Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations from Star Wars property of Lucasfilm.

The initial setting is a US Army unit deployed to the Kuwaiti desert during an "Intrinsic Action" rotation, and the time setting for the Galactic Empire is approximately three years prior to the Battle of Yavin.

Chapter 1

First Lieutenant Gregory Yost shifted on his cot. Sleep came to him fleetingly at best, but stifling heat bore into his body, and even the metal supports within the cot burned his skin when he was not careful and allowed himself to come in contact with it. A pool of sweat soaked the t-shirt he wore, causing his arm to stick to his forehead when he slept. Off to Greg's left, a tall fan stood, mocking him in its stillness. The thing had burned out only hours after another man had turned it on. The sides of the GP-medium tent were rolled up, revealing only mosquito netting. The air that wafted in felt as though it came from a hair drier. In frustration, Greg glanced at his watch. He grimaced as he realized it was only shortly after noon, and this wasn't even the hottest part of the day. Yes, he was on night shift, which made the workday bearable, but sleep was a phantom that rarely showed itself in this sweltering heat. The Kuwaiti desert was horribly hot this time of year. Greg reached down to the ground to grab his water bottle and took a swig. The water was hot, but at least it was wet. He closed his eyes in an attempt to will his body to sleep. In the background, a power generator's drone assisted him in his quest, and he reluctantly drifted off.

BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP, BEEP- Greg jabbed his hand off to the side, where the small battery-powered alarm clock rested on his foot locker, and he shut off the device. He was very tired, and it was exceedingly unfair that further sleep was now denied him. He slowly peeled himself out of the sweat-soaked cot and sat, staring at the burned out fan across the tent, it seeming to look back at him in its impotence. He tilted his head down to look at his watch. It was 1700. The blazing sun had traversed closer to the horizon, and the heat had subsided. The thousands of flies relished in flight, now that it was cool enough again for them to fly. Several lined the edge of his cot, sucking up the sweat Greg had left for them. Several more were on various parts of Greg, drinking his perspiration. He had long ago stopped batting them away, for that proved futile and only made him hotter. Several other men were getting ready for their shift, some already heading outside either to wash up or eat.

The food wasn't terrible tonight, and the salad proved almost good. Greg smiled to himself, thinking it was probably pretty difficult to mess up a salad. He knew that the cooks were doing the best they could out here, so he thanked them for the food, as he always did. Greg worked his way toward a picnic bench, where other soldiers from the night shift were busily shoveling food into their mouths. Off to the right of the bench, Greg spotted a HMMWWV with a large dial thermometer hanging from it. He saw that the temperature had dropped to 110 F. The cursed flies were absolutely everywhere. Already, the food on his tray sported about a dozen of them. He sat down next to First Lieutenant Steve Hovey, who was about half-way through his meal.

"What's up, Greg?" queried Steve while chewing on the evening's mystery meat.

"I'm as tired as the day is long, buddy. If I don't start getting more sleep, I'm gonna pass out on shift."

"Nothing happens around here at night anyway, so what's the harm?" replied Steve. Greg thought about that. He was the assistant S2 for the battalion, which defaulted him to night shift. CPT Hugh Anderson was the Battalion S2, and he was also Greg's boss. These "Intrinsic Action" missions were pretty boring when the Kuwaitis decided it was just too hot to play. The days got up to 140 F, so training pretty much came to a standstill from 1000 to 1600 every day. The night shift did little more than monitor the radios and file the usual reports. The battalion commander had authorized a satellite TV for news purposes, but at around 2300 the thing was usually set to Star Movies. Every once in a while, the battalion would conduct night training, and that would alleviate some boredom, but for the most part the nights were dead.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, but with my luck the Old Man would walk in just as I'm nodding off. Oh well, that's why God made coffee."

"And dip," replied Steve, patting the can of Copenhagen in his pocket.

"Yeah, that too, but I'm trying to cut down on that stuff."

