Chapter 3

"So they're not considered important enough for the invaders to occupy… Don't know if I would want to rejoice or be pissed off about that fact were I a Kuwaiti," said Greg.

He of course referred to the fact that Kuwait City was as of yet unoccupied by any of the white-clad troopers from the invading force from the stars.

Across from him sat Steve, still munching on a granola bar from his MRE. He looked up at Greg, sniffed, and then glanced off to his left. Greg followed his gaze to the setting sun. Their M577 was one of about five vehicles in sight. Just to the left of the setting sun, Greg spotted the familiar silhouette of a fueling Hemmitt vehicle, and next to it was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, covered by a camouflage net.

They hadn't been using camouflage nets before the initial attacks, but the invaders sometimes engaged and destroyed vehicles with scout craft if they happened to be flying in the area. Nowhere around him were there any tanks. Those had mostly been locked and left in the desert, for they did nothing but drink massive amounts of now hard-to-find JP-8 fuel. Their own 577 was already covered with camouflage netting, and Greg silently hoped that the radar-reflective materials embedded in it would be sufficient to hide them from any probing sensors used by the invaders.

"The old man is supposed to give us an OPORD tomorrow morning," said Steve, referring to an operations order that would specify a plan of action.

The radios in front of him were silent, but they were powered on. Unlike only a week and a half ago, they rarely came to life with message traffic – that was just entirely too risky. They were reduced to using couriers for the most part, and some of the local Kuwaitis had given them civilian vehicles, which the couriers used to move from one location to another.

Tactical vehicles were too likely to draw the wrong attention these days. Greg nodded and returned his attention to his weapon. He now carried the M-16 with him wherever he went, and he had been issued several clips worth of 5.56 mm ammunition. His Load Bearing Equipment (called "LBE") was no longer just for training. For the first couple of days, the battalion commander had ordered everyone to wear flack vests, but that had not lasted long.

Water was no longer readily available, and the heavy vests seemed to just suck up heat and distribute it into the soldiers wearing them. They had nearly lost two men to heat stroke. Moreover, against an enemy likely to shoot you with ray guns, what good would a flack vest designed to stop or slow projectiles be? They would but slow you down on foot and make you into an easier target, so those were shed.

"One of the S4 types supposedly got us some native clothes. Bunch of Bedouin robes or something for us to wear for when we get to the city," said Greg, referring to the men who ran the equipment and supply section.

He added, "Guess that'll be detailed in the OPORD too."

Greg looked up and saw that the sun had dipped below the horizon. Almost unconsciously, he reached into the track and turned off all ambient light. Light discipline was also now critical. Most of the generators were emplaced into holes dug in the sand in order to muffle their sound. The desert out here was mostly flat, and sound carried a long way. Even so, Greg wondered if the practice was worthwhile. He doubted it. The Empire probably knew they were out here, but they likely didn't consider the scattered battalion a sufficient enough threat. Greg didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.

Once again, Greg's thoughts drifted back to Hinesville, where his girlfriend Sandi lived. Hinesville was a small town, so maybe the invaders had left it alone. Then he shook his head. Fort Stewart sprawled right next to the town, and from what Greg had been able to gather, the invaders had essentially laid waste to most major military installations in CONUS from space with their giant orbital ships. Hinesville, and Sandi, likely no longer existed as anything more than smoldering ruin. Anger again rose to the surface of Greg's emotions, followed by a feeling of helplessness.

Greg finished cleaning the bolt of his rifle and slid it into place, along with the charging handle. You didn't want to put much in the way of lubricant on your weapon out here. Dust could quickly congeal on the "break free" and render one's weapon inoperable. He looked up at Steve, who was still gazing toward the remaining reddish light of dusk. They were in for a long night.

"Greg!" shouted the kid with dirty-blond hair.

He sported a grubby brown t-shirt with jeans, and he wore a worried expression. Greg turned away from the boy and looked again at the homemade hovel. Garbage bags had been tied and taped together in a haphazard manner, and they were lashed to several smaller trees in the immediate area with some old twine.

Beneath the shelter, Greg could see some old blankets, and a small transistor radio emitted tinny music at a low volume. The radio and some other effects were perched atop some old tires and some plywood. Somebody had recently been there, and that was for sure. Greg had never before seen a bum's hideout, and he was convinced this was the coolest thing he had ever seen or would ever see.

"Greg!" came a frightened warning again from the only other kid in the area.

