Lake Michigan Super Combat Center

Barry Omaba put down yet another depressing casualty report with a sigh. Of all the times aliens could have come to invade Earth, it had to be during his first term as President of the United States of America. Regardless what anyone might have thought of his domestic policies before his inauguration or in his nine months as a pre-space contact president, the country had rallied remarkably staunchly behind him during the toughest six months the whole planet had ever experienced. In the weeks they had had to prepare for the Empire's arrival, the entire North and Central American continent had become military allies in a setup similar to Europe's. Just like Alpha Base in Central Europe, there had been Gamma Base in the Rocky Mountains. Unfortunately, the Empire had clearly done some research, and somehow acquired the necessary information to take the huge complex out in the first days of battle. It had been a disaster made worse by the assumption that someone, somewhere, must have informed the Empire of some of the base's critical weak points. Barry thought to himself, grimly, that he hoped it was under torture, and not an active mole.

And yet, luckily, they had not put all their eggs in one basket. Gamma Base had been a devastating defeat of course, but here he was, safe and sound deep underground. Deep underwater. Though 48% of the troops in the Rockies had been killed or captured, most non-combat personnel had made it out alive through long escape tunnels that had subsequently been blown up, with the vast majority then finding their way here because of the overground resistance movement. Including reserves and escaped prisoners, away from then mountains there had been hundreds of thousands of men and women designated to hold strategic positions when the war started, something they had done with some success and retreating to other positions when not. Communication and supply lines were excellent, with the civilian volunteers fixing the occasionally broken telephone cables, transporting goods and people between bases, and acting as relays with local militias. He was damned proud of his people.

Whoever the paranoid genius at the NSA had been who secretly carried on the third Super Combat Center's construction following the project's official cancellation in the 1960s, had quite certainly saved millions of lives. Fifty years later, it was not just a nuclear bunker capable of coordinating the Air Force against the evil Soviets, but a veritable fortress with endlessly long tunnels and electric rail links to smaller bases (some hundreds of miles away) and a plethora of secret escape routes. There were thousands of military personnel including researchers, soldiers, engineers, and last but not least the 51st, 52nd, and 53rd US Armored Divisions created in the wake of that Captain Peeko's unplanned arrival. When those divisions would finally be redeployed with their recent upgrades for Operation Do or Die, the cargo trains would bring them to a camouflaged exit point near Trowbridge on I-75. After that, it would be time to immediately retake Selfridge Air Force Base, Detroit itself (at least what was left of it after some of the heavy fighting it had experienced), and move on from there. One of Barry's favourite features of the SCC was that at some point in the 1980s, one particularly paranoid NSA director had insisted on an escape possibility by sub through the lake. He hoped that would never happen - he hated being underwater. Really he shouldn't complain, he thought, looking around his office. His oval office, a perverse imitation of the real thing thought up by some NSA joker architect, no doubt. A few filing cabinets, his huge desk, a large photo of the real, now destroyed White House on the wall, awful white neon lighting, it had it all. Suddenly, the monotony was broken by one of his Red Phones flashing. Moscow. I wonder what Dimitri wants?

***##++

Resistance Field Liaison Officer Captain Rebecca Topp, Detroit, 8 Mile Road

If there was one thing that could be said in favour of the aliens invading, thought Rebecca as she screeched around another bend in a perfect drift, it was that the cops had better shit to do than bother her when she was driving in a spirited manner. Plus, there was barely any traffic these days, so she could gun the engine to hell and speed to her heart's content. 8 Mile Road was a particular pleasure now, a pure straight line; charging over a road that had once felt like the walls of her personal prison. In those days, sometimes when Mom couldn't afford to buy the medication she needed and could feel it coming, Rebecca would escape the psychotic rage episode by exploring the neighbourhood for a few hours. Each time, it had been the same.

"You take care honey," she would say, "and don't you be running over that 8 Mile Road, some white boy gonna snatch you away from me! Momma loves you and Momma needs you!"

Like that time social services came and she was in "rescue housing" for a few weeks. That had been awful. Rebecca had trashed these total strangers' kitchen as violently as possible, and they had hugged her. Hugged! For trashing their kitchen. Morons. Since then of course, things had changed a lot for the young woman. Until recently, she had been able look after mom relatively comfortably. She'd had her stint in the military, done a load of undercover DEA work in a bunch of other cities, and had been about to quit over drug policy when the damned aliens came. Suddenly, she had been reassigned as liaison between conventional forces and what those old white bastards in uniforms referred to as Detroit's "urban" paramilitary defence forces, inverted commas somehow pronounced.

