Department of Otherworld Rescue (DOR) Chpt 4-6

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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 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.

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 head 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. 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 the 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 and 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-fasioned 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.

Chapter 5 - Department of Otherword Rescue

“Do you prefer Amos or Sergeant Colton?”

“Cole, actually. The guys on my track and field team started calling me that, and it stuck ever since.”

Cole sat back in the chair, tucking the pen into his uniform sleeve. He felt a bit naked without his armor, but Bricker had been right. Hearing his granddad’s 2-pack a day voice grinding over the phone line from Georgia had done more than any amount of safety blankets or bottled waters to convince him that he was, indeed, out of danger.

Director Bricker picked up the signed non-disclosure agreement and blew on the ink to dry it before setting it in his outbox.

“Now that the government horse-shit is out of the way, let me fill in the blanks for you. Since you’ve got eyes and a brain, you’ve probably figured out that other worlds exist than our own. And since you saw our emblem on the first floor, and read Department of Otherworld Rescue on it, you can surmise that we have means of going to said other worlds. We have teams and individuals, all of them highly specialized, whose sole purpose in life is to jump through portals to LF worlds and pull people like you, that is, people unceremoniously and involuntarily plucked from Earth, out of the fire and bring them back here for reintegration.”

Cole took sip of his coffee, which was cheap, burnt, and stale—just the way he was used to. “Slow down. LF worlds. What are those?”

“Lewis Field worlds. Worlds under the demesne of a governing body—not like a government, unless the government was an omniscient, omnipresent being with total control over everything that happened within its borders. And don’t get me started on that little big-brother rabbit hole.” Bricker shook his head. “No, Lewis Fields are monitored and enforced rules that overwrite what we would call physics. Sometimes by local deities, sometimes by an esoteric, formless system, that manages magic, monsters, and measures out rewards.”

“And there’s a lot of these worlds?” asked Cole.

“Hundreds that we’ve catalogued so far. And we can only log the ones that reach out and touch us. Sometimes that’s in the form of a random crossover. More often, it’s intentional. See, Earth is alone in the sense that it’s got no Lewis Field—at least, not anymore. Plenty of myths and legends of monsters and dragons and what-not in our past. Stories from antiquity of heroes capable of super-human feats. But since no one in living memory has ever seen the bones of a dragon or encountered a werewolf, they’re dismissed as myths. But LF Monsters don’t leave bones. You saw that, didn’t you?”

Cole thought back to the four-armed creature pinned beneath the tire of his M-ATV. “I think so, yeah. It started… melting…” something else occurred to him. “What did you mean when you said they contact us intentionally?”

Bricker leaned back in his chair, half-smile tugging up the corner of his mouth as he idly drummed his fingers on the second, much thicker packet on his desk. “Well, that’s where we come in. See, we may not have a permanent Lewis Field anymore. But some individuals can still attune to them.” Bricker held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Tiny portion of the population. We’re talking percent of a percent. But scale the population up to eight billion and that’s still a lot of people. Now these other worlds that reach out to us? They’re not nice places. Monsters, demons, sentient plagues. You name it they’ve got it. So they reach out in desperation, and they call these individuals—these kids—to them. See, usually it happens in the first four to seven years after puberty hits. And these otherworld summoners are much better at finding attuned individuals than we are.”

Cole tilted his head. “How does that help them?”

“Being bathed in a foreign LF field makes attuned Earth humans capable of some pretty amazing things. Things these otherworlds drool over—if they can survive. Usually? They don’t. Sometimes these worlds get a moonshot, but how is some kid who can’t even pass history class supposed to fight a demon king at the head of an army of horrors? They shouldn’t have to. And that’s why we send DOR Kickers to go get them. Then, in a few years, when Little Timmy is not only not dead, but is all grown up and a consenting adult with some relevant training, Uncle Sam offers him the chance to pay it forward. It’s dangerous work. But it’s work that needs doing. Because at the end of the day, these fucking assholes are abducting children and forcing them to fight wars. Our children. Our sons, daughters, brothers, sisters. Treating Earth’s high schools like rent-a-hero warehouses.” Bricker leaned forward and started to stab the top of his desk with an index finger, punctuating his words so forcefully Cole was surprised the director didn’t dent his desk. “And they can’t. God damn. Have ‘em.”

The director’s stoic, genial mask slipped a bit, letting Cole see a hint of the fire that lay beneath. But he quickly composed himself and spun the packet around.