Greg turned his head again in annoyance and growled, "Shut up, Rodney! You worry too much."

He turned and advanced further into the shelter to get a better look. The scent of old liquor grew stronger. Glancing to his left, he could make out the Interstate that wound from north to the south. It was a busy Saturday, and the road was packed with crawling traffic. They were probably two hundred or so yards into the forest off to the side of the Interstate. They'd come from the railroad tracks on the other side, and to his right Greg could see the ruins of a building that had once been home to a go-cart race track, still outlined with old tires with grass and plants sprouting up through them. That helped explain where the bum had got the old tires he was using for a chair and a table. It really did stink…

"Hey, kid!"

Greg whirled to his rear just in time to see a middle-aged man with a full face of hair, glaring at him and advancing toward him. The man's disposition was that of someone who had fallen on hard times and had not seen a shower in a long time. Greg swallowed as he backed away from the angry bum, but the man continued stalking menacingly in his direction.

Behind him, Greg could hear the footfalls of his running friend. Greg remembered what he had thrown down only a few yards away and was desperately trying to remember where he had tossed it. Looking about him franticly, Greg saw the object and grabbed for it. He yanked it up and aimed the old BB gun at the bum, whose faced then quickly transformed from anger to fear. The gun didn't work, but the bum couldn't know that. He and Rodney had found the damaged weapon off to the side of the railroad tracks, and

Greg had enjoyed carrying it around with him throughout the day. The bum was now backing away, and he raised his hands into the air,

"What did I ever do to you? Why do you want to invade my home like this and hurt me? Don't shoot me, kid."

The fear in the man's face was all too evident. Greg was now terrified … not only of the man but by the whole situation.

"I'm not gonna kill you. I just want to get out of here," said Greg evenly.

He turned and ran after his friend. The tinny music from the small radio grew more faint with distance. He didn't know what the bum was doing, nor did he turn to find out. He just kept running. Off in the distance, he could see that Rodney had stopped near the railroad tracks and was now waiting for him. He tripped and tumbled forward, the broken BB gun flipping out in front of him.

"Wake up!"

-

Greg sat up. The track on which he had been sleeping was running again. He blinked, but he couldn't see anything. It was really dark out here.

He blinked again and rubbed his eyes, "Huh, what's up? We moving again?"

"Yeah," said the voice without a face, but then Greg remembered its owner.

Sergeant Jones continued, "We SP in five minutes, sir."

Greg glanced down to his watch and pressed a button. It revealed to him that it was now 0350. Argh! Three hours of blasted sleep! That's all he'd had – this just wasn't fair. Resigned to his ill fate, Greg crawled out of his fart sack and buttoned up his Desert Camouflage Uniform blouse. He rolled up his bag and mat and jumped down to the desert floor. The track had already pulled up its ramp and only the back hatch was yet open. Inside, Greg could see weak red light and knew that somewhere in there was Captain Anderson with a "dog bone" glued to his ear. He tossed his gear inside and stepped through the hatch, shutting it behind him.

The track rumbled for a long time, but Greg didn't know where it was carrying him. He had drifted off to sleep while sitting up, opposite his boss. It was very noisy inside the M577, but that did nothing to keep Greg from succumbing to unconsciousness. Only when the vehicle stopped and powered down did Greg wake back up.

…

The inside of the track was no longer mostly dark, bathed in artificial red light. Instead, he saw daylight pouring through the driver's view ports toward the front and from the TC hatch above. Confused, he glanced down at his watch, although it was still too dark inside the vehicle for him to make out what it said. He pressed the button, bathing black numbers in a green background.

"Six thirty," Greg muttered to himself.

He looked up to where Captain Anderson had been monitoring the radio during the trip. He was no longer there. Greg felt mildly irritated that he had not been wakened. How long had they been stopped. There was no way for him to tell. Briefly, Greg flirted with the idea of just falling asleep again, but his curiosity was sufficiently strong to prevent that and he slowly righted himself and reached for the hatch.

The vehicle had already been covered by camouflage net, and greg saw the support poles reaching up toward the netting before spreaders gently shaped it irregularly. A small v-shaped opening in the netting allowed Greg access to the quickly-warming desert and he saw that a group of men were gathered around a camouflaged HMMWV. The battalion commander was talking to them. The S2 looked up and saw Greg looking at them, and he motioned for Greg to join them. Greg nodded, reached into the M557 and got his gear.

