Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) (6 page)

With a nudge from Plug, Bookbinder took a step forward, letting the static light wash over him and feeling his soles crunch on foreign ground.

Bookbinder stepped out of the humvee and nearly sank to his knees in the muddy lane. Where most of the other structures were makeshift trailers and tents shielded by piled sandbags and concrete blast walls, here the Seabees of the navy’s construction battalions built a shingled awning supported by wooden posts and a swinging screen door keeping out a cloud of weird, varicolored bugs. A suggestion box was nailed next to a hanging sign reading forward operating base—frontier. camp commandant’s office. The font was rustic, evoking a state park rather than a military command post.

Two soldiers awaited Bookbinder. The first was another colonel.

His gray hair was immaculate, his posture perfect. He had the face of an older movie star or a politician—chiseled jaw, serious brow. His combat infantryman’s badge was prominently displayed. The lieutenant colonel beside him was stern-faced, ugly, and shorter. His combat uniform was so mud-spattered that his SOC patch and Pyromancer’s pin were barely visible.

He cracked a sharp salute as Bookbinder approached, but Bookbinder was too stunned to return it, his head still reeling from the briefing he’d been given during the humvee ride from the Landing Zone to FOB Frontier.

Yesterday I was a trapped behind a desk in the Pentagon. Now
I am Latent, on a secret base in an alternate magical universe.

Bookbinder managed to put a smile on his face and shake the hand that the sharp-dressed colonel offered him. “I’m Taylor, Camp Commandant,” the colonel said. “Welcome to FOB Frontier.”

He gestured to the rugged looking Pyromancer. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Allen. He goes by his call sign, Crucible. He runs all the SOC operations on the FOB. He also heads up our Sorcerer’s Apprentice Officer Leadership Combined Course. I understand that you must be rather tired and more than a little bewildered by your arrival here.”

Bookbinder nodded, finally returning Crucible’s salute and internally wincing as the lieutenant colonel gratefully dropped his right arm. “That’s putting it mildly,” Bookbinder said.

“There were always rumors of a place like this floating around, but I never believed them.”

Taylor forced a smile. “Well, I don’t need to remind you that the existence of this base and all of the operations here are strictly compartmented, and that your nondisclosure agreement is lifelong.”

Bookbinder bridled. Nondisclosure agreements were second nature to a man with the amount of time in grade that Bookbinder had, and Taylor would know that. “I’m fully aware of my obligations, Colonel Taylor.”

“Outstanding,” Taylor said. “I also want to warn you that this is a combat outpost, and we’re frequently subjected to indirect fire and sometimes direct attacks from the local indig. We employ many of them as contractors out of necessity, but I’ve got my concerns about them. I know you’re anxious to get cleaned up and grab a nap, but I’m going to insist that you have a force protection briefing first. Without direct combat experience, you’re at risk during the initial adjustment period.”

As he spoke, he picked at an imagined speck of mud from his uniform, his hand brushing the combat infantryman’s badge.

Bookbinder had been through this ritual before.
One of us has
seen action. We both know who that is.
Bookbinder felt his face redden.

“Let’s get this out of the way,” Taylor continued. “You’re the highest-ranking officer we’ve had on post in . . . well, barring visits, since I got here. That could potentially cause some confusion for the troops. The smooth operation of this base is my responsibility, Colonel, and it’s of the utmost importance to me that nothing interfere with it, so I want this up front and understood—I command here. I will not have my orders questioned or countermanded in front of the men. I trust we’re not going to have any conflicts over that issue?”

Bookbinder suddenly felt very alone and very tired. The strangeness of his new surroundings and the sudden change in his life had left him disarmed for dealing with the kind of territorial challenges that were his stock–in–trade back in the Pentagon’s halls. He nodded.

Satisfied, Taylor nodded back. Crucible smiled. “How’re you holding up, sir?”

“I guess you could say I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

Crucible laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. How ’bout a cup of coffee? Might get your head right.”

“I’d be much obliged, Colonel.”