Steve looked at his watch and groaned inwardly. It was only 2335, and the night was crawling. He glanced over at the S3 section. Steve was seated on a folding chair, a radio handset in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He, like most of the folks on night shift, was gazing into the TV. Greg followed Steve's gaze to the screen. Some Indian movie was playing on the Star Movies channel. In the background, Greg could hear the beeps of the SINCGARS radios, followed by droning of tired voices. Those were company command posts (CPs) conducting radio checks or sending in scheduled reports. Greg looked over his status charts. Only C Company had yet to send in their sensitive items report. He grabbed his handset and glanced at the radio.

"Charger X-Ray, this is Deathbringer Two Alpha, over." Greg got no response, so he repeated the transmission. No response.

"Any Charger element, any Charger element, this is Deathbringer Two Alpha, over." No response. Greg looked over at the S3 section of the tactical operations center. Most of the men had their DCU tops off, sporting t-shirts, their eyes still glued to the TV.

"Captain Higgins," said Greg.

"Yeah, BICC, what is it?" said CPT Vince Higgins, annoyed at Greg for forcing his attention away from the second-rate Indian movie. Greg chafed inwardly. He hated being called, "BICC." It was his title as the Assistant S2, standing for "Battlefield Intelligence Coordination Center." He had never understood why his duty position was called a center, but he really didn't like what "BICC" rhymed with.

"Sir, I haven't got a Green 2 report from Charger, and they won't respond on the radio," said Greg.

"Maybe they're asleep."

"Yes sir, that's possible. I was hoping you could try to raise them on the Ops net." CPT Higgins looked at Greg as though he had something growing out of his forehead, but then he motioned to his RTO, Sergeant Jones.

"SGT Jones, see if the Charger CP is awake, would ya?"

"Yes sir." SGT Jones picked up his handset and radioed the CP. After three tries, he got a tired response from someone and told them that the BICC was trying to reach them on the Operations and Intelligence (O&I) net. Greg picked up his handset and called the Charger CP. Once he got the information he needed, he logged it on his tracking chart and in his log. Looking down at his watch, Greg saw that is was only 2350. Sleepiness washed over him like a wave. The coffee wasn't doing its job. Greg stood up and walked over to the S3 section.

"Sir, I got all of my reports in from the companies, so I think I'll take a walk to the latrine," said Greg to CPT Higgins. Higgins looked up at him and nodded, returning his attention to the TV.

Greg walked out into the night, closing the tent flap behind him. The battalion was ensconced inside of a kabal, so light discipline did not exist. Two giant mounds of sand ringed the battalion with two entrances, guarded by the duty company and some hapless Headquarters soldiers. Overall, the kabal was about three miles in diameter. Even so, it was dark outside, and Greg looked up to see countless stars against the blackness. The kabal was about 40 miles north of Kuwait City, so the only light came from within the kabal and any celestial light from the night sky. Greg sighed, as the temperature had dropped to just under 100. He had to be careful, for sand vipers were all around, and the things did not like to be stepped on, often showing their appreciation through a deadly bite. Greg knew all too well the policy for anyone suffering a snake bite. You had to kill the snake and bring its body with you, so you could be flown to Kuwait City where they would produce anti-venom from the snake. Otherwise, you'd probably be dead in short order. Such knowledge caused Greg to walk slowly and cautiously.

The urination poles were located out by the homemade porta-johns, and there were no lights around those, so the place was out in the darkness. Greg didn't carry a flashlight or night vision goggles with him, so his memory guided him toward shadows that he knew to be the right location. When Greg was about ten feet away, he could make out white PVC pipes sticking out of the sand at 45-degree angles, with mosquito screens lashed to the tops of them. The sand around the poles was damp from the relief of others. Greg added to the ground's dampness.

As Greg was walking back to the TOC, he thought he saw flashes in the night sky. Stopping, he looked upward. Stars looked back down at him. He blinked, thinking it was odd that lightning would be in the vicinity. This wasn't storm season in the Kuwaiti desert, and only the most intense dust storms produced lightning, and there was only the smallest stirring of a too-warm breeze. He didn't hear any thunder either. Shrugging, Greg continued his trek. As he entered the TOC, he saw that most were still blankly watching the TV. Greg sat back down in his chair. He heard some curses from the S3 section. The movie playing on the TV was intermittently interrupted with snow and squiggly lines. CPT Higgins called for the soldier from the Signal section.

