Chapter 21

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Dim moonlight yawned in through holes in the masonry. Night vision had been offered, but Draco and the other four Wesen could see just fine. His back was flattened into an adjacent doorway against the coming blast. Four others were coiled and ready. Oliviera and the breaching team had been drilling the current dance mercilessly all week long.

Every single one of them had a role. Every single role had specific steps, motions, and focus. It was like a fancy quadrillion with scripted and timed bows, curtseys, and passes, except they were rushing in behind grenades.

A sergeant decked in a thick, green suit attached a small charge of explosives to the door knob and backed away. Hand signals flicked up and down the line. The explosion roared and they streamed in the door behind the concussion of a practice grenade, blasting the targets within their specific fields.

The exercise had been a success, except DuPont was tearing his shirt off. A waterfall of jingling brass poured off his belly and back while he scrubbed at dozens of red welts. He was cursing Jorgenson for not watching his rifle's ejection of emptys. Oliviera collared Bell and dressed him down for careless rifle handling endangering the legionnaires around him. Draco was just thankful that it wasn't him this time. There were just so many moving parts to these exercises, like a traditional dance with men swooping, dashing, and ducking. Honestly, he was surprised they included him because of his height. Most of the men on Oliviera's breeching teams were short but stocky.

The next round had the men huddled in a scrum, waiting for Bell to break through the door. The lanky German rocked back, heaved a kick against the knob, and bounced off. On seventh try, the whole jamb broke loose, snarling Bell with the tangle as it twisted sideways into the room. He was instantly blasted by a shotgun and his casualty beacon screamed. DuPont heaved the training grenade in. "Oh Shit!" echoed back from inside, followed by their grenade clattering back out. The men dove for cover an instant before the blinding flash and deafening explosion slammed him into the opposite doorway with Jorgenson. Stars filling his vision, Draco grabbed Jorgenson and blocked him from rushing straight into a withering hail of enemy fire with the remaining two. The team's laser casualty beacons lit and squawked an instant before the enemy team flooded out the door. Draco and Jorgenson sprinted down the hall, ducked through the doorway of an adjacent room and jumped out the window.

The stocky Brazilian pulled everybody out for another debrief. He grabbed Draco. "Why didn't you follow the team in?"

"Chief sergeant, the element surprise was lost from the failure to breach the door and the grenade. The enemy team was waiting for us."

"What should the team have done?"

"Perhaps throw a fragmentation grenade on a short fuse?"

"Are you asking me or telling me. Formulate three options. This happens more often than you think." Oliviera moved on to Bell. "What happened with the door."

"It wouldn't budge."

"Why?"

Bell's mouth fell open and he paused as if the answer would come to him. Jorgenson waved, and blurted out, "It was a heavy, metal security door with a steel plate over the locks."

"I asked Bell to answer, but yes. Has anyone here ever tried to kick down a metal security door?"

Half the hands went up. Oliviera continued, "What happened?"

Jorgenson answered, "That. They don't break."

Oliviera ground two fingers into Jorgenson's chest. "So why didn't you stop your teammate before he educated the enemy and got himself shot?" The stocky chief-sergeant's eyes narrowed, and he pointed at the ground. "Push. All of you. You live as a team and die as a team."

Draco was grinding out push ups in the dark with the rest of them. Oliviera got down on all fours and yelled into his ear, "Malbec, What three options could we have employed?"

"Option one: Throw more flash-bang grenades. They may kick one back out the door, but they won't get five."

"Risk?"

"We both eat grenades. It also concentrates our force exactly where they know we are, exposing us to enemy fire. Option two: Back off and feign drunk singing or something like that. Prepare an ambush in case they open the door while I perform a blasting curse on the door."

"Risk?"

"They will be on alert and will most likely put all their efforts into defending the doorway. They will also try employ a planned escape, perhaps out a window or through an adjacent room. They could also call for reinforcements which would then ambush us. Option three: Magic. I could apparate one or two others to the opposite side of the room and catch them by surprise. The enemy will be focused on shooting whoever comes through the door."