The Chevy Camaro SS felt just right as she shook her head of distractions and made the next screeching turn into Woodward Avenue, sill devoid of any sort of traffic. This would change soon, she knew, because it was market day and almost 5am, time for the farmers and traders to set up their stalls. It was bizarre to consider that grocery stores were already rigidly controlled by the empire, and therefore offered very little at incredibly inflated prices. Most of what they sold that was actually affordable was some sort of paste they promised was totally good for you. Many of the people these space community outreach programmes tried to reach were laughing in their faces; they were used to far more complex attempts by the elite to screw them over. The market was the only way for most families to survive without poisoning themselves now, and she knew of many people who only ever swapped goods for other goods. Nobody trusted the "New Money," their term for Imperial Credits. Hell, it didn't matter, because nearly nobody had any. Well, except for the opportunists. Those who sold stuff to the Empire, stuff like information on militias, food, alcohol… their bodies. Not that that last one was a new profession in these parts. A number of (what Rebecca angrily referred to as former) Americans had already accepted defeat and joined with the Empire, getting filthy galactic rich in the process. They had a nasty habit of dying in horrible ways sometimes. Today, for example.

As she got closer to the city centre, Rebecca began to slow down. It would not do to attract the attention of the Empire troopers today, not that they were likely to pay her any mind. Amusing as the idea to get chased by those little flying bike things and race through the city might have been, now was not the time; besides which the car was way too heavy for that. The resistance needed bullets, and she had a lot of them. The boys and girls of the First Michigian Mayhem Brigade, a guerrilla paramilitary group among hundreds formed in what was left of the USA, Canada, and Mexico, were going to love that she had brought more. Detroit had lots of distinct kinds of guns out in the streets, so standardisation was difficult, but she had enough of everything. Everybody had to be ready for Operation Do or Die. For the operation to be successful however, certain collaborators would need to meet their maker today.

Finally, she drove into the parking garage that served as an entrance to the base. Flashing her smile at the guard, a man she would have considered a no-good gangbanger less than a year ago, was enough for him to push the button and open the gate. James knew who she was. After parking the car, Rebecca was immediately escorted through an old mall security station, by what looked to be no more than a kid, to see the leader of the Michigan Mayhem Brigade himself: Supreme Leader and Advocate of Chaos, Master of Ceremonies and Myspace Warrior Georgie Hamilton. That the leader of this particular group was full of himself and had been an amateur rapper before the war did not take away from his strategic genius (and sense of humour). Regardless, the official title was reserved for the enemy as an inconveniently long calling card – everybody else just called him Georgie, and Rebecca adored him. He had taken the responsibility of leading the Brigade following the incredibly rough first few weeks of occupation, and multiple heavy battles had taken their toll on the battalion. He was what held it together now.

"Yo Becky!" he called, "you better got somethin' good for me today! The boys n girls are getting restless."

Rebecca teased him with silence and a smile. "Ah come on, girl! Don't leave me hangin'!"

"You know, normally the people I deliver guns to have the decency to have a little chat before the hard talk begins," she answered, half sitting on his desk. He had a full view of the whole "base" using a system of ancient CCTV cameras on a load of old CRT monitors. Rebecca lit a cigarette and tossed Georgie the delivery manifest. "Take the boxes, and make sure your boys and girls are ready."

Leaning back on his chair and stretching legs on his desk, Georgie's eyebrows rose steadily higher. "All of it?"

Grabbing her leather jacket as she hopped off with the cigarette in her mouth, Rebecca left with a wave. "Yes, I'll go supervise to make sure nothing goes missing. And please, make sure this kid here ain't in the thick of it. What is he, twelve?"

Two hours later, Rebecca's Chevy slowly rolled out of the parking lot again, followed by four family vans. Anybody watching might have been surprised at the surprisingly low ride-height of the vehicles, unless they knew they were filled to the brim with men and women armed to the teeth, armour-plating and bulletproof windows. With the market in full swing, civilians were out and about exploring what they might be able to trade, and traffic had increased. Most importantly, it had reached the ears of the First Michigan Mayhem Brigade that there was to be an inspection of collaborating Earthling personnel by an Imperial administrator at the McGregor Memorial Conference Centre. To minimise the chances of scaring away the prey, the agent within the collaborators had not been told about the assault today – it would be an acceptable loss if the leaders of the Detroit area collaborators could be wiped out. Security was bound to be extremely heavy, and only the lack of railguns or sufficient heavy explosives pushed the resistance to go for the current plan: a full frontal surprise assault with their best troops.

