Boom, boom, boom.
Wave after wave of explosions tore across the battlefield, each blast kicking up clouds of dirt that came crashing back down over Locke's body along with a storm of sand and gravel. He lay low beneath the bombardment, half-buried more than once, and finally understood in a much more intimate way why Germany had carved through Europe with such terrifying speed in the early years of the war. Poland had fallen. France had collapsed. Standing here under this kind of artillery pressure, it was easy to see how entire lines could be shattered before men even had the chance to fire back properly.
If he hadn't already been at the very front, already hugging the earth as tightly as possible, he would've been blown off his feet again. The force of the shelling alone was enough to scramble a man's senses and leave him praying to survive the next ten seconds.
The American soldier crammed into the earthen shelter beside him was shaking so hard he looked like his bones had turned to water. When he saw Locke drag himself up from the mud and debris again, still intact, the guy stared at him in disbelief, then shakily gave him a thumbs-up.
"Brother," he kept saying in a dazed voice, "you're a damn beast."
"Yeah, sure," Locke muttered, spitting dirt from his mouth. "Let's go with that."
He wiped grit from his lips and looked himself over quickly. No catastrophic damage this time. Bruised, filthy, half deaf from the bombardment, but not broken. At least there was no chance of getting hauled back to the medical tent again like a bag of nearly dead meat.
Then his eyes sharpened.
He suddenly rose from the pit, reached for one of the grenades hanging from his gear, and pulled it free in one smooth motion. In the next instant, his arm snapped forward with explosive force. The grenade blurred through the air so fast it left an afterimage in his vision, arcing across the battlefield toward the enemy line.
Thanks to the unnatural strength in his body, the throw carried absurdly far, nearly a thousand meters before it dropped right into the German position.
A second later, the explosion hit.
From where he stood, Locke could clearly see the blast rip through three German soldiers who had been moving past the impact point. Dirt, smoke, and bodies flew together in the same violent burst.
He let out a quiet breath. "All right. That makes us even."
Over the next several days, Locke's figure became a constant presence moving through the battlefield. With his enhanced senses, sharpened reflexes, and agility that clearly exceeded what any ordinary soldier should have been capable of, he began cutting paths through combat zones that should have held the American line in place. Without really meaning to, he turned into the spear tip of more than one push, and before long he helped the U.S. forces punch through the first German defensive line.
That was when the higher-ups started noticing him.
Inside a command tent, several American officers stood gathered around war photographs and fresh field reports. In the grainy images, a tall American soldier could be seen crossing one trench after another at speed, plunging directly into the German front. In one close-quarters engagement, he had cut down sixteen enemy soldiers in seconds, throwing their formation into complete disarray. The resulting chaos had opened a gap, and American forces had surged in behind him, turning what should have been another stalled advance into a clean breakthrough.
"Whose soldier is this?" one burly officer asked, his tone full of open admiration. "He's a monster."
From his insignia, he was a lieutenant colonel.
"Hah. I already had him brought in," said the older man standing at the center of the group. His voice was calm, but the weight of command in it was obvious. "We've got a new operation coming up. We need someone agile, deadly, and reckless enough to break into those bunker lines."
A moment later, under the expectant eyes of everyone in the tent, the flap was pulled open and Locke stepped inside.
He moved with controlled precision, his face composed, his tall frame straight despite the exhaustion and dirt still clinging to him from the battlefield. After delivering a crisp military salute, he was almost immediately pulled into the circle of officers and noncoms, several of them crowding around him with barely restrained excitement.
"Brother, you're incredible!"
"That was the first time I've ever seen a soldier fight like that. Can you teach me some of those moves?"
"I'm strict as hell when it comes to military conduct, but I've got to say it—I respect you."
Locke listened to the praise with the expression of a man who was honored and slightly overwhelmed. Inside, though, he was cool and focused.
This was exactly what he wanted.
The plan had always been to work his way upward through the military structure, because from his current position, brute force alone wasn't enough. He needed access, information, mobility, and a route toward the people and events that actually mattered. More importantly, this was his best shot at getting close to Captain America.
Because despite all the time he had spent on the battlefield, searching through camps and wounded columns and transfer lines, he still hadn't seen that familiar scrawny pre-serum figure once. It had been a long time since he had watched the original movie, and the timeline in his head was blurry at best. If he failed to connect with the protagonist and missed the main thread entirely, then his route back to the main world would drift farther and farther away.