“Your turnaround is a bit quicker than usual. But you’ve also already got combat experience, leadership experience, survival and evasion training, weapons training, the whole shebang: everything we look for in an ideal candidate for a DOR Kicker. Most importantly, you’re already attuned.”

Bricker reached into his pocket and pulled something out, flicking it over to Cole. Cole snatched it out of the air, and looked at the familiar, blue-tipped 5.56 round that must have come out of the magazine he’d found. As soon as it touched the casing, it started to glow with a faint blue light.

“You killed one, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Cole. “Yeah, we did. Took three mags, half a belt of 7.62 from the 240 on the Oshkosh, and it still didn’t die until we crushed it under the tire and I blew the top of its spine out.”

Bricker nodded along. “I’m not surprised. Those are tough bastards from a nasty little world—Kevlash—one we’re still trying to get a kid out of. It’s considered too dangerous for all but a handful of our most experienced Kickers. The fact you managed to kill one yourself with mundane equipment is really quite amazing. And the Goddess of Kevlash apparently agreed, because she gave you that bullet, and probably a little extra on the side. You feel anything after? Like you’d just dunked yourself in an ice bath?”

“Yeah,” said Cole, remembering the cold flash that he’d put down to nerves. “Yeah, I did.”

“Figured as much. And I’ll bet if we take you down to the lab and into the LF Field there, we’d be able to get some hard numbers on how much you improved. So we’re going to skip a few hurdles, and I’m going to ask you to join our little team.”

Bricker slid the packet over for Cole to take. Hesitantly, Cole picked it up and started reading the first page. It looked a lot like his recruitment paperwork for the Army, only with a lot of terms and names that looked more like they should have been in Lord of the Rings. He looked up at Bricker. “I just re-upped with the Army. I’ve still got three more years on my contract.”

The director waved the concern off. “Not an issue. Assignment here is just a permanent change of station as far as DoD personnel are concerned. Several of our Kickers are active duty. A handful of soldiers, some marines, and a pair of sailors. Soon to be three, hopefully.” He tapped his chin. “No airmen, though. You’ll even accrue rank while you’re here and get automatic advancement when you reach time-in-rate. Hell, you can even go back to the Airborne when you’re finished.”

Cole poked the elephant in the room. “And if I said no…?” he asked.

“Well then you’ll be going back to the Airborne a whole lot sooner. I’m sure your unit will be glad to have you and I’ll wish you a long, uneventful, monster-free career.” Bricker raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “We’re a volunteer force, son. Our whole mandate is preventing the exploitation of unwilling participants. I hope you weren’t expecting a black bag and a bullet to the head if you had the audacity to exercise your right to refuse.”

“What about Gillis and Brennan?”

“We’ll check them for attunement as well, but my guess is that neither of them are LF keyed, or the reward for that demon would have been split. And they also would have walked out of the transit pit instead of being wheeled.”

Bricker checked his watch and pushed his chair back, prompting Cole to stand as well. “Shit, I’m late for the Kevlash debrief. Look, Cole. I’m not asking you to decide right now. You’ve just been through a traumatic combat event with an enemy you were never trained to fight. Take a day. Hell, take a week if you want. Talk to some of the other recruits. Talk to the shrink, if you want. Go out in town and get a steak. Just swing by the armory and check your firearms in before you go to billeting or they’ll pitch a fit.”

“Sure,” said Cole. He grabbed his vest and helmet before drawing his rifle sling over top.

Bricker extended his hand. Cole took it.

“One last thing, sir,” said Cole, still holding the handshake.

“Shoot.”

“When I was younger, my folks and my older brother were in a wreck.”

Bricker’s stare flattened. “And?”

“They recovered my parents. My brother Ryan’s body was never found. He would have been sixteen. Is it possible…?”

The director was quiet for a moment. His hand twitched, and Cole released his grip and Bricker smoothed his suit jacket.

“I started this department fifteen years ago. Even then, it was another two years before we could accurately track abductions. We don’t have any tracking data before that, so I can’t say one way or the other. LF attunement isn’t hereditary. But the chances of being attuned are markedly higher if a sibling is attuned. I don’t want to give you false hope. Want my advice? You laid your brother to rest and made peace with that. Let him rest.”

Bricker followed him out. “Remember how you got in?”

“Well enough,” said Cole. He called up the elevator.

“Good man. Read that contract. Think on it,” said Bricker. He offered a quick salute and ducked back into his office, closing the door.

