Chapter 7 - Get Sorted

  This time, when Cole went to the medical building, they didn’t turn him away. He was let in to see Brennan, who was sleeping, and Gillis, who was stuffing his face.

  “The DFAC here is good, Cole. Like, Air Force good. But I ain’t gonna eat base food until they send me back—commercial, too. They’re putting me on a flight straight into Erbil. But until then, we can go out in town and get real chow.”

  “I might not be going back,” Cole said. “These guys think I might have the special sauce to do what they do.”

  Gillis’ eyes widened. “You mean like that fucking Terminator? Bro, you gotta. No way you should pass this up.”

  “Well, if your dumb ass thinks it's a good idea, it’s going to make me second-guess.”

  Gillis spat a mouthful of rice over his sheets before he could get his hand over his mouth. “Asshole!”

  Cole just grinned. “Aside from your appetite and your impending extended adventure on the latrine, how are you feeling?”

  “Like I just put two belts of 7.62 NATO into shit that wouldn’t die from it. Feels like I got twisted up, turned inside out, hammered flat, and then stuffed like a turkey. They debriefed me and Brennan, and let me tell you, I never want to hear the term heart-eater demon again. So, if you want to jump through portals to Hell or Syria, which are basically the same thing as far as I’m concerned, be my guest, Sarge. They had me squeeze this rod while a lady looked at a tablet—at least try to keep a straight face, man.” Gillis shrugged. “I don’t got that special sauce like you, so demon-duty ain’t on the table. You can keep it. They said I could stay on as compound support services, but who wants to hand out bed linens in Virginia when the Arabian Nights are calling, hooah?”

  For all Gillis’ Roll Tide goofball attitude, he was still a scout platoon airborne soldier to the core. “Let me know when they clear you and Brennan,” said Cole, standing. “We’ll catch a ride into Fredericksburg. For now, I need to go talk to the director.”

  Gillis was already back into his meal.

  Cole headed back to the ops building and took his packet out. Security let him pass, and he went up to the director’s office, catching the man coming out of a conference room with a half-dozen hard-looking types—one of which he recognized as the gunner, or Deadlight. Bricker spotted him and his gaze drifted down to Cole’s hand with the enlistment packet. He waved his entourage on and jerked his head toward his office.

  Two of the Kickers gave him friendly shoulder punches as they passed—though Deadlight’s might have been a bit harder than was strictly friendly. The woman behind him pushed the bearded Kicker on towards the elevator, rolling her eyes.

  “Thanks for the assist, guys,” said Cole.

  “I only accept gratitude in the form factor of a Wild Turkey bottle,” said one of the Kickers. One of the others shoved them into the wall as the elevator door started to close, and the rest laughed.

  Bricker shook his head as he unlocked his door.

  Cole followed him in, and Bricker took the packet and thumbed through, checking the signatures.

  “I think you’re making a good move, son,” he said, easing down into his chair and rubbing his palm on one leg with a wince. “I looked at your service jacket. Great PT scores, solid evals, assigned to your scout platoon, and earmarked for the next Ranger School slot that opens up after your deployment. Sorry you’ll be missing that.”

  “That one does sting, a bit,” said Cole, sliding into the chair opposite Bricker. “But a lot more than fifty guys go to Ranger School every year.”

  Bricker grinned. “Ah, there it is. You want to be in the elite of the elite, am I right? Well, with accolades comes risk, as I’m sure you read. These assignments put you in harm’s way. This will push you harder than being in the scouts, hell, harder than Ranger School would have, harder than Selection, or Glefa mercs, or the Loyalists. I’m not trying to scare you off, but you can’t know what you’re getting into. Not really. Not even after this morning—or last night, for you.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Cole. “So what happens now?”

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  “Now?” Bricker thought to himself, tapping the top of his desk. “There’s a Curahee trial in a few days. Normally that’s the culmination of your training here—but seeing as you’re coming in with your SERE training complete and a level to boot, I don’t see a compelling reason to make you wait three months for the next one just to cram some info you can pick up along the way. I think you can handle it.”

  “Jefferson mentioned that, Curahee,” said Cole. He leaned forward. “I take it you don’t mean the mountain in Georgia. Cause I ran that thing top to bottom and didn’t see any portals.”

  Bricker laughed. “Airborne tradition, I’m guessing? No. Curahee is a world—a gentle one, as far as LF worlds go. It’s where we drop you to see if you splat or bounce. The monsters are low threat level, and just like in Georgia, your objective is to get to the top of the mountain. Alive. And that’s not a guarantee.”

  “No heart-eater demons?”

