Fortress Frontier

by Myke Cole

  Bookbinder let the press of friendly goblins surge around him, seeing his exhausted, dumbfounded expression mirrored in the guardsmen’s faces. They stood, slack-jawed, fatigue and wonder immobilizing them as the newly arriving goblins pushed their pursuers back.

  “Sir!” It was Britton. “Let’s go! Get your men out of here!”

  His voice broke Bookbinder’s paralysis, and he raced to stand on top of the Stryker. The Healer, Therese, rushed past him, disappearing among the retreating guardsmen, putting her magic to use.

  With the last of the allied goblins through the gate, Britton snapped it shut. He nodded to Bookbinder and opened it again.

  Bookbinder looked into the glowing curtain and smiled.

  Beyond it, he could see an access gate, tall fencing guarded by soldiers, now shouting and pointing at the portal that had suddenly appeared across the road from them. Bookbinder’s smile grew as he recognized that road. It was Georgia Avenue, now crowded with traffic as the cars screeched to a halt, their drivers gawking at the gate in their midst.

  Bookbinder recognized the road and the gate. More importantly, he recognized the collection of buildings behind it.

  The Walter Reed National Military Medical Center.

  “Go!” he shouted to his men. “Everybody through! Right now! Carry the wounded! Ditch your gear! Gogogo!”

  Around them, the allied goblins and their enemies fought, slowly creating a ring of open ground, free of fighting. The remaining original defenders and the guardsmen of the QRF poured into the void, throwing down their guns, their helmets, anything that might slow them down. Bookbinder plunged among them, dragging wounded men to their feet, slinging them over their comrades’ shoulders. His cold, burned flesh screamed at him, but he ignored it. The pain was thematic now, a dull undercurrent, omnipresent and easily ignored. He tripped over an airman howling in the dirt, clutching his shattered knee.

  Bookbinder dragged him screaming to his feet, pushed him into the side of the Stryker, and with the help of a Marine, bodily threw him into the portal. He turned back to the throng of guardsmen, seized another man by his carbine sling and yanked him through the gate. The man went stumbling onto the grassy curb along Georgia Avenue, blinking and staring, milling in the growing crowd of his comrades. Bookbinder took a step through the gate and shouted to the dumbstruck gate guards, “A little help here! We’ve got wounded coming through!”

  He took a quick look around. Traffic had come to a complete halt, and police lights flashed as cruisers pulled onto the shoulder, their drivers shouting into the radios for instructions. A huge crowd of pedestrians was growing all along the center’s perimeter as civilians exited their cars or hospital workers left their offices to see what the commotion was about. Bookbinder was pleased to see a few of them have the presence of mind to go pelting back into the buildings behind the fence, presumably for medical supplies.

  He heard a shout and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He whirled, seizing the wrist of a goblin, yanking it to the ground and crunching his boot down on its neck. There was a sharp snap, and the gnarled creature twitched to stillness in the middle of Georgia Avenue, blood leaking from its nostrils and mouth.

  The crowd of civilians surged away at the sight, pointing in horror.

  The president’s going to have a tough time explaining that, Bookbinder thought. He swiped futilely at his own back before one of the guardsmen put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold still, sir. This is going to hurt.” It did. Bookbinder cursed and doubled over as the guardsmen yanked something from the wound, then pressed something into it.

  He reached around Bookbinder’s front and presented him with a short, bloody knife. “Here you go, sir. Souvenir.”

  “Thanks.” Bookbinder’s vision swam momentarily, and he steadied himself with a deep breath.

  “I stuffed my helmet liner in the hole, sir. You won’t bleed out, but it’s dirty as hell. You need a medic.”

  Bookbinder looked down and saw a sergeant’s chevrons on the man’s body armor. “Later. Do me a favor and make sure everybody here”—he gestured at the now-huge crowd of servicemen and -women retreating through the gate—“ gets into there.” He pointed at the sprawling hospital complex, which was even now disgorging teams of personnel in blue medical scrubs, rushing gurneys onto the now-still tarmac of Georgia Avenue.

