Chapter 11

Twigs stung his forehead as they snapped by in the darkness. Ahead of him, Steve Hovey could hear the hurried footfalls of the men ahead of him, and he held his weapon out ahead of him in order to intercept the thin tree limbs that were catapulted toward his face. Steve was as blind as a bat, so he kept his eyes fixed on the twin glowing rectangles ahead of him. The next few steps found Steve sprinting into only inky blackness, as the twin glowing rectangles were not visible. The rectangles belonged to the back of Mike's cap, and for the moment, Captain Zilliox was too far ahead and obscured by the thick vegetation.

"Ow!" muttered Steve as he swatted yet another invisible biting thing that had decided to make his neck into a late-evening snack.

Or was it early morning now? Did it really matter? Steve was starting to feel a small onset of panic. Mike's phosphorescent rectangles had not reappeared, and Steve was making so much noise with his own running that he could barely hear the footfalls of the man in front of him. What if he got lost? The men behind him would certainly take a dim view of him as a junior officer … or they might not live to tell about it. He thought about slowing down just enough to catch where the running men supposedly ahead of him were, but then he quickly recalled why they were running.

Earlier in the evening, all had gone perfectly as planned. Imperial outposts throughout this area of central Florida stuck out like sore thumbs. The Imperials seemed to have an affinity for their prefabricated buildings, and Steve's battalion had struck a number of them over the past several weeks. The Imperials were often slow to react, though every once in a while an alert stormtrooper sentry would react in time to take down one or two of the battalion's men before being himself neutralized. But tonight was different. The Imperials had been waiting for them.

Steve's group was the flanking force, while another force had served as a support-by-fire. As always, reconnaissance had revealed no external positions defending the small Imperial compound. On queue, the mortar team launched its attack into the compound, and suppressive fires arched toward the main gate. Then Steve's group began maneuvering to their own objectives with high explosives in order to breach the plasteel wall. Their explosives had become quite effective over time, especially after some previously successful raids on Imperial outposts and small depots.

Just as Steve's group was getting into position, a swarm of Imperial craft dove from the night sky, obliterating the mortar team and creating significant attrition on the supporting effort. Some of the Imperial craft set down and vomited forth swarms of stormtroopers. Unlike the early versions who had stuck out in all white armor, these newer versions sported camouflage armor that was well suited to the forested terrain. Their shots were deadly accurate, and the battle was short. The signal sounded for retrograde, and the remains of the battalion were on the run.

Steve grimaced into the inky blackness as he remembered the men of his unit dropping like flies. He recalled some of the stormtroopers firing into the bodies of his men to make sure they remained motionless before pursuing new targets. Steve shook his head. He'd have done the same to them. There were no rules of warfare in this day and age.

"Halt!" came a sharp hissed whisper from in front of Steve.

He froze in his tracks. He could see two dimly-glowing rectangles appear and then disappear.

"Captain Zilliox, is that you?" he whispered tentatively while holding his rifle at the ready.

"No, it's Mister Rogers you flipping moron."

"Sorry sir, but you know I don't have nods," replied Steve to the darkness.

Only a few in his group had the luxury of night vision goggles, and Captain Zilliox was one of them.

"Get a head count of the men behind you," ordered Mike.

Steve dutifully turned to the invisible man behind him, who had for some reason seemed to have much better night vision that he, and without the aid of NVGs. This was going to be a long night. Steve fumbled in his butt pack for a granola bar. Opening it, he greedily chomped the bar into nonexistence. He reached for his canteen, but it was gone.

"Crap!" whispered Steve, "my canteen's gone."

"Here, have a swig from mine," said the voice of Mike.

Steve reached into the darkness and found the canteen. It was already open, so he took a drink. The water was warm, but it tasted refreshing all the same. He handed it back into the darkness and thanked Mike. The adrenaline rush had long since worn off, and Steve was really beginning to feel tired. They had been up since 0400 the previous morning, preparing for this operation. How many good soldiers had died? How did the Imperials know they were coming? Was there a mole in their battalion? Had an informer tipped off the Imperials? Whatever the case…

BANG! A distinctive sound of incoming ordinance shook Steve from his train of thought. The flash of light from the explosion had burned in instant images of the men to his right and left in the forested night. The adrenaline returned in earnest, and Steve was once again on his feet, running into the darkness.
…

Greg stood in the silent hallway, contemplating the featureless lighting and pondering his latest projects. While he wasn't yet an Imperial officer, he had been afforded the rights and privileges of an Imperial NCO, and he had indoctrinated his section on the tactics, techniques and procedures of counterinsurgency warfare. The Empire was facing a well-organized counterinsurgency throughout the galaxy, but their patterns were now predictable. Greg smiled and shook his head. For a galaxy that had been fighting for countless centuries, the military seemed to know little about insurgency warfare. The tools and doctrine Greg had introduced to his superiors were now seeing relatively widespread use throughout the Empire.

