Lieutenant Pat Mitchell marveled at the feeling that rose in his gut. Euphoria, pure raw energy the like he had not experienced in a long time. Maybe a few times in the past, the time when he won the regional Superbike championship, earning his wings in the academy, beating his flight instructor the first time.
        Now it filled him like radiation on a strong wind, Chernobyl glowing hot under his seat. He nearly screamed out loud. His Hornet raced at tree top level, the machine part of him, indistinguishable and integrated as never before. He itched to slam the throttles forward and break formation, pull a wheelie and take green bastards on by himself. He felt invincible. He could sense every variation in the plane’s attitude, every reaction to his minute corrections on the yoke and rudder.
        He was hot. Part of the remaining twenty Hornets of the RAAF, charmed. The words just kept pouring into his mind, his favorite metal band.

        Yeah, baby, only this time, the alien dude is gonna get his butt seriously kicked.

        Palau Kepu

        Keller crept forward slowly until he caught sight of the small capital town of the island. He had to admit it was a beautiful scene, a picturesque village surrounding the bay, postal pretty. A large castle, fortified to repel buccaneer attacks during centuries long past, dominated the town from above. A small fishing port to the east of the bay, a modern military installation to the right, couple of small patrol boats moored to the jetty. Maybe a dozen boats on the water. From his high vantage point on the summit of the hill a mile away, the ocean seemed to sparkle.
        Sunset was casting incredible colors across the land and little activity stirred the peaceful setting, except for a couple of fishing boats returning from the day’s work and the odd camouflaged jeep winding its down the half empty streets. A bell tolled in the distance. Would be a prime spot to bring Katie on a romantic holiday. Except for the lunatic dictator. And for the bugs.
        He peered through the binoculars into the fort’s main plaza and spotted a tarp draped over a large object, UFO sized, surrounded by local guards. God, let’s hope we have the right place, he thought. Otherwise, some islanders are in for a nasty surprise. Nah, he thought. Sachs had told them that the little aerial recon available bore indisputable proof that the place was an alien hive. And the Malaysian X-COM team that had sneaked in two days ago had confirmed the suspicions. Add that to the fact that the computer techs swore by their mother’s graves and Pine Gap had some phone ELINT. Yup, ET was around. He could smell him.
        This better work, because humanity was having a rough ride. The Stock Exchange, after months of government intervention, cajoling and subsidizing had finally collapsed, an economic recession that had sent thousand to bankruptcy. Companies worldwide that depended on international sales were struggling to stay afloat and layovers were becoming the norm. It was bad for the U.S., but other countries with weaker economies were struggling on the brink or sinking. Major cities around the globe lay in turmoil, either half destroyed from orbit or in chaos from citizen terror. Many had abandoned the large metropolitan areas and fled to the countryside, which had so far been spared from the onslaught. Washington, New York, Miami, L.A., Paris, London, Bonn, Moscow and other European and Asian capitals had been savagely bombarded, leaving millions homeless. Even in the so-called First World, food and basic supplies were already becoming scarce as terrified citizens flocked to supermarkets and grocery stores to stock up.
        A week ago, taking advantage of the diminished US presence in the Gulf, Irak had moved troops back into Kuwait, reclaiming the northern oil fields once again and forcing the under strength American forces to retreat a few hundred miles. Israel was also in trouble, border clashes with the Palestinians of the occupied territories and some skirmishes with Syrian forces upping their alert status. With US forces leaving the area in a hurry to return home, the Gulf had once more turned into a smoking powder keg.
        In Europe, UN forces were powerless to stop Serbian militias from attacking a Bosnian border town and decimating the population, making a second Balcan war a sad reality.
        Yeltsin was finding it difficult to control the rising Communist party, their leaders gaining popular support and demanding that the old Empire be united again under the same flag, the independent Republics brought to their collective knees and the military power reestablished.
        Recently, a United 747 had been lost over Atlantic from a UFO attack and the following day a second attack on a British Airways Airbus had resulted in the grounding of all commercial flights. Aid to underdeveloped nations was slowing to a trickle. C-130s flying low over the Mediterranean and with heavy escort were unable to cope with the food and medicine shortage that was plaguing Africa.
        The world was a mess.