"…will break into several groups," said Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.

Greg could now make out what the commander was saying.

Lieutenant Colonel Bertha paused, glanced at Greg who sat down with the other men, and then continued, "Our friends in Kuwait have provided new documentation that the Imperials are supposedly using for identification, since we know that our military ID's won't do. The plan is to infiltrate back to Kuwait City and catch passage back to the states, but it'll have to be by boat."

That comment was met by some groans and soft curses.

"I know, I know," continued the commander, "but it isn't like we can just catch a plane to the States. The enemy owns the sky now, and we need to remember that. They don't seem to have cracked down on sea traffic though, so that's our ticket."

Greg looked at some of the other officers and NCOs around him. Most of them appeared to be as tired as he was – some of them even more so.

The commander continued, "We will also be in civilian clothes, and you are all to let your facial hair grow out. There are not an abundance of clean-shaven men from this area of the world, and there aren't all that many fair-skinned men either. For that reason, we will wear native clothing and be mixed in with Arabs. Some of you will be dying your hair black. Each of you will get a new personal history, detailing why you are here in the Middle East, and you had better commit it to memory."

Two days later, Greg found himself in the back of a red Nissan pickup truck, jouncing down a poorly maintained road toward Kuwait City. With him were three Kuwaiti men, Specialist Flory and Captain Higgens. All three soldiers now sported a slight growth of facial hair and were wearing Bedouin robes with hoods pulled over their heads. For now, they wore their DCUs beneath their uniforms. They had left their weapons with the TOC, and that seemed all too unnatural and wrong. But these were different times, and American soldiers couldn't afford to be conspicuous, even in a city as of yet unoccupied by the alien invaders.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Kuwait City, they came to a checkpoint, manned by Kuwaiti soldiers. Greg noticed that the outpost was not flying the Kuwaiti flag. In its place was a flag with a strange circular symbol that reminded Greg somewhat of a wagon wheel with odd angles inside in the place of spokes – like some strange gear wheel. One of the Kuwaitis at the checkpoint walked around the truck, while the driver talked animatedly with one of the other men, who seemed to be in charge of the checkpoint.

The man who had walked around to the back of the pickup suddenly raised his rifle and pointed it at Specialist Flory, who raised his hands into the air. The man with the rifle was shouting in Arabic. The man in charge who had been talking to the driver ran around to the back of the truck, glanced quickly at Specialist Flory and spoke softly to the man aiming his weapon at the frightened soldier. He slowly lowered his weapon and nodded. He said something else in Arabic, and the truck was allowed to continue toward the city.

Once they were inside Kuwait City, Greg could see that the invaders indeed had a presence therein, but it was minimal. Every so often, he spotted a small group of white-clad troopers with helmets that reminded him of skulls walking about. He remembered that they were supposedly called stormtroopers. At one point he spotted a strange vehicle on two legs that stood a couple of stories off the ground, and he remembered the radio reports about those things on the day they had been attacked in the desert. But mostly he kept his head down, and his hood never came off.

Eventually they reached a home. The place could be more accurately described as a palace. Inside the home/palace courtyard (the place was enclosed in an ornate stone fence), they were told to dismount, and they went into the house. A plump Kuwaiti man in an ornate robe greeted each of them with a kiss. The Kuwaiti asked them to follow him. Greg looked up to see a long table full of all kinds of food, and involuntarily he began to salivate as delicious odors filled his nostrils.

Greg sat on a fancy sofa, fully stuffed with food. He felt tired now, but he knew that was the food being digested within him. The Kuwaiti man continued telling him and the two other soldiers how US forces had rescued him from one of Saddam Hussein's detention camps during Desert Storm, where he had been certain he would soon be tortured or killed. Too many of his friends had been murdered by Iraqi thugs before US forces drove Iraqi forces from Kuwait, and Saddam had taken many of his fellow countrymen into exile in Iraq to meet a fate only Allah knew.

He said he had rejoiced greatly when he learned that the Imperial invaders had killed Saddam and his sons before installing their own governor in Baghdad. Many prisoners had then been freed from Saddam's dungeons by the Empire, but he still did not know the fate of many of his friends. He felt it was Allah's will that he help every American soldier that he could to return to their homeland, and he was very sorry to hear of all the death and destruction that had happened there.

Greg learned that they would be leaving on a boat in two weeks. In the meantime, they were to enjoy the hospitality of this rich Kuwaiti man, within his palatial home.