HOURS.
WEDNESDAY, 17 AUGUST 2096.
FORT BENNING, GEORGIA.
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER THEY HAD GAINED WINGS.
From the training site in the forest all the way back from the chow hall, their slow-paced jog had lasted all day. Each passing second it was amplified by the blistering heat and the heavy gear they all wore as the class moved up a long hill. Mike had consistently scored average in all events, and thanks to his mediocre effort, he was excelling in the run. This unfortunately was garnering the attention of the lead cadre.
Fort Benning was churning like usual: duty drivers moved material and men, Military Police casually patrolled the streets, and the lower enlisted fell to the mercy of the specialists that ran the entire base. From the hill they were on, the men salivated at the sight of the Commissary, D-FAC, PX, and other commodities. For them, this wouldn’t be the last time they would have such a crushing mood. The average joe that didn’t volunteer to be a Ranger went about his day. And now even their instructors called them masochists every time they ran.
In both with being more rested than his fellow trainees, and with the ambition for food, Mike kept pace, nearly leading the class. Eventually the run would end, and they would fall into formation at the base of the hill.
“Alright listen up!” The lead cadre announced, “You all have two weeks left of selection, run back to the barracks, and be presentable for inspection. After that, you will be dismissed.”
To the growling sensation in his stomach, Mike let out a frustrated groan as the rest of the Rangers present tore into the trainees making them all jump from where they stood. Still at the head of the formation, the Private First Class found himself continuing to run.
This time, he had the motivation to get home and eat the crackers he had tucked away in his mattress.
0700 HOURS.
WEDNESDAY, 17 AUTUMNSUS 2106-1411.
FORGOTTEN FOREST, GLACIES, YONDEL.
HIS EYES GENTLY OPENED TO THE WARMTH OF THE SUN. The beam of sunlight that had captured him held Mike tightly as his body fought against a wave of vertigo. His heart beat the inside of his chest as he tried to catch his breath; he couldn’t remember anything from after his squadron ended up in Peshawar. What had happened between then and now had faded. His memories remained blank as if they were wiped.
Brushing against his body, shards of golden wheat and green grass enveloped him as he stared at an orange sky. It’s… he closed his eyes as a migraine held his mind. The soft wind pushing the grass and keeping him cool amongst the sun calmed him and returned Mike to a state of peace. Reopening them and looking in his limited view, he was surrounded by evergreen and cedar trees. It reminded him of the distant forests that were in the state of Ohio or Texas, but it was nothing like what was in Pakistan.
He was supposed to be in that city…
…Yet the light was too bright, this morning sun.
He heaved as he barely pushed himself off the ground. With a quick glance around he began to crawl to a tree a foot away and soon enough he lowered himself against the bark using it to stabilize himself and collect his thoughts. What is this? He patted his plate carrier and his body finding that all his weapons and gear had remained attached to his body. Looking around once more Mike located his rucksack in the field next to where he woke up. This change of locale was… welcome.
Staring deep into the forest in front of him, Mike spotted a small animal wandering into his line of sight. It was hard to tell through the polarized visor over his eyes, but it looked like a wolf or deer that had wandered alone throughout the forest. The being stopped and turned its head towards Mike watching him with small eyes.
“You lost?” He asked, “Getting stuck out here alone is something you’re used too—I know that’s like.”
Letting out a violent cough, Mike began to throw up on the dirt and dead leaves next to him. Expelling the dinner he had in Peshawar; he kept on emptying his stomach’s contents until he couldn’t do anything but spit out piles of mucus and saliva. Managing to turn the opposite direction, his body fell to the ground, a trail of spit connected the ground to his slacked jaw until gravity pulled it loose. Keeping himself awake by staring at the animal, the sergeant felt relieved as it remained where it was. “Hungry?” He asked sarcastically. If this went on any longer, he would be defenseless and unconscious in the forest; a perfect welcome for the Reaper to pay him a visit.
Watching the being, Mike felt an ethereal energy appearing from it as it began to walk to him. It began to sprout icicles from its back as they formed into frozen wings that emitted permafrost to the surrounding shards of wheat and grass. Do you remember Mike paused as he listened to his own voice stuck in the confines of his mind. Reaching for his face, he deactivated his visor and watched the being through the de-energized glass.
It was the size of a dog—like a wolf—and it watched him with bright hazel eyes as the ice surrounded its body forming a frozen shield.
