Shadow Ops: Control Point

by Myke Cole

  Britton accompanied Harlequin, the Suppressor, and one assaulter onto the bird. Kwan was already on board. They strapped in, and Harlequin held out the hood again. “Last time you’ll have to wear it. I promise.”

  Britton shrugged and slipped it on himself as the helicopter lifted off.

  He had no way to track how long they flew, but it felt like hours. Only the roar of the engine and the occasional unintelligible burst of static talk from the radio broke the quiet. The air intakes mere feet from his head drowned the pilots’ replies.

  At long last, he felt the helicopter descend. Harlequin removed the hood, ushering Britton outside.

  The rotors washed dust over him as the helo pulled skyward the instant its passengers had off-loaded. The dust gradually cleared, and Britton was able to make out a clearing.

  The stars outlined a ring of tall trees enclosing three odd-looking tobacco barns. He thought of Nelson’s farm and gritted his teeth.

  Apart from two run-down pickups, the space was bare. Two rifle-toting men leaned against the back of one of them. They were dressed to match the stereotype of New England farmers—denim overalls and flannel shirts, worn baseball caps with frayed brims; but their eyes were alert, veteran. They roved—lighting on Britton and moving on, searching for threats. Their guns were pointing at the ground in military fashion instead of slung over their shoulders. The huge scopes and black plastic stocks didn’t look like any hunting weapons he’d ever seen. A vigilant-looking German shepherd stood beside them, growling softly in the back of its throat.

  Starlight bleached the area of color, cloaking all in gray shadow, but Britton could still make out the rough surface of the louvered clapboard slats, pulled shut against the cold night. It took him a moment to realize what was odd about the barns. The peaked roofs reared up past the treetops. Their length stretched out past his vision. He was no farm boy, but he’d been in rural Vermont long enough to know that no barn should be that big.

  Harlequin led him to the first barn as a diamond-tipped breeze drilled between his shoulder blades. The Aeromancer flipped open a panel, produced a badge from his breast pocket, and swiped it, punching numbers into a keypad. A beep was followed by a click and a hiss of air.

  The barn doors silently swung inward, then shut behind them, leaving them in darkness before harsh fluorescent lights flickered on. They stood in a featureless white room. Twin gray metal doors stood before them. Harlequin placed his hand on the knob, waiting a moment before another click sounded, and the doors swung open.

  They entered a cavernous room humming with activity, lit by fluorescent globes suspended from the ceiling. The far end was taken up by rows of bunks and lockers and had an enclosed shower. A small kitchenette stood beside a lounge, dominated by a flat-screen TV. Soldiers relaxed on couches before it, playing video games and napping.

  Two giant flags hung from the ceiling—The Stars and Stripes and the SOC arms, fringed in gold thread. Stitched across the Stars and Stripes were the words PORTCULLIS—US ARMY LOGISTICAL STAGING AREA. A desk stood beside the door, covered by computers and manned by a soldier who could have been the twin of the blonde Britton had seen in the vehicle in which he’d awoken.

  “Hi, sir,” she said.

  “Specialist,” Harlequin replied crisply. “Would you mind buzzing Don over here, please? We’ve got to get our guest here prepped and moved on.”

  “Sir,” she said, picking up a black handheld radio from the desk and pushing the button on the side.

  A moment later, a door at the far side of the structure opened and a smiling young man carrying a clipboard jogged over to them. He wore khaki cargo pants bloused into combat boots with a military web belt. A black compression shirt sported the Entertech logo with the words LOGISTICS OFFICER beneath.

  “Oscar Britton, right?” he said, extending a hand and putting on one of the most corporately insincere smiles Britton had ever seen. “I’m Don, the logs officer here at LSA Portcullis. I’m also the admin officer for any Entertech internal matters. But I assume human resources has taken good care of you, and you’re ready to go, right?”

  He clapped Britton on the shoulder, grinning. Britton looked back at him in silence.

  “Don, if you’d dispense with the formalities, I’d appreciate it,” Harlequin said. “I need him to make a written statement, then the brass wants him suited up and off the Home Plane ASAP.”

  The young man glanced at his watch and turned to the Suppressor standing behind Britton. “Sheesh, Plug. You’re about due for a break.”