        "Radio message. We’re to move to the Club House." He nodded at the commo man and clicked his shoulder radio on.
        "All units. Execute to Club House." His two teams would move down towards the town from the north. The British team, air dropped last night onto a waiting submarine, would enter from the sea and pop up on the beach, taking control of the ports. To the east, the Malaysian team would rush the town and control the garrison that lay there. To the west, the Australian X-COM men were tasked with overrunning and controlling the small airport.
        His job was to find the computer and seize it, after which, the computer guys would be flown in by helicopter to try their hands at a little magic.

        USS Independence

        Lieutenant Colonel "Boots" Orbison looked around the cockpit of the Tomcat. Home sweet home. The plane captain clambered up the ladder and helped him strap in, checking the lap and shoulder harnesses, securing the leg restraints and finally connecting the hoses and wires that hooked him to the airplane. He looked around once more and pulled the pins on the ejection seat, arming it. Pulling those yellow handles now would make for a noisy exit. The plane captain descended quickly and Boots flicked a switch to close the canopy. A quick intercom check and he noted that the backseater was already performing the necessary alignment and avionics test procedures. It’s a big ocean and it’s always a good idea to know where you’re going.
        He waved at the flight crew and revved the engines, the impressive thunder blasting the air around the aircraft. Heck, for all the abuse the TF30’s got, and he had to admit he dished some of it, they still performed magnificently when required. So the engines installed of the F-14Bs are more powerful, reliable and generally better, but who’s counting, right? The 30s could still dish out 40,000 pounds of thrust when needed.
        Men in blue shirts ran around the Tomcat removing the chocks and chains that bound it to the deck and finally the deck director in his yellow shirt gave him the signal to release the brakes.
        Boots maneuvered the Tomcat towards one of the bow catapults and waited as the preceding F-14 blasted of ahead of him. The Jet Blast Deflector lowered slowly as a cloud of vapor blew quickly over the deck into the ocean and he taxied into position. Somewhere below the nose of the aircraft men scurried to connect him to the catapult. A few seconds later the yellow shirt signaled him to rev the engines and he pushed the throttles forward gently. Next, he moved the yoke and rudder pedals, the director watching intently for any sign that the flight controls weren’t performing perfectly, and gave him a thumbs up. Boots engaged the afterburners and saluted. The giant steam piston of the catapult fired and the aircraft was launched forward, zero to one hundred and forty knots in a blink of an eye. As the deck flashed by, Boots kept an eye on the airspeed indicator, alert for any indication that the plane wasn’t going to make it.
        "Good shot," called the RIO. "Tomcat one-oh-four airborne."
        "Roger, one-oh-four," came the voice from the Traffic Control. "Heading one-eight-zero to clear and two-zero-zero to marshall at angels ten."
        "Roger."

        The Pentagon

        General Wright accepted the papers that his aide handed him and gave them a quick once over.
        "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said. "Operation Island Storm has begun."
        "God bless them," breathed the Vice-Chair of the JCS.
        "However, bad news. Two other radio astronomy labs are confirming the data sent in from Maui." Looks around the table grew dark. "A second alien fleet has just appeared at the edge of our Solar System and, unless a miracle happens, will arrive in ten days."

        USS Bremerton

        The submarine skirted silently three hundred meters below the surface of the Gulf of Carpentaria to the east of Kakadu, maintaining a steady seven knots, invisible and undetectable. Water parted around it as the formidable hulk slithered through it’s natural element. Aboard, red lights flashed silently reminding the crew that they were at battle stations and that strict silence was enforced.
        The Captain glanced at the digital clock above the attack center.
        "Sonar, conn. Report contacts."
        "No new contacts, sir." The Captain clicked the overhead speaker off and turned to his executive officer.
        "Time, gentlemen. Get us up to launch depth, XO."
        "Aye, skipper. Navigator, raise planes ten degrees, steady on launch depth."
        "Aye, sir."
        After several minutes, the diving officer informed the Captain that the required depth had been reached.
        "Thank you," he said. "XO, ready for missile launch."
        The Exec. nodded and turned to the Weapons Officer. "Ready missile tubes one through three and arm the Tomahawks." Tube four was loaded with an Mk48, just in case.
        A flurry of activity ensured as orders were carried out swiftly and confirmed upon termination.
        "Inertial guidance on all missiles, check."
        "Readiness profiles are green for all tubes."
        "Missile prearming is green. Tubes are ready," called the WO finally.
        "Ready to launch, skipper." The XO was a small man, like most submariners. Under normal conditions he would be nervous, the finality and weight of firing in anger would bear heavy on his shoulders. But on this occasion he felt almost cheerful. The Captain gave the XO one last look and bobbed his head.
        "Launch when ready, XO."