"Risk?"

"First, the enemy force is larger than anticipated, and we are killed. Second, we get shot by our own men. Third, we shoot our own men."

Fiery red flared into the sergeant's eyes. "Collect the men and show me your plan for the third option."

He scratched it out in the dirt. A few of the men had questions, like, what about furniture? They huddled and modified it based on their concerns. A few minor adjustments satisfied Oliviera, but DuPont was stomping around, cursing the idea of being magicked around by a wizard. Jorgenson and Bell's hands shot up. Their eyes sparkled as they begged for a go.

The second round found them in a concrete block hallway inside a different building. They huddled near a doorway. This time, Dupont would be doing the door kicking with Ludo providing backup. Draco, Bell, and Jorgenson shifted down the hallway and prepared for the ride. The biggest thing he worried about was their landing. He was going to pull a silent Death Eater apparition, but it still took a bit of practice to plant your feet against the spinning.

Their packs were strapped down extra tight, their knuckles white from the grip on their guns, and the world elongated into a kaleidoscope of colored light. The concrete and steel melted into a white blur, and then a bed frame appeared as the floor slapped their feet.

Bell stumbled and snagged on a chair, but Draco and Jorgenson's rifles chopped across the room in a deafening roar. Bell quickly recovered and took out the last two men as they dove for the side door. Casualty beacons flashed and howled as the entire opposing force gaped. The surprise had been complete. The enemy had been caught from behind without even a single man guarding the windows.

Second Lieutenant Rule Follower's face was beet red with fury, but Oliviera's eyes glittered.

"That's not fair! Nothing in the operational exercise says anything about an enemy team appearing out of thin air."

Oliviera's eyes narrowed. "This is a training exercise. Formulate three options for how to defend against the next attack, given the potential for surprise." To Draco. "Have you seen wizards use this tactic?"

"Frequently, chief-sergeant. I often used it myself."

Rule follower was screaming mad. "Wizards? Nobody uses wizards in combat! And you, piece of shit pitou! What the hell do you know about anything? Sergeant, I demand a rerun, and none of this wizard bullshit!"

Mischief glittered in Oliviera's eyes. "You want a rerun? You got one."

He grabbed Draco's team, but instead of them being alone, he picked four of his men. Oliviera chuckled. "So, Mister piece of shit pitou who knows nothing about war, what do we do without any wizard bullshit?"

Draco smirked. "One man kicks the front door. One team goes in through the windows and another through the side door."

"I would really like to put a cherry on top."

"A dozen flash bangs on a one-second fuse."

"Fragmentation grenades would be better."

Draco caught the levity in the man's eyes, and drawled, "Fresh out, chief sergeant."

They waited and waited and waited. The moon passed the center of the sky and was just dipping toward the tree tops when Oliviera flicked the hand signals to take their places. Draco, Bell, and two of Oliviera's men were coiled at the side door. Ludo, DuPont, and the remaining two from Oliviera's instructor cadre hunched on either side of the windows. Oliviera's eyes flared red and the men transformed. Fangs and claws and gleaming eyes flashed in the dark. Oliviera's stocky Lowen sergeant shook his tawny mane and flexed his knotty logs of arms. Muscles balled and twisted as black claws slid out of the man's fingertips. He clapped Draco on the shoulder. "You too. We're going in fangs and claws."

Draco protested that he was just a wizard when his body erupted in cramps, tearing muscles, and splitting bones. A second later, he towered over the Wesen sergeant. The black and brown spotted fur shrouding Bell's forehead crinkled and his mouth made an O. His whiskers bounced when his nose twitched, and he muttered, "Since when are you..." His furry eyebrow quirked. "Bludbaden?"

"Bloody hell. It's happening again. It's something in Rosencrantz healing medicines."

"Huh. It doesn't do that to anybody else..."

The sergeant swatted Draco in the back of the head and flared his eyes fiery yellow. The words quietly hissed through his fangs, "Shut it you stupid piece of shit. Fuck this up and I'll break every bone in your body."

