CHAPTER 23: A DAY LATER

Dawn broke to the sound of engines.

At first it was a low rumble like distant thunder. Then it grew teeth, rotor beats stacking over each other until the roofs rattled and chickens burst from their crates. Doors swung open all over Aldo. Sleepy faces turned skyward.

"Mother of—" Rowan stopped in the street, jaw slack. "There’s more of them."

Four silhouettes knifed in from the south—two CH-53s heavy with slung loads, a Pave Low shepherding them, and a smaller utility bird on the flank. Cables hung under the heavy-lift helicopters like spider legs. The first CH-53 bled speed and dipped, lowering a pallet the size of a wagonhouse onto the meadow outside the palisade: fuel bladders and a diesel generator wrapped in net. The second bird set down a bundle of Hesco bastions and a telescoping light tower. The escort flared and hovered, kicking dust across the fields.

Villagers poured toward the gate, hands over ears. Children pointed. Dogs lost their minds.

Inside the square, Atlas and the Marines were already moving. Men shrugged into plate carriers, clipped helmets, and jogged for the outer field. A combat engineer detail broke open the nets with multitools and halligan bars. Another team manhandled aluminum mast sections toward the north wall. A SATCOM dish came off a pallet and onto a tripod with practiced speed.

Harvin found Albert near the gate, speaking into a radio and watching the dance. "Sir Albert!" the elder called over the noise. "You said more would come, but this many? What is all this?"

Albert lowered the handset. "Perimeter. Power. Comms. Cooks. If this village is going to be our outpost, it needs to be defensible and supplied." He kept his tone easy. "Security, Elder. Nothing more."

Harvin looked at the rolling flood of gear: coils of concertina wire, cases of tools, a collapsible watchtower, crates stamped with unfamiliar letters. "And... more soldiers?"

"Some," Albert admitted. "Rotation element. A medic detachment. A signals section. You have my word, we’re here under your consent, and we’ll keep discipline tight. No one bullies your people. Anyone breaks that, they go home in cuffs." He held the elder’s gaze. "We’re not an occupying army."

Harvin exhaled, the lines at his eyes tired but not hostile. "Then I’ll hold you to your word. Our people fear armies." He glanced up as the utility helicopter, slick, fast, skipped over the palisade and settled inside the field. "But... if this keeps goblins away, it’s worth the noise."

"Noise buys safety," Albert said. "And breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

Albert pointed to a drab green trailer rolling off a pallet behind a JLTV, its side panels swinging open like a market stall. Stainless doors flashed. A canvas fly inflated over a folding line. Two cooks in tan aprons and hairnets climbed out with clipboards and a lot of authority.

"Mobile kitchen," Albert said. "Give us an hour."

By the time the sun cleared the hills, the meadow outside Aldo looked like a field exercise. Light towers were staked and humming. A 60 kW generator chugged beside a fuel bladder, cabling snaked to a TOC tent where a map board already had ALDO OUTPOST scrawled across the top. Atlas MPs placed traffic cones and a chain across the east track. Marines strung wire at the treeline and posted a two-man LP/OP on the ridge. The radio dish tilted and locked; a radio tech gave a thumbs-up.

Then the smells started.

The mobile kitchen lit burners like it was opening day at a fair. Oil hissed. Batter bowls appeared. Trays of eggs shined under heat lamps. One cook cracked pepper with his forearm and flipped bacon with tongs like drumsticks. Another lined sheet pans with biscuits, slid them into an oven, and barked at a private to keep the line moving.

"Line up on the gravel, weapons slung, helmets off," Claes told his Marines. "You eat, you rotate to perimeter. Move."

The first plates came out for the troops: scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits with ladled gravy, pan-fries, a hot scoop of creamed corn that made a private blink back homesickness. Coffee flowed into steel mugs like medicine.

Villagers gathered in a hesitant arc beyond the rope line, staring. Harvin stood in front, doing the brave thing leaders do, being curious first. He glanced to Albert. "This... is for war?"

"This," Albert said, "is how you fight long wars: hot food, hot coffee, and a reason to wake up." He tipped his chin to the sergeant running the serving hatch. "Top, make it double. Feed the villagers who want to try. On our bill."

The mess sergeant didn’t blink. "Roger that." He cupped a hand to his mouth. "Civilians! Step right up. No pushing, no shoving. We’ll feed everyone." He pointed at a bench line. "Start there, five at a time. You get a plate, you get a fork, you get a smile. Next!"

For a breath the villagers froze. Then a child took three steps, looked back at her mother, and the line formed like a river finding a channel. The cooks adjusted portions smooth and fast. A little boy took his first bite of a biscuit and made a noise people only make when they discover butter. An old man tried coffee, blinked, and grinned like a bandit. Rowan bit bacon, stared at it, and then at Albert.