        Palau Kepu - South

        Captain Ian Weston broke free of the SDV - the Seal Delivery Vehicle - borrowed from American Special Forces and started to swim strongly, his large fins pushing him quickly through the cold water. They covered the half mile at a record pace and finally made the beach. The sun had set and darkness surrounded them. Perfect timing. He peeled the fins off and ran up to the beach. In seconds he discarded the diving equipment, tanks, diving suit and mask. He checked that the rest of the team was with him and satisfied raced for cover behind a rise of dunes.
        "Partisan Three for Golf," said Weston on the radio.
        "Go ahead."
        "We’re at the Sand Trap." Time to wait for the next signal.

        Palau Kepu - West

        "Shit," exclaimed the Aussie commando. He raised his fist and crouched low. He donned the amplified NVGs and scanned the tower quickly. Nothing moved, the airport closed for the night, but he knew he’d seen something. The Australian team was hidden in the jungle that bordered the airport, a small and primitive landing strip that could barely accommodate small jets. A concrete runway, a small tower, a couple of shacks acting as terminals and two or three large repair huts. Cute in any other setting.
        "Point," came the voice from Scott.
        "Movement up ahead. Possible in the tower. Three large shapes covered with tarps in front of three constructions. Could be UFOs." He scanned the area through the glasses. "Uh-oh. Robot just popped from behind a shack."
        "What’s it doing?"
        "Disappeared behind a shack. Patrol."
        "Anything else?"
        "No, mate."
        "OK, let’s spread out along the edge."

        Palau Kepu - East

        Captain Eng edged forward carefully. He glanced round the corner and caught sight of the point crouching behind a large two wheeled cart, large leaves stacked high on its rear. The commando waved an ‘all clear’ and dashed forward.
        The narrow street dividing the low constructions wound steeply down from the hill towards the center of the village, intersecting the garrison road just in front of the Presidential palace. Most houses were made out of wood or rudimentary mortar and stone. Windows peeked from behind black bars where ornamental pots and flower arrangements marked some sort of ongoing celebration. He remembered that the newest dictator had recently celebrated the revolution’s first anniversary. Closer to the garrison, the crowded streets opened up to larger colonial houses, spaced out to leave room for lush gardens, mini-jungles with thick mangroves and exotic plants.
        A few torn posters bore the effigy of the Dictator, smiling benevolently on his populace.
        Eng raced forward and skidded into a doorway, hardly making any noise. A couple of commandos raced past, leapfrogging his position as he stood guard until it was his turn to race to the next cover. Presently, the street ended to be replaced with a wider dirt track. Large trees dominated the right side and a couple of wooden poles acted as a makeshift enclosure to the left. A large buffalo eyed them stupidly from behind the fence, chewing his cud mechanically. A mongrel, disturbed from his sleep, trotted from behind a corner and started to bark loudly, forcing a commando to reach for his laser pistol out.
        They continued down towards the guard’s quarters, stars giving them enough visibility to dispense with the NVGs, until they reached the garrison. Without a word, the team split into squads and surrounded the building.
        "Partisan Eight to Golf. We’re at the Locker Room."
        "Roger," came the muffled reply.

        USS Independence

        "Vampire, vampire, vampire," called the radar operator in CIC. "That’s Vincennes firing her Tomahawks, sir."
        The Captain checked his watch. On schedule. "CAG. What’s our status?"
        "One-fifty four is completely deployed as well as one-ninety two." He was referring to Tomcat squadron VF-154 Black Riders and the VFA-192 Golden Dragon Hornets. "The Intruders are next for launch, Dambusters after that. We’ll keep twenty seven," Hornet Charger squadron, "for fleet defense."
        "ELINT?"
        "Two Hawkeyes are on station, but we’re receiving zip from the bad guys. Tracking all RAAF flights converging on Strike One and the MIG-29 squadron from Malaysia for Strike Two. Owl Two is also tracking some friendlies over Borneo, we believe an F-5 force from Kuala Lampur. Getting real crowded up there, skipper."

