"Gamma company this is Battalion Command. Special forces squad Kappa has been assigned to retrieve General Skywalker, some meters due south. Contact the Sergeant 4129 on frequency 143.8, over".

Battalion command's static-filled message ended abruptly, Whit's ears filling back to the brim with the screech of the blaster fire all around him. His company had been heavily engaged by a unit of commando droids, scrambling from cover to cover as they returned fire at Gamma. The company was doing well: their modestly fortified buildings [bunkhouses, one with a windfall armory in the basement] proving more than adequate protection from the spread out enemy fire, and the roaring heavy blasters doing solid work on the moving enemy units.

Dropping back from his firing slit, not much more than a fist-sized shrapnel-gouged hole in a wall, he keyed his radio to return the transmission.

"Battalion Command this is Gamma Company: 10-4, will comply, out."

Tapping his finger deftly on his wrist-computer, he tuned to this commando Sergeant's frequency.

"Kappa Squad, Kappa Squad, Kappa Squad, this is Gamma Company. We are interdicting enemy reinforcements, you have a window to advance to General Skywalker. Be advised, Dark Jedi forces inbound, expect melee contacts, over."

He cut his transmission, and resumed his fire on the commando droids, but was surprised to see their numbers thinning. It was troubling: their numbers should have been enough to try and force their bunkhouse. Just as his mind reached a hypothesis, it was confirmed with a transmission on his radio.

"Captain Captain Captain this is Gamma platoon, we have been engaged by numerous saber contacts. Requesting support, over"

Whit cursed. He had hoped the saber troops would focus on his more fortified position with Alpha platoon, or at the central Beta platoon, therefore in easy range of the other two fortified units. An attack on Gamma platoon was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected.

"I read you Gamma platoon: Delta is on the way. Do not, I repeat, do not surrender defensive position, out."

Transmitting the reinforcement orders to delta, Whit prepared his own platoon for saber contacts, pulling a number of his soldiers off of windows and slits to mutually cover the open rooms of the bunkhouse. As if on cue, several of the windows facing away from the airfield burst inward, Whit vaguely recognizing black-robed shapes surrounded by charred, splintered wood and shattered glass.

The first dark jedi through the windows met an unfortunate fate. Three windows were entered by charging dark jedi, and three sets of anti-personnel mines exploded an instant later. One of the sabers fell, the other two blocking the flying shrapnel with the force. A second wave of mines caught them entirely off guard however, and the two more aware dark jedi were pasted against the back wall. Unfortunately for the clones, the next wave of dark jedi were not met by any such preparations. Five more dark jedi poured through the windows, and like a knife through butter the better part of a squad were sliced apart by burning red lines. The clones, to their credit, began firing in dissecting lines, managing to avoid friendly fire while catching several dark jedi in the crossfire. Whit, being across the room had a fair vantage point, and began firing into the melee too, and to his satisfaction he watched one of the sabers fall limp, and another withdraw out the window with most of their left leg scorched by blaster fire. The other three, evidently having learned lessons, focused less on reflecting the blaster fire back at the clones and more on flitting around the long room like supersonic, deadly honey bees, slicing another half dozen clone troops into neat chunks. Two of the remaining dark jedi stayed on the opposite side of the room, but one particularly perceptive rodian in the frayed black uniform dashed directly towards Whit, saber flashing wildly behind him deflecting the plaintive shots of his platoon.

Whit did not have time to think. In one smooth motion he dropped his long blaster and threw a grenade forwards, the blinking red light arcing through the air as the dark jedi closed on him. He began shouting 'frag!', hoping his gamble would pay off, but the dark jedi simply pushed the grenade back at Whit, who was grabbing his entrenching tool from the back of his belt. The grenade bounced off his shoulder and arced upwards and behind him, exploding not two meters from the back of the clone captain's head.

Fortunately for Whit, his almost petulant ruse had paid off, and the flashbang exploded like a tiny sun. The dark jedi, acting on blind instinct, lashed out at where Whit had been, the rodian's actions likely guided in some part by the force, but Whit had found that being permanently blinded by a burning white explosion tended to mar ones' focus, and after dodging the first strike Whit brought the entrenching tool down on the back of the recovering rodain's head, caving in the thin skull with a satisfying *crunch*, the poorly-force-guided parry off by more than a foot. With the crumpled body of an at least moderately more skilled dark jedi at his feet, Whit looked up to notice the frenzied battle on the other side of the room had ended, two black-robed corpses surrounded by, after a quick count, a dozen bodies in various stages of mutilation, the smell of charred flesh and bowel evacuation thankfully filtered out by his helmet. A report from the Lt informed the Captain that his count had been accurate.

It had not been a bad engagement. The playing field had been stacked in the clone's favor yet again, with good preparation and traps facing what appeared to be less-than-masterful dark jedi, but the losses were galling nonetheless: a third of a platoon wiped out in less than a minute was never something a commander should celebrate. He and his soldiers, following adrenaline-fueled instinct, took up their positions yet again, different clones replacing their fallen comrade's emplacements, as the commando's re-engaged the company just as reports of similar casualty ratios reached Whit from his other subordinates. He waited patiently for the special forces' reply, his mind busy trying to alter his plans to handle almost 25% casualties.