Odin's Horns

By Mark Bean

As a member of a very special military unit, I'm not paid to make mistakes. The short version is I got separated from the rest of my team and failed to regain contact. A serious blunder. I took a knee during a security halt, dozed off, and when I woke up, they were gone. It's not supposed to happen, but it happened. Shit always happens. I'm a tough, well trained, experienced, special operations commando. A member of the elite Gray-Black (GB) Squadron and we are regular participants in what has become a nightmare of global conflict. My whole life is the GB and fighting and I am very good at what I do. But I've messed up seriously and made myself expendable. My boss has decided that the best way to get rid of me is to put me back on the ground in the middle of a hornet's nest and let me die. I have other ideas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886547047

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Odin's Horns

Mark Bean

Copyright © 2022 Mark Bean

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-694-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-704-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Transcripts

About the Author

Prologue

In the first part of the twenty-first century, most of the words and phrases we now use to describe our world and what happened to it had yet to be invented. Words like cyberdesert, chaoscity, bloodblah, migrawar, and dissatopia didn't exist in the common global lexicon. It was not so much that our world came apart—that would have been something we could understand, something we could get our teeth into. The apocalypses and dystopias of our dreams and stories would have been welcome alternatives to the kind of low-grade, disappointing ball of confusion that humanity settled into starting about 2025.

The human system was presented with a perfect storm of paradigm shifts, and it freaked us out. We couldn't get our heads around things like the balkanization of the Internet, the end of instant global communications, and how easily mass migrations of have-nots could consume the status quo. We were stunned by how quickly some of our most cherished and honored governing structures either came apart or were rendered laughable. In 2015, who would have believed that the United States would devolve into three squabbling countries? We were surprised and horrified by the exponential rise in the scale and scope of human suffering brought about by a persistent, multifactor, global shitstorm we could not understand or affect. Never in the history of humankind had blood been spilled so freely. Something or some combination of things flipped a switch in the species, and we fed on each—not like the zombies of our nightmares but more like the grossly obese at a cheap buffet.

What shocked and disappointed us the most though was how much did not change. It was as if some demented deity had allowed our world to be turned on its head but then denied us the kind of change that would spark the resurgence of the human spirit. We settled into global mediocrity and learned helplessness like an old man settling into a warm bath. We began to yearn for things like global thermonuclear war, the zombie apocalypse, or some variety of a religious end of days to save us from what was generally accepted to be the most disappointing, drawn-out, and boring upheaval humankind had ever experienced. We waited for things to change. We waited ten years, then twenty, then thirty. We waited, and the waiting changed us.

Chapter 1

House Rules

Come to the edge, he said. We are afraid, they said. Come to the edge, he said. They came to the edge, He pushed them, and they flew.

—Logue

The Mule arrives on schedule without making a pass, hovers, and lands. Think of an insanely large quadcopter drone. The portside hatch opens, and the unmanned aircraft sits, waiting with engines at a high, but muted, whine. It will remain like this for exactly forty-five seconds, and then the hatch will begin to close. This is a personnel extract, and there is no time allowed for loading cargo. You are expected to be self-propelled. Be there, be ready, get to the aircraft, and get in. There is no ground crew, there is no light, and there is no delay. There is nothing—just the Mule sitting there in the wet, frosty grass softly whining—flat gray against the black night with the clock ticking. The Mule does not know and, therefore, cannot care if you have a problem.

I am there and in before forty-five seconds, and I push the hatch close button on the right inside panel. There is only that button—a raised black knob just like the ones you see in old hotel elevators. The hatch comes down quickly, and I scoot myself, war gear, and weapon out of the way against the far side of the small compartment. Having the hatch come down on gear or a part of your body is what they call a bad thing. Bad things are just that—bad without an explanation of what will happen. Maybe the hatch is like a home garage door and will automatically go back up to give you a second chance. But I doubt that is the case. We are not in the second chance business.

The inside of the compartment looks amazingly like the inside of the luggage trolleys you see driving bags around airport tarmacs—aluminum, scarred, dirty, and uncomfortable. We are not in the comfort business. There are strips of two-inch nonskid tape on the deck and various strapping arrangements neatly stowed on the bulkheads; some of which look like they could actually be used to strap things or people down. I've never seen them used. The Mule can handle significant center of gravity shifts, and like its name suggests, it is tough, stubborn, and hard to break. Things sloshing around the inside of the gimbaled compartment are not considered an issue worth taking time on the ground to fuck around with. Get in and hold on as best you can. This is a short-duration extract, not business class. A Mule typically carries four personnel and equipment. I have been in one with six, but it was no fun, and I don't recommend it. I am alone on this extract, so there is plenty of room to slosh around and that begins right away with the no-notice lurch to take off and transition to horizontal flight. I am pushed down, then weightless, and then slammed against the rear bulkhead.