        The Nova

        The SubCommander rushed to the bridge, summoned urgently by his second-in-command.
        "Commander, I’m sorry to disturb you but I think this is important." All around the bridge officers busied themselves at their posts, talking urgently though communications consoles. The main screen showed a digital representation of the area around northern Australia.
        "Terran forces are marshalling for an attack."
        The center of the computerized globe bore the Kraal symbol for their primary mining base. Around it, several hundred parx away, small red dots accompanied by a myriad of data were converging rapidly on the base.
        "These units here are terran fighters delivered from the sea vessel." The ones they should have destroyed with the Nova. "These other fighters originate from land bases here. Also, computer informs that torpedoes launched from these vessels are within range of the base," he said.
        "Can the defenses withstand the attack?"
        "Probably not, Commander. The terrans have deployed a formidable force." "All right. Evacuate the base immediately." The SubCommander paused. "What about Terran Control?"
        "Unknown if it’s compromised, sir. No indication of action in that area."
        "They might not know it’s there. Then again, they might want to try for two victories in one day. The transmission link to secondary Control is ready?" he asked.
        "Fully operational, sir."
        "We switch to SecCon, then. The base defenses shall hold until the information transfer is complete. After that, give the necessary orders to evacuate the base."
        "Yes, sir.
        "Now. Status on our fighters," he ordered. The Nova, although not originally designed as a long range carrier, could accommodate a large number of fighters in its cargo holds.
        "Three irreparably damaged when Hold One caved in but fourteen are in perfect working order, armed and ready."
        "Send them. Target the terran’s sea vessels."
        He had would have to hold for another terran week, the time necessary for the backup Fleet to arrive. Then he would discard the T-1 gas and be done with the whole nuisance. In the meantime the production of the mineral had to continue and he was force to waste his precious forces on the defense of the mining bases.

        Strike Point One

        Mitchell caught sight of beams of light piercing the darkness up ahead, as if razor straight lighting was rising to the heavens, electric blue in color, deadly in essence. Probably the Ion Batteries defending from the incoming Tomahawks. Not that the guided missiles were going to do much damage considering the effectiveness of the damn defenses, but they sure created a grand distraction. Fifty stand-off missiles, ripple fired from an American destroyer and two submarines and originating from different directions should ensure that the batteries were kept as busy as possible.
        Off to the right, a flight of Aardvarks had sworn vengeance and a successful raid. Honor had been laid on the line and he knew that the bomber boys would use their aircraft if all else failed.
        "Ranger flight. Weasels incoming vector zero-three-zero, closure at two thousand. Engage!" Once again Mitchell heard the warning from the Sentry aircraft. This time we was ready.

        He armed the new AIM-7M Sparrows and punched his radar on. Fuck it, they knew they were coming anyway. Immediately, the missiles locked onto the alien vessels, a warbling tone playing in his helmet.
        "Ranger One, Fox!" said his flight leader through the com link. Similar cries filled the airwaves as the three and a half meter missiles blasted towards their prey. Semi-active seekers turned themselves on, twisting the missiles this way and that as they hunted the elusive UFOs.
        At the same instant, with perfect timing, the six TLAM-C conventional Tomahawks launched from the 688’s that had until then flown undetected from the east, popped up on terminal guidance. An Ion Battery swiveled to acquire the threat and destroyed two. Short range plasma guns knocked a third from the air and the EM guns on a Tank toppled a fourth. Two smacked into the compound, the one thousand pound armor-piercing warheads obliterating the shields on an Ion Battery and on a mining facility. The first wave from Vincennes had been completely destroyed, but the second and third waves arrived seconds apart. The compound defenses opened up filling the air with high energy, destroying each missile relentlessly but leaving the Aardvark’s with a clear run.
        The first of the F-111’s blasted over the main building dropping its Paveways on target, great columns of fire climbing high in the night. Two bombers went down in flames as the plasma cannons caught up with them, but the rest peeled north, lining for a second pass.

