Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

As a security contractor, government civilian, and military officer, Myke Cole’s career has run the gamut from counterterrorism to cyber warfare to federal law enforcement. He’s done three tours in Iraq and was recalled to serve during the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. He recently joined the cast of the TV show Hunted on CBS as part of an elite team of fugitive hunters. All that conflict can wear a guy out. Thank goodness for fantasy novels, comic books, late-night games of Dungeons & Dragons, and lots of angst-fueled writing. Myke is the author of Javelin Rain and Gemini Cell, prequels to his Shadow Ops novels, which include Breach Zone, Fortress Frontier, and Control Point.

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Bookbinder still burned with humiliation when he went for breakfast the next morning. He kept his eyes on the dirt floor of the chow hall, ashamed to meet anyone’s gaze. You’re being ridiculous, he screamed at himself. Hold your head up! But every look seemed to hold an accusation.

The hot line was crowded, so Bookbinder headed for the cold food section, piling his tray with fruit amid the relative quiet. This is stupid. You want bacon and eggs. Go get on the damned hot line!

I can’t bear to look at anyone right now. Besides, this will help me lose weight.

You don’t need to lose weight, you fucking coward! Go get the breakfast you want!

But while Bookbinder’s mind raged, his body moved with the same wooden rote that it had when he’d gone to his office after Taylor threatened him. He took a foam bowl off the stack, filled it with bran flakes that he didn’t even like, then opened the mini fridge to get a container of milk. But the mini fridge door didn’t budge.

The unexpected resistance brought Bookbinder out of his reverie. He looked up to note that the fridge was locked and unplugged. A paper sign was taped to the front. NO MILK UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Bookbinder had eaten in military DFACs his entire career. In all that time, none of them had ever run out of milk. He looked at the juice case. It was powered at least, but three quarters empty.

Bookbinder turned to one of the goblin contractors wrestling a stack of cardboard boxes from behind the refrigerated cases. ‘What’s up here?’ he pointed at the fridge.

The creature gave him a blank look, then turned to a navy non–rate, who stuffed his clipboard into his armpit as he approached the colonel. ‘Can I help you with something, sir?’

‘Yes, what’s up with the milk and the juice? I’m the J1 here, and I didn’t see any reduction in the standard food order.’

‘I know who you are, sir. There’s been a rationing order put out for all perishables, effective immediately. Came down last night at eighteen hundred.’

‘A rationing order? Why?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he gestured to the fruit and salad bar. ‘That’s starting to run low too.’

The comms blackout. Fitzsimmons’ sudden vacation and now this.

‘Who runs food services here?’ Bookbinder asked. ‘It’s Major Holland, right? I didn’t tell him to ration anything.’

‘No, sir. He got it straight from Colonel Taylor himself.’

Taylor. That meant if he was going to get any answers, it would mean yet another confrontation, and Taylor had made it clear what he could expect from another one of those.

Something is very wrong. Supply issues are your problem. You have to find out what’s going on. Even if it meant facing Taylor? He was terrified of the man’s threats and rage. But he was angry that he had to worry about either one.

Bookbinder threw his tray down on top of the mini fridge in disgust and stormed out.

As he moved through the entryway, he noted the corkboard clustered with slips of paper thumbtacked over one another, advertising the various events on the FOB. Announcements for the perimeter 5K run and the Sunday morning prayer breakfast were crowded out by the official notices, warning FOB residents of the dangers of Source flora and fauna (IF YOU DON’T RECOGNIZE IT, DON’T TOUCH IT! REPORT TO YOUR FIRST SERGEANT IMMEDIATELY), reminding them to report suspected Latency or negligent magical discharges.

But one sign dominated the board’s center, stopping him dead in his tracks.

BY ORDER OF THE CAMP COMMANDANT: ALL NON–ESSENTIAL RANGE USE IS CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. WAIVERS WILL BE EXTENDED ONLY FOR WEAPONS REQUALIFICATIONS. UNIT ARMORERS ARE TO REPORT TO SFC SCOTT FOR INSTRUCTIONS ON AMMUNITION CONSERVATION AND DISPENSING.

It was dated that day.

Perishable food. Ammunition. I don’t care if he does kick my teeth in. We’ve got a severe supply problem here.

Bookbinder marched out onto the plaza, looking for Taylor. With each step he took, his legs grew heavier as the cloud of fear around him coalesced into molasses. And then I will keep kicking you, until you piss blood for the rest of your natural life.

Of course, Taylor was trying to scare him. But fear robbed Bookbinder of all perspective. All he could smell was the sour taint of Taylor’s breath, all he could feel was the pulse pound of the man’s tangible anger.

He was almost glad when the indirect hit.

A deafening bang rocked the plaza, as a pillar of flame shot up over one of the blast barricades not fifty feet distant. A loud succession of booms sounded off in the distance. Bookbinder could see a cloud of circling rocs in the distance. The giant eagle–like birds looked small from here, but he knew up close they were bigger than a tank.

The SASS perimeter again. The goblins were launching another attack, maybe hoping to break through before the defenses were fully repaired.

The siren began to wail, calling all personnel to action stations. Men and women raced past him, pulling weapons off their shoulders and checking magazine wells. The low growl of helicopters spinning up echoed in the distance.

Well, you were going to get in a fight anyway. Might as well get in one where you actually stand a chance.

Since the last attack on the SASS, Bookbinder carried three loaded magazines as he was supposed to do at all times. He drew his pistol. It looked unfamiliar in his hand; heavy, thick. He took the weapon off safety, kept his finger off the trigger and raced in the general direction of the chaos. En route, he spotted an electric cart heaped with helmets and body armor, two goblin contractors jogging behind, keeping

the heap from tumbling off.

‘You! Stop! I need gear!’ he shouted. The driver stopped the cart, hopping out and saluting. The soldier sized him up, pressed him a vest and helmet, saluted again, then jumped

back on the cart. ‘Good luck, sir!’

Bookbinder donned the gear, still amazed at what a little yelling had done, and followed behind. The crowd jostled as he moved closer, pushing through a wall of dark smoke, blanketed by noise; screams, gunfire, explosions, the sizzle and crackle of magic. In the midst of the press, choking on the brimstone stink of powdered concrete and cordite, all the people blended together. In this darkness and confusion, there was no branch, no rank, not even faces. There were just people, lots of them, all moving towards a common goal. Here, Bookbinder wasn’t an administrative colonel, he was just another grunt, doing his part.

The peace it gave him would have been shocking if it weren’t so soothing. He was smiling as he stepped out of the cloud of smoke.

And into hell.

He’d thought the indirect fire had hardened him. He’d shuddered through loud explosions, smelled the ozone stink of impacting magic, heard the screams and even seen the charred corpses of the dead.

It was nothing.

The SASS perimeter was a broken jumble of cracked concrete barricades and burning heaps of razor wire topped fencing. The newly erected guard tower had collapsed, igniting the magazine of the Mark 19 grenade launcher. The crew’s remains were strewn about the wreckage, hands, half a torso, smoldering boots.

Two SOC Terramancers crouched in the wreckage, calling up a shelf of earth that provided much needed cover from the sea of goblins surging beyond. Bookbinder hadn’t known that so many of the creatures existed in the entire Source. They trooped...