Chapter 5

The day was oppressively hot – almost too hot. The sun beat mercilessly on the boy's pale skin through a cloudless sky, and the humidity could be cut out of the air with a knife. He was sweating profusely, beads running down his mostly-wet t-shirt and making him itch. Even now, he reached behind toward the small of his back to get at a particularly gnawing itch.

"Yikes!" yelled the boy as he nearly tumbled from his bicycle while reaching behind his back.

Embarrassed, he was rewarded with a giggle from the larger boy to his right. Greg wiped sweat from his forehead, sweeping some red hair out of the way. He glared at the boy, but his glare didn't hold. Bobby still held a jovial smile on his face as he studied his friend, and Greg's glare transformed into a smile. He looked at Bobby's bike. It was as worn and used as his own, but Bobby took great care of it, constantly cleaning it and attaching an occasional sticker, usually from a cereal box, to part of its frame. A cartoon Hulk glared menacingly out of the most recent sticker.

Greg turned to study their target. Both boys were poised at the top of a long boat ramp, leading about three hundred feet into the lake ahead. He glanced at Bobby, and Bobby winked. Greg jammed his foot onto the pedal and let out a rebel yell. Both boys raced toward the water on their bicycles, racing each other and yelling at the top of their lungs. Greg could feel the warm breeze on his face get stronger the faster he pedaled. Gravity was an ally for both boys as the water got closer and closer.

WOOOSH!

The cool water swiftly slowed Greg's bike, as it coursed around him and offered resistance to both he and his bike. As usual, holding on was hard, but Greg managed. He laughed and yelled, almost simultaneously as the refreshing water cooled his skin, which had been only recently so hot. Greg glanced over to share his joy with his friend. Bobby wasn't there.

"Bobby!" yelled Greg, and then he checked himself.

If Bobby was hiding underwater, he wouldn't hear him shout. Greg felt a bit miffed – this was a stupid trick to play on him. His anger turned slowly to panic. Bobby wouldn't wait this long under water. Greg dropped his bike in the just above waist-high water, and he sloshed over to where he knew Bobby had gone into the water. He tripped over Bobby's bike, and then he submerged, feeling around. He felt some fabric, followed up to feel an arm. Struggling, he pulled on the arm and pulled Bobby's face from the water. His eyes were half-open. Greg put his ear to Bobby's mouth, and he heard no breathing.

"Bobby!"

Greg awoke with a jerk, sharply inhaling. Darkness greeted his eyes, and a slow droning of a fan in the room was the only noise to permeate the darkness. Basic. Why was that word on his thoughts? He remembered the Timex Sinclair 1000 he had as a kid. Why did he remember that stupid little excuse for a computer? It was his first – his dad had given it to him to use. Dad had even installed a power switch on the flat black box with soft-touch keypads, since the device didn't come with one. Basic was the language the little computer understood. Greg's dad wouldn't let him have an Atari 2600, like a lot of kids Greg knew had at home.

No, his dad made Greg learn Basic, because the only video games Greg was allowed to play were those he could program into the little Sinclair. Greg had bought magazines for the little machine. He remembered copying pages of Basic code into the little black box and then trying out the programs. They were crude. One he remembered had a little L that moved up and down and would fire a solid line of dashes at enemy X's that moved randomly from the right. The game was supposed to be somewhat reminiscent of Defender. There was no sound in his game, although with a few more lines of code he could have heard a beep every time he fired. Basic – he still remembered some of it:

10 CLS

215 FOR T = 1 TO 1000

260 IF INKEY$ " " THEN GOTO 270

45 IF X = 200 THEN GOSUB 900

Greg shook his head. Basic: That isn't why that word stuck to his mind here in the dead of night; it was something else. The face of Lieutenant Colonel Bertha came to mind. That was it. Role-playing – they were role-playing now. What had Lieutenant Colonel Bertha told him that made the word, "basic" so important?

Greg thought to last month, just after his crew arrived in Fort Lauderdale.

...

"You have to make a choice," Lieutenant Colonel Bertha told the assembled men.

Greg glanced around the crowd. The room could comfortably hold about 40 people, and about that many were there now. He saw some of the men he had come to know in the Deathbringer Battalion. Captain Higgens stood off to one side. His brown hair now fell to nearly his neck, and he had a bushy moustache. Greg wouldn't know him from Adam had he not known him in full military trim, complete with flat-top haircut and no facial hair at all.

First Sergeant Miller stood almost on the opposite side of the room. This man had some Asian in him, but Greg couldn't peg from where. First Sergeant Miller now had longer hair, though not as long as Captain Higgens, and First Sergeant Miller sported much darker hair. On top of his head was the always-present New York Yankees cap. Absently, Greg wondered to himself if the good senior NCO ever took it off anymore, even to sleep.

Off to the right of Lieutenant Colonel Bertha, sitting to the commander's right was the burly Command Sergeant Major Shannon. His dark-blue polo shirt was nearly as dark as his deep-brown skin. His eyes were alert, as he keenly scanned the room, mentally sizing up each individual and filing away thoughts of them into his mind. Unlike most of the other men, he had not changed his look all that much, other than shaving off all of the hair on his head. Command Sergeant Major Shannon's eyes connected with Greg's, and Greg quickly glanced downward and then returned his gaze to Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.