The cars pulled into Cass Avenue in much too short a time, in Rebecca's opinion. She never felt ready for this kind of action. Already, she could see security up ahead the barred street looking at the motorcade in confusion. They were not aliens, they were locals; they had chosen their side. Their gear was no different to any other event security's from before the invasion, so this was what it was going to be: Earthlings with big guns killing Earthlings with smaller guns. Exactly as it had always been, and exactly what should not be happening. She slowed down as the family vans barrelled past her, their armour offering far more protection against the pistol fire that was sure to start hitting them any moment now. *POP!POP!POP!*

Rebecca tore left in front of the Detroit Public Library with a "Here we go!" for her passengers, and skidded into a dark corner for a quick getaway if needed. Their job as the others attacked was simple: sit tight, watch from above using the drone, and prevent the escape of any important targets through the back way. Georgie sat next to her, nervously twiddling with the dials of his radio waiting for the expected lull in the fighting as the vans broke through the checkpoint. "All squads report in, tell me what's happenin', over?"

"This is Biggy," came the calm voice of the leader of the first van, "we've made it into Kirby Street. The squad's breaking the back door down. A lot of movement, but resistance isn't very fierce. Henry bought it getting out of the car, very unlucky. Over."

Georgie rubbed the top of his head. He hated losing his guys and girls. The rear passenger of the Chevy, a techie named Will and the kid Rebecca had not wanted to see anywhere the action, set up his drone's screen, threw the quadcopter out of the window and guided it towards the building.

Suddenly, a more hectic, strained male voice could be heard over the radio: "This is Tupac, under heavy fire but holding. We've blown out all the windows and Michelle here is enjoying her grenade launcher a little too-" There was a loud series of explosions, followed by some static. Will turned the drone's camera towards the end of the building, where thick plumes of smoke showed the devastation several grenades could cause. "God damn it Michelle! Keep your ammo! Anyway, no casualties. Suppressing. Over."

Rebecca smirked at Georgie. "I told you she'd be good! Michelle used to set houses on fire for fun when we was kids. Letting her blow something up is just the next logical step."

"This is Snoop Squad, reporting in." said a third voice, a woman this time, from the radio before Georgie could reply. "We're being real sneaky through the side entrance. We saw a shuttle prepping to depart but could not reach them, over."

Rebecca and Georgie both swore. The young woman grabbled the radio and pressed the transmit button. "What kind?"

"I don't fuckin' know, man!" came the scandalised reply. "It looked like it was made of three triangles. Nuthin' like any plane I know."

Rebecca viciously pushed open her door and scrambled out. "Shit. Shit shit shit! Fucking bastards will get away in that. Will, get a look at it, but I think I know what it is already."

Moving to the back of her Chevy, she opened the boot and lifted out a heavy, long case. "What's that? A bazooka?" asked a confused Georgie.

"No. Something better," answered Rebecca, annoyed at the distraction. She unpacked the weapon and attached the sights, twisting a few nobs and slapping a rather large looking rocket into the main tube.

Georgie shook his head and pointed at the weapon, laughing with his little assistant. "That definitely looks like a bazooka to me!"

The target of his mirth was too busy typing activation codes using the keyboard on the side to answer at first. To have any chance of hurting the Lambda-class T-4 shuttle, they'd have to smash through the particle shield. Luckily, the Empire was used to fighting civilizations with energy weapons and concentrated most of their efforts on installing strong ray shields that could dissipate laser fire, and they had simply not come prepared with adequate hardware for all their shuttles when arriving on Earth to adapt properly. Nonetheless, it would be enough to block one missile from entering the killzone. The solution was obvious: two missiles would have to hit.

Finally, she hefted the missile launcher onto her shoulder and took a peek through the laser tracker. "This, my friend, is the newest generation of Stinger surface-to-air-missile, designed and refined solely to take down Imperial motherfuckers. I think we're going to see where or not it works today. By the way, in case we have to move, now you drive."

