by Myke Cole
Soldiers raced pell-mell on the muddy track. The attack seemed to be on the flight-line perimeter this time, a bad call by the attackers, as air support didn’t have far to go to get in the fight.
Bookbinder saw an MP standing in front of the hooch across from his rocking back and forth like he was wrestling with something. Bookbinder stared until the man drew back his fist and began punching, then he jogged over. As he drew closer, he could see the MP had a goblin contractor pinned against the side of the hooch. The creature’s face was bruised and going bloody under the blows. The MP’s battle buddy stood to one side, watching impassively.
Bookbinder noted the man’s stripes before shouting. “Damn it, Sergeant! What the hell is going on here?”
The man turned and saluted, his knuckles bloody. His other hand still held the goblin by its skinny throat. “Sorry, sir. I caught this little fucker spotting for the enemy.”
“What was he doing?” Bookbinder asked. “Drawing a map?”
The MP’s partner, an army private first class, replied. “You know how it is, sir.”
“No, I do not fucking know how it is. You’re going to explain it to me right now.”
The PFC might have rolled his eyes, but it was impossible to tell in the half-light, smoke, and chaos around them. “He was pacing off, sir, to guide in the indirect.”
Bookbinder gestured around him. “Here? A bunch of residential hooches that are far apart and sandbagged out the ass? They might get three people if they’re lucky. Spotters would be working the crowded areas, like the DFAC or the cash.”
The PFC shrugged, and the sergeant began to look irritated.
“He was pacing off, sir. They give that to their Sorcerers to call in the magical strikes.”
“I know how they do it. And what you’re telling me is that he was walking.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, “Pacing, sir. We’re taking him in.”
“Take him in, question him. That’s your job. You know what’s not your job? Beating the living shit out of him.”
“He was resisting, sir,” the sergeant said. He was at least double the creature’s size and kitted out in full battle rattle, while the goblin was unarmed and only semiconscious.
“Uh–huh, looks like a real threat. Let him go and let me see your ID, we’re going to have a little chat with your—”
Bookbinder was cut off by the deafening howl of one of the air-defense systems engaging. It popped from its nest of wire and concrete gabions, the radar in its white dome tracking something, and let loose a volley of twenty-millimeter rounds.
Bookbinder looked up just in time to see a smallish dragon, its dark blue hide almost invisible in the night sky, dodging around the vicious column of fire. A goblin, skin painted white and nearly as big as the flying creature, clung tightly to its back, legs wrapped around its underbelly, arms around its long neck.
As it passed over them, the goblin howled something in its own language and pointed downward. The ground beneath Bookbinder’s feet rolled like an ocean wave. A fist-sized chunk of rock careened off his body armor and spun past his head with enough force that it would have decapitated him had it been just a few inches closer. It collided with the white radar dome of the air-defense system, shattering the plastic and sending a spray of sparks showering over Bookbinder. The gunfire stopped immediately.
Bookbinder heard a shriek and cursing from the MPs. He shut his eyes against the sparks as the air-defense system coughed and died. He flailed for his pistol, unable to get his footing on the rolling ground.
Boot tips brushed the top of Bookbinder’s helmet and, suddenly, the ground steadied. He yanked his pistol from his holster and jerked it skyward, just in time to see the goblin sorcerer winging away from him, two SOC Aeromancers in close pursuit, a summoned storm cloud belching fist-sized hailstones, pummeling the little dragon that served as its mount.
“Fuuuuuck! Oh, fuck!” someone wailed.
Bookbinder looked down. The sergeant and the goblin were gone. The PFC remained, swallowed by the earth from his waist down. His helmet and goggles were gone, and blood trickled from the corner of one eye. His face had gone white.
Bookbinder ran to his side and knelt. “Are you okay?” You idiot. Does he look okay? “You’re stuck?” He thrust his hands into the PFC’s armpits, trying to haul him up.
“No! No! No!” the PFC shrieked. “My . . . I’m all smashed up down there! Stop! Stop!”
Bookbinder jumped to his feet. “Okay . . . Hang on, I’ll go for help.”