  “Got it, sir.”

  Bookbinder nodded and jumped back through the gate. The plaza was oddly silent. The goblins who had made it into the plaza were fleeing between the FOB’s buildings, pursued by squadrons of the allied goblin’s wolfriders. The goblins that pursued Bookbinder and his guardsmen had been pushed down the track a quarter kilometer, but the fighting still raged there. Bookbinder’s stomach roiled at the sight of ranks of goblin and human corpses, marching shoulder to shoulder, silently bulling the attackers back. He could feel the magic driving them eddying from Britton’s Necromancer friend, painted half-white and dressed like a goblin, standing atop the Stryker, arms stretched forward. He recognized him, Rictus from Shadow Coven. Brimstone reached his nostrils and his eyes swept the FOB to see most of it in flames.

  Bookbinder felt a hand on his wound. He started to turn, then stopped as a delicious warmth flooded through him. The pain vanished. He could feel the trickle of blood stop, the severed tissues mending together. He felt the helmet liner dust past the back of his leg and settle to the ground. He turned to see Therese.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  She smiled.

  Thorsson landed beside him. “Everyone’s out, sir. Britton’s indig buddies here bought us needed time. Even with your QRF, they’d have cut us up trying to go through that gate.”

  Bookbinder met Britton’s eyes. “Thanks.”

  Britton grunted. “I saw your rear guard coming apart as you fell back. Figured you wouldn’t be able to safely withdraw without more support. You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  Bookbinder kept his face neutral, pursing his lips.

  Britton smiled. “We better decide what’s next. I’m giving them another five minutes to get a solid buffer, then I’m going to roll the Mattab On Sorrah out.”

  They stood in silence at that. Next, Bookbinder thought.

  What the hell do we do next?

  “This is the second time you’ve thrown this in Walsh’s face,” Thorsson said, smiling, glancing through the gate at the chaos erupting outside the hospital complex. The first TV news camera crews were arriving in white vans, giant antennae waving from the tops. “I think he’s going to have a hard time getting around it.”

  Britton grunted again. “Well, he should have accepted my offer when he had the chance.” They paused uncomfortably.

  “I’m going back,” Thorsson finally said.

  Britton looked up at him. “You know what they’ll do to you.”

  The Aeromancer shrugged. “No, I don’t. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I signed up to serve, and I’m not done serving yet. I’ll deal with Walsh and his people inside the system.”

  “I was the same as you, Harlequin,” Britton said. “That system ran me into the dirt.”

  Thorsson met his eyes. “That system works when you work it, Oscar. I believe that.”

  “I’m going with you,” Bookbinder said. “We’ll face whatever’s coming together, Major.”

  “You two are out of your damned minds,” Britton said.

  “Maybe,” Bookbinder said, “but my place is with my family . . . and with my troops.” It felt strange to say it, but it was true. He commanded these men and women in battle. He was responsible for them. His people, his family. Maybe the terms were redundant.

  “Whatever’s going to happen to me, it’s going to happen to me alongside my own.”

  Thorsson nodded. “Well, let’s secure this Hallmark card moment,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but”—he extended a hand to Britton—“ you’re a good man and a fine officer, Oscar Britton. I wish the circumstances of
our . . . uh . . . interaction had been different. The president’s never going to say it, so I will. On behalf of a grateful nation, thank you.”

  Britton shook his hand, then took a step back, saluting.

  “Thank you, sir. It’s my honor.”

  Thorsson returned the salute, looking uncomfortable, then smiled. “Thanks to all of you,” he said to the other SASS refugees who stood watching the exchange. Then he stepped through the gate and into the chaos of service members, hospital workers, camera crews, civilian bystanders, and police who mobbed Georgia Avenue beyond.

  Bookbinder turned back to Therese. She smiled at him, dazzling.

  He rolled his shoulder experimentally. “Good as new, ma’am. Much obliged.”

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “If you, or any of the other . . . uh . . . SASS escapees want to try your luck in the court of public opinion,” Bookbinder said, “you can join me. I don’t know how much pull I have now, but you’ll have my support.”