Tossing Georgie the keys, Rebecca turned to Will. "Find the shuttle with that funky drone of yours. Tell me when it launches."

Just as she finished talking, there was a lull in the gun and laser fire and the radio crackled. "This is Snoop. Secondary targets are all taken care of. No survivors. However, the Imps seem to have made it out alive. We're chasing but they're leaving their troopers behind. They obviously brought their own security for the VIP."

"Keep up the chase. Tupac, move to intercept!" shouted Georgie. "Don't let these thugs get on the shuttle! Biggie give them cover."

Will called Rebecca and his commander over to look at the screen. The drone was hovering some way above the fight, but it could all be seen. The smouldering wreckage of the conference centre, billowing thick black smoke, and the shuttle parked nearby. One group of retreating forms could be seen firing energy weapons back at their pursuers. The blasters did not help visibility, bright bolts of superheated plasma often proving too much for the dinky, primitive digital camera on the quadcopter. As Tupac and Biggie squads entered the fray alongside their comrades, the roar of the Lambda-class shuttle's engines activating drowned out all other noise. Georgie, Rebecca, and Will could only stare at the screen as the spaceship lifted a foot off the ground and began to rotate, finally facing the Earthlings, and let rip with its four double-laser canons. Tupac, Biggie and Snoop squad tried to scatter, but it was a turkey-shoot for the gunners. They could only hear screams over the radio. One by one, the heavy hitters of the First Michigan Mayhem Brigade were hit either by the shuttle's guns, or newly emboldened imperial troopers catching them cowering behind cover, and shooting them from point-plank range.

After one last sweep, they watched the imperial troopers get ordered back on board. That movement seemed to wake Rebecca out of her stupor. "Get in the car. You need to drive. Drive Georgie!"

The stunned man didn't move, so she dragged him away from the screen and pushed him into the driver's seat. "We'll get them. But I need you to follow them while I aim. Now come on! We need to take them out!"

Finally, the Camaro roared to life as if seeking vengeance itself as Rebecca climbed in with the Stinger and stood through the open sunroof. Immediately, even with the car screeching away from their hiding spot, she took aim at the slowly lifting shuttle, punched the infrared button to activate the sight, and fired. She had to keep tracking the spaceship until the missile hit, but she had practice. The EMP missile impacted, scrambling the shuttle's shielding and, hopefully, some vital systems. The car roared around a corner and followed the now struggling ship. Clinging on for dear life, Rebecca almost felt like re-evaluating the choice to give Georgie the keys to her car, but smiled in satisfaction as she noticed the target climb up from behind buildings blocking the view. Clearly, the ion charge adapted from Rebel forces had some effect, as the ship was unable to blast off into orbit quickly and was visibly listing to the right. Instead of climbing at impossible speed, it seemed to have adapted the relatively sedate pace of a helicopter, so Rebecca finished reloading the stinger. Indeed, as it rose higher and higher and moved in a straight line, it became easier and easier for her to track the shuttle, and she finally fired off the second missile as they were passing Ford Field, watching with grim satisfaction as the high explosive missile blew the shuttle to smithereens over the Detroit River.

"Ain't every day your men and women get justice so soon, Georgie. Take solace in that."

***+++### Team Ghost, Sahara Desert, Libya

The drive from Benghazi to Sirte had been beautiful, but uneventful. Clearly, the Empire thought little of the poorer African states and did the absolute minimum to keep order. After restocking with local resistance contacts in Sirte and bribing a few officials officially on the side of the Empire to get back on their way, the two fully-loaded HUMVEES had driven away from the stunning coastline straight towards the Sahara, with Luke's force compass leading them South-West, towards what was uncomfortably acknowledged to look like Algerian territory. Stubbs especially had bad memories of fighting Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan in the past, and was uncomfortable knowing that while Algerian forces had been hard on the group's branch in their region, imperial invasion would have completely disrupted counterterrorist operations. Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb (AQIM) were used to hiding out in the mountains, and would now be on the lookout for targets of opportunity. The trouble was that the little group he had been given command of was hardly traveling incognito: both cars were obviously of military design, if the size and sand-coloured paint were not enough of a giveaway, the big heavy machinegun turrets they had certainly would be to anyone watching. The major surprise had been how welcome they were everywhere they went outside of direct Imperial control, civilians ready to let them rest where necessary and providing endless amounts of sweet tea as they drove through settlements. Colonel Muamar Gaddafi had gone into hiding the moment the invasion began, controlling the resistance from the shadows using his excellently trained secret police, whose roles had now transformed. However, one aspect remained: they were there to exchange information, and pass it along. Using actual wired communication rather than risking radio, they got word forward for distractions to occur for any known collaborators, and the team to get through without getting noticed by the wrong people.