Not hesitating, Mike withdrew his handgun and held it firmly with his right hand. He aligned the blocky sights with the monster at the center; his index finger instantly removed any slack from the trigger, and he exhaled letting the weapon fall still in the air.
“I’m not going to die here,” not when they all are watching me up there. Isn’t that right God? If the Reaper had sent an agent to take him to the beyond, this was going to be where he would conquer death. All the times others had their flames extinguished before him, all those that were no longer able to stand beside him—this was the pinnacle of the truth and what he would survive for—his sister would forever be waiting for him to return home, and his father would forever be praying that he would remain alive and live a life that was worth going through hell for.
His pistol was never placed on safe for that reason. Not when he was going to die.
The sudden discharge of a firearm made his vision shift to the left as he saw a human silhouette move amongst the greenery.
Looking back the wolf had vanished, the permafrost that once permeate the scattered field was gone.
“Dammit. C’mon God.” Letting out a sharp breath he holstered his rifle and picked up his rifle as he pressed the magazine release ensuring that he had a full load. Satisfied, he slammed it back into the weapon. Only then did he gently pull back the bolt; seeing brass he smiled. He only looked away for a mere moment as he activated his visor.
If there were hostiles out there—within this unknown place—a suicide mission would be placed before him…
This would be the third time he was alone.
He sat up as the figure came into clear view. Amongst the greenery a Ranger equipped himself and marched under the canopy shielding him from the light. He led with his rifle, and what remaining ammunition strapped to the pouches across his chest. Each step he took crushed dead leaves and small pockets of grass. Mud and dirt stuck to his coyote-tan boots, and the few rays of sunlight that kissed his tanned skin made him sweat.
Was there any hope of him escaping alive? No, there was little chance that U.S. or allied forces were nearby to signal for rescue. This was a matter of luck, and now his luck was being tested as the lone figure stopped behind a tree.
Widening his eyes, Mike looked down through the magnified sight on his carbine. He didn’t see any jihadist, terrorist, Russian, or allied trooper-
On a muted colored patch, 50 stars adorned a single shoulder. Aiming just slightly higher, the man smiled as he set his sights on the all-purpose camouflage synonyms with the average American G.I. Removing most of his hand from the pistol grip of his rifle, he used his right thumb and flicked the fire selector of his rifle to safe. Although minimal, the click of the selector made the unknown raise his head.
To the bottom right of his visor the squadron group was filled by a single occupant: SGT. MALKOVICH. W. R.
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“Star!”
“Texas!”
Remaining in place as he heard Mike kneeling against a tree, Malkovich let out a heavy sigh as he slowly turned around. “I’m surprised I haven’t ended up with a hole in my head!” He called out slowly scanning the tree line.
Mike let out a shallow laugh, “You synced up, sergeant?” He looked back at his heads-up display: TEAM SGT. – ACTIVE.
“I’m up, but we have no satellite coverage.” Malkovich nodded at Mike as he turned his left wrist over attempting to activate his transponder. “I got nothing. SATCOM is down, and we’re all alone.”
Mike arched an eyebrow.
“Are you sure?”
A distant whistle made his blood go cold. Snapping his rifle to where the noise came from, Mike remained still while his fellow sergeant dropped his pack opting to lay on the ground.
It was near impossible to immediately differentiate any foreign objects amongst the over-lush greenery of the forest. In between every bush, tree branch, and fallen leaf could have held a potential target.
“Are we?” Malkovich breathed.
There wasn’t an answer. They were already exposed when placed against the greenery. Though capable, their multi-purpose camouflage was used more often for friend or foe identification. Any more words that could be exchanged would telegraph their presence. Bluntly speaking, it was a crapshoot.
Malkovich breathed slowly as he watched the tree line through his red dot scope. His plate carrier was pressing into the side of his chest, and how he was holding his rifle—though stable—made the stock press uncomfortably on his cheek.
Two minutes into the silence, he spotted a silver glint amongst the greenery. He kept his body still peering down the optic with accounting eyes.
“Two hundred meters front. Seven unknowns.”
“Shit.”
“They’re heading our way.”
Shifting right, Mike slowly inched his finger over the trigger of his rifle. Outnumbered. Letting out a quiet hum, he rested his firearm on a small, broken branch in front of him providing him with a stable firing platform. Short bursts, center mass. Seven targets, two rifles, sixty bullets.