Cole stepped into the elevator and punched the first floor. He leaned back against the wall and puffed out a deep breath. God, what a mad world. Worlds, apparently. Magic and monsters and Lewis Fields, oh my. But if there was a chance, even the slightest, percent of a percentest chance that Ryan was out there somewhere… if there was any sign. Hell, even demons better get out of his way.

The elevator dinged on the first floor, and a thought occurred to Cole.

How did he know the wreck was more than fifteen years ago?

Chapter 6 – Considerations

Bricker closed the door to his office, smiling to himself. A soldier that had taken on a Kevleshian heart-eater demon. The fact that he’d used an assault rifle, a mounted machine gun and a 12-ton armored vehicle to do so was immaterial. If anything, that spoke to his resourcefulness. But that wasn’t the only reason Colton had his attention.

His assistant came back from his office, carrying the NDA to put in the safe.

“Thank you, Ms. Mary,” he said.

She pursed her lips and hemmed to herself. “Was that wise?”

Bricker shrugged, sauntering over to sit on the edge of Mary’s desk. It creaked under the weight he’d added to his frame after retiring from field work. “I didn’t lie to the kid. We don’t have the data.”

“But an attuned sibling having a brother go missing in the target age bracket? What are the odds he wasn’t? What if he was… you know?”

Bricker worried at his beard for a moment. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Hell, we might have missed Colton just based on it being his mother’s maiden name. Southern states were never the best at record keeping, you know.” He stood, checking his watch again. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and this is just the signal fire we need to get a foothold. For now, pull up the missing persons reports from Georgia. Let’s see if we can figure out how we missed young Cole.

                          *

Cole walked out the front of Lewis Hall, freshly printed cleared visitor badge on a cheap lanyard around his neck and reiterated instructions from the security desk to check his weapon in at the armory. Apparently, only perimeter security were allowed to have firearms outside the ranges and the staging area. This was confirmed once again when he tried to visit Gillis and Brennan at medical and was refused entry until he handed his firearms over to the quartermaster.

Reluctantly, he made his way to the armory that Bricker had pointed out and badged in. The cold interior being chilled by overhead ventilation bleeds felt even more so because of the arctic-white tiling and fluorescent lights lining the entrance. It didn’t help that it was Summer in Virginia, so the exterior was about as hot and humid as a sauna. He took a moment to let the air con dry his trickle of sweat before making his way across the deck to a secure door next to a window that his badge didn’t open. Unsurprising, but worth a shot. He hit the buzzer next to the door, and a heavy-set ginger man, even paler in the wane lighting, leaned out the window.

The man looked at his uniform and his eyes widened. “Oh, hey! You must be one of the Army kids they pulled out. What’s your name?”

“Sergeant Colton,” said Cole, extending his hand. “Or Cole.”

The quartermaster took his hand and shook it vigorously, grinning with the joy that only someone who works without enough company in a big, cold building could muster. “Cole, welcome to the DOR compound. I’m Jefferson—Jeff when Director Bricker isn’t around. Checking in?”

Cole nodded and started to unstrap his lanyard. Jeff waved him off. “Nah, hold up. It’s cold as balls up front. I’ll buzz you through. Condition 4, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Jeff pointed to a clearing barrel on the opposite side of the interior door. Cole walked over to it, putting his muzzle in the barrel so he could drop his magazine and remove his chambered round, then repeated the process with his sidearm. The door alarm buzzed, and Jeff swung it open from the other side.

“Come on in!” he said.

Cole followed Jeff back behind the front desk and through a set of swinging doors to the armory. He’d expected ordered racks of M4’s and lockers. But the wall above the workbenches looked more like a firearms museum that would make any collector drool. Modern rifles, classic pieces, dozens of pistols, and a lot of weapons that Cole didn’t even recognize. The next wall looked more like a medieval display, filled with swords, axes, clubs, bows, and shields. Another security door was set into that wall, and through the wire-glass window Cole could see an RPG and an old anti-tank rifle.

“Holy Christ,” said Cole, looking around. “Where has this place been all my life?”

Jeff grinned. “Not exactly your standard stock, eh? Most of this stuff belongs to the Kickers.”

“Be honest, you just brought me back here to show all this off.”

“Guilty.” Jeff held out his hand for Cole’s M4, taking it and locking the bolt back with practiced hands before setting it on his workstation, then doing the same with his sidearm. After Cole handed over his magazines, Jeff set it all aside and looked contemptuously at his computer. “I hate using the Army CIF system. This may sound like a stupid question after what you just been through, but you got your CAC on you?”