  Plug grinned and ran a finger around the collar of his uniform. “Hell, you know me, Don. I joined the army for that sweet overtime pay.”

  Don chuckled. “Rampart! Would you please be so kind as to relieve your counterpart here before he drops dead?”

  Engrossed in their video game, nobody on the couch moved. Yellow cars sprinted over a digital rise, accompanied by tinny rock music.

  “Damn it, Lieutenant!” Harlequin shouted.

  A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped brown hair stiffened and stood, letting his game controller fall to the couch. He turned, his rugged face sullen. He was clothed to match Don, save that his pants were digital camouflage. His T-shirt bore the SOC arms instead of the Entertech logo. The caption beneath read SUPPRESSOR above the armored fist clenching lightning bolts. A star above the badge marked him as senior in his school.

  Rampart walked over and nodded to Plug. Britton felt the slightest flicker in the interdiction of his magic, his own tide surging at the momentary freedom, only to be blocked again.

  “Got it,” Rampart said, folding his arms and moving behind Britton.

  “’Bout damned time,” Plug responded, tugging at his uniform blouse and heading for the showers.

  Harlequin nodded. “Let’s move it along and get him out of here.”

  Don led Britton, Rampart, and Harlequin through a door at the far side of the room and down a short hallway to another massive room. The far end of the room contained a small firing range. One wall had been kitted out as an armory. Britton could see weapons lockers crammed with guns, ammunition, scopes, tripods, and other tactical gear. A soldier was cleaning a carbine at a small bench. ARMORER was written below the SOC arms over his breast. His enormous head looked mounted directly to massive shoulders. He worked with the bored efficiency Britton had come to associate with senior enlisted men.

  Another set of double doors, painted white with diagonal red stripes, occupied the far wall. A yellow rotating light, dark for now, was mounted above them. A sign above read: RESTRICTED AREA—VISUAL INSPECTION OF CREDENTIALS REQUIRED—21-FOOT APPROACH ZONE RIGOROUSLY OBSERVED. DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY AND COMPLIANCE!

  Two SOC Pyromancers stood in front of the portal, eyes alert, slung submachine guns across their breasts. Their body armor read—STATIC ELEMENT—pyro above stylized flame bursts. Britton arched his eyebrows at the tremendous expenditure of firepower to guard a single door.

  The armorer glanced up with little interest before returning to his work. “Hey, James,” Don said, smiling, “would you mind kitting our newest hire here for immediate pack out?”

  “Where’s he headed?” James asked, sounding bored.

  “Load him for bear,” Harlequin cut in gruffly. “I need him to hit the ground ready to shoot.”

  James looked up with one eyebrow arched, then picked up the newly assembled carbine. He checked the magazine well and the chamber before sliding the bolt home. “He already qualified?”

  “Our friend here is a former soldier of no mean accomplishment.” Harlequin smiled. “He’s qualled. Pistol, long gun, and grenades. No history of domestic violence. I’ll get the paperwork sent over from his unit.”

  “This ought to fit him,” James said, handing the carbine to Britton. “Grab yourself a sidearm from the locker over there and a vest. The magazines are already full. Should be six mags for your long gun, two for the pistol. Two clips for grenades. Gra
b one smoke, one frag. Go bag should already be loaded and on your vest.”

  While Britton selected his gear, the armorer fussed over the clothing rack, muttering about guys who were too damned big for their own good. His surly tone reminded Britton of his father and of Nelson, which in turn reminded him of Jake. He shook his head. The only way now was forward. He could feel the tiny ball resting in his heart, holding him fast on course.

  Britton was soon decked out in khaki cargo pants and a black Entertech T-shirt. A ball cap with a subdued American flag topped the ensemble, reinforced sunglasses perched on the brim. Britton slung his body armor on over it all. He could tell by its weight that it was the heaviest rating, designed to stop even armor-piercing bullets. The tac vest fit over it, dripping with ordnance and medical supplies. Both legs were strapped with drop holsters—one for the pistol, the other for documents and tools. Britton had been trained as a pilot, not a ground operator, and felt off-balance in all the gear.

