Hartogg smiled and held his arms wide. “Ready when you are…and don’t forget the salt.”

*

Abrams paced while talking into a phone. The Sikorsky S-97 Raider helicopter’s rotors were already turning on the tarmac; Hartogg was leaning out, watching.

The major disconnected, and stood, hands on hips, neck jutting, as he stared at the weapons research division building. In a few more minutes, a jeep sped toward them, cutting across roads and bouncing over green grass slopes as it careened their way. It skidded to a halt, and Ford nearly catapulted out carrying a steel ammunition box and a duffel bag. Abrams turned to Hartogg and waved him over.

Ford placed the box and bag on the ground and opened both – inside were dozens of preloaded clips, knives and, in the large metal box, larger clips for Hartogg’s HK-MP5N assault rifle.

The scientist motioned with his hand. “Compressed salt rounds. We used calcining lime and clay, mixed with water to form a salt-based mortar. It’s hard enough to survive as a projectile as it exits the gun barrel, but will break open in the target, delivering the salt packet into whatever you hit – man, beast or…Shoggoth.” He pointed to the larger clips. “Same as the larger rounds, so you got enough for a small war, boys.” Ford stood, and then shrugged. “These are our test batch, and you’re our test subjects…our only test subjects. So unless we hear different, we’ll be mass producing them for the troops.”

Hartogg unsheathed a knife and tested its edge against his thumb – it cut, and the SEAL sucked at the wound. “Stings.” He smacked his lips. “Salty – nice.”

Ford smiled. “A little something extra if you’re in real close. We upped the binding compound, giving the mortar extra strength. Still mostly salt, but it’ll cut through flesh and retain its edge.”

Hartogg nodded, resheathed the knife, and then strapped one to his leg. He then took the bag and box to the chopper, and Ford stood back and saluted. “Good luck, Joshua.” He snorted sadly. “But frankly, I hope luck is the last thing you need.”

Abrams shook his hand. “Thanks, Eric.” He smiled. “Hey, it’s not every day you get to make war on a god, right?”

Abrams jumped into the chopper and it immediately lifted off. He placed the phones over his head and heard Hartogg’s voice in his ear.

“What’s the plan, boss?”

Abrams thought through his next steps, and then half turned. “This S-97 Raider will get us there in a little over an hour. If Senesh is still out front, we stop them, and find out what they know. But if they’ve gone in, then we go in. I want Drummond, I want the Book, and I want Matt Kearns. Everyone and everything else is expendable.”

Hartogg nodded. “Copy that.” He started to slide the spare magazines into pouches on his pant legs and vest, and then handed Abrams a bundle of handgun clips.