IT BEGINS

 

Richard Blaine has no idea how to be a soldier, much less an officer. 

An ancient entity took possession of him upon his receiving his WWII draft notice, not wanting to lose the first human whose mind she could contact.

Not knowing how to be human, the entity, Sentient, has gotten him into one deadly situation after another by refusing to bow before humans she considers inferior to herself.

Now, Blaine finds himself thrust into a deadly prelude to a battle with nine Nazi E-Boats, leading battle-weary misfits who think him wiser than he is.

IT BEGINS

“No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

 - Napoleon

 

I went through the sparkling door first.

Sentient had to take control of my body and drag me over the doorstep so the Spartans following would not stumble over my stalled heels.

You would think I would have remembered the horror, the eeriness, the soul-emptiness of entering the barracks … and so have prepared myself for what would follow when I left it.

You would have been wrong.

It was different than entering. Not the same and yet worse.

There is an exact word for this phenomenon: “liminality.”

“Liminality” is the word for the threshold moment—from the Latin root limin, meaning the centerline of the doorway.

Liminality is the moment of crossing over.

It describes the transitional phase of personal change, wherein one is neither in an old state of being nor a new, and not quite aware of the implications of the event.

All the stages of life include liminality. Life is nothing but moments of crossing over.

 Stitching these moments together into the comforting quilt of wisdom is the task of one’s later years.

But first, I had to survive this nightmare moment to make it to those years.

‘I made a mistake boosting your I.Q. to 400. Your men need Leonidas not Hamlet. Actions not words. Well done is better than well said.’

‘I know,’ I mind-snapped. ‘Confucius say -- the superior man acts before he speaks, and afterwards speaks according to his actions.’

A shoulder thumped into my left arm, and a trilling tuning fork version of the Rabbi’s voice said, “You take us to such nice places, Rick.”

I turned and saw Lt. Stein in his futuristic helmet. To cap off his new look was a fur-trimmed bomber jacket, a Desert Eagle on his hip, and a Sig Spear strapped to his back.

I suddenly realized that I was wearing the same clothes … except for the helmet. I was wearing the traditional Spartan helmet.

All my men were dressed like the Rabbi.

I pulled up short … my men.

They needed a leader … especially in the frigid madness all around us.

We stood on a football-sized deck enclosed by high walls of steel. Walls that were being hammered by a sea gone mad.

It was a scene best painted not by El Greco, Dore, or Van Gogh but by the medieval artist, Hieronymus Bosch —with his nightmare vision of the streets of hell.

He would be the one to do justice to the surging storm raging around the Rocinante.

Sentient mind-sighed, ‘I did error in boosting your intelligence.’

‘Get over it. I am who I am.’

‘You and Popeye.’

The Spartans were too momentarily stunned by our surroundings to panic … but that would not last.

“Heads up!” I yelled over the roars of the storm. “This weather is just Mother Nature protesting the bending of Space/Time. It should settle down pretty soon.”

Pvt. Stevens said in his new tuning fork voice, “That was what ‘Doc’ Tennyson was just telling Sam and me.”

I nodded. “Sam” was it? Cpl. Wilson had made a friend. Good. Dee Stevens had just chosen his Stinger mate.

I yelled again and pointed to a just revealed door in the wall behind the Spartans. “When I’ve chosen the four Stinger teams, the rest of you go through that door.”

“Back to our barracks?” hopefully asked Evans.

“No. To … a waiting room of sorts.”

“To wait for what?” whined Stew Taylor.

Sgt. Savalas snapped, “For one of us eight to die, so you can take our place.”

I smiled. One of us. Theo never doubted that I would choose him. And so, he had chosen himself to my Stinger mate.

Some of the Spartans started to head to the door, and I shook my head and bellowed, “Gentlemen, I haven’t made my selection yet!”

Those Spartans stopped … but grudgingly.

Rocinante suddenly lurched and rocked. A hazy image a meter across billowed in front of us:

We saw our vessel was surrounded by nine Nazi E-Boats.

Porkins yelped, “Major, you said this boat would repel torpedoes!”

“Look, Doofus!” snorted Reese. “The storm’s waves just knocked us into one of those E-Boats.”

I turned to the Rabbi. “Could you kill?”

“Cloverfield told me what those bastards are doing to my People in Auschwitz. Yes, Rick, I can kill Nazis.”

I nodded. The third team picking itself. Only one more. I smiled and bellowed.

“Reese and Porkins! You go to the opposing bulkhead next to Dee and Wilson.”

“What are we going to do there?” protested Porkins.

With a grinding of gears, two twin seated firing platforms jerkingly thrust out from the two opposing bulkheads.

Reese slapped Porkins’ arm good-naturedly. “What do you think, Doofus?”

I relayed what Sentient was telling me. “The Cherbourg-based German E-boats have been spotted on radar by a destroyer on patrol off Portland Bill.”

I made a sour face. “Their position was reported to Plymouth headquarters, but they could not relay it to the convoy because of the radio mix-up.”

I wanted to dig up Capt. Sturges so I could kill him all over again. “Gentlemen! The convoy is almost here. It’s up to us. Climb into your seats!”