Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Britton started as another explosion bloomed a bright fireball skyward, much closer that time but still well distant. He heard the grinding of rotors as a pair of Apaches streaked over the barricade wall, searchlights flashing beneath them. The sirens stopped, and there was a curious silence, broken only by a distant shriek and muttered cursing. An electric cart whined down the lane, forcing Britton and the young man to retreat up the steps. The cart was piled with Goblins in jumpsuits, shouldering shovels and hammers. An improvised flatbed held a mound of tools and extension cords, as well as two human guards — feet dangling off the back. It raced down the lane and turned onto a side street. A platoon of MPs coming from the opposite direction turned to run behind it.

The young man shrugged, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Happens most nights, sometimes a few times a night. You get used to it.” He extended a hand. “Simon Truelove.”

Britton’s grip enveloped Truelove’s tiny hand. “Oscar Britton, nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to Contractor Row,” Truelove said, indicating the row of converted trailers, “or you can call it P block, if you’re so inclined.”

“All the contractors live here?” Britton asked.

“All the magic-using ones, yeah. Right now, that’s just four of us, including you. The rest of the P pods are occupied by regular SOC Sorcerers. Fitzy is on the end closest to the DFAC.”

“Fitzy? Pea pods?”

Truelove smiled nervously. “You’re half-asleep, aren’t you?”

Britton nodded, rubbing his head. “I guess my sleep patterns haven’t been consistent, lately.”

Truelove let out a honk of a laugh. “I was heading down to the Officers’ Club for a drink. We meet up there most nights. Why don’t you come along? You can meet the rest of the Coven and we can explain everything to you.”

Britton followed him down to the road in the direction of the chow hall. The mud track ran several hundred yards, punctuated on either side by identical trailers converted to living quarters, each with the letter P stenciled on the doors, along with ascending numbers.

“P pods,” Britton said.

Truelove nodded. “The O pods are just outside our checkpoint. There are some joint service troops and big army types, but you’re in the middle of SOC territory here. We don’t go out to the rest of the FOB, and they don’t come here.”

Twice they passed burned pods. A Goblin crew worked on one under the watchful eye of their minders, clearing debris and spraying flame-retardant foam from a tank on the back of their electric cart. The female voice broadcast again. “All clear, all clear, all clear.”

The lane was unlit, and when a wandering MP challenged them with “ID, please, sir,” Britton recoiled in surprise. Truelove flashed a badge for the MP’s flashlight, which was covered in colored gel to preserve his night vision. After Britton tapped his empty pockets in a vain search, the MP, a mere silhouette in the moonlight, reached out for the badge around his neck and nodded, satisfied. “Thanks, sir. Mid-rats ended an hour ago, but you can still grab a sandwich.”

“Midnight rations,” Truelove explained.

“So we’re in the same…Coven?” Britton asked. “I noticed the uniform.”

Truelove nodded. “Coven Four, that’s us. We’re the contractor unit. Covens are like squads in the SOC. We catch some crap for it. You know, bloodsucking contractors, but you get used to it. For one thing, we’re not under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

“…and we can drink,” Britton said.

Truelove honked laughter again. “All the officers drink here. SOC isn’t under General Order One out here in the Source.”

Truelove’s voice trembled. At first, Britton thought it was the cold, but the edge in his next comment revealed it as excitement. “Man, Oscar, I’m really glad that you’re here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Your timing is perfect. The two of us have been stood up for a month, just going over basics. They’ll put you and Downer in the SASS, teach you the basics, and we can get started right away.”

Britton opened his mouth to ask another question as the track gave out into the wide dirt square where the chow hall stood, well lit by bright sodium arc lights. Other vast tents bordered the square — what Britton guessed was the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation building, the Post Exchange, and the gym. Britton scanned the square once more before realizing what was missing — the Army Post Office that was standard on all military installations.

Even at that late hour, a line snaked out of the chow hall’s main entrance. They wore an assortment of uniforms, gym gear, civilian jeans under light coats. Goblins scuttled in and out of a side entrance, carrying pots and crates bulging with food. A few of those on line noticed Britton and Truelove and tapped buddies on the shoulders, whispering. In moments, the tail section of the line was doing its best not to obviously gape at them and failing miserably. A few junior Seabees, navy construction-battalion workers in hard hats, pointed before being abruptly silenced by their chiefs.

Truelove shook his head at the line. “Sorry, Oscar. You get used to it.”

“It’s the uniforms, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, they kind of freak people out.”

“Why?”

Truelove looked at him before shrugging an apology. “They didn’t tell you? We’re the Probe Coven. That’s why it’s all contractors.”

Britton stared for a moment. “I had an inkling when they didn’t kill me. I’ve seen them kill Probes, especially when they fight.”

Truelove nodded sheepishly. “The SOC bends the rules sometimes. I guess they think that so long as we don’t work for the government, that’s okay. I didn’t run or anything. Not like you did.” He looked at his feet, embarrassed. “…I don’t judge you or anything. It’s all fine with me. I just called the SOC hotline as soon as I Manifested.”

“But you’re a Probe. Didn’t you think they’d kill you?”

Truelove shrugged. “I didn’t think about it, honestly. What choice did I have? You can’t run from the SOC.” Britton didn’t know how to respond, so he turned to the Officers’ Club, marked by a stencil-painted wooden board — cobbled together from plywood sheets to form what looked like a giant one-room schoolhouse. The roof was scraps of corrugated plastic sprayed irregularly with fire-retardant foam.

Beside the door, some enterprising navy Seabees had built a small plywood pedestal, to which they’d affixed their emblem, a worker bee wielding a tommy gun and construction tools in its six legs. A cigar protruded from the grim mouth. CAN DO SINCE 1942! the logo read. A silver statue of a huge boar topped the pedestal. Its giant ridged back glinted in the hard light, the metallic bristles sharp as needles, so fine they swayed gently with the breeze. The long tusks curled between snarling teeth to sharp, brass-tipped points. Its silver eyes seemed to be glass.

“It’s real,” Truelove said. “I know it looks like a sculpture, but I saw them take it down in the woods between the LZ and here. We’re mostly confined to the FOB, but you get out once in a while. The Source is an amazing place.”

The wind picked up, and Truelove tugged him inside. Interior and exterior were equally ramshackle. Pressboard tables and chairs had been slapped together around the mud-spattered floor. One wall was covered in license plates from various states in varying degrees of rust consumption. A tall bar, also made from license-plate-encrusted plywood, stood before a giant mirror draped with the flags of the five uniformed military services. An American flag hung beside a corkboard covered with photographs. An old Wurlitzer-style jukebox blared country music from the corner.