Previously, insurgencies had been given all but free reign to fester on planets not completely loyal to the Empire, but now they were being surgically rooted out. Not only was the Imperial military being used, but diplomatic, economic, and informational tools were being leveraged in effective ways. The latter tools Greg could not claim credit for, but other senior military officers and politicians from Earth had also added lessons learned to the Imperial databases.

Greg was truly glad to see his knowledge being put to good use. Terrorists and insurgents had long hounded the Empire's campaign of bringing peace and stability to the galaxy, but the insurgents were now facing competent counterinsurgency forces. It was only a matter of time before the insurgents either ended their resistance or were themselves ended.

Doors hissing open at the end of the hallway jerked Greg from his thoughts. Two stormtroopers flanked either side of the door with their weapons held at the ready. An imposing man in a long dark-gray tunic strode forth with his hands behind his back. His eyes were covered in such a way that suggested he was blind. The man's apparent blindness appeared to concern him little. Greg noticed that while the man had no sidearm, a cylinder of some sort dangled from his right hip.

"I can see you, human from Sol," announced the man without preamble, "Or rather I should say, I can see where you should be but the force shows naught."

The man walked directly to Greg and stood but three inches from his nose. While Greg was tempted to step backward, he did not. The man was quite apparently someone of authority, and Greg had been trained that one remained in the position of attention or parade-rest until told otherwise by superior officers to whom he reported. Greg remained at attention.

The man before Greg had a receding hairline and dark hair flecked with gray. Greg found his own eyes straying toward the inoperable ones of the man before him. The coverings on the man's eyes reminded Greg of the really thin, one-piece sunglasses that had been in style for a short time on Earth.

"What is your name?" demanded the man.

"Sir, my name is Gregory Yost. I currently work in the …"

"I didn't ask you where you worked or what you do," snapped the man.

Greg shut his mouth. The man stared blankly at Greg, and his face seemed strained.

"You are unnatural, Gregory Yost, and that isn't all," said the man.

He walked around Greg as he stood at attention. Greg felt most uncomfortable around the man now, but what could he do?

"I am an Imperial Inquisitor, Gregory Yost. I have been interested in you for some time now."

Greg swallowed a lump in his throat. He was pretty certain he didn't care for this man's interest in him. He wanted to say something – to ask some questions, but he dared not do so. The imposing man continued to circle him and then came back to face Greg again, only now he was about three feet away. The inquisitor held up a hand and made as if to snap his fingers, without doing so. The man appeared to strain his face somewhat and then sneer.

"Most unnatural indeed; tell me, did you feel anything, Gregory Yost of Sol?"

"No sir, I did not," replied Greg.

What was he supposed to feel? The man's sneer only increased, and he raised both of his arms like an orchestra conductor, pointing his fingers toward Greg. Without warning, arcs of lightning shot forth from his fingers, lashing out toward Greg. Strangely, the lightning flowed around Greg and continued in different directions. Greg cried out, despite himself and held his hands up before his face. Within moments the lightning stopped, and the inquisitor lowered his hands his grim smile widening.

"And how do you feel now, Gregory Yost?"

Overcoming his initial shock, Greg lowered his hands and resumed the position of attention. He replied, "I'm a bit in shock right now sir, but other than that I'm okay." The man's smile vanished. His face was now filled with a mixture of confusion and anger. He turned to one of the two stormtroopers and motioned with his hand. The hapless stormtrooper yelped as he was jerked to his feet and sent hurdling through the air toward Greg with surprising speed.

Greg leapt out of the way just in time to miss the full impact of the flying stormtrooper who fell ingloriously into a lump just off to his side. Greg rubbed his left shoulder where one of the stormtrooper's gauntlets had swiped him, and he reached down to help the man to his feet. Just as he finished pulling up the stormtrooper, Greg heard a snap-hiss behind him. He spun around just in time to see the inquisitor hold forth the cylinder that had been attached to his right hip, only now a glowing red beam issued forth from the cylinder, ending just before his face. He froze in place.

"I shall look forward to learning more about you, Gregory Yost of Sol," said the inquisitor menacingly.

