by Myke Cole
At last, he copied it onto a thumb drive, stuffed it into his pocket, and made his way to the squad bay, heart rising in his chest. He was a fool not to have thought of this earlier. This would help bridge the gulf that had been growing between him and Julie since his assignment here began. He fought to keep from jogging to the squad bay, a smile stretching across his face.
That smile faded when he saw the RTO at his desk, playing video games. The SINCGARS system was turned off.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the RTO said, not looking up from the screen.
“It’s morning, Private. It’s my comms window. Why isn’t the system powered up?”
The RTO paused as the game took a turn that demanded his full attention. “Yes, sir. There’s been a comms stand-down ordered. Some kind of communication trouble.”
“What? Why?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’m sure they’ll get it squared away by your next window.”
“Well . . . nobody told you anything?”
“No, sir. Nobody ever tells me anything.”
And by the look of it, you like it that way.
Bookbinder stepped out into the sunshine and stood on the frozen mud, his stomach churning. Just calm down. You’re talking across two separate worlds here. There’s bound to be glitches. This channel is entirely dependent on Portamantic magic. If only we had another Portamancer.
His heart rose. We did, didn’t we? Maybe we’ve recaptured Oscar Britton.
He quick-stepped it back to his office. Carmela looked up as he hurried inside. “That was quick, sir.”
“Some kind of comms problem,” Bookbinder said. “They wouldn’t let me get a window. Where’s Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons? I need to talk to him. Did they net Oscar Britton yet?” They should inform me when they do, but I’m just the paper pusher.
“I’m sorry, sir, Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons is on leave.”
Bookbinder froze. “What? Now? With Britton on the run? That’s crazy.”
“I’m sorry, sir. That’s all I know. I think the fight at the SASS really knocked him out. He probably had to take some R& R.”
Bookbinder didn’t know Fitzsimmons well, but the man struck him as highly unlikely to crack under the pressure of combat.
He turned toward his office, then swung back to Carmela.
“Leave, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t recall seeing a DA–31 on him. He’s in a special-programs billet. You know I have to approve all leave chits for that.”
“I don’t know, sir. You get tons of chits across your desk every day. Maybe you just approved it and moved on.”
She’s lying. But Carmela was also one of the very few friends he had on the FOB, and he wasn’t going to start a fight with her.
He retreated to his office to think.
He stared at his screen saver, hiding the spreadsheets that his making of the video for Julie had put him behind on reviewing.
Bookbinder might not be a “real” soldier. He knew he had all the leadership capability of a wet sock.
But when it came to pay and personnel matters, he was an absolute master. He knew every piece of paper and email that crossed his desk right down to the file and control number.
There had been no leave chit for Fitzsimmons.
He suddenly felt very tired. Whatever this was, it would end in yet another showdown with Taylor. He wanted to avoid that, but he didn’t see how he could. There was one way, of course. He could be a good boy and sit at his desk and process paper like he was expected to, like he had all his life. You’ve gone nearly three decades accepting what was fed to you, why is it a problem now?
He pondered that question. Because I’m Latent now. Because things have changed.
Because whatever the hell is going on here is keeping me from talking to my wife.
The thought steeled his resolve. He would pound himself against whatever obstacles Taylor put in front of him until they broke or he did. Wasn’t that what officers were supposed to do?
He stepped out of his office and put his fists on Carmela’s desk. “Carmela, you and Crucible have been the only people who have been even remotely nice to me since I got here. I want you to know that I really appreciate that.”
Her smile was forced, her eyes guilty. “Thanks, sir. You seem like a nice guy yourself.”
“So, I don’t understand why it is that you’re keeping something from me.”
She looked away; at the desk, the computer, anywhere but at Bookbinder. His own stomach was doing cartwheels. Am I being intimidating? Will she hate me now?
