to fight against it?" said Captain Hayes, the B Company commander.
"We're still trying to work that out, Phil. There is simply too much we don't yet know. In fact, I'm glad you brought that up, because this evening we are holding a conference between myself, the staff and all company commanders and first sergeants to discuss that very issue. In the meantime, we will continue to move in order to keep the enemy from getting a fix on us, and we will keep FM comms to an absolute minimum. Use runners. That's all I have for now, so let's get back to work."
…
For the remainder of the day, Greg went over information with Captain Anderson on what they knew of the Empire's forces. So far it wasn't much. They knew they had the bowtie craft and two-legged walkers. Based off of reports and some spotty television images, the white-clad soldiers were plentiful.
Throughout that afternoon, Greg used the HF radio to contact the States. He reached a specialist monitoring a set at Fort Gordon. From the specialist he learned that the invaders had struck hard and fast at all major cities in the US. Horrific green lances of fire had streaked down from space, obliterating the Pentagon, the Whitehouse, the Capitol building, and many other hubs of military command and control.
The skies were darkened with the bowtie craft and many other types of craft. Apparently, civil authorities such as police forces had put up the most resistance, but the white-clad soldiers had made short work out of them. The few jet fighters that were scrambled were also quickly overwhelmed, and most airbases in CONUS had been obliterated by the green bolts from space. Simply put, the US had not been expecting an attack, especially from space, so they were taken completely by surprise.
In the darkness, Captain Eckstein, the Battalion Adjutant, called roll. All company commanders were present except for Captain Simpson, the C Co. commander who had been killed by the bowtie craft two days prior. His executive officer (often referred to as simply XO) Lieutenant Nick Sudo was now in command. Once the roll call was complete, Lieutenant Colonel Bertha stood up to address his men.
"So, here is what we found out today. Greg managed to reach someone at Fort Gordon using an HF radio. For some reason the invaders have not yet occupied that post, so for now it is still being manned by our troops – those that are left and haven't gone AWOL yet anyway. The invaders have an impressive array of weaponry at their disposal, including very large, four-legged APCs that are heavily armed. They have garrisons in nearly every major city.
"The US government no longer exists as a functional entity. The enemy wiped out the Whitehouse, the Pentagon and many other key C2 nodes from space in their initial strike. From all accounts, the President, the Vice President, much of Congress, and all chiefs of staff were killed. The Empire is claiming control over the entire planet, and only minor nations have yet to fall.
"Some fallout from the Empire's invasion was a subsequent invasion of South Korea by North Korea, which thought the invasion was from the US. Seoul and nearly every city north of it lies under a blanket of deadly chemicals, and heavy fighting is still underway. According to reports, the Empire is simply monitoring the fighting but doing nothing about it. S2, tell us what else you know."
Captain Anderson stood up and spoke, "Gentlemen, the Commander has covered most of what we already know. The enemy has the ability to strike targets from space, and based on what we have been able to learn they have several very large ships in orbit, each of which is heavily armed. Their size and composition is impossible to determine, but seeing that they conquered every major government on the planet within a couple of days, their military ability and might is simply unmatched by anything our history records.
"We dare not make many calls on any form of electronic communication, because we have reason to believe that the enemy's IEW abilities are vastly superior to ours and our radio transmissions, in secure cypher-text or not, are being monitored, which is why we now use the SOI. I believe that the attack on us two days ago was by a scouting force only." Some of the officers groaned and muttered to one another.
"Thank you, Deuce," said Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.
The Commander continued, "Right now, we have no communication with either Brigade or 3-78 Infantry. Whether they've been destroyed, moved out of comms range, or whatever, we don't know. Nor can we reach any higher elements. Our Class Three and Class One supplies are running low, and we don't have much water left either. Yesterday evening, I sent a runner back to Kuwait City to check on activity there. He should be back late tonight.
"If Camp Doha is still in one piece and there are no enemy forces in Kuwait City, we will probably infiltrate back there. Otherwise, I'm open to your recommended courses of action."
At first most of the officers were silent. It was an awkward silence as Greg couldn't see anyone's face in the darkness. Finally, Captain Anderson grunted.
"Sir, it seems to me that we may have to fight this Empire the same way smaller nations in the past fought us."
"Go on, Hugh," said Bertha.
"Well, in Vietnam we were never beaten and we overwhelmed the enemy whenever there was a stand-up fight. Even so, they used guerilla tactics to pick at us over the years, cause casualties, and finally public opinion forced us to leave. If we could link up with other surviving units, even from other nations, we could wage an insurgency-style of warfare against these invaders."
"Of course, we'd shed these uniforms and just blend in with the local populace," added Greg.
"Terrorists," said Captain Halverson.
"Come again?" replied the Command Sergeant Major.
"This Empire would brand us as terrorists."
"So?"
"Just a thought is all. Do we really want to go there?"
"Do we really have a choice?" replied Captain Anderson.
That evening more conversation was swapped among the leaders of the Deathbringer battalion, culminating in heated debate. Finally, Lieutenant Colonel Bertha closed the meeting announcing a decision he would make known to them the next morning.
Greg returned to his usual spot on top of his track and began rolling out his sleeping mat and fart sack. Off to his left, he heard the approach of a HMMWV. As he closed his eyes, Greg heard footfalls in the sand and the voice of the officer he knew the commander had sent to Camp Doha.
What had the runner learned? Greg really wanted to know, but exhaustion won him over and he drifted off into sleep.