        "Weasel on my tail, mate. Southbound ten miles," came the desperate call through the radio.
        "Five on my way," replied Mitchell. "Break high and west." He slammed the afterburners in and reefed the aircraft in a tight turn, grunting as the G-suit compressed his legs. Radar showed nothing on the screen. Man, one second planes were all over the place like flies on a pile of dung, the next the sky was empty. The Hornet rocketed forward and finally picked up the dancing duo.
        "Gotcha." He watched the Hornet weaving madly across the sky trying to avoid the continuos blasts of plasma. He lined the UFO on the HUD and mashed the Vulcan trigger. Tracers arced towards the aircraft, impacting on the shields and then the UFO made a mistake. It veered to the left, freeing Mitchell for a missile shot. In one swift action he selected the IR mode, heard the tone, and pressed the trigger three times.
        Mitchell watched all three missiles lock and explode against the hull of the UFO, watched the shields take the abuse and nothing else. Damn. He changed to HEAT and fired a Sidewinder. Blam. Straight in. The bugwagon lost control and smashed into the ground.
        Mitchell turned his plane savagely, whooping loudly all the way.

        A flash of light rocked his aircraft and he nearly thumped against the ground. Damn, another flying bug. A Hornet thundered a mile in front of him, crossing right to left. This was getting ridiculous, all military precision and flight discipline thrown to the winds. He peeled right in the hope that the UFO might follow the other F-18 but it steadfastly held on to his six. He quickly tried a few maneuvers but the bug held on.
        "Ranger Five has a weasel. Can’t shake him."
        "Got you on the scope, Five. Go right twenty miles."
        He followed instructions and presently a Hornet dove in from above, firing its cannons at the UFO. Mitchell pulled left, rolled high inverted and brought the nose back. The fuck are you, green eyes? Ground coming up fast, pull the yoke up, that was close. Hear a Sidewinder tone, confirm no IFF, fire. Another bug down, Christ two in a day!

        No missiles left, just the nose cannon. No fuckin’ problem. Just like Bon said nobody’s gonna slow me down. He aimed his fighter towards the alien compound and pushed the throttles forward again.

        USS Independence

        "Wilbur is firing her Tomahawks, skipper," said the Combat Officer. Both USS Curtis Wilbur and USS John S. McCain would eventually fire half of their 56 conventional missiles at Strike One.
        "OK, CAG. Let’s give our Aussie friends a hand. Execute Air Storm."
        "Aye, skipper."
        The operation called for a combined attack on two fronts. A squadron of Tomcats - ten aircraft each - accompanied by twelve Hornets would arrive simultaneously at each target, leaving twelve Hornets for carrier defense. A further squadron of F-5s from Malaysia had moved in towards the carrier battle group in case they should be needed. Additionally, they would have to coordinate with the four MiG-29s flying from Kuala Lampur.
        A delicate operation that had to be precisely timed.

        There! Two o’clock high, an alien aircraft firing plasma at a weaving Aardvark. Mitchell pulled the yoke back and to the right, bringing the cannon cross hairs to bear on the UFO. He squeezed the trigger and felt a slight shudder as the M61A1 20-mm cannon sprayed the air. Two hundred rounds left. The F-111 exploded as the beams caught up with it and Mitchell watched in horror as the UFO turned towards him.
        Oh, shee-it. Time to RTB.
        But the alien was right behind him, rays dancing around his cockpit, getting closer by the second. He thought he’d panic but his head remained cold, total concentration. The ocean flashed underneath as he headed out to sea.
        "Australian Hornet heading three-three-zero, pull left and we’ll assist."
        Okay, yanks right on time. He pushed the yoke, dropping several hundred feet to gain speed and briefly caught sight of four plumes of smoke flash by his cockpit.
        "Contact!" he heard over the net. "Bandit is down."
        Mitchell turned his aircraft back around, already dozens of miles away from the coast and picked up the Americans on the radar. Tomcats and Hornets. Give ‘em Hell.

        The Tomcats came low form the north, weaving through the remaining Ion Batteries, taking two losses but nonetheless delivering their cargo with accuracy. The last of the base’s defenses fell with a thunderous explosion as the final wave of Tomahawks arrived and the fighters raced on unchallenged. Strike Point One had been neutralized.

