Not one of the enlistees in the briefing had opted out of the mission. Those who hadn’t personally witnessed the sacking of London, had watched the events unfold again and again on TV. They were each eager to settle the score.

  Tom’s gut churned with tension as he sat in his Warrior IFV, third vehicle from the front, positioned before the towering gateway of the LookingGlass. With the hatches sealed, the roar of wind and rain became a muted vibration through the hull. Inside, the sharp tang of ionized air from the gate grew stronger, almost metallic.

  Through the periscope optics in the commander’s hatch, Tom gazed ahead. Beyond the rippling gateway stretched a feral landscape of forests and valleys, now scarred by the construction of a forward operating base. Whatever awaited them, it wasn't Bosnia, and it sure as hell wasn't anything he'd trained for.

  What the fuck are you doing Tom? He brushed the thought aside and instinctively checked comms. They’d barely had twenty minutes to learn each other's names before climbing into their vehicles. His driver, Lance Corporal Davies, gave him a thumbs-up. Beside him, Private Cooper—the lanky Cockney from the briefing—chewed nervously on a stick of gum, fidgeting with the controls of the 30mm RARDEN cannon. Tom glanced back at the seven infantrymen squeezed into the troop compartment, Corporal Ellis giving them a last-minute equipment check.

  "Section ready, Sarge," Ellis called up.

  Tom nodded, feeling the engine's reassuring rumble beneath his boots as they idled, awaiting their turn. Minutes dragged by as the column ahead cleared. The crew sat in tense silence, listening anxiously to the muffled chaos beyond the armor.

  A sharp rap jolted him back into focus. Tom twisted the locking handle and cracked the hatch, revealing a harried young corporal in a yellow poncho.

  "What's the word, Corporal?"

  "New orders, Sergeant," the corporal shouted above the din, thrusting a sealed dispatch into Tom’s outstretched hand. "Recon's picked up a village ten kilometers east of the main corridor under attack. Suspected members of the Resistance. Command wants you to take a detachment, push out, neutralize hostiles, secure the site, and hold until your platoon leader links up."

  Tom's chest tightened. "Enemy strength?"

  The corporal shook his head, rain dripping from his helmet. "Uncertain. But aerial recon showed—some sort of incendiary weapons. When you go through the gate, the marshals will guide you to your platoon and out of the FOB, from there head east until you pick up a road. The rest is on the op sheet."

  Tom nodded grimly. "Understood."

  Slamming the hatch shut, Tom keyed the comm. "Listen up. New objective. A village is taking fire ten klicks east. Cooper, Davies–eyes sharp. Ellis, prep for dismount. Civilians on-site."

  "Roger, Sarge," Ellis responded firmly.

  As the staging klaxons wailed, their echoes muffled through armored steel, Tom skimmed the op sheet. He’d been assigned platoon sergeant of a four-vehicle mechanized element–three Warriors plus one MMJV, whatever that was–some kind of special equipment marked as mission-critical. He started digging through the plastic wallet for details, but outside, marshals in glowing ponchos were already signaling them forward.

  Tom steadied himself, taking a slow breath as he peered into the optics.

  "Right then," he said firmly. "Driver, take us through."

  * * *

  Passing through the LookingGlass had been strangely anticlimactic—just a flash of static, the hair on Tom's neck prickling with the sudden charge, and a brief, stomach-churning sensation of weightlessness.

  Then they were simply there. Another world.

  On the other side was a proper, squaddie-approved clusterfuck under a torrential downpour. Harsh halogen lights strung high on generators cast stark shadows through sheets of rain, illuminating a muddy, chaotic hive of activity. Marshals with bright ponchos and red torch-wands gestured sharply, desperately directing the unending flow of vehicles and troops pouring through the gate. Shouts, engine noise, and the hammering of construction equipment fought against the relentless storm to dominate the night air.

  Royal Engineers—soaked, exhausted, and smeared with mud—worked feverishly, setting up defensive barriers, stringing razor wire, and erecting prefab structures that already sagged under the relentless rain. The steel-grated roads sank deeper into the mud with every passing vehicle. Puddles of oily water pooled across its surface, gleaming dully under the silver cast of moonlight.

  "Christ," Tom muttered under his breath, taking it all in through the periscope. It was somehow both impressive and disheartening. He knew the RE lads were probably working double shifts with no end in sight, fighting a losing battle against mud, exhaustion, and urgency.

  "Welcome to paradise, boys," Tom said, voice thick with sarcasm, over the internal comms.

  A marshal waved them forward, aggressively pointing eastward as their vehicle moved off the steel grates and onto raw, muddy earth. Ahead stretched dozens of tracks already carved into the grassland—nothing but deep, muddy ruts winding into the darkness.