Crucible opened the swinging screen door, creaking on its hinges, and showed Bookbinder inside. Crucible, coming behind him, took a full minute wiping his feet, making Bookbinder feel rude as he looked down at the mud he’d tracked in.

Taylor’s secretary sat behind a cherrywood desk outside his office door. She was older, dark-haired, and crisply professional.

Her desk was strewn with all the knickknacks of life on the Home Plane—pictures of her children, a teddy bear wearing a FOB Frontier T–shirt, miniature American flags. In this sprawling camp of jury-rigged plywood and sucking mud, the sense of normalcy she provided was disarming.

“Hiya, Crucible,” she said.

“Ma’am.” Crucible tugged off his patrol cap. “This is Colonel Bookbinder, he’s going to be the new J1 for the FOB. Also new to the Corps.”

“Carmela Santiago,” she said, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on joining us! What school’d you get?”

Bookbinder stammered for a moment before Crucible cut in.

“We’re still working on that,” he said. “Would you mind running a couple of cups of coffee in for us? We’re setting him up in Major Breffel’s old office.”

“Sure thing,” Carmela said, putting a pot on a stainless-steel coffeemaker behind her desk. “I’ll make extra. Fitzy’s waiting in there for you.”

“A cup for me too, thanks,” said Taylor, coming in behind them and tracking mud across the floor to his office door, which he closed behind him without another word.

Carmela and Crucible exchanged sympathetic looks.

“You’ll get used to him, sir,” Crucible said. “He’s not so bad after . . . well, he is so bad, actually. But he’s fair and competent. He’s just kind of . . . uh . . . challenging.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Carmela said.

“Well, let’s show you your office,” Crucible said, opening the door opposite Colonel Taylor’s. Bookbinder’s new office could have been lifted straight from the Pentagon’s E Ring. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, matching the expansive desk. An American flag stood beside the SOC arms on gleaming stands topped with shining brass eagles. Someone’s family, Bookbinder guessed the previous occupant’s, a Korean wife and two beautiful girls, grinned from inside a shifting photo frame. The image shifted to one of the girls throwing a ball to a golden retriever.

The room’s occupants drew Bookbinder’s attention away from the decor. The first was a short, muscular, bald-headed man. His mouth was a humorless line topped by a brief rectangle of moustache, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. He wore a black compression shirt and cargo pants and a black baseball cap featuring the striped bar of a chief warrant officer. The Suppressor’s armored fist, supplemented by a star and laurel wreath stood beside the SOC arms on his chest.

The other occupant was the size of a small child, its gnarled brown skin hidden mostly behind a blue jumpsuit. Long, pointed ears jutted from a bald skull. It knelt over an outlet, long fingers working to screw a gang plate into place.

Bookbinder stared. He had caught glimpses of the creatures during the bumpy humvee ride from the LZ, but in his exhaustion and confusion he’d mentally filed them away to be dealt with later. No longer: This thing was not human, and it was fixing the electrical outlets in his office.

The chief warrant officer stood, following his gaze. He removed the sunglasses and jerked his chin toward the creature.

“Don’t worry about the goblins, sir. They’re no threat so long as you don’t let them get behind you.” He extended a hand, “Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons.”

“Goblins? Are you serious?” Bookbinder asked as he shook Fitzsimmons’s hand. The creature by the outlet turned to look at the new arrivals, revealing large eyes and a long, hooked nose.

“Yes, sir,” Crucible said. “They’re the indigenous civilization here. It’s a tribal society, with some welcoming us and some fighting us. You’re looking at one of the welcomers, or ‘Embracers’ as they call themselves. They contract on the base in exchange for commodities they can’t get out in the wild, refined sugar, mostly, but also some medical supplies.”

“I don’t believe this,” Bookbinder breathed.

Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons jerked his head at the goblin again. “Get out of here,” he growled. The creature sighed and got to its feet, resignation on its face, and departed.

“He seemed to understand that much,” Bookbinder said.

“Oh, they’ve got a lot more English than they let on, sir,” Fitzsimmons said. “But I wasn’t kidding that they can’t be trusted. The Embracers embrace us insofar as it gets ’em inside the wire to spot for indirect or steal guns and ammo. Begging your pardon for speaking freely, sir.” He addressed the last to Crucible.

“Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons heads up one of our most important programs here on the FOB,” Crucible said.

“It’s one of the J1’s biggest responsibilities here, as Congress has to approve the special appropriation that funds it on a month–to–month basis. We’re constantly fighting to keep it running, and we think it’s critical that it continue.”

Bookbinder’s head spun. “Can I sit down for a second?”

Fitzsimmons gestured to the chair he’d just vacated and moved to the wall, arms folded across his substantial chest. Bookbinder slumped in the chair, rubbing his head.

“Let me get this straight. I’m in an alternate dimension. I just saw a goblin, a real and literal goblin, working in my new office. I am now in charge of a program so important and controversial that it is going to go from my desk straight to a congressional appropriations committee on a monthly basis?”

“Senatorial committee, sir,” Crucible said. “But otherwise, that’s pretty much on target.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m somewhat overwhelmed.”

Crucible smiled. “That’s a common reaction when folks first arrive here, sir.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Fitzsimmons said. “This is the most critical program we’ve got running here, and I can’t stress enough how important it is that our new J1 continue to support it.”

“I hear and appreciate your concern, chief,” Bookbinder said.

“I’ll do my job. Beyond that, the program is going to have to stand on its own.”

Fitzsimmons’s jaw clenched, and he looked as if he would say more. Bookbinder tried to hold his gaze but ultimately failed, looking around the room.

“All right,” Bookbinder said, as Carmela arrived with the coffee. “I’ve got my coffee now, so you may as well give me a tour and show me this superimportant program.”

“You don’t want to grab a shower first, sir? Some rack time?”

Crucible sounded concerned. Fitzsimmons moved toward the door immediately.

Bookbinder sighed. “Fresh as a daisy, Colonel. No point in putting off the inevitable. Maybe you can explain how I get in touch with my family while we walk?”

Crucible looked at his feet. Fitzsimmons cut in. “There’s a mandatory weeklong comms blackout for all new arrivals, sir.”

Bookbinder’s stomach turned over. He felt his magical tide surge and interlace with both Crucible’s and Fitzsimmons’s flows, tugging at them, reeling their currents toward him.

Fitzsimmons frowned at the intersection, leaning toward him. “You all right, sir? You need me to Suppress you?”

“You tell me,” Bookbinder said. “Nobody seems to know what the hell is going on with my magic other than it’s super, critically important to prevent me from talking to my own damned wife and kids.”

“I know it’s stressful, sir,” Crucible said. “But trust me, the SOC is used to handling sudden separations like this. I can assure you we have counselors on the Home Plane making sure that your wife and children know you’re safe, and answering as many of their questions as they can.”

“You got any children, Crucible?” Bookbinder asked.

Crucible paused. “One, sir, a boy.”

“And do you honestly think it’d be enough for your son to talk to a counselor when he didn’t know where his father was?”

Crucible and Fitzsimmons were both silent. Bookbinder instantly regretted the sharp words. “Forget it guys, let’s get this show on the road. What’s this super program I’m in charge of funding called?”

Crucible and Fitzsimmons both spoke at the same time.

“Coven Four, Umbra,” said Crucible.

“Shadow Coven,” said Fitzsimmons.

By the time Fitzsimmons was halfway through his explanation of the Shadow Coven program, Bookbinder was completely overwhelmed. “An entire Coven of Probes? A Portamancer? And that’s who we’re going to meet?”

“That’s right, sir. Britton’s a pain in the ass, but he’s coming along. I’m confident Shadow Coven will be operational within two weeks at the most. I just need a little more time to bring him into line.”

“Oscar Britton,” Bookbinder said. “I’ll be damned. I saw that guy’s face on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List every day at work. You had him here the whole time.”

Taylor had fallen into step with them as they made their way toward a plywood guard shack standing beside a giant corrugated metal gate on wheels. A sign hung from one of them, bearing the SOC arms. restricted area: appropriately badged soc personnel and contractors only. absolutely no foreign nationals or source-indigenous contractors permitted without escort.