It was a different time, a different enemy. Sixty men, from Tier One teams, were sent to face down a force of five hundred enemy fighters. Their objective: to force the enemy back from a civilian hospital, and keep its occupants alive. For three days, they held their ground, but the enemy's numbers were too great. The sixty were cut down to fifteen. They wouldn't last another night, and the enemy knew it. Under the cover of darkness, they evacuated the hospital, sending only one of their own to lead the way. The rest returned to the line, and took up positions beneath the bodies of their fallen brothers. As they lay in wait, the blood from the dead poured over them. The sand stuck to their skin like a shroud. Changing them. Anointing them. When the enemy drew near, the remaining fourteen rose out of the desert sand. They were like hunters that couldn't be seen, using stealth their enemies couldn't defend against. When the men ran dry of ammunition, they used their blades...and when the blades ran dull, they used their hands. When the dust and sand had settled, only one of the enemy had survived. He was picked up in the desert, wandering aimlessly, traumatized. He expressed warnings to others of a force so menacing and unbeatable, it could only be described as supernatural. He called them..."Ghosts".