"What's with the stupid TV, SIGO?" demanded Higgins. "SIGO" was a shortened term for "Signal Officer," which the Specialist facing Higgins was not, but the term "SIGO" stuck to any signal type on shift at the time. SPC Flory told Higgins he didn't know, but he'd check on it. He disappeared through the TOC entrance flaps. Meanwhile, the picture on the TV became more erratic.

"Change to something else. Where's the remote?" said CPT Higgins. Steve walked over to one of the battle desks and grabbed the remote. He switched to a different channel, but the picture showed no signs of improvement. He switched to Star News. The picture was constantly interrupted, but what the newscaster was saying made everyone sit up straighter.

An Arabic man with a slightly British accent was speaking, "…and BBC continues to receive reports of multiple unidentified fighter craft attacking airfields and military bases throughout Europe. According to reports, the aircraft are like nothing they have ever seen. The British government reports they have managed to shoot down only a few of the unidentified fighters, but they have lost many fighter jets in the process." The picture switched to a view of a blue sky over a city. Greg could not make out the city, but in the sky he saw what looked like a light-grey wedge. The camera was trying to zoom in for a closer look. The announcer continued, "Reports are coming in from the United States that they are…. Wait. This just in: We have received reports that Washington D.C. is under heavy attack. No government or organization has claimed respon…" The signal cut out abruptly, and snow replaced the announcer's image. All of the soldiers in the TOC, fully awake now, looked at each other in shock and disbelief.

"This has got to be some kind of joke!" said Steve. He feverishly switched channels, each one revealing only snow.

"Pretty good joke," intoned Greg.

"Hey SIGO!" shouted CPT Higgins. SPC Flory reappeared through the SICUP flaps.

"Sir, I couldn't find anything wrong with the dish. It's aligned where it's supposed to be, and it's getting power. The right lights are on, so we should be getting a clear signal. He glanced over to the snow-filled TV in irritation.

"Did someone take out the satellites?" said Steve. CPT Higgins looked at Steve.

"There's only a couple of nations capable of taking out satellites, and we're one of em," replied Higgins. Besides, who would want to take out an entertainment satellite? A look of concern clouded Higgins' face. "Hey Steve! Go grab me a plugger, would ya?"

"Yes sir," said Steve with a confused look but then headed toward the M577 from which the S3 SICUP was booted. He reappeared with a tan-colored bulky GPS in his hand.

"Give me a fix on our position, Steve." Steve began pressing buttons on the device. The old PLGRs were slow to boot, slow to find satellites, and even slower to figure out where you were at, but they were reliable and sturdy. Five minutes passed and Steve shook his head.

"What's the problem?" inquired CPT Higgins.

"It's just weird, sir. I'm picking up only two satellites. We normally can get six out here."

"Well, whoever those bastards on the news channel were, it looks like they've been picking off our GPS satellites too. But who in the Hell would want to attack us, or have the nuts to do so?" Higgins appeared to go blank for a few seconds and then turned to SGT Jones. "SGT Jones, go wake up the Old Man." Jones looked a bit stricken. Waking up the battalion commander was not a pleasant task, but he headed out of the TOC anyway.

"Steve, I want you to try to reach Brigade Headquarters in Doha on the Spitfire. See if they know what's going on. Don't want the Old Man to come in here only to find out I don't know what the Hell to say." Steve nodded and walked over to the AN/PSC-5 and began speaking into the microphone.

"Greg, see if you can raise the intel weenies at Brigade. Maybe they've got a clue." Greg nodded and turned to his SINCGARS radio. The Brigade O&I net ran off of a retransmission, so he knew he should be able to reach someone there.

"Sir, I get nothing off the Spitfire," said Steve.

"Okay. Pull out the HF and see if Brigade is monitoring that." Steve looked a bit wounded.

"Sir, I don't know where that is, and I don't know how to use it."

"It's a radio, like any other. How hard can it be?" replied CPT Higgins. He looked over to SPC Flory, "Do you know how to work an HF?"

"Yes sir. I'll have it up in a few minutes," said Flory. He turned to his section's M577 and disappeared into it.