The sun was setting fast in the desert, and the road would have been a dusty spinebreaker if their vehicles had not had excellent suspension. Sure, people were grouchy and tired, but that was more the heat. As they rumbled up to what remained of the Algerian border, Tanner thought about how weird it was to be helped by the man who had defended and protected the men behind the Lockerbie Bombing. The British side of his family would have been utterly outraged. And yet, these kinds of divisions seemed utterly mundane to him now; of course the Libyans should be helping the team. Why on Earth not?

The young soldier shouted up at Zafir, who was manning the turret, over the roar of the engines. "Hey man, I just realised something. We're going to have to rethink so many of our expressions."

The - already-tanned, it was some sort of sick joke, thought Moritz - older non-commissioned officer looked down at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well," answered Moritz, "if someone says, "Why on Earth should I do" -something-, now some smartass is going to answer with "uhh… I dunno, why don't you ask the people from-" shit, what's it called… Hey Luke!"

The sandy-haired youth-from-space turned around in his passenger seat as Moritz switched to Basic. "What do they call your home planet again? Aha, Tatooine. Right, thanks. So yeah, "Why don't you ask the Tatooinians?" or some other shitheap planet, and then I bet you "Earth" in that sentence will gain a new meaning."

Zafir called down. "Tanner, your theory sucks. People might make this mistake once or twice, but with dweebs like you around we'll grow out of it in no time. I can already hear my brain asking "Why the fuck am I letting this dweeb talk out of his ass?" to me". Karim, their local driver, guffawed, although at this point nobody was sure whether he understood and enjoyed anything more than the word "fuck". Even Luke smiled, but that was probably because he'd seen Moritz' dumb-struck expression. Skywalker seemed to be picking up on individual words and enjoyed trying to figure out the language. Zafir claimed that he'd listened to him practice enunciating the word "motherfucker" for hours, but Tanner thought he was full of it. Luke was far too polite. Anyway, apparently, Luke had already had a second language he learned when he was young, Huttese, whatever that was.

Tuning out Moritz' voice as he asked Zafir who the hell even still said dweeb, Luke chuckled as he remembered the memory. He'd had a hell of a time explaining to Tanner a day before that a race of giant sentient slugs ("WHAT?! Slugs with arms?!") called Hutts were the mob bosses of the galaxy, but he'd lacked answers to the rapid questions that followed: was the entire race criminal? If so, why didn't everyone just kill them on sight or lock them up? If not, was it not racist to say "all Hutts are gangsters" just like that? And anyway, slugs did not seem intimidating. How did they enforce their power? Through others? But how did they enforce it on those others, why didn't the enforcers simply take over? Oh they weigh a lot and can squash you? So what? Could you not just shoot them from two miles away or blow them up? What do you mean they're too smart? Sounds to me like you guys are too stupid! Can you tell the difference between male and female Hutts since they're just slugs?

At this point, Luke had begged off, stating that he was no expert as he had never actually met Jabba the Hutt, and resolved never to mention Jawas in Moritz' presence as it may do more harm than good to his sanity. He appreciated the young soldier, but even cooped up at the moisture farm, he had not been as clueless about the galaxy. He respected the wish to learn, but sorely wished he had a datapad or something to give him to read about these things. Since they'd arrived in the desert, Luke had felt an unfamiliar feeling: nostalgia mixed with a twinge of homesickness. Things were happening so fast, mere months ago, he would have been driving around in his speeder in very similar surroundings checking the farm, but now things would never be the same. He had met Obi-wan Kenobi, his last remaining relatives had been murdered by the Empire, he had rescued a princess, blown up the battlestation she had been held on, all while discovering the Force and fulfilling his dream of becoming a fighter pilot. On this planet, he was learning how to really fight: squad-based, military fighting like that gunfight in the mountains, and how to use his lightsabre properly. Indeed, learning Earthling "Kendo" seemed like an ideal way for him to learn how to wield his weapon in a disciplined manner, rather than just bashing and slashing it at someone. Needless to say, it was a steep learning curve even if the Force seemed to help, and he was sure that it would be some time before he dared to take on the evil Darth Vader. Whilst the precognitive skills provided by the Force he was familiarising himself with allowed him some success in defending against an opponent, he found it incredibly difficult to focus on counterattacks, which meant they slipped through eventually as he lost concentration. He knew they were impressed nonetheless – he sparred like someone who had been doing so for a couple of years, not weeks.