Each of them had two grenades at the ready, pins pulled, and waiting for the signal. The sergeant's eyes flicked to his watch and he gave three fingers. They released the levers on their grenades. On the count of three, the sergeant booted the side door off its hinges. It clattered into the room followed by six grenades. To their left, six more grenades dropped into a pile of broken glass. The walls flexed as a massive roar heaved wood and glass into the hallway, and they poured in, guns blazing through their prearranged fields of fire. The sergeant heaved one dazed enemy face first into the floor and tied his hands with plastic zip-ties. One of the opposing team sprung to his feet and swung a rifle butt into Draco's chest. He slapped it down, fisted the soldier's uniform, and heaved. The man cartwheeled across the room, smashing another private before he hit the concrete floor face first. Draco anchored him with a knee in the center of his back. He zipped the restraints onto the soldier's hands and feet. He was up, checking the room, when Bell elbowed him. "What are you carrying him around for?"

He hadn't even paid attention, but the small soldier was hanging limp in his grip like a rabbit. Bell patted the enemy's face, and winced. "I think you broke him."

Draco deposited the man with the medical tent and returned to find six dazed men with groaning and grousing. Second Lieutenant Rule Follower was yelling from his place under Oliviera's boot. "My nose! It's broken, and this wasn't in any of the plans! We're supposed to engage the enemy when they break through the front door and then escape! The General will hear of this "

Oliviera's furry lip curled off his white fangs into a toothy sneer. "The General he wants, the General he shall get." He pointed at Draco. "You. Summon him."

The asp on his arm coiled through the eyes of the skull and out its mouth. It flared poison dripping fangs at him, sending an ache radiating all the way to his shoulder. He closed his eyes and visualized The General, while repeating the incantation and rubbing figure eights into the skull's eyes. The asp's eyes flared fiery yellow and a breeze swirled around him. They all snapped to attention while the second lieutenant cursed and groamed against his restraints.

The General eyed him and then waved a cup of coffee across the scene. "This had better be important."

Crimson fire flared in Oliviera's eyes. "The second lieutenant here is dissatisfied with the results of tonight's training."

The general knelt beside the shackled officer. "So, The chief sergeant asked you to present three possible defenses to the first failed engagement and escape. What did you come up with?"

The man sputtered. "General! Two teams threw grenades and swarmed in the side door and windows, and now they've got me tied up!

"I asked you a question, second lieutenant."

The man griped about unfairness and wizards ruining his night.

The general's jaws clenched and unclenched, and then a slight smirk curled the corner of his mouth. "Chief sergeant, please continue with the exercise. You may proceed with interrogation. Perhaps some useful intelligence might be gained from this enemy officer and his men."

"What! Interrogation? Are you going to let them torture me?"

The general clapped him on the shoulder. "Torture? Are we monsters? Of course not. That would be illegal, but you did complete both modules on resisting enemy interrogation. It is critical to validate the effectiveness of our coursework."

"But my nose! It's broken."

"Now, if there's nothing else, I would like to get back to my bacon and fresh croissant."

The young officer was still griping when a misty fog cascaded over the general. An instant later, he was gone without so much as a single wisp of vapor disturbed, like he had been standing there all along.

The rest of the men had transformed back into their kehrseite forms, leaving him towering over the group. One of the sergeants elbowed him, "Come on. You too."

The group was waiting for him with arms crossed and feet tap tapping. He muttered to Bell, "I don't know how to make it go away."

Jorgensen blurted out, "Is this your first time?"

Everyone turned to him. Their mouths dropped open. DuPont clapped him on the shoulder. "There's no shame in being a late bloomer. I had an aunt who fanged out at thirty-eight. Right there on the bed in the middle of sex. Uncle Laslo must have really laid it on her. Scared the shit out of him. He was Kehrseite."

The group laughed and nodded their assent. Draco continued, "It happened last week, on the full moon."