  “I’m staying,” Therese said, grasping Oscar Britton’s hand.

  Britton squeezed her hand back, silent, choking back tears.

  “I’m staying with you, too,” Stanley said. “We’ve got some ground to cover. Once we’re done, we need to go find your mother.”

  Britton turned from Therese, faced his father. “You’re giving orders now?”

  Stanley bit his lip. “We need to do this, Oscar.”

  Britton grimaced and didn’t answer.

  “Well,” Bookbinder said, cutting through the tension, “I guess this is good-bye for now. Thank you all.” He reached forward to shake Britton’s hand, but the man’s gaze was still locked on his father, and he didn’t see it.

  “Good luck, sir,” Britton said absently. “Once things calm down, I’ll look in on you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Bookbinder said, not at all sure that he would be fine.

  But Colonel Alan Bookbinder certainly felt fine as he turned and stepped through the gate into the crowd of men and women beyond. He breathed deeply, sucking in the muted smells of the Home Plane, thrilling to the buzzing sound of the military personnel around him. The hardest-bitten, most dedicated band of professionals he’d ever had the privilege to lead. Bookbinder reached down to his wedding band, turning it on his finger, rubbing the scratched gold surface. Just a few miles away, Julie might be watching the breaking news on TV, the kids around her, eyes wide. Maybe she’d see Bookbinder and come rushing to the scene. That would be great.

  But for now, he had company enough in the throng of uniforms around him. His family, his people.

  His home.

  Glossary of Military Terms, Acronyms, and Slang

  This novel deals largely with the United States military. As anyone familiar with the military knows, it has a vocabulary of acronyms, slang, and equipment references large enough to constitute its own language. Readers may be familiar with some of them. For those who are not, I provide the following glossary, expanded from the original that appeared in Shadow Ops: Control Point. Many of these terms are fictional. Many are not.

  A–10 WARTHOG — A heavily armed fixed-wing, ground-attack aircraft.

  ANG — Air National Guard.

  AOR — Area of Responsibility.

  APACHE — An attack helicopter, also known as a helicopter gunship.

  APB — All Points Bulletin. A broadcast alerting law-enforcement personnel to be on the lookout for a particular individual.

  APC — Armored Personnel Carrier.

  ARTICLE 15 — The article in the US Code of Military Justice that provides for administrative/ nonjudicial punishment of troops.

  ATTD — Asset Tracking/ Termination Device. A beacon/ bomb that can be placed inside a person to track their movements and, if necessary, to kill them.

  AWOL — Absent Without Leave.

  BINDING — The act of utilizing Drawn magic in the making of a spell.

  BINGO-F UEL — A term indicating that an aircraft has insufficient fuel reserves to accomplish its mission.

  BLACKHAWK — A utility/ transport helicopter.

  BMER — Bound Magical Energy Repository. Also known as a “boomer,” a BMER is any object, inanimate or otherwise, into which magic is bound. BMERs normally dispense the effects of the magic bound into them.

  BREVET — A field promotion, granted as an honor before retirement or under extreme circumstances when required senior personnel have been killed in action.

  BUTTER-BAR — A second lieutenant in land-or air-based service, or an ensign in maritime service. The lowest-commissioned officer rank in the United States military.

  CAC — Common Access Card. A government identification card used across all five branches of the US military.

  CARBINE — A shortened, lighter version of the traditional assault rifle used by infantry. It is better suited for tight spaces common in urban operations.

  CHINOOK — A large, double-rotor transport/ cargo helicopter. Larger than a Blackhawk.

  CO — Commanding Officer.

  COMMS — Communications.

  COMMS-D ARK — A situation in which communications are either forbidden or impossible.

  CORPSMAN — A medic in the US navy.

  COVEN — Replaces a squad for organizational purposes when magic-using soldiers are concerned. A conventional squad contains four to ten soldiers led by a staff sergeant. A Coven contains four to five SOC Sorcerers, led by a captain. Training Covens are led by a warrant officer.

  CSH — Combat Support Hospital. Pronounced “Cash.” A field hospital, successor to the MASH units of TV fame.

