The Veil War

I peered over a low rise of bare stone at the top of a low shoulder of the ridge that overlooked the fascist inter-dimensional gate. At least, I assumed it was an inter-dimensional gate. I mean, what the fuck else would it be?

The last of a company of Tiger II tanks squirted out of the glowing disk and motored off to join its comrades at the assembly point half a click down the hill. Even in the bright sunlight, the gate gave off an eldritch, cold blue glow. By rights, that light should be shining in a foglit, sunless night. But we make do with what we have, and that’s a glaring bright day in the mountains.

The surface of the disk wriggled disturbingly. Fifteen meters in diameter, it stretched wide enough to pass most any vehicle though the bigger apatasaurs had to duck to get through. On either side squatted a Frankenstein’s laboratory assortment of apparatus, casting off fat sparks and the occasional lightning bolt to the edge of the gate. Even from here, I could smell the ozone. Thick black cables snaked from the gate equipment to a antique-looking six-wheeled truck spewing diesel smoke.

I slid down and looked at my squad. “There’s no fucking way we’re taking out all the shit that’s already come across. Even vintage tanks are still fucking tanks. And dinosaurs are still fucking dinosaurs.”

“But! That gate looks like a huge sack of fail waiting for us to happen to it. We knock out that gate, and nothing else can get through. We save the world.”

They stared at me blankly. I took that for assent. “Right. Rockets on the gate, rockets on the generator truck. Covering fire on anything that returns fire. Once we have a confirmed kill on the gate, then we run the fuck away up the hill to the OP.”

“Good plan, Subcommandante.”

“Fuck!” I about leapt out of my skin when I heard the low voice behind me. I’m not superfly stealth superninja, but people generally do not sneak up on me like that. I turned, and behind me was a squat little tattooed motherfucker with a huge bushy beard and sunglasses. Dressed head to foot in expensive tactical fashions. A fucking tactical ZZ Top.

“Well, hey, Billy Gibbons.”

“Nice. One problem, though. You light up the gate mechanism, it goes off like a pony nuke. 1.5 Hiroshimas minimum, maybe more depending on the altitude on the other side. Do you think you’re outside the blast radius?”

“OK, pro tip. Good to know. Also good, in roughly descending order of my aching desire to know, would be how we blow the gate without blowing ourselves, how you know, and who the fuck you are.”

“Good questions. You can ask Chad about the last two. The first, well, that’s classified. I assume you know how to stop blowing yourselves.”

“Oh, Jesus H. Fuck. You’re going to pull that shit in the middle of a dinosaur Nazi invasion?”

“Calm the fuck down, Subcommandante. Shit, this ain’t new. Happens every few years. The worst was in 1958. Why do you think the French left NATO? Fucking embarrassment at failing to stop a Nazi invasion for the second time in two decades.”

***

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