I know that a direct flight to MSC (Mission Support Center) Mols should take about an hour. I also know that direct flights from operations areas to MSCs are the exception. Mules are high-demand resources and are not normally flown loaded in clean air. Cargo (people or stuff) is normally dumped as soon as possible after the safe tier is reached. Onward movement is arranged from that point. We call it the planes, trains, and automobile phase. Get the wrong priority, and you can spend a week just getting back to an MSC. But this has been anything but a normal operation. When hatch opens after only forty-five minutes on the landing pad inside the barriers at MSC Mols, I know I'm in trouble. Someone ordered that Mule flown hard and straight in; someone wants to get their hands on me badly.

There is only one way off the pad at an MSC, and that is through a tunnel on one side of the twenty-foot-high walls. I am barely at the tunnel when the Mule takes off for another run, an angry buzz saw going straight up and away, blasting my back with hot air, dust, and leaves. The sergeant at reception does not look up from behind the counter.

Are you hurt or sick? You don't look hurt or sick.

I'm good, I say.

Good. Grab a bag lunch and bottle of water. Go sit on the bench. Don't fucking go to sleep. If you need to shit or piss, use the open cage shitter next to the bench. Do not fucking think about leaving this room, and if your weapon isn't already cleared, I'm going to fucking kill you.

I'm good, I say.

He looks up at me and his face pales. Hey, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were GB (Gray-Black). We get unannounced in here all the time. No one told me what was going on. Most of the time, all I get is crap cargo dumped on the pad for me to figure out.

We're good, I say.

Okay, man. Sorry about that, he says. I'll check where they want you next. Stay on the bench, okay?

Fine, I say and sit down.

I am barely into my second sandwich when JS opens the door, pokes her head around the door, and says, Let's go.

I follow her out as she hands me my badge without a word. We clear the pad holding gate, and as we enter the circumference tunnel, she gives me the buddy sign that she is vee'd up and everything is being recorded in the MCC (Mission Command Center). Technically, it is against regulations to inform another that your personal video is active, but most GBers will give you a sign unless you are a real asshole.

You are going right in to see the boss and his team, she says without preamble. That's all I can say.

What do they know about the rest of the team? I ask.

You don't fucking listen very well, do you? I said, that's all I can say, she snaps.

Not a good sign, I think.

GB teams are not the best or most valuable assets, but they aren't the bottom of the food chain either. We operate in the closed conflict zones (CCZ) bordered by open conflict zones (OCZ) and the safe tiers (ST), doing a variety of missions. My team was on the tenth night of a simple recon (with contact option) mission. I say my team only in the sense that I am in the team, not leading it. In fact, I am next to the most junior member of T41A. T41A consists of a team leader (TL), assistant team leader (ATL), a direct skills third class (DS3, me), and a DS4 (the new guy). DS class troopers are affectionately known as dumb shits.

The short version is that I got separated from the rest of T41A and failed to regain contact. I fucked up. I took a knee during a security halt, dozed off, dreamed I was taking a knee at a security halt, and when I woke up, they were gone. It's not supposed to happen, but it happens. Shit always happens. If dumb shit number 4 had done what he was supposed to and checked back on me when the signal to move had been given, it just would have been embarrassing. But he didn't. The rear point position is a special qualification and doesn't go to everyone; I guess he figured I knew what I was doing. That's why they call him dumb shit number 4. What has me worried as I walk along the circumference tunnel with JS is that 99.9 percent of the time, our broken contact SOPs work. Breaking contact in the field is a big no-no but not unheard of. Like I said, shit happens, and there are specific drilled SOPs to deal with it. These work most of the time, and that gives the team an opportunity to regroup, complete the mission, and sort things out back at the MSC. Breaking contact and not having the break contact SOP work is a bad thing.

As JS and I approached the entrance to the MCC—a side gate off the main circumference tunnel—we see that the cleared access gate is barred, leaving only the noncleared access open.

What's up? JS asks the ceiling camera that is looking down at us.

Bosses orders, comes back the static voice from the speaker. He is not cleared anymore, and since you have been with him unobserved, you are not cleared either. Both of you will have to go through uncleared access procedures.

Fuck, mutters JS.

They are afraid you brought something back from the field—either on purpose or inadvertently.

Great, I say. I love the uncleared access procedure—such a joy.

Fuck you, she says.

One at a time, the voice says. Who wants to be first?

You go first, I say. Sometimes they don't change gloves, and I haven't had a shower in twelve days.