  DANGER CLOSE — Indirect Fire impacting within two hundred meters of the intended target.

  DFAC — Dining Facility.

  DRAWING — The act of summoning raw magic in preparation for Binding it into a spell.

  DRUID — Selfer slang for a Terramancer.

  ELEMENTALIST — A person practicing the prohibited school of Sentient Elemental Conjuration. This is the act of imbuing Elementals with self-awareness. This is different from automatons — Elementals with no thought, who are entirely dependent on the sorcerer for command and control.

  FIELD GRADE — Senior military officers who have not yet attained the rank of general or admiral.

  FOB — Forward Operating Base.

  FORCE RECON — The US Marine Corps special operations component. While primarily focused on deep reconnaissance, it has direct action platoons. These platoons form the basis for the US Marine Corps Special Operations Command or MARSOC.

  FULL BIRD — A full colonel in the land and air services, or captain in the maritime services (O–6). The term refers to the silver eagles worn as a symbol of the rank, and distinguishes from a lieutenant colonel (or “light colonel” O–5), who is designated by a silver oak leaf.

  GIMAC — Gate-Integrated Modern Army Combatives — MAC integrated with Portamancy. Also known as “gate–fu.” See MAC definition below.

  GO DYNAMIC — Command given to assault a target without regard to stealth.

  GO NOVA — When a magic user is overwhelmed by the current of their own magical power. This results in a painful death similar to burning. A person who has “gone nova” is sometimes referred to as a “magic sink.”

  HEALER — A Physiomancer. They are sometimes also referred to as “Manglers” or “Renders” in deference to their ability to damage flesh as well as repair it. Offensive Physiomancy is prohibited under the Geneva Convention’s magical amendment. Offensive use of Physiomancy is also known as “Rending.”

  HELO — Helicopter.

  HOOCH — Living quarters. Can also be used as a verb. “You’ll hooch here.”

  HOT — Under fire. Usually refers to an arrival under fire. A “hot LZ” would be landing an aircraft under fire. Also refers to a state of military readiness where personnel are prepared for immediate action.

  INDIG — Indigenous.

  INDIRECT FIRE — Sometimes shortened to simply “Indirect.” An attack, either magi
cal or conventional, aimed without relying on direct line of sight to the target. This usually refers to artillery, rocket or mortar fire, but also Pyromantic flame strikes and Aeromantic lightning attacks.

  JAG — Judge Advocate General. The legal branch of any of the United States armed services.

  KIA — Killed in Action.

  KIOWA — A light reconnaissance helicopter.

  KLICK — A kilometer or kilometers per hour.

  LATENT — Any individual who possesses magical ability, detected or otherwise.

  LATENT GRENADE — An auto-suppressed or “Stifled” Latency. A person who possesses magical ability, is not a Rump Latent, but for reasons unknown, will not Manifest their powers.

  LITTLE BIRD — A small helicopter usually used to insert/ extract commandos.

  LOGS — Logistics.

  LSA — Logistical Staging Area.

  LZ — Landing Zone.

  MAC — Modern Army Combatives. A martial art unique to the United States Army, based on Brazilian Jiujitsu.

  MANIFEST — The act of realizing one’s Latency and displaying magical ability. Latent people Manifest at various times in their lives — some at birth, some on their deathbed, and all ranges in between. Nobody knows why it occurs when it does.

  MARK 19 — A crew-served, fully automatic grenade launcher.

  MINIGUN — A crew-served multibarrel machine gun with a high rate of fire, employing Gatling-style rotating barrels and an external power source.

  MP — Military Police.

  MRE — Meal Ready to Eat. A self-contained field ration for use where food facilities are not available.

  MWR — Morale, Welfare, and Recreation center.

  NCO — Noncommissioned Officer.

  NIH — National Institutes of Health. Among many other services,

  NIH runs a Monitoring/ Suppression program for those Latents who refuse to join the military but don’t want to become Selfers. Participants are monitored continuously and have virtually no privacy. Most are treated as social pariahs.