“I know that Taylor puts a lot of pressure on you, and I know that the one thing he wants more than anything is for me to shut up and stay in my office. But that’s never going to happen. I was put here to do a job, and I intend to do it. I am in charge of funding authorization for special programs. That means I have to approve all leave for officers on said programs. I never received a DA–31 for Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons.”
“Like I said, sir, maybe you just—”
“Carmela,” he cut her off. “I have been pushing paper for my entire career. I do not miss forms. Not. Ever. As far as I’m concerned, Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons is AWOL. I want him front and center right now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I—”
“I’m done wasting my time. Who runs the MP detachment here?”
She stammered.
“Who, Carmela? I’m not playing around here!” He hoped he sounded commanding without yelling. God, I am so far out of my element here.
“Captain Heerling, sir.”
“Get him in here. I want an APB out on Fitzsimmons as a possible MIA or deserter.” He took a deep breath, and went on, “And I need to talk to Colonel Taylor. Not get on his calendar, not wait. Now.”
She stared at him. Bookbinder pointed at her phone. “Tell him I need to talk to him right now.”
Carmela nodded and toggled the intercom to Taylor’s office.
As she spoke, Bookbinder breathed a sigh of amazement. What the hell was he doing? If he went too far with Taylor, who knew what the colonel could do in reprisal. Cut off his comms entirely? Charge him with insubordination? Let him. If you don’t like who you are, you have to change. I’m going to find a way to talk to my wife if I have to spend the rest of my life in the stockade to do it.
Carmela’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, sir. He says he’s very busy right now, but I can put you on his calendar for . . .”
Out the window, Bookbinder saw Taylor storm out his office back door, making for the FOB’s main plaza.
“Goddamn it!” Bookbinder raced out of the office, running to intercept him. “Colonel Taylor! Colonel Taylor!” he shouted.
“I need to talk to you.”
Taylor ignored him, picking up his pace, but when it became clear that he’d have to run to get away, he stopped, clenching his fists. “What?” he grunted, looking at the sky.
“Colonel Taylor, I have to know . . .” Bookbinder was interrupted by a young captain. An MP’s sleeve was slid over his upper arm. His name tape read, heerling. He jogged to a stop and saluted. Bookbinder paused to return it, but Taylor only turned his angry gaze on the new arrival. “Colonel Bookbinder, sir? You wanted to see me?” Heerling asked.
“Heerling!” Taylor interrupted. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Colonel Bookbinder called for me, sir. He said that Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons was MIA and wanted me to conduct a search.”
Taylor’s face turned a deep purple, bordering on blue. “Stand down, Captain. Fitzsimmons is on leave, and you’re not to conduct so much as a safety inspection of his electrical outlets. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Heerling said, saluting again.
This time, Taylor returned it. “And you will not mention this conversation to anyone. Dismissed.” Heerling executed a crisp about-face and jogged off.
“Goddamn it, Tay
lor!” Bookbinder said as soon as the captain was out of earshot. “I demand to know what the hell is going on!”
Taylor stepped so close the brims on their patrol caps touched. “I am fucking done with you, you little shit. I have afforded you every opportunity to make yourself useful and stay the fuck out of my way. But you are just too goddamn stupid to do that. So, I will say this one more time. If you do not mind your fucking business. If you do not stay in your goddamned office. If you do not do. As. You. Are. Told. I will not call the MPs. I will not write up an Article 15.
“I will take you to a secluded portion of this mud pit and I will kick you until your teeth fall out. And then I will keep kicking you, until you piss blood for the rest of your natural life. And if you ever get back to that precious wife of yours, you won’t be able to fuck her, because I will have kicked your nuts so hard they will have to be surgically removed and replaced with prosthetics. And nobody will say a thing about it, and do you know why?
Because this is a combat fucking outpost, and we don’t have time to indulge nosey, little fucking paper pushers who don’t know their place and I fucking command here!”