  It took him almost an hour to zero his weapon. When at last his groupings of three shots plugged dead center every time, Britton slung the rifle and turned to face Harlequin and Don, chatting in low tones behind him.

  “You ready?” Harlequin asked.

  “I’m ready for a nap, a shower, and to get this gear off.”

  Harlequin grinned. “Gripes just like a real soldier. Very nice. You can shower and rack out at your new post.”

  “And where is that?” Britton asked.

  Don stepped forward with his clipboard and passed it to Britton along with a pen. “First, I’ll need you to sign this nondisclosure agreement. What you’re about to witness are proprietary processes and…”

  Britton waved a hand at him and signed. Nowhere to go but forward.

  Don handed Britton a plastic badge. “Hold your thumb against this please.” Britton did, feeling the space beneath it grow warm. Don took the badge from him and placed it in a slot on the front of Britton’s vest. It bore Britton’s old military mug shot above an imprint of his thumb, still glowing softly in the plastic. LSA PORTCULLIS—GATE ACCESS read the words beneath.

  They approached the door.

  One of the Pyromancers came forward and indicated a black pad on the wall. “Place your right thumb here, please.” Britton complied, and a spray of red light shot from the pad, streaming over his chest and neck. The thumbprint on the badge glowed, and a beep sounded. Both Pyromancers leaned in, visually inspecting the badge, then nodded to one another.

  There was a click, and the striped doors slid slowly apart.

  Beyond was another warehouse-sized room, pitch-black save for the opposite wall, where a single fluorescent bulb provided a disc of harsh light.

  In the center of the disc stood a metal chair occupied by a man in a light blue hospital gown. Vacant blue eyes stared into the distance from deep-sunk sockets. Patchy, thinning black hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead. A day’s growth of stubble covered his weak chin. His head twisted back and forth, mouth working silently. Pink, fuzzy slippers covered his feet. Medical leads sprouted wires trailing from his forehead, chest, arms, and thighs. Several more snaked from under his gown, trailing off into darkness.

  Black letters were stenciled on the front of the gown: PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.

  An older woman in a floral print housedress stood behind him. Her gray hair was cut short, and thick-lensed glasses in cat’s-eye frames hung around her neck. She gave them a genuine smile.

  “Hello, boys,” she said, “you here to see my Billy?”

  Harlequin clicked his heels and bowed slightly, smiling. “How are you doing, Miss Cartwright?”

  “Tolerably well,” she answered in a thick Southern drawl. “Billy’s fine, too. Thanks for asking.”

  Harlequin chuckled. “This is why I love talking with you, ma’am. You never cease to improve my manners.”

  “I am overjoyed to serve my country in any way I can, sir.” She massaged Billy’s shoulders. “Billy’s been a good boy, Captain. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for his bear back?”

  “That’s not up to me, ma’am.” Harlequin sighed. “The CO said three days. But you know you can count on me to put in a good word.”

  “So, what can my son do for his country today?” Miss Cartwright asked.

  “A comms portal first, if you please. Just a quick status check,” Harlequin said.

  Miss Cartwright leaned low, her soft chin grazing her son’s ear. “Sweetheart, are you ready to do your nice thing for Momma? Just the little hole, please. Thanks, baby. Momma loves you.”

  Billy’s mouth moved, making tiny sounds. His mother seemed to understand. “No, sweetie. Momma’s right here, there’s nothing to be scared of. Just the little hole, then you get a treat, okay?”

  The pallid figure in the chair whipped his head side to side, whining, straining the leads connected to his head. His mother dug her fingertips into his shoulders and waited. A moment later, a tiny pinpoint of static light opened in the air before them.

  Harlequin lost no time. “Comms line to LSA Barbican. I need Landing Zone status for entry.”

  “Roger that,” a voice came from the darkness. Radio static was followed by a muttered voice. A moment later, the voice called out again. “Barbican confirms. LZ is hot.”

  “How long till they have it clear?” Harlequin asked.

  “No estimate,” the voice came back. “LZ Logs says it could be an hour, could be a week.”

  Harlequin swore. “Damn it. We don’t have time for that. I need an escort, please, on the hop. Do they have assets ready for cover?”

  “Roger that, sir,” the voice replied. “They’re ready for you. Platoon sergeant says be ready to come out shooting.”