"…and we can have no dissension in the ranks, not at this point," continued the commander.

Bertha looked pointedly at several men, shifting his gaze lightly over others. In his own mind, Greg could imagine what his battalion commander was thinking. Who would remain loyal? Who could not be trusted? It was an awful thought, but it nonetheless sprang to mind.

"The choice is before us all," said the old man with the hint of a smile coming to his lips. "No more paychecks, even for me … what we do now, we do for nothing – for the defense of our nation. Yes, we are under occupation, and by a force vastly superior to our own, and we could certainly never hope to match that power in a thousand years."

"Superpower," muttered a voice to Greg's left.

He shifted his gaze, along with most of the men in the room. He saw a young man with light-brown hair shaking his head. Captain Zilliox had been a cynic ever since Greg had known him. As one of the Battalion assistant S3 officers, he had been in the hopper for an upcoming company command. His eyes had been on Charger Company, as Captain Reed was due to rotate out of command about four months after redeployment from Kuwait.

There would be no change of command now. Charger Company no longer existed as an element, except in the memories of the men who had served under the company's guidon, a small flag that signified the unit. With some amusement, Greg recalled the night of the attack, when he couldn't raise the Chargers on the net. He smiled softly, and then the smile fled from his face as he remembered the ferocity of the alien attacks the next day. Many soldiers who called themselves Chargers paid the ultimate price that day, to a faceless enemy they had never before known.

"What was that, Mike?" inquired the battalion commander. Captain Zilliox smiled weakly at Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.

"Superpower," he said again at barely above a whisper, "they used to call us that, sir. It's funny, how meaningless and empty a term can become in the face of … this."

"Yes, it's pretty funny," said Lieutenant Colonel Bertha without a hint of mirth, "But then what is the measure of a man, of a people, of a nation … a former superpower? Did we start out as the big boys on the block?"

The older man gazed into the eyes of the younger officer. Captain Zilliox returned his gaze at first, but then dropped his eyes.

"Or did we have help from those greater than ourselves?" continued Bertha.

"We're not we facing down a superpower of the time during the formation of this country?"

"Allies," said a voice from behind Greg.

He swiveled to see that the source of the voice was a copper-skinned young man with piercing eyes and a determined expression. Now he was nodding, as though seeing something for the first time.

"Say again, Wade," said Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.

Captain Wade Hines had been the Headquarters Company commander, and he had previously been the Assassin Company commander. Most of the junior officers respected him for his diplomatic abilities with senior officers and his almost eerie ability to memorize nearly everything.

At no time had anyone been able to stump Captain Wade on one of his soldiers. Not only did he know every one of his soldiers by name, but he knew their spouses and children, including birthdays of each. He always expressed a genuine concern for everyone with whom he worked, but he was also the consummate professional, able to deal sternly with wayward soldiers under his command whenever necessary.

Wade turned his gaze to the battalion commander and repeated, "Allies. We need allies."

"Go on," commented Bertha, raising his eyebrows as he sensed his young officer knew more and wanted to share it with everyone else.

"In the Revolutionary War, we enlisted the help of the French. Of ourselves, we were no match for the British, and without allies, they would have wiped the floor with us."

"Eloquently put, Wade," said the battalion commander.

Chuckles reverberated throughout the cramped room.

Raising his hand to silence the crowd, Bertha continued, "We have recently come across information of some potential allies that have been struggling against the Empire, but what I have so far is little more than rumor. The invasion of our world seems to have garnered attention throughout the Empire, though we are not sure as to why. We are after all, but one world, and if what we have been told is to be believed, the Empire spans millions of them."

The battalion commander paced around the room, settling his eyes briefly on all the men gathered, "Not all of you were initially part of my battalion,"

He glanced at a few individuals that Greg had never before seen. The commander continued pacing, glancing at men Greg had seen briefly, "And some of you were new to the battalion when we were in the desert."

Bertha stopped and turned. The Command Sergeant Major stood and held up a photograph, the light barely bright enough to illuminate the image. On it, Greg could make out what was clearly a large starship, shaped somewhat like a wedge, with an apparatus that jutted up at one side. He assumed that to be the command structure wherein the ship's bridge rested. Two globes that reminded Greg of radar domes he had seen on some US Navy warships were visible at the top of either side of the command structure. Most of the men the room were wincing to get as best a view they could in the small, crowded room.

"This," said Captain Hugh Anderson, "is a star destroyer. It is approximately 1600 meters in length, and it is believed that one of these vessels decimated American cities from space using highly-powered energy beams."

"A mile in length?" gasped a voice from behind Greg.

"Ray guns?" inquired a voice from off to Greg's right.

"It is also assessed," continued Captain Anderson as though he had not been interrupted, "that this Empire has a great many of these vessels and others like them in a vast fleet, spread throughout the galaxy."

