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

by Myke Cole

  “Sounds pretty quiet.”

  “They’re just getting warmed up, sir. It’ll pick up as the day wears on.”

  “Casualties?”

  The tech sergeant shook his head. “I couldn’t say for sure, sir, but it’s a lot. Maybe 20 percent. They make it past the perimeter most nights now.”

  Bookbinder tried not to let his horror show on his face. He kept his voice even. “Where’s Crucible?”

  “Should be in his office, sir. He usually doesn’t head out to the perimeter until after chow.”

  “All right, as you were. Don’t spread the word about us, please. I want everyone’s head in the fight until we can execute a plan. But we will get you out of here, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bookbinder gestured to Britton, his father, and Harlequin, and they made their way toward the camp commandant’s office.

  “That kid won’t keep his mouth shut,” Bookbinder groused. “Everyone is going to know we’re here by the time we get to Crucible. But at least the FOB’s still here.”

  Britton looked around. “I never thought I’d see this place again.”

  “We’re only here long enough to get everyone out safe,” Bookbinder said. “Then you’ll never have to look at it again.”

  Crucible was rushing out the door toward them before they’d turned onto the muddy, potholed track that led to his office.

  Someone must have radioed ahead as Bookbinder predicted.

  Carmela was at his side, her office clothing replaced by boots, cargo pants, and military parka.

  “Holy shit, sir.” Crucible choked on his words. “Goddamn but it is good to see you. We all thought you were dead.” He slammed to attention and saluted.

  Bookbinder, uncovered and out of uniform, returned it anyway, then embraced him. “We’re here to get you out. You recognize this guy?” He gestured behind him.

  Crucible’s smile faltered. “Oscar Britton. I guess it’s good to see you, too.”

  Britton nodded. “No love lost, sir. Let’s get everyone to safety, and we can hash out differences later.”

  Crucible turned to Harlequin. “Jan,” he said, grinning.

  “There are no words.”

  Harlequin smiled back. “Later, Rick. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “I can have Britton open a gate in the main plaza,” Bookbinder said. “How soon can you give the order to pull back?”

  Crucible swore. “I could give it now, but I might as well order them to lay down their arms and give themselves up. We’ve lost too many. The goblins come twenty-four/ seven at this point. We abandon our positions now, they’ll cut us to pieces as we fall back.”

  “Some tech sergeant told me you’re at 20 percent casualties.”

  Bookbinder said.

  Crucible hung his head. “That’s about right. Though, I haven’t gotten last night’s count in yet.”

  “Jesus, Rick. I’m sorry.” Bookbinder said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Crucible said. “If we’re going to fall back, we need breathing room.”

  “You need the enemy repulsed,” Thorsson said.

  “That’s right.” Crucible nodded. “For at least an hour. That would do it. But it’d just be people. Everything else would stay here. Gear, documents, you name it.”

  “Repulse them at 20 percent casualties?” Thorsson said.

  “Jesus, you’d need an army.”

  Crucible cursed. “I don’t suppose you guys have one of those in your pocket?”

  Bookbinder thought for a moment, then turned to Carmela.

  “Can you grab me one of my spare uniforms out of my office? Is it even still in there?” Carmela answered by racing back into the building.

  Bookbinder turned to Britton. “You ever been to Colorado Springs?”

  Britton frowned. “You mean the Air Force Academy?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Once. Joint service familiarization. Why?”

  “Can you get us back there?” Bookbinder asked.

  Britton shrugged and rolled open a gate. Bookbinder glimpsed the inside of an empty auditorium through the shimmering surface. Carmela returned and tossed him a bundle of digital camouflage, then handed him a pair of boots. He thanked her and turned to the gate.

  “Let’s go,” he said, stepping through.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Crucible called after him.

  “To get you an army,” Bookbinder said. “Hold tight. We’ll be back soon.”

  Bookbinder directed Britton to gate-hop himself and Thorsson a few miles outside of town with a brief pause to change clothing.

