Chapter 4 - Grounded

  A severe hot flash hit Cole as soon as his skin hit the surface of the disc. A sense of extreme disorientation swept over him that made him think the vehicle had just inverted, then flipped bumper-down, and finally spun like a top. When the blue flashes faded, Cole scrabbled for the door latch, stumbling to the floor and hurling what little lunch remained in his stomach into the shadow of the red swirling portal. Because what else could it have been but a gateway to another world? He coughed and tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly, and his battle rattle suddenly felt twice as heavy. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of his other two riflemen retching, as well.

  “Wow, wow, wow, easy,” said a voice. A wool blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and strong hands helped Cole to his feet. “You’re safe, now. Any wounds? Anything bleeding?”

  Cole looked over, willing his eyes to refocus on the red and white cross armband on the medic helping him. The man was tall, dark skinned, and had a plate carrier on over his scrubs.

  “Nah. Some scratches.” He wiped his mouth. “Nothing serious.”

  A tentative step almost sent him tumbling to the floor again, but the medic held him upright.

  “Everyone’s first transit is the worst. But you’re home now. Look at me.”

  The medic shined a pen light in his eyes, reaching up and pressing his brow to keep his eye open. He swapped from one eye to the other as Cole tried to flinch away. Eventually, the medic relented.

  Cole blinked away the after-image of the bulb and looked around. They were in a depressed area, in the middle of a wide room. A gantry ran the perimeter, with multiple sandbagged emplacements equipped with Browning M2 heavy machine guns at the ready. The portal flashed behind him, and the other soldiers they’d seen at the temporary FOB appeared at the threshold, walking and laughing as if they hadn’t just returned from fighting demons or wendigos or whatever the hell they’d seen. American accents, and the gunmetal walls, marking, and signage were all unmistakably US Government. That, at least, offered some familiarity.

  With a deep, steadying breath, Cole straightened and shook some of the lingering dizziness from his head. He waved off another medic with a waiting wheelchair and accepted a bottled water from the first, downing the entire thing.

  “Feel any better, Sergeant?” asked the medic.

  “Yeah,” said Cole. He glanced over to his team, seeing that his two soldiers were getting similar treatment—both worse for wear and being helped into the chairs. “Where the hell are we?”

  “Earth,” said the medic. He grinned. “In case you weren’t sure. More specifically Virginia, south of Fredericksburg.”

  Behind him, the swirling portal fizzled into motes, leaving a distinct tang of ozone in the air and revealing another pair of machine guns mounted at high angles for more plunging fire into the portal pit. Made sense if any of those white monsters were to have somehow followed them through. He shivered. “Two hours ago I was in CENTCOM,” said Cole.

  “Beats the hell out of flying MILAIR, right?” asked the medic, referring to travel by military aircraft.

  Cole laughed, so tired now the surreal ordeal barely seemed possible. But the memories, the blood, the gnashing teeth and sheer physicality of the monsters had been burned into his mind. That was real. All of it. “The layover was a bitch and a half.”

  A new voice—or rather, the severe voice he’d heard on the radio joined the conversation. “Lewis Field crossover events typically are, Sergeant Colton. And you got caught in a rather nasty one.” A late middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard, squeezed into a suit that could barely contain his broad shoulders and barrel chest, made his way down the ramp into the pit. He offered a hand for Colton to shake. “Just be glad we got to you before any of the bigger nasties caught your scent.”

  “There were bigger ones?” asked Cole. “Those things were at least eight feet tall. They tore through the other half of my squad like… like…” he reached for words and found nothing to compare to the carnage he’d seen in the other Oshkosh.

  “I’m sorry about your squadmates. Truly. You’ll be happy to know the rest of the 82nd is right where you left them. I spoke with your CO to break the news about Lieutenant Hosco and the others.”

  Cole finally shook the man’s hand, getting the impression that the guy could have ground his finger bones to calcium powder if he’d wanted. “I appreciate that, sir. That and the assistance. But what the hell is a Lewis Field Crossover?”

  The man pursed his lips. “That’s not a simple question. Walk with me—or do you need a chair?” he asked, glancing at the medic.

  Cole shook his head. “I can walk.”

  “Good man. I’m Gerald Bricker. Director of Operations for the Department of Otherworld Rescue.

  Cole cocked his head. “Director of what, now?”

  Bricker jerked his head to the side. “Come on. There’s some forms you need to sign before I can give you the full monty.”

  Cole handed the blanket back to the medic along with thanks, and then followed Bricker, noting that the director walked with a slight limp on his right side—but still with the unmistakable bearing and presence of a fellow combat vet. A very experienced one, if his instincts were right. The posture, the eyes that took in everything, and even the economy of energy with which he moved were unmistakable. Bricker waved up to a control room on the other side of a plate glass window and spun his finger in a slow circle. Beneath the window, red warning lights flashed, and a brass bell trilled out a warning before a set of steel doors big enough to admit a tank began to slide open, letting in daylight, and a smell of fresh-cut grass.

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  Cole held his hand up against the sudden glare of sunlight. Hell, it was late evening when he’d left Syria. It was, what, early afternoon here? Once the bell stopped, he could hear the pop pop of gunfire. But it was the steady rhythmic sound of a nearby firing range, not the chaotic clatter of combat elements firing for superiority and maneuvering.

  Bricker inhaled a deep breath and relished it for a moment before sighing. “Ah, take it in, Colton. Nothing like the first scent of home. My office is this way.”

  Cole followed Director Bricker across a cement pad outside the portal room, listening as he pointed out the facilities on the complex.

