Monroe
Chapter One Hundred and Sixty. Raising the Flag.

Huron gestured, and the Gateway activated, a rich golden sheet of light strewn with streaks of rose and amber. A dozen novices preceded him through the event Horizon, and he smiled as he left Harbordeep behind.

He loved getting away from the endless paperwork and tedium that came with administration. While introducing the novices he'd assigned to Glacier Valley could have been done by Austan, Clyde, Annisa, or Voren; he'd taken the task for himself. He'd made the mental argument that he was the one best suited to teaching the young novices how to finish raising the temple.

Looking out over the valley, his smile faded, replaced by surprise.

Row after row of tents formed impossibly neat, perfect lines. They were odd, domed affairs, the material a mix of greens that would have made them nearly impossible to see were it not for the precise arrangement. Nature didn't create lines that straight.

"As you can see," Huron chuckled over the whispers of the novices, "there are quite a few people here." He tilted his head. He could hear... something. A rhythmic thud and the faint sound of singing?

He turned towards the glacier, his eyes widening. A column of men was running, four men abreast and perhaps fifty men in length. They ran in perfect formation, each foot landing as one. His novices moved to the edge of the foundation of the temple to peer at the oncoming wave.

He could hear them clearly as they rapidly approached.

"His uniform is unlike," the words roared out of the column. "Any you've ever seen," there was a pause between the roars, and as he strained, he could make out a single voice call out the next line before it was bellowed back by the rest. "The Germans called him Devil Dog!"

Huron could feel them now as their footsteps fell together.

"His title is Marine!"

They passed the bare slab of the temple where the Gateway stood like a monument, never breaking their stride.

"You can have your Army Khaki's," he heard as the column proceeded past, "And your Navy Blues."

He couldn't hear the lead man calling out the song, but the response was still loud. "But here's a different fighting man," he turned to face the novices who were huddled together as the next line floated through the air, "I'll introduce to you."

"And those are some of the people we're here to help," Huron announced warmly, reassuring the novices. They were little more than children, having taken their vows a bare month ago.

"Let's go to the Adventurers Guild," he smiled, projecting an aura of calm confidence, "It will be a few days before the temple is complete, so that's where you'll be taking your meals."

Turning to the Adventurers Guild, he was surprised to see that a flag pole had been erected. Streaming out in the swift breeze were two flags. The topmost featured alternating red and white stripes, the top corner closest to the pole a square of blue, upon which were arranged rows of white stars. The flag directly beneath it was blood red. A circle, white with gold irregularly within the borders, served as a perch for a golden bird of prey and was superimposed over a golden anchor. A wavering scroll beneath proclaimed "United States Marine Corps."

There was also a stream of men entering the tavern on one side of the doors and leaving on the other. As he approached, he realized that the men exiting the tavern were carrying trays of food.

"Hold," one of the men towards the front of the line called, "we've got locals incoming; let's bring them through."

The line behind the man stopped their orderly progression, and by the time he'd arrived with the novices, the path into the Adventurers Guild was clear.

Huron gestured for the novices to precede him, and he paused to speak to the man who'd halted the line. "Thank you," he nodded to him. The man was in his thirties, wearing the same oddly patterned clothing as all the others. It had to be a uniform of some sort, although it had none of the ornamentation he'd expected.

"Sir!" The man said, his arm angling out to bring the flat of his hand to his brow an angle. The man's posture was so stiff that Huron would have thought there were planks holding him in place. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ɴøvᴇl_Firᴇ.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

Repeating his nod to the man, he continued into the tavern, noting that the last of the uniformed men were leaving. He found that the tavern's long counter had been covered with deep dishes heaped with food. He watched as his novices hesitantly picked up trays from a stack at the beginning of the counter, slowly sliding them along the newly installed rails as more uniformed men ladled spoonfuls of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and somethings he didn't recognize at all.