“You’re religious Mike. Got anything for the man up top?” Malkovich asked. He never looked away from his gun.
As he watched the approaching figures, Mike noticed that they wore an unusual amount of bright clothing. He couldn’t see them clearly, but the colors stood out like a sore thumb. If there was one thing, he could take away from this they weren’t Islamic terrorists or revolutionaries.
“If you present me with Satan’s legion, pray that they get to me first,” Mike coughed out.
Malkovich let out a sharp laugh, “Cold shit, Randall.”
They already delt their hands.
“Let’s try not to kill theses bastards immediately.” Malkovich looked above his rifle’s scope.
Falling into silence the two Rangers waited as the group grew closer. Each passing second it was clear that what they were facing was not of Pakistani origin, or if it was, it was out of place. There were no keffiyeh, shemagh, Russian-patented rifles, rusted trucks, or stolen western equipment. No, polished steel plates, crisp forged falcatas, royal garbs.
“What the fuck?”
Remaining silent, Mike slowly rose from the tree. They had already spotted him and Malkovich, and now it was only a matter of time before they were in direct contact. Through his raised rifle he saw no hostilities, but like the burning sensation he felt in his arms, they were just as tense. He had no worries about combat. Less they closed the distance to ten meters, it would be a minor challenge to put down seven individuals armed with nothing but blades.
“So, who goes first?” Malkovich finally turned his head.
“Is that a question, or do I have a choice?” Mike retorted.
Malkovich shrugged his shoulders, “You’re up, Mike.”
“You—motherfucker,” he wanted to curse out his counterpart.
This wasn’t anything like trying to communicate with NATO forces, Pakistani SSG, or the Islamic forces they encountered. This was first contact. Be it not from a species that came from the stars, or beings that came from the depths of Earth, but that of another sect of humans.
Standing up and moving through the taller portion of grass that surrounded where he laid, Mike was able to fully see the group. Three medieval knights, two scholars, a woman, and an old man.
Raising his gloved left hand, the Ranger stood before the ensemble. Those before could easily identify the object he held as a weapon. Even if they didn’t, a mere glance at his disposition would’ve pegged him as a soldier or warrior. Noticing the soldiers present having their hands resting on their swords, Mike slowly and gently lowered his carbine. Anything he did could be seen as hostile, and now was not the time to engage the unknown contacts, not when they had a chance at helping himself and Malkovich.
Though he doubted anything they could do.
“Who are you, can you identify?” Mike asked brusquely.
Slowly removing his hands from the sword on his hip, the most senior soldier opened his mouth, but he was cut off as the elder behind him grabbed his arm. “Dear Holy Knights, we must implore that you seek refuge with us.”
Modern English? Mike felt his eyes widen; the man had a wary voice. It was not that of a great elder, one that held immense knowledge, but it reminded both Rangers of a feeble old man, one that was unfamiliar with a new world.
“Great Sage!” The soldier warned
Mike eyed the two other men preparing to draw their blades. Why the hostilities?
“We are United States Army Rangers, what country are we in?”
“Yondel. The Kingdom of Yondel.”
“Okay, bullshit.” Malkovich said rising from the ground keeping his rifle raised.
He saw a glint of silver. Within moments, the blades were removed from their scabbards.
“Stand down! Stand down!” Mike barked. He said turning around and waving his hands at Malkovich.
“Knights, please!”
“Step back Great Sage!” The lead soldier boomed as he leveled the point of his falcata at the foreigners.
“Hey, hey! Lower the sword. I will shoot your ass!” Malkovich responded.
“Jesus!”
A series of rash decisions led to this; as the senior soldier lunged forward, poised to stab mike, turned around in a hurry and tripped over himself as he fought to raise his weapon. His sling got caught on his head and jolted the rifle down and to the left. As his body scraped against the grass, bark, and branches below, he slammed the trigger back. Thunder struck the forest thirteen times in total.
Wound cavities had opened in the soldier. His armor was bent inwards, large gaping holes permeated the protection it was supposed to provide. Within seconds, blood began to seep through the garments he wore and out the entrance and exit wounds. Losing all strength in his body, the man crumpled to the ground, a stray hand bothering to hover over his fatal wound, staining them and encrusting them in blood.
In awe at what they had just witnessed, the two remaining soldiers remained frozen, as the Great Sage stood petrified. By this time, Malkovich had already moved to the side of the group creating an L shape between him and Mike. Were they to try anything else, there would be a crossfire ensuring that their deaths would remain swift.
