Chapter 172. The Logistics Division (Patreon)

Saturday greeted me with a bitter Washington wind. A new calendar day meant another official duty station on my packed schedule. This time, an electronic directive from the Department of Defense ordered me to report to the Federal Emergency Management Agency–Portal, or simply FEMA-P.

Within the Corps hierarchy, the agency occupied a dual role. Its operational units were the first to arrive at the site of any spatial breach in a civilian area, where they deployed mobile concealment domes and imposed a strict information blackout to shield ordinary civilians from panic. Once P-SWAT teams had cleared the inner perimeter of alien combatants, FEMA-P logistics personnel entered the Portal and organized the complete extraction of captured alien flora and fauna, surviving weapons, and extraterrestrial soil. It was essentially a large-scale cleanup and strategic asset recovery operation.

I buttoned my dress uniform, the Bronze Star with a V device gleaming dully on my chest. My inner accountant regarded the uniform as a preemptive investment. An impeccable appearance befitting a combat officer would take the wind out of my new colleagues' and superiors' sails from the outset, earning me a measure of authority and ensuring a healthy dose of professional courtesy from everyone around me.

Once again, I had to take a cab to the facility. Much to my displeasure, my high-performance Buell Hammerhead 1190 was still nothing more than a mangled heap of scrap metal, courtesy of Dillon. Until Monday's review board meeting, where I fully expected to receive compensation for the damage, my transportation options remained severely limited.

Back when I had my sport bike, I could activate hyperfocus, merge into traffic, and weave between cars and down narrow side streets at speeds approaching three hundred miles per hour, reaching any government facility within the District of Columbia in a matter of minutes. The motorcycle saved me an enormous amount of time, which I could put to good use overseeing the barracks or working out. And now? I had to factor in the possibility that my cab driver might turn out to be a slow-witted idiot or get hopelessly stuck in morning traffic on a bridge. As a result, I had to rearrange my schedule and cut short the training sessions for my P-SWAT personnel.

The only tiny silver lining in my current predicament was the back seat of the cab. With my headphones on, I could shut out the driver, slip into hyperfocus, and study the classified intelligence files Leon had discreetly passed along to me. My insane schedule, which ran from four in the morning until late at night, left me no other choice. I had to make efficient use of every single free second.

The yellow sedan slowed to a stop beside the facility's outer concrete perimeter. In that same instant, I snapped out of my learning trance and returned to reality. The video detailing the protocols for identifying and remotely disarming alien laser mines froze on the screen.

My frontal lobes immediately responded with their familiar thermal spasm. Even forty minutes of accelerated study of complex engineering specifications put considerable strain on the blood vessels in my brain. Following my established routine, I unzipped the insulated cooler, took out a serving of ice-cold mint ice cream, and brought the overheating under control in seconds. With a dry snap, the cleaned wooden stick went into the disposal pocket built into the car door.

"Have a wonderful day, sir! It was an honor to give a hero a ride," the elderly driver said, turning toward me with genuine reverence.

I gave him a restrained nod and stepped out of the car. I was genuinely relieved that he had at least refrained from getting out and attempting an awkward military salute. Whenever complete strangers started snapping to attention at the sight of my uniform, I felt an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and misplaced shame. But my brain chemistry quickly washed away those destructive emotional fluctuations like a powerful antiseptic, restoring my mind to a state of sterile clarity.

The cab pulled away, leaving a faint bluish trail of exhaust fumes on the asphalt. The empty access road was now occupied by only two things: me and a full-fledged military base.

The sight made my analytical module freeze for a moment. I took out my smartphone and checked the address in my official assignment letter from FEMA-P once more. The coordinates were correct. According to my internal classification of the Corps, there were only two fully operational combat units: the P-SWAT teams and the P-EAR reconnaissance personnel. Since FEMA-P was responsible for evacuations and cleanup operations, I had expected to find gray barracks housing construction crews, warehouses full of heavy equipment, or maintenance garages. The reality was considerably more impressive.

I approached the security checkpoint, held the individual QR code from my electronic directive against the laser scanner, and waited for the metallic click confirming the lock had disengaged. The heavy steel gate swung inward, granting me access to the facility.

I took a step forward, and a sudden wave of nostalgia hit me like a slap.

A dark-skinned teenager wearing thick-framed glasses was waiting for me on the concrete walkway just beyond the security perimeter. It was Nick. Nicholas Thompson himself, the quiet, awkward kid who had arrived at the training camp with me three months earlier. The last time we'd seen each other was at graduation. I'd passed every subject with top marks, while Nick had been sent back for a retest after failing the physical fitness assessment.

