Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

“Is he an asshole?” Britton asked.

Truelove shrugged uncomfortably. “He’s a good instructor, he’ll help you get a handle on your magic.” His eyes brightened behind his thick glasses.

“Gate magic,” Truelove said. “That’s amazing.”

Britton sighed. “Believe me, I’d rather be flying helicopters. That’s what I joined the army to do.”

Truelove’s eyes widened farther. “You were a helo pilot? That’s awesome! What’d you fly?”

“They had me in Kiowas. I wanted Apaches, but I didn’t have enough time in. I Manifested before I could get re-assigned.”

As Truelove interrogated Britton about flying, Downer eyed him intensely. Britton did his best to pretend he didn’t notice and focused on answering Truelove’s enthusiastic questions — covering everything from training to flight mechanics — but the line of conversation frustrated him. He wanted to talk about magic and the Coven and was grateful when Downer cut in.

“You can’t control it, can you?” she asked.

“No,” Britton admitted, “not yet.”

“We go to the SASS tomorrow. Fitzy says we’ll learn there.”

“Suitability assessment,” Truelove offered. “They test your loyalty and teach you to get control of your magic. They enrolled me when I first got here. Since you’re a contractor, you don’t have to raise the flag.”

“Raise the flag? What the hell are you talking…?” Britton asked.

A crackle sounded outside, followed by a boom that shook the flimsy plywood walls, resulting in a minor avalanche of license plates.

“Medic!” a voice screamed from outside. “Medic!”

By the time they raced outside, two more booms had sounded, each farther away than the last.

The line out of the chow hall was gone. The front of the tent smoldered gently, melted canvas and plastic sending up wisps of foul-smelling smoke. Dark clouds drifted apart above them, far lower than any cloud should have been. The ground was rent and smoking, a deep, charred groove that ran the length of where the line had been.

Two twisted, man-sized masses lay in the trench, burning brightly. Just beyond them lay a young soldier. Two of his comrades were already stripping off his smoldering camouflage trousers. The bottoms of his boots had been blown off. The soles of his feet were burned an angry red dotted with black.

Marty let out a high-pitched squeak and ran to the man’s side. He muttered to himself in his own language, his long fingers moving over the wounds. The men kneeling at the wounded man’s side paused in shock before the larger one — a navy Seabee with hulking shoulders, reached out and belted Marty across the face, sending the Goblin sprawling.

“Get the hell away from him!” he shrieked. “You trying to finish him off?”

The other soldier cursed and returned to the wounded man’s side. He continued stripping off the burning trousers, revealing the charred and bubbling flesh that had once been a pelvis. “Medic!” he cried again. “Somebody get a fucking medic!”

“He is a damned medic,” Britton said, helping the Goblin to his feet and pushing him forward. “He works in the cash, for chrissakes.”

The kneeling soldier ignored him, but the Seabee took a step forward. Britton saw the anchor pinned on his white hard hat — marking him as a chief, senior enlisted, and not to be trifled with. “He’s a fucking Goblin, and he’s going to kill him! Hell, he probably called the strike!”

Britton stabbed a finger into the man’s chest, pushing him backward and sending his hard hat tumbling. “He’s not even fucking Latent, you jackass.”

The Seabee surged forward, fist cocked. Britton stepped into the punch, letting it collide with his shoulder and catching the smaller man by the throat. The magic surged along the current of his rage. It came to him wildly, pulsing and erratic. Instinctively, Britton reached for it.

Truelove stumbled backward as a gate snapped opened inches from his face.

“I, on the other hand, am Latent,” Britton seethed. “And I don’t have time to compare dicks with you. This man is dying, and that Goblin can help him. You’re going to let him help or you and I are going to enter into a rather dynamic disagreement.”

The man reached up to wrench at Britton’s wrist, then saw Downer and Truelove standing at his side. His eyes flicked to the ghosted star and moon over their chests, to the shimmering gate, and back. He ceased struggling.

Britton released him and let the Dampener take control. The gate rolled shut, and Truelove exhaled loudly.

Marty scrambled back to the wounded man’s side. He reached beneath his hospital scrubs and produced a worn leather pouch, divided into several pockets. He grumbled to himself, poking his fingers into its depths and sniffing them before he settled on a fine green powder, which he poured out into his palm. He spat in his palm and rolled the liquid in the powder until it formed a vile paste that stank so badly Britton wrinkled his nose. He leaned forward, and the Seabee jerked his chin toward Marty’s hand. “What the hell is that shit?”

Britton looked doubtfully at Truelove, but the Necromancer nodded. “Trust him. Marty’s very good at his work.” The Seabee looked daggers at Marty but let the Goblin apply the paste around the wounded man’s nostrils. He writhed, swatting weakly at the air, and moaning.

“He not die now, soon,” Marty said. “Go cash fast.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, and Britton could see a plume of fire rising farther out, but still inside the barricade wall of the FOB. Britton and Downer lifted the wounded soldier as gently as they could. He moaned softly, half-conscious, as they carried him behind Marty, who scampered down the muddy track toward the Combat Surgical Hospital. Truelove jogged alongside. The Seabee and the other soldier trailed a few paces back, whispering to one another.

The hospital was overwhelmed. The massive tent literally jumped with activity, the flaps opening and closing so fast to admit new wounded that wind vibrated through the entire structure. Army doctors, navy hospital corpsmen and SOC burn-trauma officers ran to and fro, fussing over a mounting flow of stretchers.

“That was amazing,” Downer breathed.

“That was amazing,” Truelove agreed. “But you’re not supposed to use your magic until you’ve been enrolled in the SASS. You could get in deep shit for that.”

“I’m just amazed I could do it at all,” Britton said, the reality hitting him. He had called magic entirely on his own, and it had worked. “The Dampener is incredible. Why the hell don’t they just hand the stuff out?”

Downer sounded peevish. “Against regs,” she muttered.

“And expensive as hell,” Truelove added. “Most in the SOC don’t get it if they can control their magic okay on their own. But everyone in Shadow Coven gets an unlimited supply.”

A SOC Hydromancer appeared at the entrance and recognized Marty, moving toward him.

“Doctor Captain,” Marty said, jerking his hand at Britton, Downer and their weakly stirring cargo. “Specialist Lenko has thunder burn. I give him…bad smell herbs. He needs…”

Britton remembered Dawes’s care and breathed a bit easier. The Hydromancer moved forward and motioned for two orderlies bearing a stretcher. They loaded the wounded soldier onto the stretcher, and he vanished into the hospital, the Hydromancer following close behind.

Marty went after them, then paused, turning to Britton. “Thank you,” he said, his brows arching until the white dots on his forehead were reduced to thin lines. He bowed slightly, tapping his closed eyelids.

Britton realized the Goblin had called the wounded soldier by name. “You knew him?”