Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) (7 page)

The sky darkened. Thick clouds suddenly formed unnaturally low over their heads. An air-raid style siren wailed. A voice began to repeat, “All personnel, take cover, take cover, take cover.”

Bookbinder felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as a powerful magical current eddied somewhere nearby, followed by a crack of thunder that shook his bones. The smell of ozone and churned earth filled his nostrils, and he caught a glimmer from the corner of his eye that looked like a column of lightning as thick as a tree trunk. He dove to the ground, covering his head with his hands and pressing himself against one of the concrete blast barricades. The thunder sounded again two more times, each more distant than the last. He realized he was trembling and forced himself to be still.

“Oh, come on now.” Taylor’s voice dripped with scorn.

Bookbinder rolled over and got to his knees, looking from the mud that now plastered his uniform to the men standing around him. Taylor shook his head. Crucible and Fitzsimmons looked uncomfortable.

“You’re going to have to get over that,” Taylor said. “We get several of those a day, and the men will be watching you.”

“What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked, blushing. The difference between his administrative role and the real soldiers surrounding him was plain enough without his groveling in the mud at the first thing that went boom.

“Lighting strike,” Fitzsimmons said. “Conjured by some indig Aeromancer. Goblins come up Latent more often than we do and tend to have stronger magic.”

“You’ll get used to it after a while, sir,” Crucible said. “Just remember with indirect fire that it’s a small target zone and a big base. Odds are slim you’ll get tagged.”

“Hell, that one wasn’t even danger close!” Taylor said.

Bookbinder stood, dusting off his uniform and avoiding Taylor’s scolding gaze. Crucible coughed uncomfortably and patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, sir. Just remember, small round, big base.”

Yes, I’m fine,
Bookbinder thought.
And whatever little
respect I had in the eyes of these men is now gone.

They kept on in silence until they were intercepted by a group of MPs, who waved them back. “Sorry, sir,” said one, “gate to P–Block got hit. We’ve got the whole place locked down.”

“That’s all right,” Taylor said, sounding relieved. “The colonel’s got everything he needs on the program to authorize funding. He doesn’t need a face–to–face with the operators. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Fitzy was impassive, and Crucible looked like he didn’t agree at all, but both men nodded and chorused, “Yes, sir.”

The gate to P–Block was sliding back, a small group stepping outside as electric carts piled high with repair gear and goblin contractors filtered in to work on the damage. One of the group was a black man with a shaved head, built like a linebacker. He wore the same uniform as Fitzy with what looked like an archway on his chest. A smaller, pale man with thick glasses stood beside him, sporting the same uniform with a grinning skull in place of the archway. Both men went rigid at the sight of Fitzy.

“Here you go, sir,” Fitzy said. “May I present Keystone and Rictus, two of my lambs.”

The bigger man turned and immediately snapped to attention at the sight of Bookbinder’s rank. “Sir,” he said, soldier’s habit evident in his tone.

Bookbinder’s eyes widened. “Oscar Britton. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

Britton looked askance at Fitzy. The chief warrant officer nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Conditional pardon, sir,” Britton said. “I’m a proud Entertech employee now.”

“Enter . . .” Bookbinder began.

“It’s the main contract manpower provider here,” Fitzy said.

“All of the goblins and some of the Sorcerers work for ’em. Most of the maintenance and special skills work, too.”

Bookbinder turned to Taylor. “But I heard he was a Warlock or something. Isn’t that Probe magic? Shouldn’t he be . . .”

Britton’s expression went sympathetic. “I’m still getting used to it myself, sir.”

“Secure that,” Fitzy barked. Britton shut his mouth, and his eyes snapped front.

Bookbinder turned back to Britton. “Public enemy number one,” he said, then realized he could feel Britton’s flow. “You’re not even Suppressed!”

“We’re making an omelet here,” Taylor said. “I’ll explain everything once we get back to the office.” He nodded to Fitzy, who in turn growled at Britton and his companion until they followed the electric carts back inside the gate. Bookbinder watched Fitzy’s demeanor soften as soon as Britton was out of sight. He’d seen men be nasty to train people before, but this looked more like genuine hate.

