Chapter I- The Duty

It was blazing hot outside today; more than a few of the men were expressing disbelief that such record-high temperatures could occur. Maybe in Texas or Georgia, where some of them were from- but not in Maine. Not here.

But it was happening; not only today, in fact, but all through the summer. The base guards, a joint outfit of Air Force Security Police and Army MP's, sweated furiously under their uniforms and Kevlar. Many wanted to ditch the body armor- who was going to come all the way out here with a gun and take on this many guards at once?- but the officers, naturally, wouldn't allow it. Officers were in full form at Fort Baxter; they almost never relaxed, always chanting some mantra about operational security. Airman First Class William McCallister had never seen a base with such strict security, even at the front gates- men at every major checkpoint at Fort Baxter were told to shoot and kill anyone who tried to force their way past. One warning shout, and the first warning shot was to be straight ahead; a warning to the next guy.

So with a mindset like that, there was no chance the officers were going to allow the guards anywhere on base to take off their body armor. Not a chance in hell. McCallister, 'Billy' as most of his friends and family called him, walked a beat between the ID-check booths at the front gate, cradling his M-16 rifle in his arms and wishing he had something to break up the monotony of the sun, the heat, and the back-and-forth speculation about what the 'spooks' were doing downrange.

The high temperature for each day had been in the 90's to over 100 degrees for weeks; somebody in the nearest town had said this was one of the hottest summers Maine had seen in years. It didn't make standing around in it any better.

But McCallister had gotten guard duty today, 'the duty', at the front gate. The running joke went that it was the one spot on-base where you might get to shoot somebody- the rest of the government-owned preserve looked like a national park, albeit one with designated 'testing ranges' with guards even more tight-assed than the ones at the front gate. Fort Baxter didn't look like anything important from the outside; word was anything that mattered couldn't even be found until you were at least a mile in.

What was on Fort Baxter that mattered? Nobody was all that sure. But the guard shifts changed all the time- the enlisted men speculated the officers did that, so none of the guards would get too friendly with one another and start piecing together things they weren't supposed to know. Ironically, McCallister found that actually made it easier- two men normally on duty outside one of the testing ranges were up at the gates today, and conversations with them had proved interesting to say the least.

"Atoms," one of them said, a buck sergeant whose eyes kept flicking about as he talked of such things, as if searching for an officer hiding in the bushes. "They're messing with atoms in there." He gestured towards the trees and fields and the occasional bunker, stretching far towards the innards of the base.

"What kinda atoms?" McCallister asked, turning his head into the wind as a light breeze came up. It felt nice, but just didn't seem to last. From the quiet sighs from the rest of the men, they were enjoying the relief, too.

"I dunno," the sergeant said, "Different atoms. I'm not sure why they're different- I just know they're messing around with 'em." He wouldn't say how he knew, and nobody pressed him- all the men at Fort Baxter had some third ear out for information. They all had one means or another.

"Huh," one of the guards huffed, "That makes me feel safe. I'm guarding a government preserve where they're fuckin' around with atoms. Ooh, special atoms. Yeah, that's probably pretty fuckin' safe."

"You realise we could be killin' people in Vietnam right now?" That came from Private Rory Hanlon, leaning out of the central booth.

"Or shootin' some draft card-burning college kids at Kent State." Airman Michael Culkin said that one, standing near McCallister and looking at him for approval, a rather sick grin on his face. At nineteen, Culkin looked like he was at least two years younger. And he was always looking at McCallister for approval.

"We left 'Nam twelve years ago, guys. It's 1985 now," Sergeant Baker said. "I know you're bored, but can we at least remember it's the eighties? And besides, Culkin, we're not allowed to shoot college students." He cracked a smile. "Not unless we have to."

"Too bad for us," Culkin replied, snickering.

McCallister laughed. "Yeah, at least we'd have somethin' to do besides stand around."

"And instead, we got our dumb asses sent here. To guard the spooks while they play around with- whatever it is."

"Hey, fuck the why of it, okay?" the sergeant said. "We're here. All the rest is bullshit."

Nods and grunts of agreement.

"Man," Culkin sighed, briefly taking off his helmet and wiping at his forehead. "You'd think this fuckin' heat would lay off a bit, after that asskicker of a storm we got last night."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? I would, after all that lightning and shit. Wind, lightning, a fuck-ton of rain- screw you locals, man. I fuckin' hate Maine." McCallister said.

"Hey, what're you guys talking about?" Hanlon said with mock confusion. "It's 90 today instead of 190! We're getting a great break here!"