Suddenly, Karim swore and gunned the engine. Moritz, as the only French speaker in their vehicle, leaned forward and asked him what was happening. "Une grande tempête! Nous sommes presque arrivés au Fort de Ghat, mais ce sera très difficile si le vent devient trop fort !"

Luke and Zafir looked at Moritz expentently. "Okay, he says there's a sandstorm brewing. We're close to Ghat, where the fort is, but we need to move or we might get stuck."

The second Hummer closed up behind them so that they wouldn't lose each other. A sandstorm during the night was a bad place to be, as the roads became almost completely invisible. Soon, as if confirming their worse fears, visibility dropped completely as the sand got whipped up by the wind. The noise was absolutely deafening as it scratched the side of the car, which slowed to a crawl, and finally to a stop.

"Je dois sortir!" Karim told Moritz urgently. "Prend le volant et suis moi. Si je te dis de t'arrêter, tu arrêtes la bagnole, compris ?"

The driver reached for a long rope underneath the driver's seat and tied around his waist. Then, he wrapped a headscarf over his head to cover his face, slapped on some googles, opened the door, and stepped out in front, even as Moritz plopped behind the wheel. The plan was for Karim to make sure they stayed on the road, and didn't hit any obstacles. In the back, Luke looked around nervously – it was never good to get caught out in a sandstorm, and it had never happened to him in such a delicate situation. He had a very bad feeling about this.

Complete darkness had set in, and the cars' headlights were of absolutely no use for more than a meter or two as gaps appeared in the dust. They crawled through the storm, silent as sand seemed to get in through the tiniest cracks and gaps. Zafir himself had had to retreat inside, abandoning his post in the turret and closing the hatch as quickly as he could. He still brought a huge amount of sand with him however, but nobody said anything. Jokes could be made later. Moritz concentrated on following Karim, fighting with the steering wheel as the wind tried to move the car sideways. By the time he noticed the second car was no longer behind them, he had no idea how long it had been. He honked the horn to get the man's attention and he came back in, and they decided to stay put until the storm ended.

Everyone in the car was quiet when the wind finally stopped. Finally, Zafir reached for the radio, which had proven utterly useless during the storm. "Ghost 1, this is Ghost 2, do you read? Over."

Crackling white noise and silence indicated that Ghost 1 was either not receiving, or unable to answer. Moritz decided to go stretch his legs in the dark as Zafir continued, with Karim and Luke following him outside. After a few moments, and just as he was bending down trying to touch his toes again, they all startled at the unmistakable sound of fully automatic gunfire. The distance was hard to judge as they all took cover, but a momentary glance around showed that they were not being targetted. Then they heard blasters as well and it immediately dawned on them that Peeko and Manali must have joined the fray.

They piled back into the car, Karim gunning the engine as Moritz and Luke readied their weapons and Zafir climbed back up through the hatch to the heavy turret. The Humvee's tires lost grip as they turned around back the way they had come in search of their comrades. At walking pace, they had not made it far away from the other car. Smoke could be seen rising above the dunes despite the darkness, but they had no view of the battlefield yet.

The gunner called down to the others, where he had been using his binoculars. "I see two white pick-up trucks with machineguns mounted on the back, not moving. Another in flames. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of cover. Suggest we engage at 200 meters, Tanner and Skywalker use the car as cover, Karim hides here, it's the most well-armoured part of the Humvee. Moritz, tell him."

Karim did not seem overly keen to participate in a gunfight, but was happy to stay inside and pretend to be a prisoner if captured. So, he drove the squad up to the required range, turned slightly, and hid. Immediately, Zafir opened fire with the M240G from within his turret, having spotted a small group of men on foot. Two of the men were no longer moving, but he saw another four move to take cover. Transparent, bulletproof glass gave him excellent visibility and protection as the opponents, caught by surprise as they had been concentrating on the other car, turned to return fire. The horrifying, yet somehow reassuring, racket of multiple bullets impacting the vehicle's armour and not punching through began in earnest.

