Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

He shook his head. “Why do you think this whole operation is so secret? The confidentiality agreements? Why we’re contractors instead of SOC? This whole thing is completely illegal.”

She looked dead ahead, her lips pursed, searching for a reply. He regretted his words. She was a Selfer, same as he, ripped out of any sense of home. She’d found one there, and he supposed, so had he. And just like him, she’d proved herself. She’d used her magic to do some good. She deserved the absolution that brought.

“It’s all right,” he said. “This country was founded on breaking a law. Sometimes laws don’t get the job done. Sometimes it takes brave people to do that.”

“Harlequin said we’re all in compliance,” she repeated.

“He wouldn’t steer you wrong.” He looked over at her. “And he seems to really like you.” He had no evidence of that, but it had the desired effect, and Downer smiled broadly. Britton understood. Harlequin was an impressive figure even to an adult; how much more so to a young girl?

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked. He instantly knew he had erred. He had meant to flatter her, but she grew quiet, her face clouded. Idiot, he said inwardly. Your team gunned him down.

“I’m sorry,” Britton finally said. “It was stupid of me.”

“Nah,” Downer said eventually. “He was stupid. He was just a kid. He smoked and stuff. Things are different now. I’m trained, and I’ve grown up a lot. Tom was nice, but he wasn’t really good with his magic the way…you know, the way some people are.”

The way Harlequin is, Britton thought.

“Being young doesn’t necessarily make you stupid,” Britton said. “He was probably doing the best he could, just like you.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the flight line. Three helos — two Apaches and a Blackhawk — were spun up and awaiting them.

Fitzy waved from the Blackhawk, motioning Britton to board, then dismissed Downer with a wave of his wrist. The Blackhawk held four soldiers kitted out for an imminent assault.

The helos launched skyward, veered sharply, and set off, leaving Britton to clip in and watch the landscape unfold from the open bay door. The barricade wall of FOB Frontier passed beneath them, marking the bustle of men and the maze of buildings from the rolling landscape, brightly lit by the stars. The plain gently rose, clustered with tangles of vegetation. Campfires burned here and there, too far below for Britton to make out their sources. After a few minutes, the plain gave way to thick forest. Spiky treetops clustered so thickly that Britton couldn’t make out the trunks.

Fitzy signaled the flight officer, and the helo shuddered, the engine noises rising to a high whine, then suddenly dropping lower. Britton could see the rotor tips, the low blur shifting as the pilot made adjustments. The birds sagged in the air.

“Whaddya think?” Fitzy asked, grinning.

Britton started as he realized that he could hear the chief warrant officer much more clearly though Fitzy still had to yell. The birds were far more quiet than before. He’d never heard of such technology when he’d been flying.

“It ain’t silent running, but it’ll do,” Fitzy said. “We’re going to make a recon pass over a Goblin fortress. It’s causing us problems every time we want to reach the coast, and command wants it out of our backfield. You’re going to get a nice, long look at the field inside the palisade. Once you feel confident, we’re going to gate in and clear the place.”

The birds began to descend, dropping close enough for Britton to make out the pointed tops of the trees, sparkling with frost.

“No way this is quiet enough,” Britton said. “They’ll hear us.”

“But not until we’re on top of them,” Fitzy said. “Just keep your eyes open and get a good look. Less time on target, the safer we’ll all be.”

“If it’s such a problem, why not hit it from the air?”

“Because we want to capture the Hepta-Bak alive. Command thinks the other Sorrahhad tribes might fall into line if we can convince the leaders to negotiate.”

“The Hepta who?”

“It’s their leader. Like a prince. You can tell him from the white dots on his face.”

Britton thought of Marty, the white paint on his eyebrows, forehead, the base of his ears.

Fitzy paused, as if considering something, before he spoke again. “Remember when you asked me before about the Mountain God you saw when you first landed at the LZ?”

Britton nodded.

“Well, you just keep an eye out for anything like that.”

“What do you mean, sir? What am I supposed to be looking for?”

Fitzy frowned. “Anything like that, I said. Anything big and black or anyone who looks like they might be buddies with anything big and black. Sharp teeth, booga-booga, whatever.” He flapped his hands, irritated, and Britton decided not to press the matter.

“We don’t normally come in this low or this quiet,” Fitzy said, “so we should have a minute or so before all hell breaks loose. If that’s enough time, we’ll try to stay on the hop over the fastness. You keep looking until you have a good fix on the area.”

The helos swept low over the trees, their rotors still thudding loudly to Britton’s ears. The sharpened stakes of a palisade wall came into view. The rough bark had been scraped off felled trees, their sharpened points adorned with wooden turrets at regular intervals. Small watch fires burned in some of them. Britton could make out squat Goblin silhouettes, cradling spears. The central keep rose on a grassy hill behind them. Huge turrets thrust into the sky, peaked towers roofed with spiraling patterns of slate. An enormous gate, at least four stories high, split the palisade. Larger turrets rose to either side, each hanging a long triangular banner down the wall’s face, shrouded in darkness.

The helicopters put on speed, close enough that stealth was no longer a concern. Britton could see figures scrambling in the turrets. A horn sounded from one of them, deep and haunting, intensely loud even over the sound of the rotors.

One of the Apaches opened up with a rocket, and there was a short pop before the turret exploded, sending flaming shards of wood spinning. The helicopters raced over the wall and out over the swath of ground outside the keep. Britton could see scores of Goblins racing to and fro. A few fired ineffectual arrows. Some of the Goblins wheeled on the backs of huge, snarling wolves, shaking gleaming swords skyward. Small buildings dotted the ground, most with thatched or slate roofs. A pen teemed with some kind of livestock, squat and hairy, bleating in terror.

At the base of one of the towers, a smaller pen was built, its railing higher and topped with sharpened stakes. Colored paint gleamed from the posts, clustered thick with guards, big by Goblin standards. Banners flapped from the corners, showing the same winged wheel that Britton had seen on the banner where the Apache Selfers had kept their hostages. The center of the pen was empty, but Britton squinted as he looked at it. The air shimmered, as if a heat haze dwelt there in spite of the cold weather. The helicopter moved too fast for him to focus on it. He turned to Fitzy to mention it but was cut off by sharp reports from the ground.

Gunfire sounded as the few Goblins with stolen guns opened fire. The big guns on the helos held their peace, but the soldiers returned fire with their carbines, far better shots. Britton saw a few of the creatures plummet, screaming, from the parapet walk.

He turned to Fitzy, ready to tell him that he had a good fix on the keep. Anything to stop the slaughter and get them out of there. He saw a streak of white issue from the base of the keep. “They’ve got a sorcerer down there!” he called to Fitzy, pointing. One of the Apache pilots had seen him and the cannon glowed on the undercarriage, the rounds churning the ground to mud. The white figure flung up its hands and vanished in the rain of lead.