  Looking the colonel again, he directed Britton to jump back to the FOB’s plaza, then to a point on the horizon that Bookbinder pointed out. After fifteen minutes of it, a tall fence came into view, surrounding a sprawling compound of the prefab plastic-sided buildings they’d all come to associate with deployed military forces. Next to the Stars and Stripes, an eagle fluttered before a map of North America. A sign affixed to the gatehouse read us northern command—quick reaction force post 6. the immovable object!

  Bookbinder began to stride purposefully forward, mustering every inch of the command presence he had. “What the hell are we doing?” Thorsson asked, as they walked.

  “I am being a high-and-mighty colonel,” Bookbinder replied.

  “You are being the guy in the class A uniform that everyone knows from TV. Now straighten your crap up and get out in front.”

  Thorsson did his best to brush out the creases and wipe off the worst of the debris as they approached the gate.

  The two privates on duty snapped to attention, saluting crisply.

  Bookbinder flashed his ID. “Colonel Alan Bookbinder, Commandant, Forward Operating Base Frontier.”

  The privates exchanged glances, frowning. “Excuse me, sir? But I . . .”

  “Never mind that.” He gestured at Thorsson. “This is Major Jan Thorsson, Special Advisor to the Reawakening Committee.”

  One of the privates nodded. “Seen you on TV, sir.”

  “Hopefully I didn’t embarrass myself.” Thorsson grinned.

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Bookbinder continued the good-cop, bad-cop routine.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he growled.

  “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Blake, sir.”

  “Great. Give him a ring and have him meet me in front of the squadron bay. The QRF is getting scrambled.”

  “Scrambled!?” The private stammered. “Sir, we didn’t get a cable, or a call or . . .”

  “Damn it, I don’t have time for this!” Bookbinder shouted, taking a step forward. “I’m your fucking cable, son. Now open this goddamn gate!”

  “Sir, I’m not supposed to do that, I don’t even know who this guy is.” He gestured at Britton.

  Bookbinder took another step forward, letting his saliva mist the private’s face. “Son, you are addressing a field-grade officer in the United States Army.”

  “Flag officer, actually,” Thorsson added. “Colonel Bookbinder just got picked up for his first star.”

  The privates exchanged another look and scrambled to open the gate.

  Bookbinder, Thorsson, and Britton strode through and headed for the hangar-sized building in the middle of the compound.

  “Flag officer?” Bookbinder muttered to Thorsson. “That was a bit much.”

  “Got us through, didn’t it?” Thorsson smiled.

  “You’re one to talk,” Britton added, looking at Bookbinder.

  “Beating up on privates? As a full bird? Not cool.”

  Bookbinder shrugged. “Got us through, didn’t it?”

  “What the hell is this place?” Britton asked.

  “USNORTHCOM’s QRF. It’s a ready unit for homeland defense. They should have at least a company ready to scramble inside of fifteen minutes. It’s not much, but it might do the job,” Bookbinder said.

  “How the hell did you even know about this?” Britton asked.
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  Bookbinder shrugged. “I wasn’t always the dashing leader of men you see before you now. I used to be AMC’s J1. I authorized this unit’s budget line for the last five years.”

  A heavyset lieutenant colonel raced toward them, puffing at the exertion, straightening his patrol cap. “Just what in the hell is going on here!?” he shouted as he reached them, irritatedly returning Thorsson’s salute.

  “I’m scrambling the QRF,” Bookbinder said, showing his ID.

  “By order of the President of the United States.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Blake saluted, red-faced, and sputtered.

  “I don’t have any official comms on this! I need time to . . .”

  Bookbinder crossed his hands behind his back and raised his chin. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I was under the impression that this was USNORTHCOM’s Quick Reaction Force, ready to jump on fifteen minutes notice when needed for homeland-defense matters. Was I mistaken in that?”

  “No, sir, but . . .”

  “Outstanding. The homeland is under attack. Scramble the ready company. We’re jumping right now.”

  Blake turned to Thorsson, his eyes narrowing. “You’re that major on TV. The . . .”

  “Special Advisor to the Reawakening Commission, yes. That’s me,” Thorsson said.