He had barely changed since I'd last seen him. The same hunched posture, the same nervous finger movements. The only difference was that he'd traded his standard-issue field uniform for a bulky, obviously expensive pilot's jacket made of heavy leather, complete with a thick fur collar. Paired with his tight little curls, the oversized aviation gear looked downright ridiculous. It was obvious that he was still the same unassuming nerd, but today he'd clearly gone out of his way to dress up for our reunion.

"Nicholas Thompson?" I asked, observing the usual formalities, even though I'd already recognized him. "What brings you here?"

"I've been waiting for you, Tom." A shy but genuine smile spread across his face. But the moment his eyes settled on my immaculate dress uniform, lieutenant's insignia, and Bronze Star, he faltered. His Adam's apple bobbed nervously. He straightened abruptly and cleared his throat. "I mean... good afternoon, sir!"

"Save the formalities for ministry inspections, Nick." I drew my eyebrows together slightly, noting his nervous posture. "We came from the same training program. Let's just talk like equals."

"Yeah, you're right... Thanks, Tom." He visibly relaxed, exhaled, and adjusted his glasses as they slipped down his nose. "It's good to see you. Let me bring you up to speed and show you around. There's a lot to see here."

I gave a brief nod and turned to survey my surroundings. Behind FEMA-P's unassuming agency sign stood a first-class, heavily fortified military airfield designed for tactical operations. Enormous corrugated steel hangars stretched along an endless runway paved with perfectly laid concrete. Beside the open doors of one hangar, a massive Lockheed C-5 Galaxy military transport aircraft was warming up its engines. All across the apron, crews of mechanics and technicians in brightly colored safety vests moved back and forth, pushing heavy carts loaded with aviation tools. The metallic clatter of their equipment echoed across the grounds.

The entire facility radiated the relentless energy of military logistics. FEMA-P clearly had access to far greater technical resources than P-SWAT.

"So they assigned you to FEMA-P?" I asked as I walked at an unhurried pace between the massive concrete walls of the aircraft hangars.

"Yeah. They transferred me here right after I cleared the training Portal." Nick walked beside me, struggling to keep up with my long strides and taking comically quick little steps. "The Corps' computer system gave me only two options: logistics or assault troops. Naturally, I picked the first one. Life's too precious."

"That's a rational choice. P-SWAT isn't exactly popular with new recruits these days," I observed calmly. My face remained an impassive mask. Not a single muscle twitched, not even the slightest flicker of expression betraying my profound disappointment at what Dillon had turned the reputation of my primary base into. "Still, I'm surprised to find you in the transportation division, Nick. I thought you'd end up in the research department, working with the engineers or biologists. I remember how you used to ask unconventional questions about the origins of spatial anomalies during our theoretical lectures at the camp. Miss Langstrom even praised your curiosity in front of the entire class."

"Turns out being obsessed with sci-fi comics isn't enough to get you into a research lab." Nick sheepishly ran a hand through his curly hair. "Those positions go to seasoned scientists with years of experience and dozens of published papers, or Awakened with highly specialized abilities that can advance research by years. I don't have a degree or the right kind of power."

"You're only sixteen. Your whole life is ahead of you," I said, offering some advice without sounding overly preachy. I noted his drooping shoulders. "What's stopping you from hitting the books and earning a college degree?"

"Come on, what chance do I have?" Nick glanced toward the runway, where a heavy Hercules transport aircraft was coming in for a landing. "I was never much of a student, even in regular school. My grades were a little above average, nothing special. And with all the chaos surrounding my recruitment into the Corps, I'm already almost six months behind the standard school curriculum."

"Get yourself some qualified tutors and catch up with your peers. You've got a steady, substantial monthly paycheck now, and you're free to spend it however you see fit," I remarked casually, catching a sudden spark of interest in his eyes behind his glasses. "Of course, it's your money, and only you get to decide where to invest it. I'm simply pointing out that the Corps' algorithms track every employee's efforts at self-improvement and intellectual contributions to the organization. If you just go with the flow and put in your hours, you'll still be a sergeant when you're old and gray. Finish college, and the system will automatically generate your promotion orders."

"Holy crap... I'd never thought about it that way." The kid looked up at the overcast Washington sky. "But I'm not sure, Tom... I'm not sure I'll have enough time to keep up with school and my duties without one suffering."

"Walk me through your schedule and the specifics of your current duties. What exactly do you do here?"

