Chapter 8 - Kitted Out

  “I’ve got a standard pack kitted out for you,” said Jefferson. “Got your tent, hatchet, firestarter, meal bars, hydration pack, purification tabs, poncho, AIFAK, additional anti-bacterials and anti-fungals—make sure you hold onto those—flashlight, field repair kit, field recharger, paracord, duct tape, NODs, LF analyzer, and a few other things. Check the inventory list.” Jefferson clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now, let’s get to the fun stuff. Let’s talk weapons.”

  Cole’s eyes slid to the armament wall with the collection of exotic weapons. “As much as I want to be greedy, I know my M4 system, and a few more magazines of that electric ammo would go a long way.”

  Jefferson raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t no one told you how the LF keying works? You can’t use someone else’s loot if you weren’t in the world when it dropped.” He held his hand to the wall. “None of them will work for you, least not with the LF enhancements that make it worth dragging around a 30-pound otherworld grenade launcher. There’s one other way to get an otherworld armament keyed, though.

  “How’s that?” asked Cole.

  “If you kill the person it’s already keyed to,” He ran a hand over his head. “I guess they really are throwing you in the deep end. Just know that the modern assault rifle may not be the great equalizer you’re used to it being. Anyway, unless you’re dead-set on your M4, I got a few other options.”

  “Something wrong with the M4?” Cole asked. Then considered. “Other than the fact one of those heart-eaters took 30 shots from one without flinching?”

  Jefferson tapped his finger on his nose. “Now you’re getting it. 5.56 is a great round for what it was made for. But out there, a little bit more oomph goes a long way. I can give you a 7.62 SCAR, if you want to try that on for size. Or I’ve even got M7 rifles with the new composite ammo. And those things pack a hell of a punch.”

  “And weigh a ton,” said Cole. “I’ve got a buddy in the 101st who says his is close to 14 pounds loaded, and unreliable as all hell. I might as well take a SAW at that weight.”

  Jeff laughed. “An M249 isn’t a bad choice if you’re married to 5.56. But that’s because you’ll be firing off 100-round belts. That weight might not be an issue soon enough, either. Hmm… tell you what…”

  The armorer rubbed his chin and ducked into his workshop, coming out a moment later with a rifle that looked like an M4, but with a longer magazine well and thicker barrel. A low-power variable optic was mounted on a cantilever sight atop the rails.

  “An AR-10?” asked Cole.

  “Good eye. Now I know some of the infantry types are squeamish about ‘civilian’ rifles, so it won’t hurt my feelings none if you don’t want it. But before you say shit, know that this is my personal AR-10, and so that bit about not hurting my feelings was a damn lie.” Jeff handed the rifle over.

  “Nah, it’s not like that,” said Cole. He checked the chamber to make sure it was clear before taking a closer look at the setup. “I’ve built a few ARs myself. They’re like Legos for gun nuts. My AR-15 is chambered in .450 Bushmaster. Use it for feral hogs on my Granddad’s land.”

  “Well this one is chambered in 7.62 NATO, like the SCAR, only it’s about two-thirds the weight. Sixteen-inch barrel, cobalt suppressor, premium trigger.”

  “Uh huh,” said Cole. “I also notice it’s got a three-position safety. Full auto sear?”

  “Don’t go tellin’ Johny Law,” said Jeff, winking. “Like I said, this is my personal rifle and there’s about three thousand dollars worth of gun in your hands, so you’d better not die and lose it over there.”

  Cole shouldered the weapon and felt the grip in his hands, snug against his palm thanks to grip tape and a hand stop a third of the way down the handguard. The controls were all identical to his M4, and the optic was clear and crisp. “Zero?”

  “Thirty-six yards, did it right here on our range. And you’ll be firing these.”

  Cole lowered the rifle and looked over, where Jeff was holding a round that had what looked like serrations spiraling out from the tip.

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  “Most monsters and demons are resistant to armor-piercing rounds. Something in their makeup acts like natural reactive armor to high-velocity penetrators like M855. But slashing with swords opens them right up, and that’s why we’ve got these.”

  Cole whistled. “Nasty.”

  “One of these would turn your feral hog into sliced ham, skip the butcher entirely. So what do you think?” asked Jeff.

  “I think you’ve got a lot of faith to send another man out with your wife,” said Cole.

  Jeff roared with laughter. “Well that did cost as much as her ring, didn’t it? Bricker seems to think you’ve got the juice, and he’s never far off the mark. I’ll get your six plus one sorted, and we’ll put a few rounds in at the inert range so you can verify. After that, you’re on your own. You ever done Kendo or Fencing?”

  “No sir. Track and field. Javelin and cross-country. And some kickboxing.”