"Locke," the older officer said, stepping forward at last. "In recognition of your outstanding contributions on the battlefield, you are hereby awarded the title of combat hero. Effective immediately, you are promoted three grades and granted the rank of major."
Major General Pilder laid a heavy hand on Locke's shoulder, clearly pleased. Even as he did it, the old man's eyes lingered with genuine admiration. A soldier who could stand under that kind of praise without showing arrogance was rare enough. One who could fight like this was even rarer.
"Thank you, General Pilder, for your recognition," Locke said at once, his tone respectful as he caught the insignia and medals on the man's chest.
"Well, Major Locke," another officer said, stroking his beard as he fixed him with a steady stare, "we didn't call you here just to decorate you. There's a new mission. If you complete it, I can promote you again—to colonel. You would become the fastest-rising officer in U.S. military history."
That one sentence sent a visible ripple through the tent.
Expressions shifted all around him. Admiration. Envy. Disbelief. Even a few looks of open schadenfreude from the ones who clearly thought the offer smelled too good to be safe.
But unlike them, Locke felt a flash of real excitement.
To them, he was just a frighteningly capable soldier—fast, ruthless, and strangely hard to kill. Only he knew how much he had been holding back.
He snapped a hand up in salute, his face arranged into a firm, unshakable expression. "I'm willing to fight for a free America."
"Good!" Pilder barked, visibly pleased, and clapped his shoulder again with enough force to make an ordinary man stagger.
Soon after, they led him into the war room and laid out the details.
The situation was simple in theory and nearly suicidal in practice.
The Germans had built reinforced bunkers across their front, each one fitted with narrow firing slits that let machine gunners pour fire into advancing troops while staying protected from direct retaliation. At this stage of the battle, without effective armored support pushing in at the right angle, the U.S. forces kept getting pinned down in front of those fortifications. Even after Locke had helped retake lost ground, the American advance had stalled again as soon as it hit the hardened line.
His job would be to change that.
Under cover from American suppressive fire, he was to push through the enemy fire lanes, break into the German defensive area, and demolish the bunkers scattered across the line. At minimum, he needed to destroy five.
For an ordinary soldier, it was a death sentence. Even with American covering fire, anyone attempting the run would still be exposed to German infantry, hidden firing positions, machine guns, artillery fragments, and the constant risk of friendly fire from his own side. It wasn't just the Germans in front of him he'd have to worry about. He'd have to survive his own army shooting past him too close, too fast, and too blindly.
In other words, he'd need to watch every direction at once.
Long before the German line had forced the Americans back, the military had already tried using volunteer demolition teams. Those men had all been shredded before they ever reached their targets. Enough failure had piled up that no reserve pool for suicide assignments really existed anymore. Anyone who had experienced the German fire line firsthand understood what this mission meant, and none of them wanted it.
That was why Locke had been brought in.
He had fought just well enough, just visibly enough, to become the answer for a group of officers who were running out of options.
Listening to the full briefing, Locke let out a quiet breath through his nose. Completing the mission without taking any damage at all was probably impossible, and honestly, it might not even be desirable. If his performance looked too inhuman, the result wouldn't just be medals and promotion. It could also bring fear, suspicion, and attention from exactly the wrong people.
A few wounds would help.
As long as they were the right kind of wounds.
"If you complete this operation," Pilder said in a low, serious voice, "then I can say without hesitation that you'll be the single most outstanding soldier on this battlefield. You'll be recognized as America's greatest combat hero, and you'll be promoted to colonel on the spot. No one in military history will have risen faster."
The general's expression had grown grave by the end of it. He knew exactly what he was asking. This kind of mission required courage, discipline, skill, and the willingness to die alone in the middle of enemy fire. He had already prepared himself to be refused.
Instead, the young man standing in front of him accepted it without even blinking.
Locke kept his face set in that same firm, steady expression, like a man who had already made peace with death if the country demanded it. The effect on the room was immediate. Pilder's gaze warmed with even more approval, and several officers looked at Locke as though they were watching a legend take shape right in front of them.
....
Join my exclusive P@treon community for 60+ thrilling chapters!
Link: pa*treon.com/MidnightWonder (Remove the *)
If you join now you will get 2 Chapters for free as well.
Don't miss out, join now!