Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

A cry sounded. Britton watched as a Roc banked toward Swift, its back brimming with Goblins, leveling stolen rifles at him. Swift’s attention was riveted on the assault from below, oblivious to the airborne threat moving toward him.

Britton exploded into motion, running forward and extending a hand. A gate sliced open alongside the giant bird, severing one wing. It shrieked, flapped once, experimentally, fountaining blood onto the creatures below it, then tumbled over on its side and pitched to the ground.

“Come on!” Britton was shouting. “Swift! Clear a fucking lane and come on!”

Some of the Goblins to the rear of the mass surrounding the hut were beginning to turn, their eyes narrowing. An arrow thrummed through the air, narrowly missing Therese. Britton opened a gate on the roof of the Quonset hut, but the enrollees spun to face it, disbelieving.

“Go through! Go through, you idiots!” Britton shouted, then shut the gate to open it again in front of Therese to intercept a spear hurtling toward her belly.

A group of the Goblins had turned toward them, the muzzles of their wolves plunging and snarling, while the riders brandished swords and pistols. A wolf coiled on its haunches and sprang toward him. Britton caught it in midair with a gate and sent it sliding down through the mass of the creatures, forcing them to dive to either side.

Britton’s skin began to itch, suddenly, maddeningly. His throat swelled, his tongue feeling as if it had been rolled in dust. He blinked, his eyes burning. A Goblin sorcerer moved toward them, splitting the white paint across its face as it screamed at them. It thrust its arms forward, and Britton felt his whole body cry out for water, as if he’d been wandering a desert for weeks. He swept his arm to one side, sliding the gate toward it, but the sorcerer threw itself backward, and he shut the gate to follow its progress.

Another Goblin raced toward him, a huge bearded axe waving over its head. Britton managed to drop to his side, aiming a kick at the creature’s abdomen, and sending it flipping forward, the axe tumbling away from it. An arc of lightning plowed through the Goblins, raising shrieks and the stink of burning flesh to Britton’s nostrils, but the Goblin Hydromancer’s grip on him was still tight, and he crawled in the dirt, feeling his skin begin to peel away.

Suddenly, the magic’s grip released him. He struggled to his feet to see Therese standing, her lips peeled back, fingers extended. She snarled, and the Goblins before them liquefied, flesh melting onto quivering trunks. Bared teeth dripped away, sliding into running gums that vanished to reveal shrinking jawbones. The cry that went up was unholy. What remained of the wolves and their riders danced bloody jigs. Broken hindquarters turned spastic circles. She had sworn she’d never Rend again, Britton thought. This is going to leave a mark.

For the moment, the circle of Goblins surged back, horrified by the carnage. Therese’s current relaxed, and Britton could see her face fall, horrified at the damage she’d wrought. Can’t worry about that now. He snapped the gate open on the roof again and motioned to Swift. “Go! Go!”

Swift gaped at the carnage beneath him for a moment before lighting on the roof and herding the remaining enrollees into the gate. Wavesign stumbled, nearly slid off the roof as a javelin flew past his calf, but Swift caught him under the armpits and shoved him through.

Rotors whined overhead as two Kiowas appeared on the horizon, banking sharply toward them. The Goblins broke their paralysis and turned to face the new threat. Britton closed the gate and opened it in front of them. Therese stood, dumb, her eyes fixed on the field before her. Her mouth worked, silently. She’s no Scylla, he thought. He draped his arm around her shoulder as gently as he could and walked her through the gate, stepping into the bowl of moss where the enrollees had gathered around Marty, shivering in the cold. Swift stared around him at the woods, cradling his elbows, stupefied. Wavesign crouched at the base of tree, shivering in his own cloud of vapor.

Marty had been busy in their absence, his arms full of mushrooms. A small pile of sampled plants had been gathered on a rock beside him. Now he stood and dashed among the SASS enrollees, clucking over wounds and producing his worn leather pouch.

Therese paused a moment, then joined him, turning first to Britton. “Nothing I can do for you,” she said, her voice distant, clinical. “You need a Hydromancer, not a Healer.” She walked off, squatting by a young woman with a gash across her face, cupping her cheek and letting her magic knit the wound.

“Therese…” he called after her. But she ignored him, losing herself in the bustle of her work.

Later, he thought again. It’s not safe here. You’re in a state park not too far off the beaten path. The SOC still has a Portamancer. They can be here in an instant. How long before you are discovered? Before these people freeze?

He looked back toward the crowd of enrollees. They squatted, miserable and shivering, muttering in low voices, most looking too shocked to do much. But Britton knew it wouldn’t last long.

This is your fault. You got them into this. Now, you have to get them out.

…of course the muj had that crazy Muslim total prohibition on magic use. So they were reduced to packing all their gear in through those tight Waziristani defiles, little more than goat paths, really. They were counting on the cloud cover screening them from our air-assault teams. But they didn’t count on the Aeromantic support getting the skies cleared up in a matter of minutes.

— Interview with COL Alexander Keifer, 101st Airborne Division

Excerpted from Robin Hamdan’s 100 days in the FATA

Britton stood, stunned. He had done it. He had fled the SOC, he had gotten away. Swift looked up at him, his eyes wide. You’re thinking the same thing. You have no idea what to do either. You were so focused on getting free that you never gave a minute’s thought to what you’d do once you got there.

But Britton remembered running before. He remembered his world spinning away from him and keeping on regardless. He remembered staring at a hanging pay-phone receiver, smelling like stale beer.

Baby steps, he thought. The first thing this crew needs is a leader. The crowd continued to mill, shivering.

Peapod alone seemed to have any presence of mind. She swept her arms upward, and the trees bowed, extending branches to shelter them, keeping off the worst of the wind. Pyre stooped and heaped a pile of stones, running his hands over them until they glowed red-hot, sparking and cracking, warmer and brighter than any wood fire Britton had ever seen. The enrollees shivered around it, arms draped around knees. Britton worried that the light might alert the authorities but figured that the comfort was more needed at the moment. For now, panic had been staved off.

“Thanks,” Swift managed. “What happened back there, with Scylla?”

Britton almost told him, then decided to keep it to himself. You can’t afford a fight over that just now. Instead, he ignored the question. He glanced nervously skyward as the sound of a plane thrummed far overhead. Through a gap in Peapod’s shelter of trees, Britton could make out blinking red lights on the wings.

“Where are we?” Swift asked.

“Vermont,” Britton said. “State park. I went camping here once.”

“We can’t stay here,” the Aeromancer said.

“No, we can’t,” Britton replied.

“We could head to Mexico,” Pyre piped up, “or Canada.”