  “Hell no! Like I said, we’ll start you out manageable. Don’t get me wrong, you’ll be fighting for your life. But it will be fights you can win. Probably. It’s what we call a Risk Index 1 world. Curahee’s LF field is managed by a pretty chill god, all things considered. He’s starved for entertainment. Give it to him and he’ll unlock your class as early as level two or three sometimes. But that’s all shit you’ll figure out along the way. It’s the perfect proving ground. Think you’ll be fighting fit in 3 days?”

  Cole nodded. “Absolutely. Especially if you’ve got any more of those electric rounds laying around.”

  Bricker’s eyes narrowed as he smiled, but he didn’t reveal what his private little joke was. “Talk to Jefferson tomorrow. He’ll get your kit squared.”

  * * *

  Cole finally let himself sleep after that. The time zone transition was going to be a bitch, as evidenced by him waking up at 9 PM. At least he’d put the sheets on his mattress this time. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he let himself out of the apartment and stepped out onto the deck, listening to the bugs and the frogs compete for who could be the loudest assholes in the Southern US. Down below, he heard a couple of voices and leaned over the railing to spot the coal of a lit cigarette weaving as its owner spoke at least as much with her hands as her lips.

  Cole whistled down, and a pair of faces turned up at him.

  “Got an extra one of those?”

  “Hell yeah!” said the woman, waving him down.

  Cole walked down to the first floor, accepting a cigarette from the woman, while her friend looked him up and down.

  “Nice outfit, grandpa,” he said, grinning at the issued civvies from billeting. Cole realized he recognized the man.

  “You’re the medic from the pit,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Bart,” said the man, taking it. Bart was a couple inches taller than Cole and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty, as far as Cole could tell. He had a smooth shaved face, completely bald dome, and a handshake as firm and coarse as cast iron. He looked over Cole’s shoulder. “Roxy, this young buck is Amos Colton. From what I hear, he’ll be jumping into Curahee with us.”

  Roxy looked him up and down, eyebrow raised. “Marine?”

  “Army,” said Cole, returning the look. Roxy was shorter than either of them, maybe five-three, with tan skin and shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a loose tail. Her gym shorts and old, faded Fallout Boy tour tank top revealed the toned shoulders and thick thighs of someone familiar with the squat rack and Smith machine. Cole put her at nineteen or twenty.

  Roxy must have approved of what she saw as well, because she nodded to him and tapped her chest with a thumb. “Navy corpsman—not that it matters in a few days. Everything here is classes and levels, not rank or rate. I’m hoping to get a healing class, like Anette. She’s the one that pulled me out.”

  Cole tilted his head. “You got caught in a crossover?”

  Roxy shook her head. “Nah. I got taken when I was fifteen. Kickers pulled me out. It’s my turn to pay it forward.” She took a drag and her eyes darkened. “I intend to pay it back, too. If those fucking royals on Salavan take another kid, I’m going to be first through the door.”

  Bart held his hands up. “Easy, Tiger! Gotta make it through Curahee first.”

  Roxy nodded. “Sure, sure. I know the drill. Grind up, get a class, get some loot.” She looked at Cole. “We’re alone when we go in, but it’s best to link up. There’s five others besides us three. You see any of ‘em but me, you do one thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cole.

  “Keep looking for me,” she said, knuckling the side of his arm. Bart cleared his throat, and Roxy rolled her eyes. “Fine, Bart’s cool, too. Howie’s ok, but out of his depth. Ken is weird, but harmless. Bessen will probably kill you for your MREs. Nona might try to kill you just to kill you—she’s fucked in the head and no one knows her story—and Han is a wildcard. Barely speaks English. Probably said six words the whole training cycle.”

  “Hold up,” said Cole. “Pretty sure you just said two of these people would kill me. And I want to believe you were joking. But jokes are usually escorted by a punchline, or at least a smile. If these guys are legit psycho, what are they doing here?”

  Roxy shrugged. “Not exactly a line out the door, is there? Statistically, at least one of us will die in Curahee. I’d rather we all beat the odds, but it’s damn sure not going to be me who doesn’t.” Roxy looked out into the distance. “I feel like I’ve spent the last four years on borrowed time. I’ll fight for every second I can get.”

  “So since both of you know more than me ‘bout this thing, got any other advice?”

  “My advice?” asked Roxy, “Is to listen to Jefferson’s advice. We’re purposefully left in the dark about what we’ll see on the other side. It’s a trial by fire. But he’s outfitted hundreds of potential Kickers for Curahee. He knows what comes back and what doesn’t. If he says take something, best you take it.” She looked him up and down again and wrinkled her nose. “Actually, scratch that. I’ve got some advice. Let’s go to Wally World right now and get you something to wear that was made after the Fall of Saigon.”