With the last word, Taylor took a further step forward, his saliva spraying across the bridge of Bookbinder’s nose and his chest bumping him back. The man was much bigger than Bookbinder, muscles hardened by years of combat training. Bookbinder had no doubt that, should Taylor follow through, that he could easily hurt Bookbinder as badly as he had described. In all his years in the army, Bookbinder had never seen a commander lose it so completely. Something has this guy on edge.
It’s making him crazy.
Taylor was beyond out of line, but they were miles from civilization.
Taylor did command here, and in a combat outpost, a commander’s word was law. Bookbinder knew his way around the air-conditioned halls of the Pentagon. Here in the Source, he was utterly out of his element, and this situation was about to spiral wildly out of control. Right or wrong, he was outmatched physically, lacked Taylor’s combat experience, and was on Taylor’s home turf. He thought of a few retorts, but found himself looking down at his boots.
“Am I making myself perfectly fucking clear?” Taylor asked.
“Crystal,” Bookbinder said, Heerling’s word rising to his lips before he knew he’d spoken.
“Then we’re done here. Now, fuck off back to your playpen, and I don’t ever want to have a repeat of this conversation again.”
Bookbinder moved woodenly, his fear and shame so palpable in his muscles that his veins felt stuffed with mercury. You should have said something. Stood up to him! But what if Taylor had truly gone off the deep end this time? What if he hit him?
Bookbinder had no friends on this post. If the MPs came running, who would they back and who would they cart off to the stockade?
Bookbinder knew the answer to that.
He was already sitting in his chair before he realized that he’d gone there automatically, his body instinctively complying with Taylor’s orders, kowtowing to Taylor’s hysteria, even if it meant never seeing his family again.
Bookbinder still burned with humiliation when he went for breakfast the next morning. He kept his eyes on the dirt floor of the chow hall, ashamed to meet anyone’s gaze. You’re being ridiculous, he screamed at himself. Hold your head up! But every look seemed to hold an accusation.
The hot line was crowded, so Bookbinder headed for the cold-food section, piling his tray with fruit amid the relative quiet. This is stupid. You want bacon and eggs. Go get on the damned hot line!
I can’t bear to look at anyone right now. Besides, this will help me lose weight.
You don’t need to lose weight, you fucking coward! Go get the breakfast you want!
But while Bookbinder’s mind raged, his body moved with the same wooden rote that it had when he’d gone to his office after Taylor threatened him. He took a foam bowl off the stack, filled it with bran flakes that he didn’t even like, then opened the minifridge to get a container of milk. But the minifridge door didn’t budge.
The unexpected resistance brought Bookbinder out of his reverie. He looked up to note that the fridge was locked and unplugged. A paper sign was taped to the front. no milk until further notice.
Bookbinder had eaten in military DFACs his entire career.
In all that time, none of them had ever run out of milk. He looked at the juice case. It was powered, at least, but three-quarters empty.
Bookbinder turned to one of the goblin contractors wrestling a stack of cardboard boxes from behind the refrigerated cases.
“What’s up here?” he pointed at the fridge.
The creature gave him a blank look, then turned to a navy non rate, who stuffed his clipboard into his armpit as he approached the colonel. “Can I help you with something, sir?”
“Yes, what’s up with the milk and the juice? I’m the J1 here, and I didn’t see any reduction in the standard food order.”
“I know who you are, sir. There’s been a rationing order put out for all perishables, effective immediately. Came down last night at 1800.”
“A rationing order? Why?”
“I don’t know, sir.” He gestured to the fruit and salad bar.
“That’s starting to run low, too.”
The comms blackout. Fitzsimmons’ sudden vacation, and now this.
“Who runs food services here?” Bookbinder asked. “It’s Major Holland, right? I didn’t tell him to ration anything.”
“No, sir. He got it straight from Colonel Taylor himself.”
Taylor. That meant if he was going to get any answers, it would mean yet another confrontation, and Taylor had made it clear what he could expect from another one of those.
Something is very wrong. Supply issues are your problem.