The guards, Air Force SF's and Army MP's alike, laughed. Making jokes about the goddamn heat and speculating about the strange and ominous Arrowhead Project was about all they had to do. More than once an MP stationed at the base wished for Ivan to hurry up and start a friggin' war, just so some Red paratroopers or saboteurs would try to sneak on base. Then, at least, the soldiers guarding it would have something to do… besides stand around and do what they always did.

Sergeant Baker keyed his radio. "Disciple Four-Oxide, what's your status, over?"

McCallister remembered Disciple Four-Oxide was the callsign of the command post for the first major testing range down the road from the entrance. The front gates was Disciple One.

Dead silence on the radio. Normally, right around now, everybody should have been checking in for the hourly radio check- essentially, all the guard posts letting each other know nobody was down and security was still holding.

Far downrange, thunder rumbled, deep and heavy. The men glanced up- stormclouds were forming again, and fast. In fact, they almost looked like they were focusing over the Hotel Bravo testing range.

BANG!

A thunderclap to out-shout an artillery barrage went off, causing everybody to dive to the ground as the ground itself shook violently. The boom rolled; whatever had caused that was something very big. "What-what the fuck was that?" McCallister yelled, speaking for essentially all the men present.

"I have no idea!" Sergeant Baker yelled back, getting up to a crouching stance and repeating his calls on the radio. Finally, he got something from Disciple Two, a speedbump checkpoint on the way to the testing ranges.

"Uh, Disciple One, we've lost all contact with Disciples Three through Five," a lieutenant's nervous voice came back. "Think they've gone radio silent?"

"Hell if I know, Disciple Two," Sergeant Baker answered. "Interrogative, radio silence downrange isn't SOP. Shouldn't we have been informed?"

"That's affirmative, Disciple One. We're gonna send a team to Disciple Three's position and-"

Shouts of surprise off the mike. Surprise- mingled with fear. "Hey, what the hell's that?" McCallister could hear somebody say; the LT had apparently kept the "transmit" button down. "Disciple One-Oxide; stand by," the lieutenant said, then paused. "We may have a problem here."

"What the fuck…?" Baker said, staring at the handset in mystification.

About a full minute passed, then the radio barked, braying static. "Break, break!" Listening close by, McCallister finally recognized the officer's voice as that of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Wick, one of the better Army officers on the base. Sensible and soft-spoken but always decisive, he was trusted and respected by pretty much all of Fort Baxter's enlisted security personnel. He sounded very worried when his voice came back on the radio- in fact, it was obvious he was fighting back panic. That, in turn, worried every man within earshot- something that worried Nate Wick was definitely worth being concerned about, too.

"Disciple One, Disciple One!" Wick shouted, fighting to make his voice heard over a lot of gunfire. "Our position has been compromised; we're in danger of being overrun! We're Oscar-Mike in one minute, en route to-"

Something tore the radio from Wick's grasp, but kept the Transmit button down. The gunfire and panicked yells kept some coordination- somebody was clearly trying to rally the men. But the gunfire- and the screaming- suddenly reached a fever pitch, and then… stopped. For a full minute the men of the security team Disciple One listened carefully. But nothing came back on the line; just an eerie, deathly silence.

Sergeant George Baker's Texas-tanned face lost some of its colour; he stared mutely at his radio for a few moments before putting it away.

Then he turned to McCallister and a few other men. "McCallister, get your ass up to Disciple Two's position and find out what the hell's going on."

McCallister nodded, his heart rate picking up steadily. "You got it, Sarge."

Then somebody pointed downrange and shouted, "Gas, gas, gas!"

Instantly, every one of the ten heads present snapped in that direction.

There was a white, rolling cloud coming towards them. It looked like a cloud stolen from the sky and planted on the ground, and yet it wasn't anything like any cloud McCallister had ever seen. It looked like a mist, and yet was too orderly and had an almost perfectly-straight wall at its front. That was the problem, McCallister decided right away. Clouds and mists just came and went- they happened, that was all. They had irregular edges, a very haphazard look to them.

This thing looked like it was on purpose.

Nothing could be seen beyond its white front, and it was billowing steadily upward, blotting out the sky as it came. It didn't gleam, or reflect light in any way like a fog or mist should have. It looked dull instead.

No order was given; instinctively, every man at the front gates reached into the pouch strapped to his side, pulling out his standard-issue gas mask and strapping it on. Breathing hard through the mask, McCallister raised his M-16 rifle and aimed it downrange, jerking back the charging handle and flipping the safety off. The rest of the men followed suit, some crouching some standing- Sergeant Baker was already facing them all downrange in fighting postions.

The mist rolled forward; its depths were impenetrable, deadening sound as well as sight.

Airman McCallister suddenly felt very afraid.