"Oh, right! I'm supposed to give you an orientation and show you how everything works." Nick cleared his throat nervously, slipping back into his role as tour guide. "Look, FEMA-P is divided into two main areas of operation. The first is emergency concealment of Portals that open in civilian areas. The second is the complete extraction and evacuation of everything inside them. The first part is usually handled by the local authorities in whatever state the Portal appears. We send one senior coordinator to oversee the operation. Their job is to secure the perimeter, sort out the legal issues with the terrified mayor, nip any panic in the bud, and coordinate with the local police."

"Then it's safe to assume that routine falls outside our current responsibilities," I said. It was not a question.

Considering that my schedule allotted this department only six hours a week, FEMA-P would never waste my time on lengthy trips across the country just so I could make small talk with civilian officials.

"Exactly, Tom. Everyone else in our division is directly involved in extracting biological material from Portals that have already been cleared and declared safe." Nick stopped and tapped his palm against the corrugated metal of the enormous doors to Hangar Four. "All the equipment you see around here, the heavy cargo platforms, military transport aircraft, industrial chainsaws, hydraulic drills, pruning shears, and heavy excavators, it's all part of our toolkit. We use it to cut, dismantle, and haul out anything of scientific or military value from an anomaly zone as quickly as possible."

"And what exactly is your role in all this? Do you spend your days wielding a screwdriver and a chainsaw, too?"

"Fortunately, no." Nick smiled slightly, with a touch of well-earned pride.

At that very moment, his silhouette on the gray concrete underwent a bizarre transformation. His shadow suddenly expanded in an unnatural fashion, spreading into a perfectly solid black square several yards across.

"I use my own spatial shadow pocket. My ability lets me absorb enormous sections of alien soil in a split second, along with all the tangled xeno-roots, spores, and nests of parasitic insects embedded in it. It's hundreds of times faster and cleaner than digging everything up with excavator buckets. Then, when the transport platform gets back to the research base, I simply reverse the process and unload everything into sealed containers so the scientists can examine the samples."

"In that case, your job doesn't sound particularly exhausting," I said skeptically, folding my arms across my chest. "You walk into a Portal, activate your shadow, absorb a chunk of soil, walk out, and unload it at the warehouse. And you're telling me you still can't find time for school?"

"If Portals only opened once a day, Tom, I'd have defended my doctoral dissertation by now!" the teenager sighed heavily. "Just look at my schedule today. I'm assigned to work with you as your instructor for exactly one more hour. After that, I've got an emergency flight to Texas aboard a heavy transport plane. The assault teams are clearing a major anomaly there. Six hours later, my team is supposed to deploy in Peru. And right after that, we're heading to the training grounds in Nevada... There are just too many Portals opening lately, Tom."

"Yeah, I've heard," I said, committing the information to memory. "All right, I understand your schedule. Let's get down to business. What exactly am I supposed to do during my six hours here?"

Nick placed his palm against the hangar's electronic lock. With a strained metallic groan, the massive doors began sliding apart, revealing the interior.

Inside, neat rows of enormous construction, excavation, and loading machinery stood on oil-stained concrete floors. Caterpillar mining dump trucks, tracked excavators, and heavy loaders. The entire steel fleet was coated in a thick, deeply ingrained layer of gray xenogenic mud, greasy sludge, charred plant fragments, and streaks of spent hydraulic oil. The hangar reeked of a distinctive mixture of fuel oil, rust, and decaying extraterrestrial organic matter.

"Your job, Tom... Well, headquarters assigned you to equipment maintenance." Nick's voice immediately grew quieter and more hesitant, almost apologetic. He stumbled over his words, unable to meet my eyes. "You'll need to pressure-wash these machines after every mission and keep them in proper working order. You know, check the clearances, tighten any loose track bolts, replace the hydraulic fluid in the pistons, clean the engine air filters to get rid of the spores... I wasn't the one who assigned you this dirty job. I'm sorry."

I shifted my gaze from the embarrassed teenager to the hundred tons of filthy machinery, its steel surfaces covered in fuel oil and xeno-slime. A faint, satisfied smile spread across my face.

Maintenance of a heavy mechanized fleet. For an ordinary person or a team of regular mechanics, this workload would be pure hell, requiring weeks of relentless, backbreaking labor in the dirt and grime. But for my enhanced body, capable of operating in hyperfocus and possessing tremendous muscular strength, the challenge was trivial.

I understood every mechanical detail down to the last bolt. In hyperfocus, I could service this entire steel fleet in a couple of hours, bringing every component back to factory specifications. That would leave me with another four hours of perfectly legitimate, officially paid work time to devote entirely to my own development and the study of Leon's classified intelligence files.