        But, elsewhere Problems was rearing its ugly head.

        Palau Kepu - West - at the airport

        Seconds after the alien craft left the ground, surprising the Australian commandos, the call went out.
        "Golf, this is Partisan Four, over."
        "Go ahead."
        "Reporting six, I repeat, six alien vessels departing from the golf course."
        "Type?"
        "New birds, Golf."
        "Any left on ground?"
        "Unsure. Two possibles outside under cover and two large hangars we can’t see into. Confirm three Robots wandering around the western section."
        "OK, Four. Stay put. Air raid in two minutes."
        Scott clicked the radio off and waited patiently, scanning the airport through the amplified goggles. A distant roar crept into his ears. He cocked his head.
        "Incoming aircraft," confirmed a commando to his right.
        Ten seconds later, a flight of Tomcats roared over the airport dropping bunker-buster bombs. A few shots went up after them , presumably from the Robots, but with no success. The two hangars seemed to mushroom and then exploded outwards, wooden planks flying into the air. The two hidden objects blew spectacularly, revealing heavy crates but no UFOs. A Robot stepped into the open firing its guns at the American jets.
        "Partisan Four to Yankee Mover over the golf course," said Scott into the radio. "Go Partisan," said Boots Orbison.
        "Good run, but you left a Robot standing right on the main fairway."
        "Roger that. Put your heads back between your legs, we’re coming back around."

        Four of the raid’s Tomcats RTBed to the carrier ordnance spent, but six dropped their wings and turned in a sharp circle, heading back out to sea to line up for a second run. One exploded as an anti-matter torpedo slammed straight into its belly. The alien fighters bore down on them from above, plasmas firing continuously. A second F-14 lost control as its starboard wing was demolished and fell to the sea.
        At sea level, undetected by radar, a squadron of escorting Hornets went to afterburner and arrowed up, swooping for the kill and firing a volley of Sparrows at the aliens catching them by surprise. Three of the six UFOs received a total of sixteen missiles, shields going first and then dying a fiery explosions.
        The F-18s switched to Sidewinders and mixed it up with the aliens as the Tomcats continued on.

        The aircraft came again, thunder filling the silence.
        "Yankee Mover, this is Partisan Four. Robot is at northern side of fairway."
        "Roger," came the brief reply.
        Scott watched as a couple of jets flashed over the runway, wings swept fully back in a beautiful silhouette. The Robot turned to fire but the bombs came in with pinpoint precision.
        "It’s history," said Scott. "Did you see another two ‘bots? Caught sight of them earlier."
        "Negative, Partisan," Boots said. "You’re alone down there as far as we can see." Let’s hope so.
        "Thanks, mate. Give ‘em hell."
        "Done deal."
        "Let’s move," called Scott, rising and racing forward, the rest of the team on his heels. One squad arrived at the collapsed entrance of one of the smoldering hangars and glanced.
        "Nothing here."
        "Small aircraft in here," informed another squad. "Ain’t going to be flying no more, but no UFOs, mate."
        Scott looked over at the tower. Destroyed, most of it smashed to the ground. So where were the other two Robots?

