Chapter 174. The Man in Dress Uniform (Patreon)

A massive hangar filled with heavy construction equipment loomed before me, a gray steel box packed with the silhouettes of tracked excavators, front-end loaders, and hydraulic buckets. The air smelled of hot grease, cooling metal, and dampness. A standard supply facility. Every piece of machinery here served a single purpose: enter an alien world, strip it bare of extraterrestrial flora, fauna, and technology within twenty-four hours, then get out before the Portal collapsed into a singularity.

Naturally, ordinary civilian contractors would never survive in this environment. Portals were temperamental. The spatial openings were too narrow to accommodate anything larger than a compact pickup truck. That was why engineers had redesigned all the equipment to meet a modular standard. Small, collapsible machines. The crew members hauled buckets, frames, and diesel engines through the Portal on their backs, then assembled fully functional bulldozers from those components on the other side, in an alien atmosphere, racing against the clock. Once the worms, roots, and artifacts had been collected and packed, the process was repeated in reverse.

This kind of operation took a brutal toll on metal. Constant torsional stress, microfractures from repeated manual assembly, stripped threads. The machinery was barely holding together. And that was where I came in.

By direct order of the Corps, I had been assigned to FEMA-P. My duties were straightforward: use my abilities to scan every component, tighten connections, replace fluids, and bring back to life anything that could still move under its own power. Any machine at risk of failure had to be ruthlessly scrapped. Flawless logistics left no room for compromise. If a crane boom snapped inside a Portal, it could crush an entire shift crew and bring the operation to a halt. Equipment would be lost. People would die. My job was to make sure that never happened.

A lot of people wondered why a former accountant and combat officer was now rebuilding carburetors. The answer was in my résumé. When I put it together, I slipped into a state of hyperfocus and produced something so impressive that only an exceptionally large bribe could have gotten me rejected. I had stated, without the slightest embarrassment, that I possessed an intuitive understanding of mechanical wear and was a walking encyclopedia of heavy machinery. Technically true, even if the way I presented it was a little unconventional. I had never held a wrench before this year, but before my FEMA-P interview, I had simply downloaded terabytes of technical documentation, blueprints, and manuals from the internet straight into my memory. My brain cataloged everything. Now I could identify the thread pitch and grade of steel of any bolt from thirty feet away.

I stepped across the threshold of the hangar. My new office. Probably the simplest and most spacious workplace of my career. The building was roughly ten times the size of my former apartment in Los Angeles. Tucked away in one corner, among the massive steel machines, was a tiny room for the staff. Inside stood a desk, a chair, and a row of hooks. I hung my dress uniform jacket on one of them. The Bronze Star on my chest caught the fluorescent light with a dull gleam. Here at FEMA-P, that medal meant nothing. The agency director had not even bothered to show up for my orientation, leaving me in the hands of Nick, an acquaintance from training camp. As for the local workers moving between the bays in oil-stained coveralls, they could not have cared less about anyone else's heroic exploits. Around here, the only person worth respecting was the one who could get a seized diesel engine running in freezing weather.

I rolled up my shirt sleeves, stepped into a gray work jumpsuit, and zipped it all the way to my chin. The heavy fabric would protect me from grease and abrasive dust. Tool racks lined the wall. Heavy-duty wrenches, pneumatic drivers, pullers. The metal handles were worn smooth, marked by years of other people's sweat and oil, but the tools themselves were solid, dependable, and built to last. A single glance was enough to register the type, weight, and position of every item. Data archived. Tools ready. Time to get to work.

[Special Command: Analyze. Evaluate. Sanitize. Scrap.]

My perception of time changed instantly. The world around me contracted, drained of color, and slowed to a crawl, as though someone had run the footage through a high-speed camera. All external stimuli faded away. My heart rate dropped. My brain shifted into calculation mode.

To an outside observer, I became a blur. My legs pumped like pistons, carrying me from one loader to the next. My head turned along precisely calculated trajectories as my visual analysis picked up hairline fractures in the frames, gaps in the panel joints, and play in the bolted connections. Milliseconds per machine.

My hands moved on muscle memory alone. My fingers snatched two cordless power screwdrivers from the tool cabinet. I activated both at once. The hangar filled with a single, sustained mechanical roar. From the outside, it looked like a Formula One pit crew at work, except three times faster. The mounting nuts came loose in just one hundred and twenty seconds. My gaze swept across the engine compartment of the first bulldozer, breaking it down into its individual components. My hands were already working on their own. Stiff-bristled brushes drove cleaning compound into every groove, stripping away carbon deposits and scale until nothing but bare metal remained. The liquid quickly turned into a dense gray foam, drawing the grime into itself.