He bolted for the cash. “Medic!” he shouted. “Need a medic here!”
The farther he got from the flight line, the quieter the FOB became. Before long, the muddy pathways were completely deserted.
That all changed once he reached the cash. Lines of wounded stretched out of the entrance flaps, some draped over gurneys, others sprawled in the mud, their buddies trying vainly to help them. The cries and moans reached Bookbinder long before he reached them. A few white-coated doctors, assistants, and orderlies buzzed among the wounded, engaged in desperate triage.
Bookbinder’s stomach fell as he realized that PFC would have to linger in agony or die until this assault passed. There was simply no help to spare.
I can at least get him a syringe of morphine. The PFC had been involved in what was likely the illegal beating of an innocent contractor. But that was no reason not to help the man. He was a soldier, and Bookbinder was a leader of soldiers. That PFC wasn’t the only one who had begun to look askance at the sizeable cadre of goblin contractors who worked on the base. Many had disappeared following Britton’s escape. The hostility and distrust of the indig skyrocketed with the increasing pace of attacks.
Bookbinder knelt beside an orderly in scrubs so blood-soaked they were a shade between rust and purple. Though he already knew the answer, he said, “I’ve got a guy about a quarter klick east hurt bad. I need a medic.”
The orderly shook his head without turning. “Sorry, we’re all hands on deck here. There’s a map in the trauma tent. Mark his location there and fill out a casualty card. We’ll get to him when we can.”
Bookbinder nodded and stood. “Think they’d let me take him some morphine? He’s in a lot of pain.”
But the orderly was already moving down the line to the next group of wounded, pointing those that could walk to one stretch of freezing mud, calling on others to attend to those who didn’t look mobile.
Bookbinder sighed and went to look for the map, nearly rebounding off Colonel Taylor’s chest. The bigger man looked wan, exhausted.
“Colonel Taylor! What are you doing here?” Bookbinder asked. The tension between them had been palpable ever since their confrontation, but it simmered beneath a surface of polite respect. Taylor answered Bookbinder’s questions, and Bookbinder let Taylor do his best to resolve their increasingly desperate plight. They agreed not to make a formal announcement to the FOB, though Bookbinder figured they could only go another day before having to make some kind of public statement.
Taylor actually looked glad to see him. “I sent a runner to your hooch. Looks like you read my mind. I need you to take over here. I have to get in the fight.”
Bookbinder nodded, glad to have something he could do to help. “Sure thing. What’s the situation?”
“Pretty much what you see. Overwhelmed and undermanned, and now supply problems: saline, hemostatic agents, clean syringes. I’ve got Pyromancers cauterizing wounds. We’re in the dark ages. Come inside, I’ll hook you up with Lieutenant Colonel Dacic. He could use a full bird to give his orders some weight.”
Bookbinder followed him into the tent. “The pace of the attacks is increasing. I think they have an idea we’re in trouble here.”
Taylor grunted. “Concur. It’s not sustainable. We’ve got to find a way to button this up.” He stopped walking, and Bookbinder had to check his stride to avoid running into him. Taylor turned toward him and sighed. “This is a goddamn mess, Alan.”
He
had begun calling Bookbinder by his first name consistently ever since the confrontation. Bookbinder didn’t want to risk damaging the fragile détente that had built between them by reciprocating.
Taylor shook his head. “I was hoping to hold off on this, but I’m going to initiate Emergency Plan Tiger Smile as soon as I get you settled here.”
Bookbinder groaned inwardly at the ridiculous code names these combat types used.
“What is that?” he asked, trying not to let his reaction show on his face.
Taylor looked embarrassed. “Classified.”
Bookbinder didn’t want another fight with Taylor, but he was not about to lose all the forward progress he’d made. “Come on, Colonel. I thought we were in this together. I can help here, but you’ve got to give me the tools I need to do the job.”
Taylor grimaced. Bookbinder waited for the color to rise in his face, for his bullying petulance to return.
But Taylor only pursed his lips. “I know, Alan. I know. Read–on for this one’s a pain in the ass. Let me double-check a couple of things, then I’ll get you up to speed. Just give me a few hours to cover my ass, okay?”
