by Myke Cole
Praise for
Shadow Ops: Control Point
“Shadow Ops: Control Point is Black Hawk Down meets The X–Men. Fast-paced and thrilling from start to finish, Control Point is military fantasy like you’ve never seen it before. Cole’s wartime experience really shows in the gritty reality of army life and in the exploration of patriotism as the protagonist wrestles with the line between the law and what he sees as right.”
—Peter V. Brett, international bestselling author of The Desert Spear
“Cross The Forever War with Witch World, add in the real-world modern military of Black Hawk Down, and you get Shadow Ops: Control Point, the mile–a–minute story of someone trying to find purpose in a war he never asked for.”
—Jack Campbell, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Fleet Series.
“Myke Cole takes you downrange where the bullets fly and the magic burns with precision-guided ferocity that’ll put you on the edge of your seat before blowing you right out of it.”
—Chris Evans, author of the Iron Elves series
“It was very entertaining, and the Magic 8 Ball says ‘will enjoy’ . . . It’s impossible to blow up so much . . . between two covers, in such style, and not have a hit. I would watch it in 3–D.”
—Mark Lawrence, author of King of Thorns
“Control Point . . . sees the beginning of something new and awesome: guns ’n’ sorcery. Blending military fiction with urban fantasy, this novel was an absolute blast to read—action packed, tightly written and plotted, intense, and utterly gripping.”
—Civilian Reader
“Realism is tightly interwoven throughout Cole’s writing, giving the book such power . . . A nonstop thrill ride that’s almost impossible to put down.”
—Fantasy Faction
“An intense masterwork of military fantasy that grips you from start to finish until your eyes practically devour the words as you approach the thrilling ending . . . Whether you’re a fan of superhero fiction or military thrillers—heck, even if you like your epic fantasy with elves and goblins—we absolutely recommend you give Control Point a read.”
—The Ranting Dragon
“[Cole has] created a military urban fantasy for the twenty-first century, with all of the complexity and murky gray areas that entails. The action is sharp and vivid.”
—Tor.com
“Fast-paced, nonstop action.”
—Violette Malan, author of Shadowlands
“A thrill ride, from the first page until the very last. Control Point had me hooked.”
—Shiloh Walker, national bestselling author of Stolen
“A solid and entertaining novel: a really kick-ass premise/ milieu and potential for many stories to be told . . . Cole has launched a solid series that I hope to continue reading.”
—sffworld. com
“Shadow Ops: Control Point is both entertaining and thought provoking; just one of those would make it a good novel, but the combination is what makes it a great one. If you’re in the mood for something that’s action packed but still delivers depth, this is a great choice. Recommended.”
—Far Beyond Reality
Ace Books by Myke Cole
Shadow Ops: Control Point
Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier
Reviewers are reminded that changes may be made in the proof copy before books are printed. If any material from the book is to be quoted in the review, the quotation should be checked against the final bound book.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SHADOW OPS: FORTRESS FRONTIER
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
publishing history
Ace mass-market edition / February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Myke Cole.
Map by Priscilla Spencer.
Cover art by Michael Komarck.
Cover design by Annette Fiore DeFex.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978–0–425-25636–7
ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
printed in the united states of america
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
For J. R. R. Tolkien, who planted the seed, and Gary Gygax, who watered it until it took root
Acknowledgments
Once again, my name is going on a project made possible by a small army of people. They include (but are not limited to) my agent Joshua Bilmes (and Jessie Cammack, Eddie Schneider, and John Berlyne) and the staff at Ace (Anne Sowards, Jess Wade, Danielle Stockley, Kat Sherbo, Rosanne Romanello, Brady McReynolds, Jodi Rosoff, and many more) and at Headline (John Wordsworth et al.). Thanks also to Michael Komarck, Larry Rostant, Nick Stohlman, Paul Jacobsen, Sarah Semark, and Priscilla Spencer, who plied their particular arts to bring this work to life. Thanks also to Joel Beaven, Tamela Viglione, and David Fields for careful test reading, and to Chris Evans, Robin Hobb, Ann Aguirre, John Hemry (Jack Campbell), Mark Lawrence, Shiloh Walker, and Violette Malan for lending their names to the effort to get people to believe that my work was good enough to spend money on. Special thanks to Mihir Wanchoo for consultation on the Hindi/ Sanskrit language and Hindu mythology, and to the staff and class of Viable Paradise VI. Thanks also to the Drinklings, the staff of Qathra, and the New York Public Library (where this book was largely written).