  Blake turned back to Bookbinder. “I’ve received no higher authorization, and no word that the homeland is under attack. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about a United States military base under siege at this very moment and in danger of being overrun. Last time I checked, any American embassy or military outpost is sovereign soil. Your QRF is needed, and we’re standing here jaw-jacking.”

  “Where?” Blake’s jowls quivered as he looked from Thorsson to Bookbinder and back.

  “Show him the SASS perimeter,” Bookbinder said. Britton opened a gate. Through the flickering curtain of light, Bookbinder could see tumbled blocks of masonry, the broken chunks of gabions and blast barricades taken down by magical fire.

  Dark shapes swarmed in the burning grass beyond. Bookbinder could see a Marine fire team crouching behind an earthen wall, exchanging fire with something beyond it. A SOC Aeromancer streaked overhead, tossing down a grenade from one hand, blazing lightning from the other. Another group of soldiers ran past, then froze, staring at the open gate.

  “That”—Bookbinder seethed—“ is what’s left of an entire fucking division, Colonel. We are getting them out of there right now, and you are going to scramble your QRF to provide the rear guard.”

  “I . . . I can’t just . . .” Blake stammered.

  Bookbinder seized the man by his lapels and dragged him so close that he was practically kissing him. “What you can’t just do is let a division’s worth of men and women die because you’re worried about the bureaucracy. I am your goddamn authorization. You have the goddamn right hand of the Reawakening Commission standing next to you. These people are out of time, Colonel. I know you thought this assignment meant sitting around with your feet up for a few years, but that just changed.

  This is what you joined the army for. Now get off your ass and Save. Lives.”

  He gave Blake a shake with each of the last two words, then released him. The plump man stood there, bug-eyed, so red he bordered on purple, frozen.

  “Colonel Blake,” Thorsson added. “There are Americans dying there. You can choose to save them, or you can choose to worry about your career.”

  Blake blinked, rooted to the spot, his eyes still fixed on the gate.

  “Go!” Bookbinder finally shouted at him, breaking Blake’s paralysis and sending him racing back to the hangar-sized building behind him.

  Bookbinder slumped. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t think it’ll work.” Thorsson said.

  Bookbinder shook his head. “If it doesn’t, I’m all out of ideas.” He turned to Britton, “Get ready to open another gate and get us the hell out of here. What about your indig buddies back there? Would they help?”

  Britton frowned. “I . . . I think so. It’s their religion to help us, and I’ve seen them fight for us before . . .”

  “But?” Bookbinder asked.

  “But it’s been a little while since I talked to them.” He shook his head. “They’ll help. I’m sure.”

  “You don’t look sure,” Thorsson mused.

  Bookbinder pursed his lips and stood, hands on his hips, too tired to muster anything approaching a look of authority, and waited for Blake’s MPs to come and arrest them.

  They waited a full five minutes, during which time Bookbinder’s stomach did cartwheels so badly he put a hand on his abdomen.

  The squad bay’s huge metal doors began to inch slowly upward. “Here we go,” Bookbinder said. “We did our best, guys.” He set his stance and waited for the MPs.

  Instead, soldiers began to pour out of the blackness beyond, strapping on helmets, tightening carbine slings, hopping aboard rolling Strykers. They looked grim-faced and determined.

  They looked ready for war.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Rear Guard

  Samantha. My Sam. They are coming every day now, pushing farther each time. It’s time to come to grips with the fact that Bookbinder didn’t make it. There is no cavalry coming. I have done all I can here. We are dug in and fighting like lions, but there’s a limit to what people can do. I am ashamed to be admitting defeat here, but comforted somewhat in knowing this letter will never reach you. We are stranded in another world, completely cut off. What comforts me more is knowing that, for ten wonderful years, I lived with and loved you. I had that privilege, that honor. We raised a child together. We knew one another as few people ever do. Many dream of such a thing and never get to experience it. Oh, Sam. I have been so lucky. I am so incredibly fortunate to have loved you.

