Behind a thick cloud of cigarette smoke in a dimly lit office, surrounded by piles of paper, sat the Vanguard's second most stressed officer. The coffee in his mug was the blackest of black, and the heavy buildup of residue suggested it was the only liquid the cup had ever known. The Quartermaster, head of logistics for the entire force, kept his glasses perfectly straight as he diligently flipped through hundreds of pages of paperwork per hour, occasionally consulting a six-monitor PC setup that would make even an intelligence analyst jealous.

  A series of numbers, some arbitrary, some purposeful, but all gravely important, filled every screen, accompanied by detailed charts. Together, they represented every bullet, bean, tank, gallon of gas, uranium fuel rod, and precision-guided munition in the Vanguard's inventory.

  It was a thankless but indispensable job, essential on the most fundamental level to the operation of an army. The Quartermaster did not appreciate interruptions, which was why he was especially perturbed when the bombastic commander of special forces, Striker-Commander Ivan Federov, entered his office.

  With a deadly glare, he closed the torso-thick folder he had been going through, hoping this visit would be brief. Federov was ushered in by his assistant, and he took a seat across from the Quartermaster, a big smile upon his hard and leathery Eastern-European face. It was slightly unsettling.

  "And what can I do for the special forces this time, Striker-Commander?" the Quartermaster asked apprehensively.

  "I have a personal requisition request for you, my dear friend," he said jovially.

  "Isn't it always? You still owe me for the K2 op loadout that I bent over backwards to get for you."

  "And I was much appreciative."

  "I was almost fired." He grinned sardonically.

  Federov threw his hands up in innocence. "Nobody could have predicted that even the forces of heaven would have a hard time sourcing two thousand gallons of monkey grease, three hundred rolls of adhesive tape rated for anti-tank applications, and fifty pairs of night vision goggles for dogs—who knew?! But you got it done, because you are the best Quartermaster in history."

  The Quartermaster licked his lips and rubbed his eyes, bracing for another all-nighter. He relented, "Shoot, what is it this time?"

  Federov placed a folded piece of paper on his desk and gently slid it toward him. The Quartermaster picked it up and studied it for a mere second before dropping his jaw, biting his knuckle, and gesturing around him while stuttering, in that order. Federov only seemed amused.

  "Do you realize what you are asking of me?!" he said, consulting the note again. "I'd have to recycle half of this equipment from reserve units."

  "But you can do it?" Federov asked.

  The Quartermaster shot a mean look. "Yes."

  "Good. I need it by tomorrow."

  The supply officer was once again thrown into a fit.

  The Salvo Archipelago’s delta, nestled at the intersection of the three major islands, was home to a sprawling naval complex. Here, ocean-going warships and coastal patrol vessels of every size were built, berthed, and maintained. But the most secretive part of the facility were the submarine pens. The massive concrete structure jutted out from the shoreline like a series of colossal bowling lanes. Its design was deliberate, meant to conceal the Vanguard’s highly classified undersea capabilities.

  Of the six berths within the complex, one remained solemnly empty: the berth of the Stormfiend, a submarine lost to a sea monster the previous year. The sub had yet to be replaced, its absence a result of shipyard constraints. The berth sat dormant, its support equipment cannibalized for the rest of the fleet. The only sign of life was a lone pickup truck rumbling onto the wharf deck, parking in a designated spot.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” R1C Milo asked, squinting at the empty expanse around them.

  “I’m sure,” replied JR Schaft, his junior.

  “’Cause there ain’t shit here,” Milo grumbled, gesturing around at the desolate wharf.

  Tora and Tetsu leapt from the truck bed. Tetsu studied the calm water filling the basin. “Saltwater is not an optimal combat environment,” he remarked, stating the obvious.

  The group ignored him, their attention drawn to the cavernous space above—the high ceiling, the skeletal frames of overhead cranes, the faint echo of their footsteps and the breaking of small waves against the concrete structure.

  “Let me see those orders again,” Milo said, holding out a hand. Kurt handed over a stiff piece of paper. Milo squinted at the text. “This better not be some kind of practical joke. Who the hell writes assignment orders this vague? Feels like I’m reading a note from a serial killer.”

  Kurt checked his watch. “1600 on the dot. Wharf Six.”

  Alpha Team exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion mounting. Before anyone could voice their doubts, the wharf came alive. More vehicles rolled in, disgorging squads of Rifles who looked just as lost as Alpha. The air buzzed with muttered questions and uneasy laughter.

  Milo approached a group of Rifles, flashing his orders. “You guys know what’s goin’ on?”

  One of the Rifles gave him a sympathetic look. “Beats me, man. We got orders too, but they don’t look like that.” He held up his own—a sheet of paper with letters cut out from newspapers.

  Milo blinked. “They cut your orders from newspapers? Is this some kind of prank?”

  The Rifle shrugged. “Some psychopath shit. But the order number checks out. We ran it by our yeoman and everything.”