“Enough!”
Stepping to the forefront, the woman took command.
Mike could only stare at her. Pristine white skin. Silver hair with scattered lines of brown. Though her attire, that was nothing more than a white blouse and long brown skirt, made her appear like any normal person, yet she held an ethereal aura, one that separated her from the normal chaff. Peering down at the fallen sergeant, her gentle brown eyes shared pity. The blood of her comrade laid just below her boots and dared touch the ends of her skirt.
“Who are you?” Mike asked. Not sure of how or what to make of this, he placed his left hand into the ground and held his rifle steady as he placed it by his hip and exchanged magazines briskly.
She tilted her head to the right. A storm of sunlight broke through the cloud cover, painting the forest gold.
“I am Lecca-Maradel Emma Arish. The first-born princess.” She answered, curtsying as a formality.
Holding his tongue, Mike looked behind the woman. The glassy eyes of one of the youngest soldiers, it reminded him of his older sister. Did I fail you again? Fighting against every fiber in his body he forced his rifle down. This was not the time…
“The king has requested your audience. Your fellow brothers have been escorted to Glacies.”
Breaking eye contact and turning to his fellow sergeant, Mike watched as Malkovich slightly lowered his rifle. His fellow sergeant watched the group through his visor and upon letting out a shallow breath, he flashed a green signal on Mike’s visor.
“Okay, okay. We’ll do things your way.”
Forming a somber smile, the Princess Arish took a step forward. Mike slowly rose from the ground and stood over her unsure of what to do.
Shifting her gaze from the man’s striking face to his right shoulder, the princess curiously gazed at Mike’s Ranger tab and unit scroll.
Alright buddy, what have you gotten us into? Mike let his shoulder sag as his rifle hung by the single point sling across his chest.
Publicly Available Information: Profile Database 2: Oliver Thompson:
Oliver Thompson is a current Captain (O-3) in the United States Army and is a current squadron leader within the infamous 75th Ranger Regiment. He has taken the mantle of responsibility as a leader and his primary job is to keep his squadron connected and in line with other units supporting the regiment.
Born and raised in Ramstein Airforce Base, Germany, Oliver grew up as a military brat with his then father working as a plane engineer within the USAF. His mother was of Austrian decent and his father of Korean descent giving him a distinct place amongst his fellow soldiers within the army. He is both fluent in German, and Korean and often finds himself traveling to either country during holiday tours or for family affairs. He is married to one Jane Rhodes and is currently expecting his first two children, twins to be exact.
Oliver drifted in and out of white-collar jobs before finding his wife which gave him a new purpose. Commissioning into the army straight out of college, Oliver would go on to gain credit amongst his superiors for his direct and by-the-books thinking which helped him get promoted rapidly during the sudden UN-African conflict that emerged no less than three years after his commissioning. During the war, he was rotated back to the United States and was sent to RASP by his company commander where he excelled within his element as an officer within the training and he was soon transferred to the 75th Ranger Regiment. Deploying alongside then 2nd Lieutenant Andrew Devlin and PFC Mike Randall, he would often find himself inside some of the worst hot zones within Central Africa leading to his company taking severe casualties near the end of the war.
Not shortly after the war, Oliver was then promoted to major but was shortly deranged to captain. The war had taken many lives, and Oliver got lost in the bureaucratic mess in Washington DC, and he would be downgraded in responsibility as a squadron leader during the Pakistan Insurgency movement in 2106.
Unbeknownst by most in his company, Oliver became very bitter and temperamental after his tours in Africa. Though he often keeps a stoic and leader-like mask on, he often lets his true thoughts and intentions slip during the most intense and dangerous of situations. Oliver is a man that has seen it all and done it all. He is the embodiment of an unstoppable force and will do anything to achieve mission results, even if it costs him his life. He will only stop himself if there is a friendly mass-casualty event. Such events have led to him developing questionable thoughts towards those in authority within the United States Government, and his wavering allegiance to those who stroke pens for a living has been noted by his immediate superiors but not much beyond that.
If an opportunity presents itself, Oliver will begrudgingly help whoever will help him get to his next mission. His teammates look up to him for his unwavering tenacity, something he finds to fuel his miniscule ego.
Oliver Thompson is a known drinker, but he can somehow stave off the effects of withdraw.