Greg wasn't sure what the red beam of light was for, but he felt reasonably certain it would be harmful if it came in contact with him.

"Yes sir," replied Greg weakly.

The inquisitor's beam hissed again and then pulled itself back into the metal cylinder. He reattached it to his hip and turned to exit without another word. The door hissed closed.

The stormtrooper Greg had helped to his feet motioned a hand toward the opposite door and said, "I think that will be all."

Greg nodded toward the armored man and turned to exit. He had a lot of work still piled up and waiting for him, and it wasn't going to do itself. Greg really hoped not to run into that inquisitor again.

…

Harry Bertha had served a lot of years in uniform, and these days he'd become accustomed to serving out of uniform. Never during his service in the US Army had Harry questioned his leadership, at least not on a strategic or operational level. In front of his troops, Harry didn't have the luxury of questioning his superiors. Their orders were his orders, plain and simple. Harry shook his head slowly as he studied the latest roster. Thirty-eight men had died in the most recent operation.

What passed for battalions and companies these days was but a shadow of former years – before the Empire. They couldn't afford to lose so many, and the impact on the morale of the men remaining was devastating. Harry could see it in their eyes; they were losing hope. What was the point of attacking Imperial outposts and isolated targets? They had countless billions at their disposal, and their ships, if they chose to use them, could obliterate surface targets more effectively than several batteries of multiple launcher rocket systems, or MLRS.

Harry stood and walked toward the command center. That was a joke too. This little hut in which he and his staff had holed up in was what passed for a CP. That wasn't so bad, really, since he remembered all to clearly setting up his TAC on the hood of a Humvee next to his command tank. But this was the third CP this week, and the constant tearing down, running, and setting up was wearing on his command staff. They weren't paid or equipped for this anymore, so what supplies and equipment they obtained were from civilians sympathetic to their cause or was raided from Imperial stocks.

Harry opened the old wooden door that separated his own room from the command center. The room sported older telephone models and some older CB radio equipment. Spread around were various code books, lists of contacts, journal logs, and Styrofoam coffee cups in a mixture of stages of use. As he entered the room, a younger individual jammed a mug into his hand, and Harry lifted it to his mouth. The steaming coffee was hot. That's about all that could be said in its favor.

Harry thanked the young man and headed toward a blond-haired man who was studying a map mounted to one of the shack's walls. Small round "sticky notes" were taped to the map in assorted colors. A key off to one side of the map denoted what each color represented. Far too many of the colors represented Imperial outposts. A tiny smattering of green discs denoted US positions. Harry blinked. That wasn't right either; there was no US now, and there were no US forces. They were insurgents. The taste of that word in his mouth was bad, so Harry chose not to say it. He referred to his men as patriots.

"Sir, good morning," said Major Eric Spencer.

His hair was much longer now, and his moustache still struck Harry as somehow wrong. Nevertheless, he had been an excellent S3 prior to the Imperial attack on Earth, and he was doing a stellar job now of wearing the XO hat.

"Good morning, Eric," replied Harry, "Anything new overnight?"

The question was almost rhetorical, for Harry knew that anything of significance would have resulted in his interrupted sleep – all three and a half hours of it. His Commander's Critical information Requirements (CCIR) were extensive, and few events, especially by the enemy, did not require his attention.

"The attack on IP Number 28 was repulsed, sir," said Eric, motioning toward one of the red discs to their north.

"Casualties?"

"Rich told me the strike force was nearly wiped out, sir."

Harry cursed aloud. Rich Holden was the S3 for 3rd Battalion, 78th Infantry. He knew that the battalion S3s kept relatively close contact with each other. Their strike force had consisted of three companies. That was most of the battalion. He knew that LTC Carlos Marcano likely led that operation in person.

"What about Colonel Marcano?"

"No word yet, sir," replied Eric, "But you should also see this." Harry's S3 motioned toward a local newspaper. The headline story bespoke of an insurgency ring broken up and arrested. Harry perused the names listed to see whether or not he recognized any.

"Get me Lancer Six on the horn, Eric," said Harry gravely.

His S3/XO hurried toward a set of phones and spoke to one of the soldiers manning them. In the old days, contacting one's higher was a simple matter, but these days, there was a lot of work-around involved. The Imperials were all too effective at using communication to ferret out patriots and their supporters.

The sergeant manning the phones turned and said, "Sir, Lancer Six on the line for you."

Harry hurried to the phone and picked it up, "The ball was fumbled Mac, and the refs were to crooked to call it."

"Slow down, Doug," came the tinny reply from the headset.