  “Damn it,” Rampart muttered under his breath.

  “Will you secure that crap?” Harlequin said to him. “Or did you join the army for the free clothes?”

  “Sir,” Rampart said through gritted teeth, “if we’re going into a firefight, I need to be able to lay off him in case we get hit by indig sorcerers. You sure he won’t go nova?”

  Harlequin swore again, tapping his chin. “You’re right, we can’t risk it. I was going to wait until we arrived.”

  “Your call, sir,” Rampart said. “He fries himself, I don’t want it on my conscience.”

  “You mean you don’t want it on your record,” Harlequin said. “You got Dampener?”

  Rampart shook his head, but Don nodded and produced a syringe filled with a clear yellow fluid that looked disturbingly like urine. A white label read—SOC DISPENSARY—6A. SOC USE ONLY AS ORDERED. ALL OTHERS RETURN TO CO IMMEDIATELY.

  Harlequin handed Britton the syringe. “Inject all of the fluid into either thigh. Go right through your trousers. Be sure to use it all.”

  Britton looked dubiously at the needle and hesitated.

  “Are you kidding me?” Harlequin yelled. “We got you, you idiot. Do as you’re fucking told.”

  Harlequin’s words struck home. Britton stuck the needle in, depressing the plunger.

  In seconds, he felt calmer. The anger at Harlequin, the sadness at losing his family, the fear over his uncertain future, all shifted. The emotions shunted off, compartmented, available at his wish. He rifled through them, calling up his nervousness, feeling the magic rolling along with it as much as the Suppression would allow, then pushing both away. His mouth went uncomfortably dry, his tongue quickly feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. He looked up at Harlequin, feeling the serenity on his face. “Got any water?”

  The Aeromancer laughed. “Cottonmouth’s a bitch, eh? That’s the worst part of the Limbic Dampener. It helps control your emotions. It’ll make calling magic slightly more difficult and impair the power a bit. Well worth it, though. Your control will greatly increase, and there’s no danger of your going nova. The injection will last anywhere up to three weeks depending on your metabolism, and on a big guy like you, I’d imagine it’s pretty slow.”

  “And pricey,” Rampart
added. “You just injected roughly the cost of an Abrams tank into your leg, my friend. We don’t just hand that stuff out.”

  Britton’s eyes went wide.

  “We save it for special cases,” Harlequin said. “People with serious control problems, or”—he paused for dramatic effect, one corner of his mouth rising—“particularly valuable magical assets.”

  An engine revved in the darkness. A massive eight-wheeled Stryker armored vehicle rolled into view, headlights blinding. A soldier sat behind the fifty-caliber machine gun, still buckling on his helmet.

  Miss Cartwright pressed a piece of candy into Billy’s hand. She kissed his cheeks and whispered into his ear. He shook, the leads trembling.

  The gunner gave Harlequin the thumbs-up sign, and the hatch in the back of the vehicle hissed down. Four soldiers sat on metal benches inside, each as battle-ready as Britton and Rampart, still adjusting straps and slamming magazines into their weapons.

  The blackness rolled back. A giant gate—easily twice the size of anything Britton had conjured, opened in front of the vehicle. Billy yelped and grinned, drooling. His mother had thrown her arms around his neck, her mouth still moving against his ear.

  “He’s a Portamancer,” Britton said.

  “Just like you,” Harlequin said. “Or just like you will be if you don’t do as you’re told. Get in the Stryker, Oscar. We’re moving.”

  Britton’s mouth went dry, but not from the Dampener. The thought of being killed frightened him, but the thought of spending the rest of his life as a drooling idiot shook his bones. Only the Dampener kept him from being paralyzed with fear.

  Beyond the gate, Britton could make out a cratered track. The Stryker’s massive wheels would make short work of it. A soldier raced across his field of view, weapon blazing. In the distance, a ball of fire bloomed.

  “Sir,” called one of the soldiers inside the vehicle. “Seat’s warm for you.”

  They got in. The hatch shut, leaving them in the cramped half-light of the vehicle cabin. Claustrophobia, fear, and excitement all rose in Britton’s gut. Controlled by the Dampener, the emotions barely impacted his tide at all. His face remained calm.