Relocation Factor

* Author's note: this is my first time writing something for this site after being a long time reader. Read and review, but please be gentle ;). Anyway, enjoy.

Sergeant Bren MacMillan scanned the hillside with the sight of his rifle, the crosshairs tracing a path over the sandy rock. Satisfied with the emptiness he observed, he lowered the weapon and gave the signal for the rest of the team to move up. The sun was just beginning to set on the Afghan countryside, and with just less than an hour until dark, they were on time, as always. Bren was often made point man or lead scout due to his top-notch athletic abilities, which were impressive even by special forces standards.

The Canadian Joint Task Force-Two patrol began to crest over the hill, guns scanning in all directions for threats. Bren darted back to the main body of the group, and took his place next to the patrol commander, his good friend Lieutenant Craig Alexander. A shorter, stockier man rapidly approaching forty, Craig was a true soldier's soldier; he had begun his career as a non-commissioned member like Bren had, and applying for officer later in his career. Once he had passed all of the training and was a full certified Lieutenant, he immediately applied for JTF-2 selection. As such, he was treated just like one of the guys, and avoided the "pointy-head" stereotypes that NCMs tended to throw at their commissioned brothers.

"Looks good straight up to the objective. Shouldn't be far now. What's in this compound that has Joson pulling out the twelve hairs he has left?" Bren cracked a smile as he mentally pictured their commanding officer Colonel Graham Joson, an older balding man with a chevron mustache and a beer gut that seemed to be continually expanding.

"I'm not sure. He said something about a device that had fallen off the back of a chopper or something. Pretty serious piece of kit by the sound of it. " The Lieutenant shrugged his broad shoulders. "But hey, why are you asking me? I just tell the guys to walk around with guns. Not really calling any shots here."

The patrol continued towards their objective as darkness crept up on them. At long last, their objective was in sight: a small trio of huts on a seemingly out-of-place patch of flat ground. Two men patrolled either side, armed with Russian made AK-47 rifles, relics of the Cold War that seemed to pop up wherever you go in the world. They didn't look too experienced; they joked and laughed with each other, they paused randomly to smoke marijuana, and their weapons were casually slung over their shoulders like a mailman's satchel.

"Looks pretty easy," said Bren, as he swapped out the American ACOG scope on his rifle for an EOTech holographic sight. The EOTech would be far better for shooting at close quarters, especially in darkness. All else fails, and his C8 carbine had a back-up pair of flip-up iron sights on it.

"I was just thinking that. I guess these clowns have no idea what they just captured." Craig chuckled at the poor display of duty before him as he waved for the sharpshooters and cutoff teams to move into position, ready to provide cover and prevent anyone from getting in or out. "You ready for this?"

"Does Joson need to invest in a hairpiece?" Bren's sarcastic response told the commando officer all he needed. He signalled over the radio that the raid was on. Instantly, the two roving pairs of guards were dropped almost simultaneously by the accurate sniper shots. With reflexes not dulled by their age or experience, Bren and Craig charged towards the center hut, while the other men in the patrol split up to clear the other two. Bren and Craig stacked up against the door, and the second he felt the Lieutenant's reassuring squeeze on his lean tricep, Bren kicked the flimsy door off of its hinges and tossed in a nine-banger distraction device, a small grenade that made nine rapid bangs to disorient the occupants of the room. After the ninth bang, the two operators stormed into the building, rifles at the ready. Bren saw the two occupants of the room, still dazed by the nine-banger, were drunkenly trying to unsling their rifles. Performing a textbook double tap, Bren fired two rounds into the center mass of the closest man, sending him to the floor in a heap. Craig followed suit with the second.

The two men moved through the small house, finding nothing but empty rooms, stacks of ammunition, food and drugs. No sign of the device they were to retrieve. As they breached the last room, it was as though they walked into a different building on the other side of the world.

A science lab. A modern, honest-to-God science lab, like the one that a person might find in a respected university. Polished walls, finished floors, and a sterile smell as though the place had just been cleaned. At the back of the room was a thick sheet of glass with a door at the side. Beyond the glass lay a large grey box the size of a barbeque with various panels on it. The two soldiers entered the door and examined the device.

"Yep, 'STARLIGHT'," said Bren, reading the inscription on the side. "Looks like we've got the package, boss."

Craig was about to alert the rest of the team when one of the sniper teams came in over the radio. "We have possible hostiles inside the perimeter. These guys are looking pretty tooled up, boss. M16s, frag grenades, the whole works. Looks like they might be contractors. What they hell are they…" his speech was cut off by the sound of automatic gunfire. "Oh shit, contact! They've spotted us! They're engaging!" Bren and Crag turned to exit the room and join the firefight when they spotted a familiar figure behind the glass. Dressed in well-maintained CADPAT camouflage fatigues stood a small figure with a chevron mustache, a protruding gut and thin hair. Joson.

"Colonel, what the fuck are you doing here?" Bren said in disbelief. The Colonel flipped a switch on the instrument panel outside the glass, and the two men heard the doors lock.

"Good work recovering STARLIGHT, gentlemen. I knew I could count on you. Shame to lose such a good team, though." The old officer said with a wry smile.

"You bastard, you set us up!" Yelled Craig as he raised his rifle. He fired two shots at the Colonel only to have them smack harmlessly against the glass, creating spider web like cracks. Bulletproof.

"Well, business will be business gentlemen. This little device is a product our Taliban friends here nabbed from one of our…friends." He nodded towards outside, gesturing at the private mercenaries that were now in vicious battle with Bren and Craig's team. "We had to get it back. But I couldn't trust you with keeping the secret of what you'd saw. One of you was bound to do some research and find out what it is eventually." Bren twitched with anger and also with a feeling of helplessness as he was powerless to assist his men outside. "Yes, we couldn't have that. It's called a gap generation capacitor. Rather than explaining all the science and details, why don't I just show you? A few more switches were manipulated and the device suddenly blinked to life, making an ever crescendoing whine. "It's been good knowing you, gentlemen. Farewell." Joson snapped his heels together and saluted. Bren began to foam at the mouth with rage. Betrayed by his own commanding officer…who had been in the mercenaries' pocket for God knows how long. He smashed at the glass with the but of his carbine, determined to break through and tear Joson limb from limb. All of a sudden the whining stopped, and Bren looked back to see the device emit a blinding flash and a deafening, low pitched boom. He saw Craig get thrown into the air and smack his head hard against the fortified walls. He wanted to scream his friend's name but soon everything went black and silent, save for the sound of his own breath.

When his vision returned, he seemed to be falling. Red, thick and pulpy walls that pulsated and contracted surrounded him as though he was moving down the throat of some great beast. The silence and his breath had been replaced by thousands of voices screaming in unison. He felt himself hit the ground hard.

Opening his eyes, Bren used every ounce of energy to focus his eyes. His helmet, weighed down with the night vision rig, was stifling. He popped his chin strap and unceremoniously dumped the helmet on the ground. He looked around. He was somewhere far different from where he had just been; a lush green field with the sun shining through a crisp blue sky. He paid no attention to this new change nor to his rapidly slipping consciousness; he fumbled for his radio but heard only static. Bringing his mouth to the receiver he mumbled a drunkenly slurred, "Anyone...please…" before the pain became too great and he fell on his face. As his consciousness fleeted from his head, he heard a soft female voice.

"Oh…oh my!" The voice said. Too weak to respond, he just closed his eyes and let his mind power down, as he felt something grab the drag handle of his chest rig and begin to move his prone body through the soft grass.