Thanks also to my family, in particular Madeline and Jasper, who daily teach me patience, passion, and not to be afraid to get excited about bugs, rocks, and bad British television.
Thanks als
o to Ted Arthur and Chris Meawad, who have acted as delegates from my old DC haunts and paid careful attention to making sure I never lost touch with my drinking and running (or maybe running and drinking?) roots.
Thanks to United States Coast Guard Station New York and Training Center Cape May (CO, Captain William Kelly and XO, Commander Owen Gibbons), who continue to hold me to standards I would never achieve without their incredible example. You lead from the front, and I am all too happy to follow.
With Peter V. Brett again saved for last: brother, friend, mentor, battle-buddy. None of this would exist without you omnipresent on my six, ignoring your own hell to push me through mine. Thanks.
NOTE
A glossary of military terms, acronyms, and slang can be found at the end of this book.
Measure of a Man
It was kind of a bummer, honestly. No special incantations. No wands or staves. No hat with moons and stars on it. I just get sappy and point and boom. Where’s the fun in that?
—Former Ambassador to Finland Katherine Arajarvi
Speaking to reporters on graduation from SAOLCC
and assignment to a SOC Coven
Chapter I
Tide Comes In
Oscar Britton is wanted for the murder of several soldiers and civilians, including his own father. He allegedly traffics in prohibited magical schools, most likely Negramantic practice. He has plotted the violent overthrow of the United States government and mishandled classified information. CONTACT: If you have any information concerning this case, please contact the nearest FBI office or, if outside the United States, the nearest United States embassy or consulate.
—FBI Web site: Ten Most Wanted Fugitives
He races into the water, kicking up clods of wet sand, waves sloshing over the glass-polished surface of his shoes.
A little ways out to sea, his people are drowning; those he loves, those in his charge. There is his wife, Julie, his daughters Kelly and Sarah. There is Sergeant Pinchot, who has made him coffee and given him his messages for the last three years.
Beyond them are the thousands of men and women whose pay and housing he ensures. They wave their arms, gurgling salt water. The green of kelp mixes with the sodden green of their uniforms.
The ocean reaches his waist. He ignores it. He cannot save them all, but maybe he can reach one of them. Kelly screams, Schwartz’s head disappears under water.
The water is freezing, it reaches his chest, his neck. He paddles furiously, but his charges are no closer. The current resists him; he slogs forward as if he moves through molasses.
Pinchot surfaces briefly, vomiting water. Crabs dance on her head. She vanishes beneath the surface.
Bookbinder pushes forward, chest and arms burning with the effort of paddling. “Julie! Hang on, bunny! Sarah! Daddy’s coming!”
But now the water is over his head. The exertion of his rush into the ocean has emptied him of breath, he must draw air.
He draws seawater instead. The light of the surface is gone.
He is too far, too deep.
His lungs sag, heavy with brine. He drags to the ocean floor.
Drowning, drowning. He has failed them all.
Colonel Alan Bookbinder snapped awake, still freezing. He’d kicked the sheets aside, his body plastered with drying sweat.
Beside him, Julie murmured, her slim body gone to the padded comfort of middle age but still beautiful.
“Just a dream,” he whispered. It came out as a croak. He couldn’t breathe.
Dream or no dream, he was still drowning.
He threw himself out of bed, hands flying to his chest. His veins felt too narrow to contain his roaring blood. He paced a circle at the foot of his bed, panic rising. Was it a heart attack?
The doc had given him a clean bill of health just last month. No tingling in his extremities, clear vision. No faintness or weakness.
Just a sensation of being . . . swamped. The panic mounted.
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe!
“Stop,” he said out loud. “Get ahold of yourself.”
He opened his mouth and filled his lungs, felt his head swim with the intake of oxygen. He could breathe just fine.
He looked around his room. His officer’s saber, never drawn, hung over the nightstand. The television’s screen reflected the moonlight. Julie reached for his side of the bed, snagging a pillow in his absence. Harvey, their fat, ancient beagle, lay beside their bed. He lifted his head drowsily at the sight of his master awake and thumped his tail happily against the floor briefly before putting his head back down.
Everything was as it should be. But the drowning feeling didn’t subside.
This is ridiculous, he thought. You don’t need to be awake for another two hours. Normal behavior would be to go back to sleep.