On the way back to the office, they nearly ran into a man standing in the muddy track, one corner of his mouth upturned in an impudent smile. He was thin, his skin unnaturally corpse gray. His slick black hair was plastered to his head. He wore black cargo pants bloused over hiking boots. A dirty, rumpled long-sleeved polo shirt sported the Entertech logo on the right breast.

“Gentlemen,” he said. His voice cracked as if he wasn’t used to using it.

Taylor’s expression went hard at having his way blocked until his eyes reached the man’s face. Then he melted into the most disingenuous smile Bookbinder had seen in a long time. “Hey!”

Taylor said. “How’s the camp treating you?”

“It’s a mud-caked shit hole, Taylor,” the man said. “No doubt thanks to your expert oversight.”

Bookbinder sucked in his breath, but the colonel only grinned. “Yeah, it takes some getting used to, that’s for sure.

“Let me introduce you to Colonel Alan Bookbinder,” Taylor said, draping an arm over Bookbinder’s shoulders. “Alan here’s our new J1. Hopefully, he can get some of the contracting snaggles sorted out. Alan, this here’s the Sculptor. He’s our most valued Entertech consultant.”

“Great,” the Sculptor said, not looking at Bookbinder.

“Maybe now that you have a manpower expert, you can get my bonus pay unfucked.”

Bookbinder shrugged off Taylor’s grip. “Now, wait just a minute—” he began, but Taylor’s hand settled on his shoulder, gripping painfully. Taylor laughed loud enough to cut off Bookbinder’s retort. “Alan’s new here. Still learning the lay of the land.”

The Scupltor’s dark eyes settled on Bookbinder, narrowing.

Bookbinder opened his mouth, but Taylor’s grip tightened.

“New, huh,” the Sculptor said. “Well, I know you’ll get him schooled.”

“You bet we will,” Taylor said.

“Got a chopper to catch,” the Sculptor said. “I’m heading back to the Home Plane, but I should be back around in the next few weeks. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

“Have a safe trip,” Taylor said.

The Sculptor turned and stalked off. Taylor’s death grip on Bookbinder eased with every step the contractor took away from them. When Bookbinder finally broke free, he noticed that the colonel was sweating.

“What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked.

“Alan, I’m going to say this once,” Taylor said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a full bird or the J1 of this post. Don’t you ever,
ever
get into it with that particular contractor again.”

Bookbinder felt the blood rush to his face. “Is the whole SOC out of its mind? You’ve got me shooting puppies, dodging magical indirect, and now I’m supposed to be deferring to contractors? Last time I checked, those guys work for us!”

Bookbinder felt the breaking point. If he was going to stop Taylor’s treating him like an inconvenient stepchild, he was going to have to lay down the law. He put on his best command voice. “I also don’t care that you’re SOC and do things differently. The army is still the army, and I’m not going to let a contractor treat me like that.”

Taylor turned purple. A vein throbbed redly in his forehead.

Crucible and Fitzsimmons took a step back, and Bookbinder’s courage fled as quickly as it had come. They waited in tense silence, Bookbinder fighting the panicked urge to apologize.

At last, Taylor smiled indulgently and spoke as if to a child.

“Oh yes, you will. With this contractor you most certainly will. You have never seen a Physiomancer who can do what he can. Next time, I’ll let you get into it with him and see how you like it. You’re like a goddamn newborn babe. You don’t even realize when someone saves your life.”

As it turned out, life on a secret base in an alternate magical dimension was much like life back home. Bookbinder spent his days with his butt planted in a swivel-backed black chair identical to the one in his office on the Pentagon’s E–Ring doing paperwork.

While goblins, rocs, and God knew what else cavorted outside the wire, Bookbinder stared at his computer screen until his head ached, poring over spreadsheets documenting everything from shipments of Meals-Ready–to–Eat to unfilled personnel billets. Oscar Britton, the most wanted criminal in the country, worked for him, but only to the extent of authorizing his budget line and operating costs. The world he knew was miles away, but Alan Bookbinder’s world hadn’t changed a bit.