Grabbing a tray, he followed them, pausing to ask what the unknown items were. He discovered hashbrowns, grits, and waffles. Looking up, he found a uniformed man explaining to his novices how to work the taps for a trio of huge tanks. The two labeled milk and juice shone with condensation, while the one labeled coffee radiated heat.

"Normally, I'd say there's nothing better than a hot cup of coffee to start your morning," the man was explaining to the novices. He was significantly older than the other men he'd seen, although, with the uniform shortness of their haircuts, it was difficult to see the grey streaking his sandy blonde hair. "But you look a little young for that," he continued with a smile, "so I'd say grab a glass of orange juice."

The novices dutifully filled their mugs with juice, which, as advertised, was light orange in color.

"I imagine I'm old enough to enjoy this 'coffee' of yours," Huron said companionably to the older man. "I dare say so," the man agreed, "although if you've never had it before, I'd suggest a splash of milk and grabbing a few packets of sugar."

Filling a thick mug with the steaming black liquid, Huron took his advice, splashing a bit of cold milk into it, and accepted a pair of tiny paper pouches, which appeared to be filled with a small amount of what he guessed would be sugar.

He sat down at the table with his novices, who were straining the bounds of good manners as they tore into their breakfasts. One young man practically moaned as he stuffed a chunk of waffle into his mouth, the golden syrup dripping off it and onto his plate.

As he ate his own meal, at a more dignified pace, he decided that while he didn't care for grits and found the syrup on the waffles to be far too sweet, the hashbrowns were delicious. The true standout was the coffee. After a narrow brush with a scalded tongue, he found the slightly bitter brew to be invigorating.

The line of men entering and leaving the tavern was a model of efficiency, each man being served in half a minute or less. He was surprised when the last man entered the tavern, then shook his head. He'd guess that perhaps two hundred men had been served breakfast.

"Huron," a familiar voice greeted him, and he turned to see Bob coming out of the kitchen.

He stood, picking up his mug, and nodded over to the drink tanks. "Good morning," he smiled, then paused, taking in the dark circles under Bob's eyes, the exhaustion written across his face.

"I can't help but notice you have a bunch of young men and women, all sporting the holy symbol of Vi'Radia," Bob said, "those are the fine people who are going to be on healing duty?"

"They are," Huron assured him, motioning for Bob to follow him to an empty table in the corner. "You've managed to gather quite a few men already," he noted as Bob covered his mouth and yawned.

"It wasn't me," Bob replied, shaking his head wearily, "not really."

"If not you, then who?" Huron asked gently.

Bob blinked, and Huron realized that there was something behind his eyes. It spoke of both wonder and sadness.

"Those aren't men," Bob told him, "those are Marines. I didn't really understand until yesterday." He shook his head again. "Every single one of them had been wounded in combat," he began, speaking softly, "They were missing legs, arms, eyes. Some of them were confined to chairs, unable to stand, others to beds, unable even to lift their arms."

He lowered his eyes to the table. "On our world, those sorts of injuries are permanent. They never expected to be healed. I'd explained what was going to happen to Earth to a Marine, and he started gathering them."

Bob raised his eyes to meet Hurons, the wonder in his eyes at the forefront. "Their creed is 'Semper Fidelis, a phrase from an ancient tongue that means "Always Faithful.'" Bob shook his head again, "They didn't hesitate. Every single one, upon hearing that their country stood in peril, immediately volunteered to fight, to risk life and limb yet again."

"I was never really a part of my world," Bob confessed quietly. "I stood on the outside fringes of our society, removed from it by my nature, upbringing, and circumstances."

"As much as I'm from my world, there are many aspects of it I don't understand," he continued, and here Huron could see the sadness in his gaze. "I wish I'd met Marines a long time ago."

Huron reached out and clasped Bob's shoulder. "They seem to be fit and capable," he paused, recalling the column of men running across the valley. "More than fit," he said.