  The road was located exactly as marked on the grid map. The platoon turned onto it and continued east, their vehicles bucking hard over previously buried boulders and thick roots, now exposed by the heavy traffic of tracked vehicles.

  “Sorry, Sarge–roads are absolute shit.”

  “Understood, Davies,” Tom replied evenly, “Just do the best you can.”

  Tom pulled out the contents of the plastic wallet, and glanced over each file before passing it onto the crew. He stopped on the Special Equipment Brief, containing the MMJV–Mobile Magic-Jamming Vehicle, callsign SPELLBREAKER-2.

  Nice and subtle, that. Bet the lads in Strategy had a laugh.

  He skimmed the sheet, eyes flicking quickly across jargon and warnings. Magic-suppression, 10-minutes max of continuous effect. He grunted softly. Then what? His mind flashed back to Whitehall.

  Sliding the spec sheet away, Tom turned back to the optics. Rain slashed across the periscope, blurring the view of dense trees and tangled brush as they rolled deeper into the surreal landscape. The woods around them thickened, older and wilder than anything back home. Gnarled oaks and towering pines flanked their muddy route, limbs twisted by years of overgrowth.

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  "Looks bloody medieval out here," muttered Cooper, peering through his own scope. "Half expect Robin Hood to jump out."

  "Keep your eyes open for more than merry men," Tom replied, deadpan. "Recon said incendiary weapons—whatever the hell that means out here."

  Three clicks out, they entered a clearing through the trees, rumbling up to a dilapidated stone hut off the roadside, the structure half-collapsed and choked by ivy.

  "Davies, slow it down–halt just ahead," Tom instructed.

  "Roger, Sarge." The Warrior slowed, then came to a stop a hundred meters ahead of the shack. Tom squinted through the optics. Smoke curled faintly from a moss-covered chimney, vanishing quickly in the storm. Nothing on thermals.

  “Oi, look at that thing,” piped up Cooper, “We’re in the fookin’ Shire now lads.”

  “Jesus mate, shut it,” snapped Davies.

  They watched the hut closely, each second stretching as tension tightened the air. Nothing moved but leaves whipped by rain. It remained dark and quiet, its windows vacant and unblinking.

  Tom keyed the comm channel, switching briefly to the platoon frequency. "SPELLBREAKER-2, how long to deploy your field?"

  "Training said ninety seconds, Sergeant.” A pause in static. “But we haven’t tested it in combat, over."

  "Copy," Tom said. It felt dangerously slow in a fight, but it was what it was.

  "Davies, push on," Tom finally said, relaxing a fraction. "Probably abandoned. We’re still a ways out from the objective."

  The Warrior lurched forward again, tracks grinding mud beneath them. Just as Tom started to settle, something flickered at the edge of his vision—movement in the trees. He swung the periscope sharply, eyes straining to penetrate the curtain of rain. Nothing but shadow and gloom met his gaze.

  Then it shifted again, clearer now.

  "Contact right! Tree line, seventy meters!"

  "Can't confirm target," Cooper barked, turret already rotating, his voice tight.

  "Hold fire!" Tom snapped. His pulse quickened as he steadied his view. A shape emerged from behind dripping foliage—thin, wobbly, and thoroughly bizarre.

  It was some kind of animal, tall and gangly. Bulging blue eyes, elongated neck, webbed feet. It stood motionless, blinking in apparent confusion.

  "Tracking now," Cooper yelled, then hesitated, sounding incredulous. "Jesus Christ, Sarge—what is that thing? Looks like a drowned alpaca!"

  Tom stared in disbelief. The creature tilted its head, regarding their armored vehicle with an expression disturbingly close to curiosity.

  "Just hold your fire," Tom repeated, forcing calm into his voice.

  Seconds passed with the creature watching them, then it ducked its long neck down to pluck leaves from a bush, and chewed them in satisfaction.

  Tom let out a breath. "Right then. Whatever it is, it's not a threat."

  The infantrymen in the troop compartment had gone silent, straining to see anything through their limited viewport. Ellis finally broke the silence.

  "Sarge, you mind tellin' us what's going on out there?"

  "Local wildlife," Tom replied dryly. "Stand by for Attenborough to give you the details."

  Suddenly the animal shuddered, let out a mournful, echoing call that cut through even the storm, and then turned abruptly, bounding awkwardly into the deeper woods. In its wake, the forest shifted subtly, branches bending and swaying despite the wind having momentarily stilled.

  "Trees are bloody moving now," Cooper muttered, voice subdued. "Proper haunted forest, this."

  A brief crackle over comms interrupted before Tom could reply. "Iron-Two to Iron-One," Sergeant Harris's voice was tight, tense. "Did we just see an alien goat? Or have you been spiking our tea again?"