One of Oliviera's sergeants put a reassuring hand on his back. "Just relax. Take hold of your emotions and let the beast flow back out."

He stilled his mind and deadened every scrap of his emotions, just like he did when controlling his magic. His head twisted, muscles cramped, and bones crackled. A second later, he was back to normal. The sergeant nodded. "Good job. When you have barracks time, you should practice your woge until it becomes second nature. This is more common than you would think. Be sure to tell your drill instructor so you can run through Wesen orientation."

Oliviera gave him a fatherly pat on the back. "Also, learn to control your strength. This isn't like riding the full moon where our opponents heal instantly. We'll get him patched back up, but you smashed that private pretty good."

Morning's first purples and reds flared over the trees. Draco and the rest of the men were dog tired, but it was straight into the shower, a shave, and off for their morning run. Miles peeled off, but they were on autopilot, running in their sleep. The Pepper up barely provided any boost, so the medical staff gave them some stronger pills.

LeClerc's office was like a museum. The cream colored walls were dotted with trophy boxes full of awards, medals, daggers, and guns. A bullet-pocked Nazi flag hung across the back wall. Black and white pictures were full of generals and famous soldiers shaking LeClerc's hand and clapping him on the back. There were even three with President Chirac presenting him medals. The man nodded at him, and then dropped the bomb. "You've set some sort of record in The Legion, but not a good one. I swear, Captain Rosencrantz is one heck of an amazing doctor, but has the bedside manners of bubonic plague. That thing with you turning up dead attracted too much attention with the command. If you report any more medical problems, besides the usual stuff, they've got orders to run you back through."

He blanched. He had no desire to spend one more day in their hellish training. "W-What do I do?"

"You need to report it, but be very careful of how you do it. Command has been impressed with your recent progress. If anything, you have gotten considerably stronger and more durable. Has your magic been effected?"

"No, mon chief-sergeant. No problems with magic, even when riding the moon with the lycanthropes. If anything, the spells which require hard focus and rage are much easier."

The man's eyebrows piqued. "That is interesting. None of the other lycanthropes can use a scrap of magic. I would like to see what you got."

He should have known the man would ask. He twisted his head a couple times, but nothing happened. "I apologize, Chef, but I don't know how to make it happen."

The man tented his fingers. "So you definitely need Wesen indoctrination. We can shift around some of your night watches." LeClerc chuffed out a laugh. "The whole base heard about those three officers scrubbing toilets at the police station. And then last night... I don't think that one will be around much longer, insulting the General Hoff like that. Don't ever forget that. Hoff puts on a calm face, but he will ruin you in a second. What was it like, training with the lycanthropes."

"More fun than you could ever imagine. The injuries hurt at first, but they were gone so quickly. The strangest part is the hunger. I couldn't stop myself."

"Mmm. Yes. It is critically important that you eat when you're riding the moon. As much as you can possibly get down, or you'll be useless afterwards. I've seen it too many times, recruits getting sent back through because they failed to eat enough while on the moon. My advice is that if you can learn to adjust and live with it, refuse any treatment that will delay your graduation. Or at a minimum, postpone treatment until after. Your little stunt, playing the stupid recruit who fouled up the paperwork saved her career, so she will probably work with you. Just remember, she is still Rosencrantz."

On the way out, LeClerc squinted through reading glasses at a slip of paper before passing it to him. "I'm not sure how you've managed this, but your training has been unconventional to say the least." The old drill instructor shrugged. "What the general wants, the general gets. Meet up with Chief Sergeant Oliviera in two hours. Have you ever conducted interrogations?"

"Yes, chief sergeant, though probably not legal ones."

"I keep forgetting you're our resident war criminal trainee. Women and children?"

"I would classify it under the umbrella of torture, but yes, chef."

LeClerc shrugged and then peered at him over the reading glasses. His tone was decidedly fatherly in a way his actual father had never been. "Never forget that war is war. For this exercise, remember, he may be a piece of shit butter-bar with less brains than a bowl of porridge, but he is still your legion brother."