  Milo rubbed his chin, scanning the growing crowd. Then he spotted a familiar face and pushed his way through the throng.

  “You son of a bitch!” Milo exclaimed, his face splitting into a grin as he reached Perelli. The newly minted officer moved in for a fist bump but was pulled into a bear hug instead, drawing a few raised eyebrows. “How you been? When I heard the Los Angeles op went tits up, I thought you’d finally bought it.”

  Perelli, though not one for physical affection, endured the hug. “Eh, it was touch and go for a minute,” he said, slightly evasive of the subject, once Milo released him. A few nearby officers shot disapproving looks. “I heard you guys had a rough go here.”

  “Dude, you wouldn’t believe it.” Milo pointed to a vanity patch on his shoulder—a skull with a bullet hole through it. “Skeleton invasion.” Then he noticed the officers lingering nearby. “What’s with the brass nuts?”

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  Perelli glanced down at his rank insignia. Milo followed his gaze, his eyes widening as he slowly registered the single brass bar.

  “Oh shit… Oh shit!” Milo exclaimed, waving over the rest of Alpha. “Get over here!” The troopers hurried over, their confusion turning to grins as they spotted the officer’s bar. They clapped Perelli on the back, offering congratulations.

  “Our boy’s an officer,” Milo said, then with mock indignation: “Hey, you fuckin’ sellout!” His tone carried more pride than malice. Then, suddenly serious, he snapped a sharp salute. The rest of Alpha followed. “Congratulations, sir.”

  Perelli returned the salute, his expression softening. “Thanks, R1C.”

  “So, do you know what’s goin’ on, uh, sir?” Kurt asked.

  Perelli shook his head, holding up a mess hall napkin scrawled with hastily written words. “I’m in the dark. This is the weirdest way I’ve ever received written orders.”

  A deep Slavic voice spoke from behind him. “It seems you all get along well.”

  Perelli turned, coming face-to-face with the big boss himself—Striker-Commander Federov. His eyes went wide.

  “Uh, yes, sir,” he answered quickly, snapping the sharpest salute he could. Federov returned it casually.

  “Good,” the big man said with a smile. “You’re their officer, then.”

  Perelli hesitated. “Ah… isn’t that against protocol, sir? They’re my former squad.”

  Federov raised an eyebrow. “You can separate your post from your past, can’t you, Ensign?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight. Federov didn’t inspire his Rifles to greater heights—he challenged them to.

  Perelli glanced at his former squad. To refuse would be to deny his place here. “Of course I can, sir.” His answer was firm.

  Federov nodded, pleased. “Good. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a good NCO.”

  A pickup truck backed in, and Federov climbed onto the bed, using it as a podium. “Let us get down to business,” his voice boomed. All eyes locked onto him. “You’re all wondering why you’re here. I apologize for the cloak-and-dagger methods.” His gaze swept over the gathered soldiers, tankers, airmen, special operators, truck drivers, and engineers. “In short, I personally selected each of you.”

  He let that sink in before continuing. “I am creating a new special unit. We will not operate conventionally. We will fight in hostile environments, cut off from the wider Vanguard. Our job will be to take the fight to the enemy—to seize their land, to take their lives, and to break their stuff.” His voice was like a hammer striking steel.

  “This will be a combined-arms unit where every Rifle pulls his weight—and the weight of the man next to him.” The energy of the formation went from inquisitive to more motivated. “The vampires have sown the wind. Now, they will reap the Whirlwind.”

  He extended a hand toward the bay doors. “If anyone has doubts, now’s the time. I will not hold it against you.”

  A pause. Seconds passed. There was some murmuring, a few exchanged glances—but no one moved.

  Not a single boot left the line.

  The Chief Rifle snapped a sharp salute, clicking the heels of his perfectly shined boots together as he did so. "Chief Rifle Klaus Weber, 1st Airborne, Stormriders, reporting."

  Perelli returned the salute stiffly, still getting used to the action. Then he shook the German’s hand. That felt strange too, but for different reasons. "Good to meet you, Chief. I'm Ensign Perelli. Your orders?"

  They stood in the cavernous hangar that had been set aside for Whirlwind. The building had once been an assembly facility for a prototype orbital launch vehicle, back in the early days. But after the Vanguard space program pivoted to using the Standoff Array for lobbing things into orbit, the facility had sat abandoned, maintained but unused, on the East side of Azure. Now, with Whirlwind moving in, it had been completely renovated. Multi-level spaces supported everything the unit needed, albeit in a more compact, efficient layout. The facility housed everything from a machine shop to a shooting range, and even a fully outfitted motor pool.

  Weber handed over a roll of toilet paper with neatly written paragraphs scrawled across it, resembling a formal letter. Perelli studied it for a moment, located the order number for validation, then passed it to Milo, who examined it with mock seriousness, even pretending to scan it with a black light. This was one of the weirder ones.