"Which leads us to why we are now here, in this room today," said Lieutenant Colonel Bertha in a serious tone, "Choices. Each of us must make a choice, and we must make that choice today. Will you continue the struggle against the Empire as part of our grand insurgency, enlisting the help of whomever these faceless allies may be … or will you now part company with us and find a life for yourself in this new world in which we now find ourselves?"

Greg looked around him to the faces of the men gathered with him in the too-small room. Most looked concerned, many uncertain, a few determined. Those who continued the struggle would do so only out of loyalty. No longer was a salary waiting at the end of each month or every two weeks for those who would call themselves US soldiers. This Empire would be none too pleased to discover insurgents in their midst, and who knew how they would react to them when they did discover them?

Parts of the planet had indeed reportedly suffered further wrath as a result of violence against forces of the invaders. Parts of Iraq were now a smoldering ruin, after a short-lived insurgency had sprouted against the Empire there. The swath of land where insurgent activities had taken place had been simply erased; especially after some bombs and ambushes had killed Imperial troops. Greg frowned when he envisioned portions of his own land being turned to ash as a result of half-baked attacks on the invaders. Surely, the US commanders had thought that through to fruition.

"I won't ask you to voice your choices here, in this forum," continued Lieutenant Colonel Bertha.

He continued, "That would be unfair to you, and unrealistic. We have a different system. Tonight, when we bed down, those of you who do not wish to continue with us will be allowed to walk out. We are a military organization, so be assured that you will be observed. Not that anyone here would do such a thing, but if anyone did make their way toward Imperial authorities to try to turn us over, they likely wouldn't make it. We will not hunt down or dog those who wish only to return to civilian life and make their own way."

"But make no mistake – if you leave us, then you will forget everything about us past the point that you returned here, to the States."

The commander smiled. There was steel and cold promise in his words for all to hear. Still, surely someone would not listen. There was always a rat in the pack, but whom?

Greg knew his decision before the commander had asked for a commitment one way or another, but the next morning he would see fewer of those he had called comrades. He would not feel ill toward them, for their choice was their own.

-

Basic. No, but not the computer language with which Greg had once been familiar. It was the most common Imperial language. Greg nodded to the darkness. That was it. Of course, on that fateful day more than a month ago, he had been one of the men to choose to stick it out.

He was an officer in the US Army, and he felt it his duty, even if he felt he was but an ant fighting against a mighty hurricane. Others had not taken that route. Others had been gone the next morning. Specialist Flory, Captain Zilliox, Captain Miguel, and even Major Flynn, the Battalion XO – all were gone that next morning. Not that he had been told, but the decision had already been made to relocate long before that day, and they all moved, piecemeal, to a different location, closer to Orlando, further from urban areas.

Greg had heard reports that the old safe house was raided by Imperial troops, not long after they had all displaced. At least one of the rats had apparently become restless.

Later in the day, Greg found himself in the Lieutenant Colonel Bertha's temporary office.

"What do you want me to do?" Greg had asked his battalion commander.

Bertha looked at him and said, "You will enlist in the Imperial Army, or Navy, whichever you can get into."

Greg's jaw dropped.

"Enlist with the Empire, sir?"

"That's right Greg. You're an intelligence officer, and we need people on the inside. You've seen recruiting posters and offices for the Empire. You will become an Imperial soldier in every aspect."

"How will I keep in…"

"… touch with us?" finished the older man, "Don't worry about that. We'll find you when we need you. You just worry about finding yourself into Imperial intelligence. This war cannot be won in any traditional sense, and we won't accomplish anything by conducting the occasional ambush against Imperial patrols here. No, we'll need to be … creative. This will be long and drawn out, and we may not win."

"But sir, isn't the idea of our struggle to win?"

"What definition will we use for win, Greg? Win will take on a whole new meaning now. The Empire likes to use the term, 'New Order,' but our definition of win may well mean changing the definition of their own chosen term. We must use all of our advantages, and we must be smart in our struggle.

"We will use a cell structure not unlike that of the terrorists we've fought in the past. Compartmentalized at all levels we will be, with few who know what other compartments are doing, and even fewer knowing of an overall objective. There are things happening now to which you are not privy, and to which you will never be privy. I can safely say the same of myself, for that matter."

"Okay sir, so what do you want me to do? Should I report to a recruiting office tomorrow?"

Lieutenant Colonel Bertha laughed, "No Greg, you have to learn the Empire's language first. Basic. You need to learn Basic."

"Where, er, how do I learn Basic, sir"

"We know the Imperials give free classes on it, using those shiny robots of theirs. You'll learn it, alright."

…

Greg stared into the darkness remembering the conversation with his boss. He had gone to class, and he had studied non-stop for little more than a month now. The robot was patient with him, and the other students. He now had a rudimentary understanding of the main language of the Empire. Tomorrow morning, Greg would report to the Imperial recruiting station in Eustis. They were still hiring, and he needed a job.

Late at night, Greg smiled into the darkness. An overall plan, and plans within plans – cells, and he was to be part of it all. Tomorrow would tell. He glanced at the digital clock off to his left, the droning of the fan still cooing him to sleep. Red, glowing numbers announced that it was 3:17. He closed his eyes, and once again Greg began to dream.