  “How about baseball?”

  Cole nodded. “Some little league.”

  “I’ll get you a club, then. Simplest melee weapon known to man. And before you say anything, yes, you will need it.”

  Cole thought back to Roxy’s advice, and then to the padded Kali sticks they’d used to brutalize each other at advanced individual training after Basic. “How about two?”

  * * *

  A half hour later, Cole stood on the concrete pad outside the portal pit building with a half-dozen other armed and armored individuals, including Roxy and Bart, who he recognized, and a handful of others as well as a working dog in a kevlar harness—a boxer with those droopy jowls and square face. Cole was pretty sure, anyway. Most of the others, Cole felt he could guess after Roxy’s descriptions. Bricker wasn’t present, but one of the Kickers he’d seen at the portal in Kevlesh gave a speech about keeping their heads on during the transition as she handed out one extra piece of kit to all of the hopefuls: a flare gun.

  “I’ll be proctoring this tryout,” said the woman. “You either make it to the top of the mountain, or you fire off that flare and Mama Morganstern—that’s me—will come pull the washed-up failure—that’s you—out of the frying pan.”

  Cole half-listened, eyeing the other recruits. Nona was easy to spot, as the only other woman besides Roxy. She had short, blonde hair and eyes that darted around as if she was scared to look at one thing for too long. Howie was easy, too, a lanky acne-scarred man with a high-and-tight marine cut trying to lever his pack around to stow the flare gun. There was a stocky Pacific Islander man in a foreign uniform from maybe the Philippines, who Cole assumed to be Han and who looked to be at least twenty-five and maybe as old as thirty. Two others stood off to the side, neither making an effort to talk to anyone. One of them, a tall man in a camo boonie cap, had the military working dog with him. The other carried an AR pattern rifle with a sixty-stack drum and wore outdated forest camo fatigues. Roxy hadn’t mentioned a dog, so blind odds for which one was Besson and which was Ken.

  “The first thing you will do, upon reaching your drop points is take out your LF analyzer to measure yourself. Once you have verified to me that you are attuned to Curahee’s Lewis Field, you will be left on your own. Curahee sucks. But it is your opportunity to gain levels, pull some otherworld armaments, and earn some dough before joining the rest of the Kickers on real missions. Do not squander it by dying or sprinting to the end. After 3 days, a portal will begin to open in a prominent location at the top of the mountain. It will do so every hour, on the hour, for five minutes.”

  Morganstern looked around at each of the recruits. “There is no sick call in Curahee. There are no medivac choppers on standby, and there is certainly no trauma center. There is no GPS, no 10-grid, there is no cell service, there are no radio repeaters, and no calls for indirect. This test is to determine if you, as individuals, have the skills necessary to navigate and survive in an environment that lacks all the fancy integration toys of the twenty-first-century battlefield. Now grab your shit and get in the vehicle.”

  Cole leaned down, picking up his assault pack and slinging it into the bed of the light infantry squad vehicle before climbing up himself. He held out a hand, helping Bart first, and then the others one-by-one, starting with the marine.

  “Cole,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Howie,” said his opposite. He pulled Howie up next to him and moved to the next person, the Asian man in the foreign uniform. He grunted as he got up over the side of the vehicle and puffed out his cheeks from the exertion. “Hey, thanks for the leg up, bud.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Cole. “…Ken?”

  Ken grinned, “You psychic or somethin’? What number am I thinking of?”

  Just wondering if assuming you were the one who couldn’t speak English makes me kind of racist. Cole thought, somewhat chagrined.

  The actual Han came up next, a mid-twenties very white guy with a thick German accent, “Johann. Danke,” was all he said.

  “Cole. You’re welcome.”

  Nona, and presumably Besson ignored him. Besson whistled and pointed up the side of the vehicle. His dog scrabbled up and over the edge, tongue lolling out. Besson followed, focused entirely on his animal. Nona climbed up after, looking away from the rest of the group. The bell on the pit door trilled, and the steel slabs started to slide open. Morganstern cranked the engine and turned the vehicle around, driving just a couple of miles per hour as a compound security officer ground guided her in.

  Once the doors closed again behind them, Cole felt a buildup of potential energy and blinked as the room seemed to get brighter. In the pit, a mote of energy began to spark, expanding and brightening until it formed a ring.

  “If anyone wants out,” said Morganstern, “This is your last port of call. Show of hands, who wants to go home?”

  Not a single hand went up, and the Kicker chuckled to herself. Ahead, the glowing ring flashed, and Cole craned his neck as a sickly green disc materialized. Morganstern eased off the brakes and let the ISV roll down the slope and into the looming portal.