Bookbinder was a master bureaucrat. He had hidden behind regulations and “covering his behind” hundreds of times when he didn’t want to deal with an issue. He could hardly begrudge that particular dodge to Taylor, especially now. “Sure thing. Just don’t forget me, okay?”
Taylor nodded and turned back into the tent, Bookbinder following.
The chaos outside was nothing compared to the charnel house within. The stink of burned flesh and congealing blood hit Bookbinder like a wall, mixed with the high, chemical odor of rubbing alcohol, iodine, and latex. The tent seethed with activity, white coats and blue scrubs flew past him in a blur, covering goblin and human alike. The low buzz of medical conversation: diagnosis, triage, and treatment was punctuated by the occasional agonized howl. Despite the encroaching winter, the heat inside was damp, oppressive.
“Jesus,” Bookbinder said.
“Tell me about it,” Taylor responded, then began waving to a white-coated officer over a sea of bobbing heads. “Colonel Dacic! Dacic!” He turned to Bookbinder. “Come on.”
Taylor began pushing his way through the hot press of bodies.
He made good progress for a few steps, then came up short against a couple of goblin contractors who couldn’t get out of his way quickly enough. They looked comical in their baggy blue scrubs. Their surgical masks were made for human features, and stretched to the limit over their long noses. The press of bodies was so close that Bookbinder’s chest thumped against Taylor’s back when they stopped.
“Damn it!” Taylor cursed at the creatures. “Get the lead out of your asses!”
The goblins jostled, bumping into Taylor’s knees, chattering angrily to one another in their own language.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” The angry edge that Bookbinder used to fear leapt into Taylor’s voice. “Get out of my way!”
The goblins suddenly stopped, facing one another. All of the jostling disorganization vanished. They tapped their eyelids synchronously, then turned.
One of them grabbed Taylor’s knees and drove its bulbous head into his stomach.
Taylor doubled over, his face slack with shock.
The other goblin reached into its waistband and produced a surgical scalpel. With a shout, it plunged it into Taylor’s throat, driving it in so deep that the handle nearly disappeared.
Gurgling, Taylor fell backward as the first goblin swarmed up his legs, planted its foot on his chest and vaulted over him, screaming, reaching for Bookbinder.
Bookbinder’s existence split in two. The first part stood in stunned horror as the scene unfolded. Taylor slumped to the floor, blood fountaining from the wound in his neck with such ferocity that it sprayed Bookbinder’s boots to midshin. The goblin reached for Bookbinder’s face, screaming curses in its own language.
The second part simply reacted. Bookbinder grabbed the goblin’s face, his fingers gripping the long nose, one punching into an eye socket. His other hand dragged the pistol from his holster, fumbling as it came so that he found himself clutching the barrel. He drove the smaller creature into the dirt floor, putting his full body weight on top of it. The second goblin scrambled after him, but he extended one boot, punting the thing backward. “Rogue contractors!” he heard the second part of himself shout. “A little help here!”
The first part watched in amazement as the second part lifted the pistol and slammed the butt into the first goblin’s head, brought it up and down again, up and down again, a carpenter hammering a nail. After the third stroke, the hard surface of the goblin’s head went soft. After the fifth, Bookbinder was tenderizing meat.
The soft contact of the blows brought him back to himself, and the two Bookbinders merged into one—horrified, frightened, exhausted. He looked up.
The controlled chaos of the cash had spilled its banks. All work had stopped. A wide circle had emptied around him, filled only with Taylor’s still and pale body, Bookbinder, and his assailant. The second goblin was pinned beneath a burly patient, who had thrown himself off his gurney and was busy choking the life out of it. Outside the circle, people rushed to and fro.
They tripped over one another, toppling heart monitors and oxygen tanks, pulling plugs and IV tubes. They were on the verge of a stampede in the middle of the worst possible place for it.
Bookbinder dropped his pistol and reached toward Taylor.