He would act normal until he felt normal. He took a step toward the bed and banged his shin hard against it. He swore, Harvey chuffed, and Julie came awake with a start.
“Oh, bunny. I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I had a bad dream and . . . I think I might have come down with something. I don’t feel right.”
“Did you go to the bathroom? You know how sometimes . . .”
“No, bunny, it’s not that.”
“How bad is it, do you need me to . . .”
“No, no, sweetie. I’ll just talk to the doc tomorrow.”
Julie flopped back down on the pillows and extended her arms. “Well, come to bed, then. Bunny needs snuggling.”
Bookbinder smiled. She had put on a few pounds. She talked incessantly about his bowel movements.
But bunny needed snuggling, and he loved bunny very, very much.
He nuzzled her neck and kissed her earlobes. She grunted affirmatively and drifted back to sleep in his arms.
But the tide stayed with him, and he drowned, wide-awake, until the alarm went off.
Kelly and Sarah squabbled over breakfast like only sisters could.
Harvey sat expectantly beside the table, vigilant for dropped crumbs. Kelly’s dark ringlets bounced in frustration as she pointed at her younger sister. “Dad! Sarah finished the good cereal!”
Bookbinder stared at the paper, not reading it, consumed by the current roaring through him.
“Don’t bother your father, Kel,” Julie said, putting another cereal box down in front of her. “He’s got a busy day ahead of him.”
“I don’t want shredded wheat!” Kelly groused.
Bookbinder put down the paper and hugged his daughter, who leaned away, wrinkling her nose. “Shredded wheat loves you, and so do I,” he said. “And I promise to pick up more of the cereal you like on the way home.”
The drive to work rankled, the drowning feeling making the traffic more unbearable than usual. Even with his privileged spot, it was a long walk across the Pentagon’s north parking lot.
He fell in with other soldiers making their way toward the entrance. With only generals outranking him, his arm was tired from returning salutes by the time he’d gone twenty feet.
He navigated the maze of hallways, rife with historical displays lauding heroes. The army’s sole criteria for heroism was time spent behind a trigger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shot a gun, and they didn’t give purple hearts for paper cuts.
He stopped by the building’s central gazebo, squatting amid a swath of green in the midst of the concrete maze. . The cafeteria inside buzzed with uniformed personnel, sharp-suited civil servants, and contractors. Bookbinder stood on line for his morning coffee, then fought his way out of the crowded entrance.
“By your leave, sir,” said a navy lieutenant. He hesitated at that last word, his eyes searching Bookbinder’s chest for something he could respect. No combat infantryman’s pin. No expeditionary medals. No jump wings. Bookbinder was a high-ranking administrator, and his record screamed it from his uniform.
There were
soldiers and there were soldiers, and it was clear which category this lieutenant felt he fell into. Bookbinder read the lieutenant’s record on his ribbon rack—surface warfare qualified, Horn of Africa campaign medal. But he was still just a company-grade officer, and he owed Bookbinder respect. This he rendered as coolly as possible, the salute cracking so sharply that his hand vibrated.
Bookbinder made his way to his office and pushed through the doorway reading army materiel command on the Pentagon’s E ring. Sergeant Pinchot greeted him with a wave from behind her desk just outside his office door. She looked like she’d been stuffed into her immaculate uniform. He paused, seeing her in his dream, drowning in freezing ocean water.
“Oh.” She frowned, noting his cup of coffee. “I just made you a pot.”
“Well, I appreciate that, sorry. Good morning, by the way.”
She shrugged. “Good morning, sir. Everything okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m just a little off. Can you do me a favor and see what the doc has open today? Put the appointment under your name and rank, I don’t want them kicking other people out of a time slot because a colonel called down.”
“Will do, sir. Speaking of medical . . .”
“Did you email me the body weight waiver?”
Sergeant Pinchot nodded. “It’s in your inbox.”
“I’ll sign it, but this is the last time. You’ve got to start taking physical training seriously.” He glanced down at his flat belly, due more to genetics and no great love of food than any commitment to exercise.
“Hooah, sir. I’ll take care of it.” She wouldn’t take care of it, just as she hadn’t taken care of it the last two times he’d warned her. He should have given her a command referral to the weight-control program already. He scolded and scolded, but he knew that deep down, Pinchot sensed that he would never do it. He wore a commander’s uniform with a commander’s silver eagles on his shoulders, but he lacked a commander’s heart.