JS gives me a cold look. What the fuck is wrong with you? she snaps. I don't think you realize what the next few days are going to be like for you. You have seriously fucked up, and your team is—

That's enough, you two! It's the boss on the speaker. You've gone too far, JS. Both of you, get your asses in here now!

The uncleared access gate slides open, and so do old patterns. JS in back and a narrow corridor in front. No visible exit, just a corner thirty feet away—an authoritative imperative to move quickly from the boss, too quickly, unwisely. Patterns. A too-short Mule ride into a hole and into a tunnel now into a smaller tunnel. Options are narrowing. A danger area. Pixie's lessons and games come back.

Choose wisely, grasshoppers. We don't walk into danger areas. The old staff's voice comes back, along with other bad memories. Let's play games, and maybe we'll remember next time.

It was raining hard on the moor, and we had been at games and lessons for days now—how many I couldn't remember. Training is meant to be dully experienced, not clearly remembered, not made rational, not understood; it is made to build responses—the right responses. The same voice intones the same message every time we start pre-segment.

We can't start training until it's raining. Right, ladies! he says. We can't start learning until our minds are right. Dull, tired, sleepy, seeing and hearing things, falling down—there are no fresh minds in combat. Let's get tired and wet, and then we can think about starting the segment. Our minds are not right, girls.

Games and lessons. Lessons and games. Games and lessons. Training came in segments. Each was four unpleasant chunks: a pre-segment, get-your-minds-right phase, followed by three training phases with no time limits on any of them. The programs are built to take you a little over the line physically and mentally and keep you there. The idea is that we learn best what we learn under pressure.

We can stay out here as long as it takes, girls. We are still in pre-segment, and our minds are not right! This patrol of bumbling fucks has walked into a danger area, and now we get to play games.

Games and lessons. This is a danger area. What the fu——.

I come to totally disoriented and try to take status. I'm on my back, my right ass check burns, the lights are on, and I'm restrained. Standard restraints are a combination of chains, metal bands, pads, and leather that bind ankles, wrists, waist, and neck. They have a locking mechanism on the back of the neck (out of reach) and a timer read out on top of the wrists. Depending on how they are adjusted, they can totally immobilize you or permit some limited hobbling around. My restraints are set in medium hobble mode.

I slowly lift and turn my head. I've been drugged, and things are still fuzzy. I am in a room—no, a cell, a cement holding cell, standard issue, ten feet by ten feet wide, fifteen feet high. Steel door on one wall, no handle. Pass-through panel in the middle—closed. Shower corner with drain, no curtain, and steel shitter corner, no lid, no flush handle, no toilet paper. Caged LED light array (in friendly mode) on the ceiling, small camera lens, and the standard electronic bulletin board (e-board) behind Plexiglas mounted flush in the ceiling. The e-board is another way to isolate a prisoner or, in my experience, a trainee. You take away the human voice and any interaction and replace it with one-way, ceiling-mounted text messages. It's a real morale buster to stand under that thing with your neck craned straight up to read the text. The board is designed so that it cannot be read except from directly underneath. No lying on the bench and seeing what's up. The red new-message light is flashing, and I sit up stiffly, lurch to my feet, and hobble over to stand under the board. In green letters, it reads, Hi, asshole. House rules—you know the drill, but we hope you've forgotten.

House rules were something we learned early in segment 5. You are isolated in a standard cell, and the house rules are displayed on the e-board. They scroll, repeating continuously for two hours. After that, you are assumed to have them memorized, and all infractions are punishable—normally by fucking with the humidly and temperature in the cell. Wet and very cold is the favorite. They can also send water back up the shower drain or shitter to flood your cell: cold, hot, clean, or dirty. They say they can drown you in scalding-hot shit water if they wanted to, but I've never seen it. The worse I got as a trainee in segment 5 was ankle-deep water—clean but freezing. Oh yeah, in case you are thinking, there is no standing on the bench or shitter. House rules.

You are here to learn the drill, girls: isolation, control, uncertainty, repetition, and my particular favorite, fear. You are here to learn why it's not a good idea to get captured. You are here to get a taste of what's in store if you fuck up.

I lie back down on the bench. House rules state that anything not prohibited in the house rules or on e-board instructions is permissible. So, for example, in my current situation, lying down on the bench or taking a shit is permissible. I try to remember what the fuck happened. I remember looking down the uncleared access corridor and thinking, going there was not a good idea. Other options were forming in my head, and then I was here. They must have seen me thinking and taken me down—fast and hard. The raw pain on my left ass cheek suggests that JS tased me from behind, and then someone hit me with a drug dart while I was flipping around like a fish on a dock. My combat over garment (aka suit) has been taken, and I'm wearing my four-piece base layer: long-sleeve top, bottoms, and two socks. The same ones I've had on for twelve days now. I know because they reek. Careful, cowboy, I tell myself. There are always other scenarios. You're guessing.