  Tom clicked his radio to respond. "Alien goat confirmed, Iron-Two. Putting Cooper on nature-watch. Keep your heads on straight, all vehicles."

  "Roger that," Harris replied. "We'll keep an eye out for unicorns next."

  Tom’s finger hesitated to press his PTT button to respond, before deciding against it.

  "Davies, steady on. Cooper, any more zoological commentary, save it for the debrief. Let's get back to soldiering."

  The Warrior lurched onward, drawing the platoon beyond the clearing, into the gnarled treeline as the unnatural forest closed in around them.

  * * *

  Wolsey closed his eyes for a moment, easing back into the embassy chair as the day’s tension seeped out of his muscles. They’d pressed him hard, and he'd held firm. Official denials, a well-practiced look of diplomatic confusion, just enough doubt planted to keep the Americans spinning their wheels.

  He opened his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside the window, D.C. traffic crawled by, headlights blurred beneath steady rain. It wasn't Oxfordshire rain—too loud, too insistent—still, it felt familiar. So many postings, so many different cities, yet he always found comfort in small familiarities—and every place had rain.

  His mind drifted back to the intelligence briefing. The Americans had been uncharacteristically direct, which for them was the conversational equivalent of a punch to the face. Not just troop movements, but equipment configurations that shouldn't have been visible to satellites. They were signaling, with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer, that they had ways of getting what they wanted. To borrow an American phrase—we can do it the easy way, or the hard way.

  They'd known enough to be confident but not enough to understand what they were seeing—it made them dangerous. Between partial knowledge and complete awareness is when people do something stupid. The attack on London had unsettled them, but knowing Britain had a plan to respond to something entirely unknown to the DIA made them afraid. They'd get what they wanted eventually. If Britain didn't willingly cooperate, they'd find a lever to pull. And for them, military might was always the biggest stick in reach.

  Wolsey sighed, watching a taxi splash through a puddle below. The Americans were correct about one thing—the situation was unprecedented, but it wasn't the attack on London, it was what was about to unfold.

  The phone rang, shrill and unwelcome. With a sigh, he answered.

  "Wolsey."

  "Brigadier Wolsey," came a crisp, familiar voice—Major General Braddock, his tone both curt and tired. "Good show with the Americans. I've heard you handled yourself quite well."

  "Sir," Wolsey replied, sitting upright. A call at this hour, from Braddock himself, was never good news.

  "I'll skip the formalities, Ian," Braddock continued. "Your embassy posting is terminated effective immediately. You're being recalled to London, what's left of it."

  "Recalled, sir?" Wolsey echoed, mind racing. "Understood. What's the posting?"

  "Field deployment–mirror side. You’ll be the liaison officer between our frontline forces and the local resistance. We have to forge alliances, build trust with the locals, and fast.” “What’s changed?,” asked Wolsey. “We’re taking ground faster than expected. Once we've shattered the current regime, we'll be sitting on a powder keg–armed refugees on one side, and magical Europe on the other. If it all goes tits up, it may trigger Broken Sovereign."

  Wolsey's gut tightened at the mention of one of the worst-case dust-covered doctrines, never meant to see daylight.

  "Why me, sir?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself.

  "You know why, Ian, and frankly, we don’t have another subject matter expert with your background." The general paused briefly. "Your jet leaves within the hour. Briefing packet waiting aboard. Pack lightly."

  The line went dead. Wolsey sat frozen for a long moment, handset still pressed against his ear, his mind churning over the implications. Finally, he returned the phone to its cradle with deliberate care, stood slowly, and moved to the window. Rain streaked across the glass in distorted rivulets, casting the city outside in strange, shifting shapes.

  He exhaled deeply. Wolsey had deliberately kept himself at arm's length from the project—years of intelligence gathering, endless drone reconnaissance, painstaking invasion and defense scenarios–but now it was pulling him back in, unavoidable, like gravity. He’d left it for a life of desks–navigating quiet embassies, sterile briefings, and carefully worded exchanges, where there was structure to it, rules. Now, he’d be heading straight into the sort of grey theatre he'd once sworn he'd never revisit.

  It felt all too familiar. Different skies, perhaps, but the same tension that prickled beneath his calm exterior, and the same echoes of quiet orders whispered in places officially denied. A younger version of himself had learned that the rules of war blurred quickly once you stepped off the map–ventured off the ledger. He'd thought those days behind him. And yet, after London, something about him was different–more willing.

  His expression hardened, resigned to his fate. He pulled on his suit and gathered his things, fingers pausing briefly at the faint ridge of a worn-out passport—a quiet reminder of old ghosts and forgotten borders.

  "Never say never," he murmured quietly, turning away from his desk.