  Clearing his throat, Perelli said, "Welcome to Whirlwind, Chief. I'll be your element officer. Our division officer hasn’t been named yet." He gestured to Milo. "This is Rifle First-Class Ralph Milovovich, one of our squad leaders."

  Milo made a show of looking offended at having his investigation interrupted but still shook Weber’s hand cordially. Perelli frowned and shot him a look, silently discouraging the antics.

  Weber quickly got down to business. "I understand our element is going to have a nonstandard organization?"

  "Yeah. We're earmarked for special tasking. I don’t know what that will be yet, and I don’t know who our other squads will be, either. But I intend to have R1C Milo act as squad leader for the one we already have. Second squad will be yours."

  "Four teams in total." Weber scratched his chin. "How many men so far?"

  "Seven. Three plus a Kilo-class frame for our Alpha and Bravo teams. R1C Milo will lead Alpha. His team has Junior Rifle Kurt Schaft and R3C Takahashi Daiki—but we call him Tora. Their frame is 'Tetsu.' They come from a recon background."

  "What about Bravo?"

  "Three assault troopers—R3C Wilhelm, Waters and Marcus. Their frame is 'Hessian.'”

  Weber nodded. "Three assault, two frames, three recon... and I understand you’re Freikorps." His brow furrowed slightly. "I suppose that leaves me the odd man out. The only standard Rifle."

  "Indeed," Perelli agreed. "But everything about Whirlwind is nonstandard. You were chosen for a reason."

  Perelli felt out of place and in way over his head standing in his commanding officer's office. While Whirlwind was under Federov's direct control, the unit’s operational CO was Commander Waller—a scarred and grizzled veteran, and probably the only one in the Vanguard who still smoked cigars; the bigger, the better. He was thin but sharp as a whip—equal parts intelligent and intimidating.

  Federov was also present, lounging in a chair and feigning interest in a field manual, flipping through the pages.

  Perelli hesitated before speaking, carefully choosing his words. "I'm not sure I understand the... doctrinal reasoning behind this decision."

  That seemed to amuse Federov, who smirked but said nothing.

  Waller took a slow drag from his cigar before responding. "The U.N. team has to be here. At the request of the American president, they must be integrated into our battle line. That's was part of the deal to manage the fallout from the Battle of Los Angeles. So, they’re going to make up your second squad. This way, they can observe us from as close as possible."

  Perelli stiffened. "Sir, that’s a terrible idea. They aren’t trained to our standard. They aren’t even equipped to our standard. My element is going to be significantly hampered by their presence—at best. At worst, they’ll get slaughtered."

  Federov finally put the manual down, locking eyes with him. "We know. That’s why we chose you and built your team the way we did. This will be equal parts political maneuvering and combat operations."

  Perelli exhaled sharply. "Sir, I’m not politically savvy."

  "You don’t need to be." Federov waved a hand dismissively. "I know your record. You’re an overachieving R1C who skipped right over an NCO role, and now you’re an incredibly green junior officer. You don't have an axe to grind and you don't have any bad habits to unlearn. Putting a freshly minted ensign in charge of a team made up of, ostensibly, the best operators the world has to offer? That’s a deliberate move, and they'll know it. It'll be humiliating for them, and we want them to feel that."

  Perelli nodded, beginning to understand. He supposed he should feel flattered by the vote of confidence, though the reality of it still felt daunting.

  Federov leaned forward. "You’re going to lead them like any other unit. Your word is final, understood? They follow your orders as if they were mine."

  "Understood."

  "Additionally, you’re to keep them alive. That’s why your unit is composed as such. You make sure they don’t die, but more importantly, you make sure they see firsthand what it takes to fight vampires."

  Perelli frowned. "So my squads will be filling a backline role?"

  Federov’s smile widened. "Far from it. We’ve got another mission coming up. You’ll be in the spearhead."

  Perelli had been given a briefing packet on the U.N. team. They were under INTERPOL's operational control but were not career INTERPOL agents. It appeared that an effort had been made to forge one for them. The eight operators assigned to him were sourced from various U.N. nations. Very conveniently, all were from NATO countries as well. He knew that was no coincidence. These soldiers would be wearing U.N. white, but in reality, this was a NATO operation.

  Naturally, ISR didn’t take any of the information given to the Vanguard at face value and conducted their own investigation. The packet acknowledged as much.

  Four of the operators were from the United States, with backgrounds ranging from SEALs to Delta Force. Two were British; both Royal Marines, one was German GSG-9, and one was Polish GROM. In addition, there were two actual INTERPOL agents. One was the mission leader, an American political appointee from the current administration: Special Agent Olivia Alvarez. The other was a German Security Council advisor, Amelie Wagner.

  It raised an eyebrow when Perelli read that the security advisor was, in fact, a spy. One the Vanguard had caught, and for reasons above his paygrade, had been requested by the Vanguard to return. He had no idea how he was supposed to handle that.