The War Begins
In the northern tribal regions of the Republic of Derbaran, a small town began to stir as the pink light of dawn colored the desert mountaintops in the distance. Bakers and merchants, midwives and school teachers, emerged from their mud brick homes to begin their day. As always, they threw nervous glances at the razor wire and concrete compound of the Derbaran military depot that squatted below a yellow banner just beyond the village. The coexistence was an uncomfortable one; the Derbaran government had little love for the tribal minorities in the area.

Cries of alarm rose from the men stationed at the depot when a column of tanks and trucks crested a rise. They flew green banners, the colors of the National Independence Union, the rebel coalition of minority tribes. But these were not poor peasants with cheap rifles. The Derbaran soldiers scrambled in panic as the NIU tanks rained explosive rounds on the ammo depot, shattering concrete bunkers and crushing soldiers beneath a hail of rubble. NIU trucks disgorged scores of men who peppered the defensive positions with small arms fire.

When it was over, the only sound came from the crackle of flames and the screams of wounded and dying Derbaran soldiers. The villagers slowly emerged from hiding. They gasped when they recognized the man who climbed from the lead tank and stood on the turret to address them. Even in this small village, the televisions in the tea houses and shops had shown his face many times. He was General Ikram Karmali, decorated officer of the Derbaran military and military advisor to the President. The pride of the Derbaran military had become a rebel.

“My people,” General Karmali said, “I cannot stand by any longer while President Zaripov and his government oppress us. I renounce my allegiance to Zaripov. The NIU will take this country back!”

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The Resistance
The helicopter touched down amid a dusty whirlwind at the NIU operating base. Captain Ramazan, commander of NIU’s special forces unit called the Desert Dogs, climbed from the helicopter and strode through the dust. Salutes snapped at him from both sides. He had earned this respect with his blood, spending ten years in the Derbaran military under General Karmali before they had both defected to the NIU. Many of the men here who saluted him had served under him before the rebellion. They were battle tested, hardened men. But there were others here too, the goatherds and farmers who fought only because they believed in the cause.

The NIU was not short on heart. What they had been short on was weapons. Even the People’s Press, the underground newspaper that was the voice of the rebellion, had openly questioned whether the few tanks and weapons General Karmali had brought from the military would be enough to pose a serious threat to the Derbaran government.

And then the mysterious deliveries had begun.
A convoy of trucks was rumbling out of the encampment back to wherever they had come from, their mysterious payload of crates stacked neatly beside the armory. Already men were prying them open and removing the weapons from their packing. They were the reason Ramazan had come.

In his temporary headquarters General Karmali was whispering quietly with a handful of his commanders. The general dismissed them with a terse gesture when Ramazan entered.

“Don’t ask me any questions, my friend,” the general preempted him.

Ramazan pulled the folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and scanned it. “Assault rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, all dropped at a half dozen of our operating bases that are supposed to be secret,” he said. “And I hear talk of vehicles too. Armor. Even aircraft.”

“No questions,” the general repeated.

“At least tell me where they’re coming from,” Ramazan said. “How are they getting through the borders?”

“The people supplying us have the funds and the contacts to make it all possible,” the general said. “What matters is that we are armed well enough to stand a serious chance against the Derbaran military. Without the help of these friends, we wouldn’t have much of a chance. You know that as well as I do.”

“But why should they help us?” Ramazan demanded. “What the hell do they care about our little rebellion? This is a domestic matter.”

General Karmali only smiled. “Let’s just say they have a vested interest in the NIU winning the war. Now take up those arms and call out your Dogs, Ramazan. There’s a war on.”

---

The Resistors
Major Selik sat at the boardroom table reading a newspaper, looking for all the world like an accountant waiting to see a client. As the head of the Derbaran military’s Security Services arm and leader of the elite Nightwatch 1 strike team, looking innocuous had served him well.

He tossed down the newspaper. The Derbaran National Press Agency had gotten wind of President Zaripov pulling resources from the country’s many oil operations to redeploy them to the much smaller uranium mining sector. There were, as expected, questions. Of course Zaripov could have had the story squashed. But that would have caused rumors. And the president had made it very clear how much he wanted to avoid rumors right now.

President Zaripov and his cadre of advisors swept into the room.