"What do you call this?" Rowan asked, already chewing a second strip.

"Freedom," Albert said, deadpan.

By mid-morning, the square felt different. The clatter of tools, the thump of tent stakes, the hum of generator power, and the music of people eating and exhaling for the first time in weeks. A string of LED work lights glowed under the inn’s eaves. The church bell rope had a new knot tied by an Atlas rigger so it wouldn’t fray. A corpsman organized a first-aid table near the well and changed a bandage for a farmer with a burst blister.

Harvin found Albert again, this time without the edge. "Your food is... very good," he said, as if confessing a weakness.

"Eat with us when you like," Albert said. "You’re our landlord now."

Harvin’s mouth quirked. "Then come to my office at noon. We’ll settle your coin and give you what news we can."

"Deal."

Noon.

Harvin’s office was a small timber room tucked behind the village hall, ledger books stacked, a crude map of the local farms tacked to a plank wall, and a clay jar that probably contained the entire village treasury. Albert sat across the rough table. Ward stood at his shoulder, notebook open. Claes took the side chair, arms crossed, posture polite but Marine.

Harvin set a small wooden box on the table and slid it forward. "As promised. One royal gold crown." He lifted the lid. Inside sat a coin the size of a poker chip, heavy and bright. A crest had been struck into it, crowned stag, laurel leaves. "It’s the most we can offer for a threat of this scale. It... buys large amounts of grain, sometimes a small wagon."

Albert picked it up, weighed it in his palm, passed it to Ward. "We accept. And the second part of the deal, information."

Harvin’s face tightened. "Some of this is hearsay. But in the north—far north beyond our kingdom’s reach, people say there is a land of black fortresses. The stories call them the Demon Realm. We’ve never seen one of the ’demon race’ here, not in my lifetime. But caravans that try for the northern sea sometimes do not return. Those who do speak of horns and witch-fires on the horizon."

"How far?" Ward asked, pencil ready.

"I... don’t know distance," Harvin admitted. "Weeks of travel. Many rivers. The land grows colder. But north. Always north."

"Any ports? Cities with maps?" Claes put in.

"The capital might," Harvin said. "Merchants from the coast pass through twice a year. They bring charts with them, though they hide them well."

Albert nodded, clicking the pieces together. "So nothing confirmed. Rumor says demon activity north of this continent. Enough smoke to assume fire."

Harvin spread his hands. "That’s the best we can give you."

"It’s enough," Albert said. He looked to Ward. "We need eyes."

Ward didn’t hesitate. "Long-endurance, high-altitude. If we’re lucky with weather we can paint the whole top half of this continent in a week. Recommend we spool up the big bird—Global Hawk. Wide-area SAR, EO/IR, 24-plus hours on station."

"Well we don’t have one but I guess I can use the system to field one," Albert said.

A knock sounded on the doorframe. An Atlas runner leaned in, breathing hard but grinning. "Sir, mess wanted me to say: lunch is up. Fried chicken. And the villagers... they’re already lined up."

Ward’s eyebrows climbed. "Fried chicken?"

Albert stood. "That’s our cue."

Back at the mobile kitchen, the cooks had shifted operations to festival mode. Open fryers bubbled. Sheet pans of battered chicken rotated in and out like artillery on a timetable. A sergeant in an apron called cadence: "Hot! Hot! Hot behind!" The smell was unfair.

Marines and Atlas formed their lane, rifles stacked, hands washed at a field sink. Beside them, a second rope line had been opened for villagers, with Harvin at the head again because that’s what leaders do. The mess sergeant saw Albert and flipped him a thigh with tongs like a magician doing a trick.

Albert caught the plate and stepped aside so others could move. Ward bit into a drumstick and swore softly in joy. Claes accepted a tray, saluted the cook with it, and moved down the line to grab mashed potatoes and gravy.

Rowan stood behind Harvin, suspicious and hungry. He looked at the golden crust, then at Albert. "This... this is bird?"

"Chicken," Albert said. "Trust me."

Rowan took a bite. His eyes widened like someone had just shown him fire for the first time. He didn’t speak for a full ten seconds, then: "We were not living correctly."

Laughter rolled through the line. Kids danced on their toes to see. A mother took a cautious taste, then hid a smile like a thief. An old woman tapped the crust with a nail, nodded once, and ate with focus.

Albert let the moment breathe. Engines thumped in the distance. Light towers hummed. Radios chattered. But in the center of it all, a village ate, and soldiers did too, and nobody looked over their shoulder for goblins.

Ward leaned close. "Global Hawk huh? I guess we will see how that summoning works."