Reassembly. I took hold of the heavy engine block. Physics was nothing more than a matter of calculating leverage and mass. I had no need for hydraulic hoists or chain lifts. They would only waste precious seconds and slow me down. I lifted the engine by hand, aligned it with the mounting slots in the chassis, and lowered it onto the studs with an accuracy of one-tenth of a millimeter.

One down. No time to rest. The next loader was waiting. On to the next.

Technical Audit and Equipment Fleet Rehabilitation Report

To: Director, FEMA-P

From: Thomas Ross, Technical Inspection Specialist

Facility: Hangar No. 4, Compact Modular Equipment Sector

Completion Status: Task completed. Full instrumental and nondestructive inspection of 24 modular specialized vehicles performed.

Rehabilitation and Repair Results (Returned to Service):

Caterpillar D3-M Mini Bulldozers (Modular) | 6 units

Work performed: Complete overhaul of piston assemblies, carbon deposit removal, replacement of hydraulic conveyor seals. Frame mounting studs retorqued and secured with high-strength anaerobic threadlocker.

Service life: 150 operating hours before the next scheduled maintenance. Cleared for Portal deployment.

Bobcat S70-P Compact Front-End Loaders | 8 units

Work performed: Hydraulic fluid replaced (ATF-III grade), pressure sensors in boom articulation joints calibrated. Excessive play in drive axles eliminated.

Service life: Rated for up to 5 complete assembly/disassembly cycles under field conditions in an alien atmosphere.

Defect Assessment and Disposal (Removed from Military Inventory):

Kubota KX018-4 Compact Modular Excavators | 6 units (Asset Nos. FEMA-8841, FEMA-8842)

Reason for disposal: Critical metal fatigue detected in the slewing platform base. Microfractures up to 4.2 mm deep found along the weld seam. Repairs deemed economically unjustifiable. Equipment poses a direct threat to personnel.

Recommendation: Completely dismantle for salvageable spare parts. Send frames to a hydraulic press to prevent any possibility of reuse.

High-Pressure Heavy-Duty Modular Bucket (Vector-M Prototype Series) | 4 units

Reason for disposal: Mounting slots deformed due to improper manual assembly by the previous shift. Locking pins no longer properly aligned. Under loads exceeding 1.5 tons, failure of the locking mechanism is inevitable. Equipment must be scrapped.

Overall Sector Readiness: 71.4%. Portal deployment schedule unaffected.

End of Report.

My fingers flew across the smartphone's touchscreen, entering the final line at incredible speed. Send.

The next instant, I was violently yanked out of hyperfocus. Reality expanded abruptly, snapped back into sharp focus, and returned to normal human speed. A throbbing fire immediately erupted inside my skull, the price of pushing my brain beyond its limits. Without breaking stride, I stepped into the staff room, pulled a container of mint ice cream from my insulated lunch bag, and devoured it in three quick bites, leaving nothing but a flat wooden stick between my fingers. The menthol and ice hit my system instantly, constricting blood vessels and keeping the impending migraine at bay. Not entirely, though. I crossed to the massive sink in the corner of the hangar, cranked the faucet all the way open, and plunged my head under the freezing stream without hesitation. Symptoms under control. Pressure back to normal.

I straightened up and couldn't help smirking at my reflection in the fly-specked mirror. Six months ago, a stunt like that, combining ice cream and an ice-cold shower, would have guaranteed me strep throat and a week in bed. Today, my altered biochemistry handled such temperature extremes as a matter of routine. My physiology had adapted to the Corps' requirements.

I shut off the water and wiped the droplets from the back of my head. A short military buzz cut was practical, required no maintenance, and dried in thirty seconds.

I peeled off my work jumpsuit, damp around the collar, and surveyed the results of my four-hour work session with a critical eye. The equipment fleet had undergone a remarkable transformation. Machines that had looked like piles of rusty scrap metal that morning now gleamed beneath the lights, coated in fresh industrial lubricant. But not all of them. Several loaders bore thick, ugly crosses painted in bright red spray paint. The verdict was final: structural failure, fatigued frame rails, scrap. I had left similar small markers on defective shafts, pistons, and even a couple of wrenches from the tool rack where I had found hidden cracks.

The clock read 4:48 p.m.

Exactly twelve minutes remained before the official end of my shift. Not enough time to make a meaningful dent in the intelligence reports. The window was too short.

I ordered a taxi through the app, setting the pickup point at the base's main gate. I grabbed my backpack, stepped out onto the dusty loading ramp, and secured the heavy hangar doors with a padlock, turning the key twice, exactly as Nick had instructed. I was required to hand it over to the guard on my way out. Chain of command. Accountability.