Except for one thing.

He missed his family so much he ached. He made his calls from a darkened squad bay, via a specially rigged state–of–the-art Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System.

When Bookbinder first arrived to use the system, the Radio Telephone Operator handed him the handset, then sat, folded his arms, and stared at the ceiling.

“You’re going to hang around? This is a private call,” Bookbinder said.

“Sorry, sir. You’re calling through a Portamantic Gate. Security risk. I have to supervise the equipment.”

“I’m talking to my wife!”

“And I’ve got to answer to my first sergeant. Respectfully, sir, I have to stay here.”

Bookbinder turned his back on the private. There was a long silence. Bookbinder was just about to tell the RTO it wasn’t working when the handset issued a series of clicks that materialized into Julie’s voice.

“Hello? Alan?”

“Bunny? Bunny! How are you doing?”

“Alan? I can barely hear you. It sounds like you’re down a well.”

“Never mind that. How are you? How are the girls?”

“What?”

“The girls! Can you . . .”

“The girls. Well, Sarah made a picture of . . .
bzzz
. . . Kel . . .
bzzz
. . . acting out becau . . .
bzzt
.”

“What? Kelly’s acting out? What about?”

“She’s just having a hard ti . . .
bzzzt
. . . so I think that’s all that . . .
bzzzt
. . . her teacher says she . . .
bzzt
.”

“What? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!”

“. . .
bzzz
. . . did I do? You don’t have to yell at . . .
bzzzt
.”

“No, bunny! I’m not yelling at you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just cursing this damned comms system. I can barely hear you. Bunny? I’m sorry. I wasn’t yelling at you. Can you hear me?”

“. . .
bzzz
. . . hear you.”

Despair rose in his stomach. “Oh God, bunny. I miss you.”

Silence.

“Sorry, sir,” the RTO said. “Window’s closed.”

Bookbinder looked down at the plain gold band of his wedding ring, turned it on his finger. With every call, Bookbinder felt his family slipping away. He pounded on his desk and left his office. Carmela looked up, her smile never slipping, which only made him feel more powerless. “What’s up, sir?”

He nodded toward Colonel Taylor’s office, the door shut tightly as usual. “I need to speak to him.”

“He’s in a meeting right now, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Bookbinder knew it wasn’t her fault that Taylor was impossible to get ahold of, or that the comms were so spotty. But it did nothing to cool his anger.

“This is unsat! He’s always at a damned meeting. I haven’t been able to talk to my family at any length, with any fidelity or any privacy for weeks now. The comms are so spotty that we can barely understand one another! I need it fixed. We’re losing touch . . . with each other.”
You meant to say “I’m losing her.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, sir. I know it can be frustrating with loved ones back home.” Her tone was sympathetic, but her words so disingenuous that his anger burned even hotter.

“You don’t have the first idea! If you did, you’d get me a damned appointment. It shouldn’t be this hard to get to talk for five minutes with my own boss!”

Carmela coughed politely, her eyes dropping to the framed picture of her three smiling boys.

Bookbinder’s shoulders sagged, and his cheeks burned.

“I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t think about . . . When did you last speak to them?”

“It’s been about two years now, sir. This was a comms-dark tour for me, and I knew that going in. It’s still hard, though; I really do know how you feel.”

However broken and spotty, he got to talk to his family once a week. Carmela didn’t get to talk to hers at all. What a bastard he was. “How do you . . . manage it?”

She shrugged. “I have everything I need out here. Food, clothing, shelter, medical. My entire paycheck goes into an account back in the Home Plane. By the time I wind up this tour, all three of them won’t have to worry about college tuition. When I miss them, I try to think about that.”

“Carmela, I know it’s . . . just the way things are out here, but it would really help if I could just get a little more time on the channel, or be alone, or . . . well, anything. I just need five minutes of his time.”

“I’ll do my best, sir. I promise you I will.”

And he believed her. But that didn’t mean it would do a damn bit of good.