They all used fake names and code words now, for to do otherwise was just suicidal. The colonel continued, "What call did the ref make?"

"The team was only sixteen yards from scoring, and the ref called a fumble," replied Harry.

Sixteen of the names in that paper were men or women who knew something about his battalion.

"What about a field goal?" inquired Lancer Six.

"A field goal?"

"Yeah, it's a bit far out, but he's got the leg. He needs to make the kick."

"We could lose if he misses," replied Harry tentatively.

"We lose if he doesn't kick. See that he gets the shot."

The phone went dead. Harry turned and faced the rest of the command center.

"We jump in 30 minutes."

He turned to face his communications sergeant, "Send a message to our place kicker. Tell him it's time to try for a field goal. The team is counting on him. The young NCO nodded and began typing on his terminal.

…

General Voss stared at his young charge from another galaxy. From his screen, he could watch Yost, but Yost was oblivious. He really had expected that inquisitor to kill Yost today, and that would have been a shame. Yost was proving extremely valuable and competent – something all too rare in Voss' recent experience. What would an inquisitor want with him anyway?

Yost had provided a valuable set of tools that programmers were able to turn into effective use. Those tools and the procedures to use them had been beamed throughout the fleet and were being used to devastating effect against rebel forces. Voss knew from his reports that various insurgent groups on Sol had been absolute pains in the neck for the sector commander there. They couldn't just wipe the planet out. It was the only habitable planet they'd discovered in that galaxy. The new tactics and tools were producing fruit there too, but Voss chose to keep such information from Yost. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

He left his perch and sauntered down to the pit where Yost and other men were busily plugging away on monitors. Voss noted with wry amusement that Yost was still somewhat reliant on writing down notes and scribbling on parchment. Those hadn't been easy to come by, but Voss ensured his staff was supplied with what they needed. He saw that Yost was debating the use of one of his Human Intelligence (HUMINT) tools with a lieutenant.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Voss, who was clearly not sorry. Both men stood ramrod straight before him, and Yost said, "Yes sir?"

"Dismissed, lieutenant," said Voss as he eyed the young officer.

The lieutenant nodded and promptly disappeared. Yost remained at attention.

"At ease," said Voss. Yost relaxed his posture and placed his hands behind his back. Yes, it would have been extremely unfortunate to lose him.

"How did your meeting go earlier today?" asked Voss.

He knew full well how it went. His surveillance had caught nearly a picture-perfect debriefing from one of the stormtroopers who had been present. He had seen all of the things that had been done to his young charge, including the stormtrooper being hurled through the air with the greatest of ease. He saw pain involuntarily come to the face of Yost, as Yost absently reached up to rub his left shoulder.

"It was an interesting meeting, sir. If you don't mind my asking, who was he?"

"It isn't important for you to know his name, and it's probably better that you don't. He's an Imperial Inquisitor, and that is sufficient to know," replied Voss.

He recalled the horrible lightning flowing around Yost and the inquisitor later threatening his man with that blasted Jedi weapon. The image angered him, but he was powerless to affect anything concerning inquisitors. His power and reach had very real limits.

"From my reports, you handled yourself well," said Voss.

That was the mother of all understatements – Yost should have been dead by now. Yost smiled weakly and nodded.

"I'll let you get back to work then," said Voss as he turned to head back to his office.

Greg wondered just how much General Yost knew. It was likely quite a bit. He apparently knew that the man with whom Greg had met earlier that day was an inquisitor, and he likely knew his name. Greg sat and stared at his monitor. He toyed with the idea of conducting a search on Imperial Inquisitors, but he thought better of it. Such a move would likely result in nothing good or pleasant, besides, it wasn't that important to know the name of the blind man who shot lightning from his fingers … was it? Greg typed a series of keys that would bring up his email. He was prepared to delete the normal spam that filled his account, but then his fingers froze. One of the emails was from a Ms. Linda Elliott. Greg typed the series of keys to open the message.

Thanks for the kind thoughts and prayers concerning my uncle. He's doing better now, and his love for football is as healthy as always, even if he can't quite yet get out of bed. I would still love to send you a care package, but sending cookies to Imperial Center is expensive! Keep us in your thoughts, and Craig says hi.

Yours truly,

Ms. Elliott

ps – Uncle Rob says he thinks a field goal will win the next game.

Greg blinked and felt his face flushing. What was he supposed to do now? What could he do? He mentally wished the message into oblivion, but there it remained. His mission orders had changed. In his mind's eye he could see the sneer of the inquisitor.