Moritz and Luke exited the vehicle on the safe side. Luke was wielding a standard-issue A280 blaster rifle, as it had been determined long ago that a blaster pistol would be of no use in long-range engagements. They may have been coming from the flat road, but the small sand dunes provided some measure of cover as they crawled their way forward on all fours through the night. They reached the edge without being seen, Zafir's burst fire keeping the enemies' heads down and ruining their natural night vision. The combat earpieces crackled and the gunner's voice came through. "Guys, one of the pickups has disappeared. I think they're trying to flank us. Watch yourselves, over."

A sort of naturally formed trench existed between the dunes and allowed Moritz and Luke to get ever closer without being seen, but eventually bullets impacted near them and they pulled back into cover. Up on the top of the biggest dune, three figures could be seen aiming their rifles at them. However, they were wielding the base model AK47 commonly found in the region, whereas all members of Ghost had optical sights on their weaponry. As Luke fired his blaster rifle at the men, who shrunk back from the clearly unfamiliar weaponry, Moritz tried picking them off. He kept the railgun attachment switched off for now – there was simply no need for it, and it felt like overkill. An earth-shattering explosion sounded behind the men they were fighting, and suddenly the other Humvee flew over the dune, heavy machinegun firing wildly as Steinegger finished off the other pick-up truck's occupants. Luke and Moritz cheered as the men they had been in combat with stood to leave, but were cut down by more automatic fire.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" said a grinning Stubbs, getting out of the car after it screeched to a halt and the wheels sank into the sand a little. "We lost you in the storm!"

"Is everyone okay?" asked Moritz.

Stubbs pointed back at the car. "Manali took a bullet in the leg, but should be fine otherwise, no arteries hit."

As the others arrived, clearing the area and picking up any supplies of value in the moonlight, Stubbs explained what had happened. Their engine had given up in the middle of the storm, and they had watched the other car slowly drive off, honking their horn in a desperate attempt to get them to stop. However, he knew storms only lasted a few hours and was not that worried. Then, when it had finally stopped, they had immediately set about fixing their damaged radio equipment when they had been shot at without warning. It seemed to have been some sort of checkpoint on the road the militants had set up, and while the first car travelled through without problems in the storm, the second had been visible. Nightfighting was never much fun, but there was enough residual light for it to be manageable. The enemy combatants had all obviously been very poorly trained. Zafir reported that the last pick-up truck must have escaped, which spurred everyone into action: after all, they may have been getting reinforcements.

"Guys." said Luke. As everyone ignored him packing their things, he tried again. "Uh, guys, seriously. I think we have a problem."

Still, everyone was trying to leave and ignored him, and the Ghost 1's Humvee was refusing to start again. Stubbs and Selim, his car's driver, popped the hood and had a look inside. Finally, Luke couldn't hold it anymore and shouted. "Motherfucker! Will you listen to me? Look around!"

Everyone stopped, shocked at Luke's command of an English swearword, but also because they finally saw what he had seen: on all the dunes surrounding them, the dark silhouettes of men on camels could be seen against the clear, dark blue sky and stars. They had been completely silent in their approach.

Moritz dropped his cigarette. "Well, this can't be good."

#*!

Notes: Finally, another chapter, encouraged by the new movie of course since like everybody else I go mad for fanfiction around the time of release. It's a monster chapter! I can only apologise for the wait, as usual. In the meantime, I've moved countries, got a degree, had huge family drama… A few things: remember this fic started years ago. Yes I know Barry Omaba is a stupid fake name, but what's done is done. Ghaddafi was alive when the invasion started, and I think he probably would have done relatively well in an alien invasion: seemingly quite harmless, but a huge amount of power and massive secret police network in his own country.

The problem I have with this fic is that it has enormous scope and I struggle to choose what to write about when! There are loads of snippets I've pre-written that need to be connected. The next chapters promise to be even madder as we jump between locations on the planet, and off-world. I hope you guys enjoyed the little scene from Detroit. This is kind of how I envision most parts of Earth to be right now: delegated rule where possible, Imperial presence in the centres with minimal oversight over civilians. After all, most conflicts are outside the city right now, and militias are easy to train. Anyway, enjoy the new movie (hopefully!) and let me know what you think with reviews!