As I crossed the cracked gray asphalt of the parade ground, my heightened senses immediately picked up a change in the surrounding activity. Several pairs of sharp, unfriendly eyes were fixed on me from the direction of the maintenance bays. Men in grease-stained jackets were huddled near the gates, their fingers frantically tapping out messages on cheap smartphones. Their coordination was mediocre. I had already calculated their likely movements before they had even made up their minds. So I wasn't surprised when I reached the approach to the checkpoint and found a sizable group of workers waiting for me. Judging by their ragged breathing and the sweat on their foreheads, they had run all the way from the far end of the base to intercept me before I reached the security screening area.

There were fifteen of them. The odds were fifteen to one against me. An acceptable tactical margin. Their eyes were fixed on me, and their faces wore those same heavy, insolent grins that pack animals displayed when they spotted a lone target. But as I drew closer, the situation began to change. Once I was close enough for them to get a good look at my freshly pressed dress uniform, Bronze Star, and lieutenant's insignia, their collective confidence began to crumble. Their expressions fell.

"You said he was just some nobody. One of us," the man with the coarse gray stubble hissed. He was clearly the group's informal leader, someone who maintained his authority through age and aggression. "What the hell is he doing in dress uniform?"

"I'm telling you, he was covered in grease! He was wearing coveralls!" the skinny mechanic stammered nervously. He was the one who had been keeping watch and rounding up the others by phone. "I saw him in Bay Four. He was working like a fucking Terminator. He overhauled in four hours what takes us a whole week!"

"Shit..." The leader spat on the ground. "Now the boss is gonna make us look like a bunch of freeloaders next to him. Everybody stay put. I'll handle this myself."

I caught every word, every implication, and every shift in their voices, even though we were still at least forty paces apart. In my pre-military life, an ambush like this at the gates would have sent my heart racing into my throat and left my palms slick with cold sweat. Now I felt nothing but detached analytical focus. My altered brain chemistry instantly filtered out and discarded inefficient emotional responses such as fear, panic, and social anxiety. My pulse remained steady. My muscular frame, combined with Krav Maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu skills honed to the point of reflex, gave me an overwhelming advantage in close combat, even against a crowd like this. I maintained my steady pace toward the checkpoint, closing the distance.

"Afternoon, sir." The gray-stubbled leader took two steps forward, blocking my path. His posture suggested years of practiced street confidence, but he made no overtly aggressive move. He was testing the waters, trying to figure out who he was dealing with before deciding how far he could push things. "Don't think I've seen you around here before. Who do you work for?"

"Second Lieutenant Thomas Ross, authorized military inspector responsible for the assessment and rehabilitation of heavy equipment." My voice cracked through the air like the snap of a rifle bolt: dry, flat, and delivered with crisp military precision. I watched his shoulders drop almost immediately. "Your name, soldier? And why aren't you at your assigned post?"

"Johnny..." he muttered uncertainly, his bravado already fading. The group behind him fell noticeably quieter, several men instinctively taking half a step back. "I was just... going to get some keys..."

"What's that, Johnny? You're on the grounds of a restricted Corps facility! Address an officer properly! Give me your report!"

My command voice triggered an immediate response. The man instinctively straightened his back, his arms snapped to his sides, and the insolent grin vanished, replaced by automatic military obedience. There wasn't a trace of his earlier arrogance left in his eyes.

"Reserve Staff Sergeant Jonathan Simpson, sir!" he barked, loud enough for the entire parade ground to hear.

"That's more like it, Sergeant Simpson. Any other questions? Any complaints about the speed of my work? Speak up now."

"Negative, sir! No questions!"

"At ease." I took one long step forward, making the crowd instinctively part to clear a path. I paused for a moment, giving them all a cold, appraising look. "Hangar Four has been sealed by me personally. The electronic technical report, complete with photographs of every component and defect, has already been sent to the head of FEMA-P. I suggest you read it before anyone gets the bright idea of entering that hangar without my permission. Dismissed."

There was no need to spell out the threat. Mentioning the report and the fact that senior management had been made aware of everything was more than enough to discourage these workers from entering my hangar, removing my warning markers, or dumping metal shavings into the crankcases of the machines I had repaired. They understood only two languages: force and military regulations.

Leaving the workers to scatter silently around me, I approached the glass window of the checkpoint, placed the heavy key on the plastic tray in front of the guard, and stepped through the turnstile onto the street. My taxi was already waiting at the curb, its parking lights gleaming. A faint smile crept across my face despite myself.

My decision to wear my dress uniform today had been a tactical masterstroke after all. Time saved. Physical confrontation avoided. Authority established. A productive day at work.