— Japanese Self-Defense Forces Instruction Manual 4.677
Shukenja Corps Policy and Procedure
The vehicle shuddered to a stop amid the hiss of the air brakes. The doors slid open, and two soldiers lowered a collapsible stair. Kwan hefted his briefcase and exited without another word.
“Time to start your new career,” said Harlequin, motioning Britton to the exit.
Thousands of brilliant stars winked at him from the cold night sky, outlining the tops of pine trees and a stretch of gravel road. Farther on, a Little Bird helicopter stood, rotors spinning up.
Britton accompanied Harlequin, the Suppressor, and one assaulter onto the bird. Kwan was already on board. They strapped in, and Harlequin held out the hood again. “Last time you’ll have to wear it. I promise.”
Britton shrugged and slipped it on himself as the helicopter lifted off.
He had no way to track how long they flew, but it felt like hours. Only the roar of the engine and the occasional unintelligible burst of static talk from the radio broke the quiet. The air intakes mere feet from his head drowned the pilots’ replies.
At long last, he felt the helicopter descend. Harlequin removed the hood, ushering Britton outside.
The rotors washed dust over him as the helo pulled skyward the instant its passengers had off-loaded. The dust gradually cleared, and Britton was able to make out a clearing.
The stars outlined a ring of tall trees enclosing three odd-looking tobacco barns. He thought of Nelson’s farm and gritted his teeth.
Apart from two run-down pickups, the space was bare. Two rifle-toting men leaned against the back of one of them. They were dressed to match the stereotype of New England farmers — denim overalls and flannel shirts, worn baseball caps with frayed brims; but their eyes were alert, veteran. They roved — lighting on Britton and moving on, searching for threats. Their guns were pointing at the ground in military fashion instead of slung over their shoulders. The huge scopes and black plastic stocks didn’t look like any hunting weapons he’d ever seen. A vigilant-looking German shepherd stood beside them, growling softly in the back of its throat.
Starlight bleached the area of color, cloaking all in gray shadow, but Britton could still make out the rough surface of the louvered clapboard slats, pulled shut against the cold night. It took him a moment to realize what was odd about the barns. The peaked roofs reared up past the treetops. Their length stretched out past his vision. He was no farm boy, but he’d been in rural Vermont long enough to know that no barn should be that big.
Harlequin led him to the first barn as a diamond-tipped breeze drilled between his shoulder blades. The Aeromancer flipped open a panel, produced a badge from his breast pocket, and swiped it, punching numbers into a keypad. A beep was followed by a click and a hiss of air.
The barn doors silently swung inward, then shut behind them, leaving them in darkness before harsh fluorescent lights flickered on. They stood in a featureless white room. Twin gray metal doors stood before them. Harlequin placed his hand on the knob, waiting a moment before another click sounded, and the doors swung open.
They entered a cavernous room humming with activity, lit by fluorescent globes suspended from the ceiling. The far end was taken up by rows of bunks and lockers and had an enclosed shower. A small kitchenette stood beside a lounge, dominated by a flat-screen TV. Soldiers relaxed on couches before it, playing video games and napping.
Two giant flags hung from the ceiling — The Stars and Stripes and the SOC arms, fringed in gold thread. Stitched across the Stars and Stripes were the words PORTCULLIS — US ARMY LOGISTICAL STAGING AREA. A desk stood beside the door, covered by computers and manned by a soldier who could have been the twin of the blonde Britton had seen in the vehicle in which he’d awoken.
“Hi, sir,” she said.
“Specialist,” Harlequin replied crisply. “Would you mind buzzing Don over here, please? We’ve got to get our guest here prepped and moved on.”
“Sir,” she said, picking up a black handheld radio from the desk and pushing the button on the side.
A moment later, a door at the far side of the structure opened and a smiling young man carrying a clipboard jogged over to them. He wore khaki cargo pants bloused into combat boots with a military web belt. A black compression shirt sported the Entertech logo with the words LOGISTICS OFFICER beneath.
“Oscar Britton, right?” he said, extending a hand and putting on one of the most corporately insincere smiles Britton had ever seen. “I’m Don, the logs officer here at LSA Portcullis. I’m also the admin officer for any Entertech internal matters. But I assume human resources has taken good care of you, and you’re ready to go, right?”
He clapped Britton on the shoulder, grinning. Britton looked back at him in silence.
“Don, if you’d dispense with the formalities, I’d appreciate it,” Harlequin said. “I need him to make a written statement, then the brass wants him suited up and off the Home Plane ASAP.”
The young man glanced at his watch and turned to the Suppressor standing behind Britton. “Sheesh, Plug. You’re about due for a break.”
Plug grinned and ran a finger around the collar of his uniform. “Hell, you know me, Don. I joined the army for that sweet overtime pay.”
Don chuckled. “Rampart! Would you please be so kind as to relieve your counterpart here before he drops dead?”
Engrossed in their video game, nobody on the couch moved. Yellow cars sprinted over a digital rise, accompanied by tinny rock music.
“Damn it, Lieutenant!” Harlequin shouted.
A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped brown hair stiffened and stood, letting his game controller fall to the couch. He turned, his rugged face sullen. He was clothed to match Don, save that his pants were digital camouflage. His T-shirt bore the SOC arms instead of the Entertech logo. The caption beneath read SUPPRESSOR above the armored fist clenching lightning bolts. A star above the badge marked him as senior in his school.
Rampart walked over and nodded to Plug. Britton felt the slightest flicker in the interdiction of his magic, his own tide surging at the momentary freedom, only to be blocked again.
“Got it,” Rampart said, folding his arms and moving behind Britton.
“’Bout damned time,” Plug responded, tugging at his uniform blouse and heading for the showers.
Harlequin nodded. “Let’s move it along and get him out of here.”
Don led Britton, Rampart, and Harlequin through a door at the far side of the room and down a short hallway to another massive room. The far end of the room contained a small firing range. One wall had been kitted out as an armory. Britton could see weapons lockers crammed with guns, ammunition, scopes, tripods, and other tactical gear. A soldier was cleaning a carbine at a small bench. ARMORER was written below the SOC arms over his breast. His enormous head looked mounted directly to massive shoulders. He worked with the bored efficiency Britton had come to associate with senior enlisted men.
Another set of double doors, painted white with diagonal red stripes, occupied the far wall. A yellow rotating light, dark for now, was mounted above them. A sign above read: RESTRICTED AREA — VISUAL INSPECTION OF CREDENTIALS REQUIRED—21-FOOT APPROACH ZONE RIGOROUSLY OBSERVED. DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY AND COMPLIANCE!
Two SOC Pyromancers stood in front of the portal, eyes alert, slung submachine guns across their breasts. Their body armor read — STATIC ELEMENT — pyro above stylized flame bursts. Britton arched his eyebrows at the tremendous expenditure of firepower to guard a single door.
The armorer glanced up with little interest before returning to his work. “Hey, James,” Don said, smiling, “would you mind kitting our newest hire here for immediate pack out?”
“Where’s he headed?” James asked, sounding bored.
“Load him for bear,” Harlequin cut in gruffly. “I need him to hit the ground ready to shoot.”
James looked up with one eyebrow arched, then picked up the newly assembled carbine. He checked the magazine well and the chamber before sliding the bolt home. “He already qualified?”