Watch your assumptions, girls, I hear the old staff say. Always question your assumptions, shitheads. It might save you some pain. Things are seldom as they appear!

I remind myself that the only thing I'm really sure of, is that I'm in a standard holding cell in my nasty underwear. I look down at the restraint timer. It reads twenty-five seconds and counting.

The restraints click open, and at nearly the same time, the pass-through panel on the cell door slides back. I sit up quickly, head still swimming a bit, take off the restraints and my base layer, cross the room, and shove them both through the opening. House rules state that you own nothing. When the pass-through panel on a cell door opens, everything stops, and everything not bolted down goes through. The nasty underwear come flying right back through along with a standard patrol ration and a plastic bottle of water.

As the panel begins to close, I shout, First aid, Taser burn, right ass cheek!

House rules allow reasonable requests, or statements of pertinent information, as long as they come before the panel closes completely. What is reasonable or pertinent, of course, is up to the confinement program leader.

After five minutes, the e-board notice alarm goes off, and the red light starts flashing. The alarm is the crying-baby ringtone—loud and nasty. There are many of these ringtones that range from a sedate temple chime to my all-time least favorite, puking baked beans. The alarm continues, as expected, even though I am under the e-board, reading, Underwear on, eat, shit. Fuck you and your boo-boo. This nice message vanishes, and a countdown timer starts: 15 minutes, 14:59, 14:58. So much for the leisurely shit, I think. I move. House rules say, do the tasks in order and do them in the time allotted.

I quickly get my base layer back on, sit on the bench, open the ration, and start eating. 10:15, 10:14, 10:13. The baby crying stops after ten minutes. I hear the old staff, Use all your time, but use it wisely, you idiot jug-fuckers. Time is the one thing you may not ask for here. You have to prioritize.

Finish eating by 5:00, shit till 1:30, and then stand the fuck by, I think. While I'm sitting on the shitter, before I shit, I wash JS's Taser burn with water from the bowl. Gotta keep the system running, gotta keep the wheels on the train, and definitely gotta keep thinking, Get clean when you can, girls. Your body is a system. Figure out ways to take care of that system. Things will be tough, but they will be infinitely tougher if you don't keep the wheels on the train.

After washing the Taser burn, I shit and wipe my ass with water from the bowl and stand up, air-drying my hand by waving it back and forth. 1:29, 1:28, 1:27. It is time to think, Take some time to think, dumb fucks. Anybody can rush into a shitstorm. What do you know? What does it mean? What is your fucking plan?

So far, I reason, getting taken down and being in a cell under house rules are bad signs (no shit, Sherlock). I sit on the bench and tally my operating assumptions:

They don't know what has happened to my team.

They expect to find out quickly from me.

They suspect me.

I am being kept tired and weak.

I will be interrogated.

I am an embarrassment.

00:10, 00:09, 00:08, 00:07. I stand and face the door. 00:02, 00:01, 00:00. Nothing happens. Not that something has to happen. It's all part of the program to keep me fucking guessing. I lie down on the bench.

Hey, fuck heads, never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lay. Never stay awake when you can sleep.

I just slip into a deep sleep, and e-board alarm goes off—this time microphone feedback, so loud it hurts. I stifle the urge to cover my ears, a house rule no-no, take my position under the e-board, and read: Sleep one hour, stand one hour, knees one hour, hands up thirty minutes, rooster thirty minutes—repeat. Fuck me, I think. Here we fucking go—stress cycles. The alarm stops, and the timer starts. 01:00:00, 00:59:59, 00:59:58. I'm on the bench, repeating to myself as I doze off again, Sleep, stand, knees, hands, rooster, sleep, stand, knees, hands, rooster.

Stress cycles happen in the center of the cell. Stand means stand, stand still, feet shoulder-width apart, with hands at the sides. Knees means you are on your knees with the rest of the body as in standing. Hands up is the standing position with hands raised above the head, arms straight; hands may not touch. Rooster sucks. Squat, loop your arms behind the knees, and grab your ears. The e-board counts down the time for each position, and the alarm signals the time to change.

Stress cycles are exquisite pain, ladies. We make you torture yourself. Isn't that amusing? Sure, you can refuse, cheat, or fall out of the postures, but believe me, what happens when you do is infinitely worse. Let's begin, shall we?

That was in segment 13, phase 2. That was training. What the fuck is this?

Well, maybe what happens when you fall out of the stress positions is not infinitely worse, but it is worse. The sad thing is that everyone falls out, and you get no credit for how long you