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” the portly Minister of Economy was saying, “the blow to our revenues is too much. You can’t take that much manpower away from oil. Uranium doesn’t provide us with adequate cash flow. And we’ll need funds for this war.”

“I’m not concerned about revenues just now," the President responded. “Uranium will soon become a much more important component of our national security.” The Minister began to retort but the President held up a hand for silence. “I won’t discuss it further.”

There was a rumble in the distance. Selik gazed through the balcony doors and, on the horizon, saw the black column of smoke rising. The war was spreading, with NIU forces striking at highways, power plants, the harbor... They were hitting all the strategic points they were expected to hit, and no one quite knew how they had come to be so well armed. And yet they were behaving erratically, sending units to far-flung locations. It was strange.

“Everyone out,” President Zaripov said. “I need to speak with Major Selik.”

As his advisors filed out of the room, Zaripov approached Selik. “I have a job for your Nightwatch 1, Major,” the president said.

“Anything, Mr. President.”

“You know of a certain recovery project that has been ongoing in the desert region north of the Republic Highway?”

Major Selik hesitated only a moment before nodding. He had not been briefed into the project, of course, but there was little that escaped his awareness as head of Security Services. “I must confess I don’t know any details, only that there is such a project ongoing.”

“There is village near the project site. Make sure there are no witnesses there that the NIU might get their hands on.”

“Of course.” The president smiled. “I knew I could count on you, Selik.”

As the president swept out of the room with his gaggle of suited advisors in tow, Major Selik frowned at the black smoke rising on the horizon. He wondered what mysterious project in the desert could be more important than holding their ground against the NIU.

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“War Rock”
Captain Ramazan’s boots felt like someone had filled them with lead. The war was growing. What had begun as a handful of small unit operations – planting explosives, ambushes, and so forth – had become a series of battles involving armor and aircraft. His Desert Dogs had been fighting nonstop for days.

And now this.

The encampment was little more than a handful of tents arrayed around a crater in the desert. Industrial lights had been set up on scaffolding around the empty hole. The general had sent him here with his elite Desert Dogs on what he claimed was the most sensitive mission of the rebellion to date. But they had only found an empty camp guarded by only a handful of Derbaran soldiers. Worse, only one of the Derbaran officers had offered any information of use under interrogation. “War Rock,” the officer had blubbered in the blood-stinking interrogation tent. “The project is called War Rock.” But whatever “War Rock” was, the officer had been unable to shed any light on it.

One of Ramazan’s lieutenants ran up, breathless and harried. “Captain, a Derbaran snatch operation just happened in the village over the hill. The villagers say the security men took an old man and a boy who saw something at this camp.”

“Let’s go!” Ramazan snapped.

Ramazan’s men caught up with the convoy of three trucks on a stretch of dirt road south of the village. The skirmish was intense but the Derbaran security contingent fell quickly under the Desert Dogs’ assault. They found the old man and boy bound hand and foot in the rear of one of the trucks. Ramazan had them moved into a nearby farmhouse for questioning.

The old man spoke rapidly, his toothless mouth slurring his words and his eyes wide with fear. Ramazan could not understand the old man’s dialect and looked to the boy for translation as he questioned them about the empty camp.

“It was a rock,” the boy said. “A big rock that fell from the heavens.”

“A meteor?” Ramazan asked, but the boy only stared at him blankly. “Did the old man see it?” he asked.

The boy nodded. “He saw it. It made a noise like thunder and shook the ground when it fell. The army came very soon after. Many men with rifles, many trucks. They built the camp around it.” Here the old man added something. “There were men in white suits and helmets,” the boy translated. “Scientists.”

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Secrecy Among Allies
“Have the old man and boy sequestered,” General Karmali told Ramazan later that night. “We don’t want them telling tales. And what you heard about that camp does not go beyond your immediate chain of command, do you understand? Tell no one.”

Ramazan studied the general’s face. He had served this man for many years, had followed him into wars of bloodshed and wars of politics, but never had he seen such intensity in the man’s expression. “What is this War Rock?” Ramazan asked quietly.

Instead of answering, General Karmali said only, “Get your Dogs together. A small team, small enough to maintain a clandestine posture.”

“A team for what purpose?” Ramazan asked.

“You’ve got a meteor to find, Captain.”