His hand came into view, stained red to the wrist, flecked with tiny yellow-white pieces of the dead goblin’s skull. That couldn’t be his hand; it wasn’t the hand of a paper pusher. And yet, here it was, reaching out to take Taylor’s pulse, finding nothing, closing the staring eyes.
Bookbinder stood, shouted. “Everybody needs to calm down! Let’s try to get some order in here! Why isn’t someone securing the exits? Where the hell are the first sergeants?”
A few people paused, looking at him in obvious relief. A white-coated physician’s assistant ran to him, first sergeant’s diamonds stitched above his name tape. “You need to get those exits secured,” Bookbinder said. “Maybe get MPs to round up the goblins. Do not harm them. Just get ’em separated out, I can’t have fights breaking out. We need to get this cash running again, stat!”
“Sir!” the first sergeant said, and took off, shouting orders.
Some semblance of order returned to the cash, but not nearly enough. Across the room, Bookbinder saw two Marines lighting into a group of goblin contractors pushing a cart of medical supplies, punching them indiscriminately.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Cut that the hell out! Somebody stop those men!”
The Marines couldn’t hear him across the din of the surging cash. A couple of goblins leapt into the fray, trying to assist their comrades. The stampede was threatening to become a full-scale brawl.
“Damn it! We need order in here!” Bookbinder shouted.
“Someone give me a hand!” He began to wade through the surging mass of people toward the fighting.
“Goddamn it!” he screamed, his voice finally cutting through the din and bringing some relative quiet as all turned to face him.
“Enough of this jackassery!” Bookbinder shouted. “Who the hell is in command here?”
The first sergeant who’d been helping him turned, his face pale and sweating. “You are, sir,” he said, his eyes sweeping past Bookbinder to Taylor’s cooling corpse.
“You are.”
Chapter XV
Lead from the Front
Sorcerers are still officers. SAOLCC teaches you how to use magic, but it also teaches you to lead. And how do you lead? From the front, of course.
—Lieutenant Colonel “Crucible” Allen
Chief, Sorcerer’s Apprentice/ Officer Leadership Combined Course
(SAOLCC)
Bookbinder sat in Colonel Taylor’s office. His office now. He’d have to get used to that concept sooner or later. It wasn
’t much bigger than his old office, with the same décor, imposing cherrywood desk, crossed flags. He had gathered all of Taylor’s personal effects—his challenge-coin collection, pictures of his family, a signed baseball from a World Series a decade ago—into a cardboard box, which now sat on the floor in the corner.
With the FOB cut off, there was no way to get it home anyway, or even report Taylor’s death.
Cold panic crept up his spine, tying his stomach in knots. He was the ranking officer on post. With Taylor dead, the command of the sprawling, division-sized base, with all its operations, fell to him. Fifteen thousand servicemen and -women from all five branches of the military and all the supporting government civilians and contractor personnel. Roughly thirty square miles of fortified ground, all of it under siege almost daily. Low on supplies, cut off from home.
I can’t do this. I’m a bureaucrat. Even a hardened commander would balk at this.
Stop it. You have to do it. Everyone is looking to you. Dig deep and find a way.
But the deeper Bookbinder dug, the hollower he felt. Where he looked for a reserve of confidence and ideas, he found only more questions. Where did he even start? Who did he talk to first? He looked down at his fingernails. He had washed his hands dozens of times since that horrific night in the cash, but he still imagined he could see the faint brown streak of Taylor’s blood on them.
Dig deep, damn it. Find a way. There’s a division’s worth of people looking to you to lead them. You will not let them down.
He swallowed as Carmela appeared in the entryway. “Sir?”
He willed his face to take on hard contours, a firm gaze, resolute mouth. He would act the part of a commander and hope he eventually felt it. “Carmela.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Allen is here to see you, sir.”
“Very well, thank you. Please send him in.”
Crucible entered, his helmet under his arm. One of Bookbinder’s first orders once he took command was for all FOB personnel never to leave fixed structures without helmet, body armor, and at least a sidearm. The short man’s hair was matted to his head, a day’s growth of stubble on his face. He looked like he hadn’t showered in several days. But he took a formal step to Bookbinder’s desk and stood at attention. “You wanted to see me, sir?”