  —“Death Letter” allegedly from Lieutenant

  Colonel “Crucible” Allen to his wife

  Found in the ruins of Forward Operating Base

  Frontier after its destruction

  Bookbinder was the first through the gate and the first wounded.

  A javelin arced out of the seething mass of goblins and clipped his side, digging a furrow below his arm that sent him spinning and dropping behind cover.

  The soldiers around them sent up a hoarse cheer as the first Stryker rolled through, followed by running guardsmen who paused, blinking in wonder at the rocs streaking overhead, at the horde of the enemy beyond.

  Thorsson was with them, stripping off his uniform jacket and leaping skyward, angry clouds boiling around him. “I know it’s strange!” he called down. “That’s the enemy! Suppressing fire! I want this line held!”

  Bookbinder shrugged off a navy corpsman who rushed to his aid. “I’m fine! Where the hell is Crucible?”

  Crucible turned out to be leading from the front as well.

  Bookbinder found him taking cover in an earthen pillbox, one of many the FOB’s Terramancers had raised along the hard-pressed perimeter. He squinted through the slits in the hard-packed surface, Binding his magic in the midst of the goblin throng, raising pillars of fire that sent the creatures shrieking. Their own Hydromancers set up impromptu aid stations, mist clouds that roved among the horde, drenching the burn victims and occasionally launching a stream of ice shards toward the defenders.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Crucible said, glancing briefly at Bookbinder before turning his attention back to the fight.

  “There’s a company of fresh troops securing this area right now.” Bookbinder said. “Is this the only flash point?”

  “It is right now, but it’s early.”

  “Good, get your people organized and start pulling them back. Once I have the full QRF in position, I’ll have Britton gate them out from the main plaza. If you have anything you’ve been holding in reserve, fuel, ordnance, now’s the time to expend it. This is the only chance we get. Unleash hell.”

  “Got it, sir.” Crucible race
d out of the pillbox, shouting into his radio. Bookbinder followed him, watching as the exhausted defenders began to pull back, their positions taken over by the fresh guardsmen of the QRF. The Strykers rolled through the wreckage, tanks full of gas, machine guns thundering into the massed enemy. Horns sounded among the goblins, to what end Bookbinder couldn’t tell. He heard the grind of rotors overhead and grinned as the QRF’s Kiowas raced aloft, guns and rockets firing, the rocs and wyverns of the goblin forces shrieking in surprise.

  One of Britton’s shimmering gates arced horizontally through the goblins’ front rank, a dazzling cleaver, cutting them to pieces. Bookbinder pumped his fist as one of the giants went down howling, cut off at midthigh, crushing his smaller comrades beneath him. Sheets of lightning cut ragged rents in the attacking army, Thorsson’s work and that of the other Aeromancers energized by his sudden appearance.

  Bookbinder raced along the impromptu barricade line set up by the Strykers. “Britton! Britton!” He found the man standing on the back of a Stryker, working his magic.

  “Get to the main plaza!” Bookbinder shouted to him. “Start running everyone out of here! Once we fall back, this place is going to be overrun.”

  Britton nodded and jumped off the Stryker. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t fucking know!” Bookbinder shouted at him. “Some place safe! A hospital! Get everyone to a hospital!”

  Britton smiled. “I’ve got just the place.” And then he was gone, racing toward the FOB’s heart.

  Bookbinder found Blake sheltering behind an armored Humvee, its Mark 19 pumping a thundering stream of bullet-shaped grenades into the enemy line. The horns were sounding again, high-pitched and plaintive. Bookbinder saw banners wave, space opening up between the combatant lines, a no–man’s–land strewn with goblin corpses.

  “Okay!” Bookbinder shouted at him. “You’ve bought us a little time! I need you to hold this position until you’ve fully cycled the relief! Once you’re confident that we’re all out, you can start falling back to the plaza.”

  Blake nodded, raising his radio. Bookbinder stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Make sure you wait until we’re fully out, then fall back immediately to the plaza! It’s the only way out of here, and this base is going to be totally overrun once we abandon these defenses.”