"Sir, I've got someone from Brigade S2 on the line," said Greg. CPT Higgins turned to Greg. "They're saying they saw the same thing we did. They're contacting ARCENT-KU to find out more. They said they'll call us back when they find something out."

"Alright, fine. We'll just…"

"The battalion commander!" shouted SGT Rogers, one of Greg's section NCOs. All heads whirled toward the entrance flaps and everyone except the soldiers on the radios stood up. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Bertha rubbed some sleep out of his eyes, but he also bore a level of alertness that came with his years of experience.

"Okay Vince, why am I awake?" rumbled LTC Bertha in a deep but tired voice. He was a tall man with steel-gray hair (what little there was of it) in his mid-forties.

"Sir, we saw reports on Star News of attacks on both Britain and CONUS, and…"

"What?" LTC Bertha suddenly looked more alert.

"Yes sir," continued CPT Higgins, "We saw footage of strange fighter craft attacking airfields, and the announcer said that Washington D.C. was under heavy attack." LTC Bertha glanced over at the TV, frowning as he was greeted by snow on the screen.

"What's wrong with the TV?" inquired the commander.

"Sir, it went out completely during the newscast. I'm not sure, but we think maybe the satellite transmission was interrupted or something."

"…or something," murmured the commander. CPT Higgins paused and then continued.

"Yes sir. We can't raise Brigade on the Spitfire, our pluggers aren't registering…"

"Pluggers not registering?" interrupted LTC Bertha.

"Yes sir. Lieutenant Hovey said he could pick up only two satellites."

"Only one now, sir" interrupted Steve.

"One?" replied LTC Bertha and CPT Higgins simultaneously. Steve nodded. LTC Bertha looked back at CPT Higgins.

"Sir, SPC Flory is setting up the HF now, and Lieutenant Yost has managed to raise Brigade S2 through O&I." LTC Bertha turned his attention to Greg.

"What did they say?"

"Sir, they're trying to reach ARCENT-KU to find out more. Right now, they're clueless." replied Greg.

"Okay, stay on it," said LTC Bertha. He turned to CPT Higgins, "If Lieutenant Yost can reach Brigade S2, then you should be able to reach Brigade S3. The retrans isn't picky about which net it's bouncing."

"Yes sir. So far they haven't responded, but we'll continue to try and raise them."

For the next hour, Greg continued to communicate with his brigade counterpart. SPC Flory got the HF radio up, and Battalion S3 gained contact with their counterpart at Brigade. They too had tried to reach ARCENT-KU. At about 0220, Brigade called back Greg on his radio and told them that ARCENT-KU was unable to reach CONUS in any way except HF. No satellite communications of any kind were possible. The reports they got from CONUS were not good.

"Wake up all the company commanders, and wake up the rest of the staff," said LTC Bertha at 0255. CPT Higgins nodded and the RTOs began calling the company CPs. Meanwhile, soldiers headed out to wake up the various sleeping staff officers.

At 0330, all company commanders and primary staff officers were gathered in the TOC, forming a loose crowd around LTC Bertha, who stood by the large map board. A few of the officers looked irritated to be awake at such an hour, while the rest appeared to be a mixture of puzzled and tired. CPT Higgins stepped next to the battalion commander and filled in all of the officers on what he knew, alarm visibly growing and replacing other emotions on their faces as he continued to speak. More than a few obscenities were muttered.

By 0730, all M-577s were packed, tents were put away, and the battalion was ready to move. In the distance, Greg could see the Engineers bulldozing down the sand walls of the kabal in different directions. He would get no sleep today. The night shift usually paid in sleep when the battalion TOC had to jump to a new location. But this was different – it was no training exercise. Brigade had sent orders that the battalion had to strike the kabal and array itself in a battle formation, vehicles spread out. He also heard that 3-78 Infantry had received similar orders. They, along with his own battalion, were the only US forces deployed to Kuwait for this operation. He also heard that the Brigade Headquarters was deploying out of Camp Doha and into the desert. Greg felt some trepidation as he recalled the images on TV the night prior. He was very tired, but he now shared an alertness with his comrades that comes with news that your nation has come under attack. Alertness, fear – and a growing sense of anger.