You have to find out what’s going on. Even if it meant facing Taylor? He was terrified of the man’s threats and rage. But he was angry that he had to worry about either one.
Bookbinder threw his tray down on top of the minifridge in disgust and stormed out.
As he moved through the entryway, he noted the corkboard clustered with slips of paper thumbtacked over one another, advertising the various events on the FOB. Announcements for the perimeter 5K run and the Sunday morning prayer breakfast were crowded out by the official notices, warning FOB residents of the dangers of Source flora and fauna (if you don’t recognize it, don’t touch it! report to your first sergeant immediately), reminding them to report suspected Latency or negligent magical discharges.
But one sign dominated the board’s center, stopping him dead in his tracks. by order of the camp commandant: all nonessential range use is canceled until further notice. waivers will be extended only for weapons requalifications. unit armorers are to report to sfc scott for instructions on ammunition conservation and dispensing.
It was dated that day.
Perishable food. Ammunition. I don’t care if he does kick my teeth in. We’ve got a severe supply problem here.
Bookbinder marched out onto the plaza, looking for Taylor.
With each step he took, his legs grew heavier as the cloud of fear around him coalesced into molasses. And then I will keep kicking you, until you piss blood for the rest of your natural life.
Of course, Taylor was trying to scare him. But fear robbed Bookbinder of all perspective. All he could smell was the sour taint of Taylor’s breath, all he could feel was the pulse pound of the man’s tangible anger.
He was almost glad when the indirect hit.
A deafening bang rocked the plaza, as a pillar of flame shot up over one of the blast barricades not fifty feet distant. A loud succession of booms sounded off in the distance. Bookbinder could see a cloud of circling rocs in the distance. The giant eaglelike birds looked small from here, but he knew up close they were bigger than a tank.
The SASS perimeter again. The goblins were launching another attack, maybe hoping to break through before the defenses were fully repaired.
Th
e siren began to wail, calling all personnel to action stations.
Men and women raced past him, pulling weapons off their shoulders and checking magazine wells. The low growl of helicopters spinning up echoed in the distance.
Well, you were going to get in a fight anyway. Might as well get in one where you actually stand a chance.
Since the last attack on the SASS, Bookbinder carried three loaded magazines as he was supposed to do at all times.
He drew his pistol. It looked unfamiliar in his hand—heavy, thick. He took the weapon off safety, kept his finger off the trigger, and raced in the general direction of the chaos. En route, he spotted an electric cart heaped with helmets and body armor, two goblin contractors jogging behind, keeping the heap from tumbling off.
“You! Stop! I need gear!” he shouted. The driver stopped the cart, hopping out and saluting. The soldier sized him up, pressed him a vest and helmet, saluted again, then jumped back on the cart. “Good luck, sir!”
Bookbinder donned the gear, still amazed at what a little yelling had done, and followed behind. The crowd jostled as he moved closer, pushing through a wall of dark smoke, blanketed by noise; screams, gunfire, explosions, the sizzle and crackle of magic. In the midst of the press, choking on the brimstone stink of powdered concrete and cordite, all the people blended together. In this darkness and confusion, there was no branch, no rank, not even faces. There were just people, lots of them, all moving toward a common goal. Here, Bookbinder wasn’t an administrative colonel, he was just another grunt, doing his part.
The peace it gave him would have been shocking if it weren’t so soothing. He was smiling as he stepped out of the cloud of smoke.
And into hell.
He’d thought the indirect fire had hardened him. He’d shuddered through loud explosions, smelled the ozone stink of impacting magic, heard the screams and even seen the charred corpses of the dead.
It was nothing.
The SASS perimeter was a broken jumble of cracked concrete barricades and burning heaps of razor wire topped fencing.
The newly erected guard tower had collapsed, igniting the magazine of the Mark 19 grenade launcher. The crew’s remains were strewn about the wreckage, hands, half a torso, smoldering boots.