Cole nodded. Luckily, his common access card was safe in his wallet and had come with him from Syria.

“You can leave your MSV kit here, too, if you want. No one will mess with it and the armory is always manned.”

Cole walked over to a thick window next to another set of doors that warned Ear protection, Eye protection required beyond this point. The window overlooked an indoor range that must have been primarily underground. But instead of paper or steel targets, black silhouettes looked to be stenciled on cement highway barriers, many of which had sizable holes in them. Jeff joined him at the window, hands behind his back. “That’s the LF range. The field generator isn’t active now, but the Kickers test and practice with their pulls there.” He gave Cole a sidelong glance. “Deadlight checked in the magazine you pulled earlier so you must be field-attuned. You thinking of wearing the mantle?”

Cole shook his head. “No idea. This is all a bit much. And honestly, the fact that I don’t feel crazy about this stuff being real makes me feel like I ought to feel crazy, you know?”

Jeff laughed. “Ah, the malleability of a young mind. Enough reality already rotted away from video games and YouTube to make room for all this without snapping,” he said, indicating the contents of the armory. “Or maybe you’ve gone loco and they’ll 86 you at medical. Who’s to say?”

Cole grinned. “Maybe I already was. I was at war before all these demons barged in, you know. One I already couldn’t talk about.”

Jeff clapped the side of his shoulder. “Now you’re getting it. Well, if you do sign on, you’ll be seeing me again. I’ll make sure you’re squared away for Curahee.”

“Curahee?”

Jeff waved him off and pointed to a row of lockers. “Our version of Hell Week. Don’t worry about it for now. You’ve got a locker there, you can set the combo and leave any of your kit that you don’t want to drag to billeting. But you ought to get your linens, get some chow in you, and try to sleep off some of what happened.”

Cole walked over to the locker, seeing that one had already been marked Sergeant Colton, and followed the instructions for the electronic combo lock to set his own code before pulling off his vest and stowing it along with his helmet.

As he was leaving, Jeff handed him a receipt for his firearms.

“In case you decide you want to go back to the Army. But you should consider joining the Kickers. There’s never enough people who can do this job. Not everyone can handle being on an otherworld team. The fact you pulled two guys out on your own, kept them safe… well, you’d be a natural. Think on it, will ya?”

Jeff buzzed Cole back out into the Virginia sun, now feeling substantially lighter without his weapons or his PPE. He still stood out, as no one else on the compound was in an Army uniform. That issue was taken care of, too, when he went to the billeting office and they handed him a stack of fresh bedding along with freshly laundered civilian slacks, skivvies, and a pair of button-down shirts along with the key to his temporary quarters.

The quarters themselves turned out to be a full apartment—a nice one. For every bit they scrimped and scraped on the government buildings, the quarters on the DOR compound seemed to have been lavishly furnished. It still had that government paint and the muted green and faux-leather color scheme, but the quality was a cut above anything he’d seen short of staff officer housing. In Bragg, he’d had a roommate in the barracks and been turned down twice for housing allowance for an off-base apartment. Here, there were even sealed toiletries in the bathroom, a TV, and a laptop connected to an unclassified network.

Cole ignored them for now and ran the shower, stripping out of his sweaty and blood-stained uniform and standing under the scalding hot torrent, forearms and forehead braced against the cool tile of the shower wall as the exhaustion hit him fully. Fifteen minutes later, he cut the water off, grabbed one of the towels, and collapsed on the bare mattress in the bedroom.

DOR Kickers, huh? He thought to himself. Yesterday he’d had everything planned out. Another year in the airborne, then he’d submit his packet for selection to the Green Berets. A few years after that? Probably an officer’s packet—leading a team. Hell, maybe even going Delta. Always climbing, always looking for the next challenge, the toughest challenge. He had the skills, had the drive, had the fitness and the range scores and the combat experience.

Now, this whole thing had turned his entire world, and by extension his plan for how to live in it, completely on its damn head. But traveling to other worlds? Fighting demons and monsters and leveling up like a friggen video game? There was a challenge. A mountain that few people would ever climb—only around fifty, currently, if he’d heard right. And a chance at growing not just in rank and responsibility, but in power that most people could only dream about. Plus that wall full of exotic weapons… talk about a playground. Cole didn’t trust Bricker when he said he didn’t know anything about Ryan, but he wouldn’t find answers back in Syria.

Despite his exhaustion, Cole forced himself back up, grabbing the recruitment packet and started to read.