Mike sat down at the table with a steaming mug of coffee. "Sir," he nodded to Huron before addressing Bob, "We're going to rotate the companies in an hour," he said, "it appears that fixing bayonets resolved the crystal coalescence issue."

"Eric was able to get into contact with a few corpsmen, so I expect we'll have our medics soon," he sipped his coffee, "I know you said there isn't a way to communicate across dimensions besides going there in person, but we're running those Endless kids ragged."

"While a lot of our Marines were alone, a few of them have people who will eventually notice they're gone, so we're popping them back over to setup covers for why they won't be reachable, discontinuing subscriptions and services," Mike sighed, "all the things you need to do if you move to another country, or" he grinned, "to another world."

"We should be fully engaged within three days," Mike continued, "we'll occupy the entirety of the Dungeon in three shifts, destroying the monsters by fire and maneuver."

"Assuming the coalescence rates you provided are accurate, we expect to see one hundred and twenty-five mana crystals every twenty-four hours, with a deviation of one to two percent," Mike reported, "although those numbers are subject to revision as we advance deeper into the Dungeon."

Bob had pulled some sort of hinged metal box out of his satchel and was tapping at the top of it. Huron leaned around slightly, and his eyes widened as he saw that there was a glowing piece of parchment filled with perfectly formed lines and words.

"Alright," Bob muttered, tapping away at the bottom of the box, which was lined with squares, each one glowing with a single letter. "You are making sure to incorporate the D&D group in the rotation schedule, right?"

Mike let out a sigh, drawing Huron's gaze. Never in all his years had a single sound managed to encompass sadness, frustration, humor, and resignation, all at once. He couldn't but be impressed. "Yes," Mike grumbled, "and I also have to report that there a number of Marines who are interested in pursuing the Path of the Endless Swarm, because, and this is a direct quote from a Lance Corporal, 'Dinosaurs are fucking awesome.'"

"I've also spoken to several other NCO's, and we would all appreciate it if you would agree to our recruitment of active duty personnel," Mike went on, "as at the moment, our command structure is fragmented but workable because there are so few of us." He shook his head, "We're getting close to needing to be split into two regiments."

"Aren't there any retired officers we could recruit?" Bob asked.

"We borrowed a line from the Brit's, 'Captains may marry, Majors should marry, Colonels must marry,'" Mike replied with a shake of his head. "While enlisted have the highest divorce rate in the country, officers tend to have fairly stable marriages and families."

Mike hesitated for a moment. "That reincarnation thing," he said, "it'll make old men young again, right?"

"Pretty much," Bob looked over at Huron, "although we'd need someone from the Church to cast the ritual as I don't have it."

"I'm sure I can assign a Priest of Priestess with that spell to assist you," Huron agreed.

"In that case," Mike smiled, "we can field plenty of widowed officers who won't have any commitments that would interfere."

"You have a great deal of faith that these people will join you," Huron observed.

Mike snorted. "Once a Marine, always a Marine," he said dismissively.

"They'd need to be able to go back to Earth," Bob warned Huron, "I mean, we could have them back on Thayland every day, but they'd have to go over." He shook his head, "I've found it's a great deal easier to convince people that magic is real when you perform the magic in front of them."

"I could task Annisa," Huron offered, "I believe the two of you have a friendly relationship?"

"Annisa is nice," Bob agreed, "assuming she's willing, of course, I don't want anyone press-ganged into helping us."

Huron shook his head and smiled gently, "Bob, I've sent word to everyone associated with the Church of the Seven God's of Light under Vi'Radia, and upon hearing of the impending disaster looming over your world, they've all offered to aid in any manner they are able."

Mike raised an eyebrow at that statement as he sipped his coffee.

"You aren't doing this on your own," Huron assured Bob, "small though we might be in comparison to your own nation, we are ready to aid you."

"That's what we all keep telling him," Mike grunted, setting his empty mug down.

Sᴇarch the ɴ0velFɪre.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.