        North - the Presidential Palace

        Gonzalez plugged the detonator into the explosive and ran trailing wire towards his crouching team mates. Aircraft blasted by overhead and lights blazed brightly in the Palace, but the rest of the village remained pitch black, its inhabitants afraid of bringing attention to bear on them. A Police jeep careening around a corner, siren wailing God knows for what purpose, nearly spotted them. The erratic beams of light lost themselves in the night.
        "Ready to rock," said Gonzalez.
        "Have fun," muttered Keller. Gonzalez pushed the lever and the Palace’s main gates exploded in a thousand shards. Man, this new explosive that the techs had developed sure was nasty.
        "Go," said Gator. The team rushed forward, encountering little resistance. A young guard, poorly dressed and armed with an AK-47 appeared at the gate, visibly shaken. One of the running commandos aimed the rifle at him and squeezed the trigger. Kid’s fault was being at the wrong time in the wrong place. The demolished gates led through an archway to a large patio and through that to the square Keller had seen earlier. A guard rushed out of a room but was cut down before he could act. Everyone - Keller’s five squads and McCormick’s four - knew what to do. The injured and dead had been hastily replaced with new men from SEAL and Delta teams.
        A single squad remained at the gates to cover their exit, another squad covering the patio and the rest racing into the square. Stealth, after the Navy’s wild ride, was futile, but seven squads of heavily armed X-COM men kicking down doors could still deliver quite a surprise. To the right of the square, winding stone stairs led to a balcony. To the left, a large wooden door was opening slowly. A large covered object dominated the center of the arena. A shot rang out before the soldiers guarding it could be silenced.
        "Wales," said Keller. "Check the tarp and cover the left entrance." Gator was already racing up the stairs when shots rang out. Keller whirled and saw two soldiers appear high on the rampart, firing their automatic weapons and yelling incomprehensibly. Three rifles fired at the same time, reducing the soldiers to ashes.
        Past the balcony and inside the main building. A room, kind of a dressing room, thick tapestries hanging from the walls and a large mirror shattered to one side, a guard flat against the wall, eyes wide open staring down the barrel of two rifles pointed at his face from a distance of two inches. Keller motioned the Malaysian translator, borrowed from Eng’s team. The guard hardly needed prodding, the current predicament way exceeding his job description and spat a stream of gibberish.
        "Downstairs," said the Asian commando. "Cellar."
        "Let’s go."

        Eng followed the breacher into the garrison as the first bombs fell in the airport. They burst into a large room where a dozen guards were staring at the ceiling, probably wondering what in the blazes was going on.
        "Everybody down, on the floor!" he yelled.
        "On the damn floor!" screamed the team Sergeant.
        A second squad entered the building from behind into the sleeping quarters. The surprised soldiers opposed no resistance and were soon securely trussed.
        "Perimeter defense. You know what to do," said the Captain.

        Brraaaap.
        The Brit landed on his face and rolled behind a small dune. Sand around him fountained as plasma thumped down on his position.
        "Point under fire," yelled the Brit.
        A grenade sailed from behind in the general direction of the alien and detonated violently, killing the Sectoid.
        "Bloody UFO to the right," bellowed the British Sergeant. Plasma streaked the night, both from the attackers and from the defenders, though it was unclear who was which. Ian Weston dived from behind a small tree as it splintered into a thousand pieces. The fire fight was interrupted by the sound of the UFOs drives activating and then by the thunderous whine as it rose into the air.
        "Bloody ‘ell," spat Weston. "Take cover!"
        The UFO rose for about a hundred yards and then stopped in mid air, pivoting to aim its guns at the ground. Heavy ground plasma fired around them. Weston felt the world explode around him, and lost consciousness as the concussion from a blast flung him twelve feet in the air. One of the squaddies rolled over, spitting sand and caught sight of four trails of smoke reaching for the UFO. He covered his face as the alien craft blew up and dropped spectacularly into the water.
        "Christ," he wheezed. Seconds later a group of four double-rudder planes roared by. What the hell? Those weren’t Americans.
        A second squad that had been moving towards the military port, backtracked to take care of the last Sectoids. The squaddie sat up and shook his head as a medic came running up.
        "What the fuck happened?"
        "Malaysian Air Force just saved your arse. Wounded?"

        Gonzalez was at a dead run down a hallway, walls made of sheer rock, when Keller watched a door open. He opened his mouth to yell a warning but the plasma burst followed too quickly, slamming into the Hispanic from the side and knocking him off his feet. Fire from his own team disintegrated the door and presumably the alien standing behind it.
        "You OK?" growled Gator.
        Gonzalez rolled and groaned. The body armor saved you’re life but the detonation hurt like hell. He inspected the charred armor.
        "Never better, my friend." But he rose shakily and winced ostensibly.
        The rest of the team raced on, flowing like a Tsunami past the few guards that crossed their path. Light defenses, very few bugs. At the end of the corridor, another wide hall and a large stairwell descending. The prisoner was dragged forward, pointing madly.
        "Down there," said the translator.
        The team took off, descending cautiously. At the end, another wide corridor intersecting at right angles. Keller began to get nervous - if this was the main bug hideout, were where they? So far it was turning out to be easy. Too easy.
        And then, Keller’s heart turned cold.

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X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.