  “Armory over there. That cement structure attached to it is the LF firing range. The armament lab and LF gym are downstairs. We’ve also got a standard gym next to the housing units for the Kickers that don’t have quarters out in town.” He shifted his finger to the other side of the path. “Mess hall there, or DFAC, I guess you’re calling ‘em, now. Operations is just up past it.”

  Cole watched a trio of figures, two guys and a girl, coming out of one of the buildings with towels and tennis shoes. They were laughing and joking as they headed the opposite direction. All were extremely fit, and all had multiple visible scars. One of them waved to Bricker, who returned the greeting.

  To Cole, it looked like any number of military bases or government facilities that he’d seen. All the buildings were squat, cinderblock boxes with unfamiliar names prefacing the word hall; complete function-over-form brutalist bullshit that suggested a fire sale at a cement brick yard. Except this complex housed a portal to other worlds—and apparently travelled to them on what seemed like a semi-regular basis. The nameless gunner had talked like mowing down a horde of blood-thirsty monsters was just another Tuesday for him.

  Bricker steered them into the operations building he’d pointed out, a four-story box of an office building labeled Lewis Hall. He saw Cole looking at the name and chuckled. “Bit of a joke, that one, from before half the people in this outfit actually believed what we were doing wasn’t cover for something even more unbelievable. Named after the author who wrote those books about kids accidentally going to another world through a wardrobe, you know?”

  Cole stared at him blankly. Bricker waved his hand and held the door open.

  “Feh. Before your time, I guess. When I was a kid, everyone had read them. That was before Playstation, mind you. Back when dirt was rocks and dinosaurs ruled the Earth. Feel like home, yet?”

  Inside, past the security station where Bricker authorized the desk to let Cole to keep his firearms, the first floor opened up to a sea of slate-grey half-height cubicles and walls of eggshell-colored paint. It smelled vaguely like freon and old carpet, and bare pipes and ducting hung from the ceiling overhead.

  “Yeah, actually,” said Cole. “Once you get away from the portals and guys who can vault over MRAPs, this could be any base on the East Coast.”

  “And that’s intentional,” said Bricker, wagging a finger. “No sense for a classified facility to stand out—especially one with the earth-shattering implications this one’s got. But our job is to do our job in a way that ensures the general public never finds out what’s going on. The unholy shitstorm…” he shook his head. “You couldn’t even imagine. Officially, we’re a budget line item under the Library of Congress—though we’re eighty percent self-funded.”

  Cole spotted a circular emblem with a crest he didn’t recognize, of a knight with a shield and a rifle. He read the words above the knight. Department of Otherworld Rescue.

  The pair got into an elevator with a glass back, climbing up several floors, two of which overlooked a massive ops center with several tiers of workstations. They were all oriented towards several large screens showing highlighted spots on a map and several feeds of what looked like movies. Cole couldn’t pull his eyes away as one showed someone firing up at what looked like a 50 foot tall lizard, and another showed a full squad hacking into a horde of feral tentacled masses with swords and axes. Cole had been in several base defense operations centers where they had flicks up to help pass shifts, but he got the impression that these weren’t horror films.

  Bricker followed his gaze. “Our operations center. Used for planning and data crunching, reviewing mission helmet cam footage, and even coordination with Camp David for some high-presence ops. But most of our missions are completely off-grid.”

  The elevator continued to climb and finally let them out on the fourth floor, which had the air of a cheap-yet-overpriced faux-luxury common to government buildings meant to receive distinguished visitors.

  “We’re just in here,” said Bricker, indicating the first door. “Mary, please bring us the NDA, and the standard Kicker packet.”

  A younger woman looked up from her computer, eyeing both of them before her gaze drifted down to Cole’s name tape.

  “The RI-7 crossover group?”

  “Aye,” said Bricker. He shook his head. “Deadlight pulled Mr. Colton and his fireteam out. But the others in the squad were already… well.”

  “My condolences, Sergeant,” said Mary. She stood up and opened the filing cabinet as Bricker led them to the inner office. The walls were hung with pictures of the director shaking hands with at least four presidents, including the current Commander in Chief, President Willshire. A few more Cole guessed were senators or other government officials. Behind Bricker’s desk was a shadowbox with an American flag and a board of combat medals next to a pair of polished silver oak leaves. Below that, in a glass case, rested a cavalry saber with serrations on one side and an old-fashioned looking flintlock firearm. The metal looked almost pearlescent, as though made from a material other than steel. Cole’s eyes lingered on the sword, almost reluctant to look away.

  “RI-7?” He asked.

  “Risk index 7. Appropriate for Kickers level 60 and above. Which means it was a pretty shitty neighborhood to find yourself.” Bricker pointed to a rack in the corner that already sported a battered-looking plate carrier and a high-cut helmet. “Drop your kit there, if you like. Coffee?”

  “Please,” said Cole, making no move to shed his M4 or his MSV or take a seat. Bricker paused a moment and pursed his lips.

  “I know it all seems smudged, son. Believe me, I’ve been there. But nothing’s coming after you at the DOR compound. You’re not AWOL, and you’re definitely not responsible for the deaths of Lieutenant Hosco, the other members of your squad, or the Syrian Democratic Front fighters that were caught up in the crossover.”

  “All the same, sir,” said Cole, holding his ground, hands tightening just a bit on the rifle strapped to his chest.

  Bricker picked up his desk phone and dialed, referencing a packet on his desk. “Like I said, I get it. There’s a cure-all in this case. DOR Kickers can bring you ninety percent back, but a lot of kids need that last mile.” The director cleared his throat. “Hello, Mr. Colton? I’m here with your grandson, Amos. No, no, everything’s fine. Here, I’ll hand you over to him.”

  Bricker handed the handset over, winking.

  Hesitantly, Cole reached out and took it.