Gunfire could be heard in the distance as tanks and Stryker LAVs kicked up dirt. Helicopters flew low over the buildings, one Black Hawk dropping to land in an empty field. Troops moved with a purpose along dirt roads, their battle kit adorned and their rifles held steady. Their eyes darted about the scenery, as if in hostile territory.

That was far from the case, however, as the soldiers of Fort Carson neared the end of the day. All of them, from the lowly Private to the seemingly omnipotent Major General overseeing the post awaited the tune of retreat to sound over the post's sound system and signal the end of the day. The sun was already nearing the stretch of the Rocky Mountains that overlooked the Fort and the neighboring city of Colorado Springs.

Near Butts Army Airfield, a group of soldiers joked and laughed as they entered the Shopette, getting ready for their long night of work. In motor pools along the east side of main post, wrenches were turned and engines roared as final repairs and checks were performed. A anti-theft device wailed in the Post Exchange, frightening a toddler. A food court worker sighed as they scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain on one of the tables while, a couple streets away, Army chefs were hurrying to get dinner ready for the horde of hungry meal card soldiers that would soon descend upon them.

In the grand scheme, this day on Fort Carson was just like any other.

Today, however, would be the day that the phrase, “same old thing” would cease existing for the occupants of the Fort.

Today, the sun, even in it's current descent, shined much too brightly on the land below.

Today, helicopters would tumble from the sky as a whip of rogue energy swept across the post.

Today, the kids would scream for their parents while the parents would scream for their gods.

Today, a wave of crackling light would engulf the post before disappearing back into the sky.

Tomorrow, the world will learn of the sudden disappearance of Fort Carson and the, approximately seventy-four thousand people who were on the installation.

The day after, a ceremony would be held by the President of the United States, asking not just the citizens of the country he ran, but those of the world, to join him in a moment of silence for all the people who were so suddenly torn from them.

That, however, is a different story for a different time.

“The fuck just happened?” mumbled a soldier as he picked himself off of the floor. The rank tab in the center of his chest told that he was a Specialist while the name tape on his right breast identified him as Odom.

“Hell if I know,” replied another Specialist, this one on the heavier side. His name tape identified him as Walton before a cloud of vapor obscured it from view.

“Such a douche,” groggily joked a PFC, name tape identifying him as Haren, as he held his head while standing up.

“What? Nicotine helps calm ya down,” Walton replied defensively, his electronic hookah held tight in one hand. While the two bickered, another soldier with three chevrons in the middle of his chest unlatched the door at the back of the small room and swung it open.

“See anything Sar'ent?” Odom asked, stepping over another soldier who had just woken up. In the small 5 by 10 room, already cramped with Vidmars, filing cabinets, battle kit, and bags, they had no choice but to walk over and squeeze past each other.

“Uh...” came the Sergeant's smart reply as he poked his bare head out the door. His name tape identified him as St. Paul Popo.

“What is it Popo?” Walton asked as he helped the last soldier, yet another Specialist identified by the name tape as Van Blarcom. Not receiving a reply, Odom got right behind the Sergeant and leaned over his back, glancing side to side.

“Holy shit,” he breathed as he stood up and back off a step.

“What?” Haren asked, irritated at being left out of the loop.

“I... uh... don't think we're in Colorado anymore,” Odom muttered, knowing just how crazy he sounded.

“What do you mean by that?” Haren asked, moving to the door, “Let me see Popo.”

Popo started down the steps, his head scanning slowly, obviously in a daze. He looked back at where he had came from, the 5 by 10 box mounted on a LMTV chassis, and watched as Haren stepped out on the first step. Haren looked around at the changed landscape. Where the Rocky Mountains use to reside in the west were empty plains with what looked to be a castle in the distance. Where there were plains in the east, the north, and the south, were large, rocky mountains whose spiky tips scraped the sky.

“Shitfire,” he cursed, turning slightly to look back into the truck. This gave the occupants a view of the tropical leaf with the lightning bolt in the middle that they all wore on their left sleeve, “we definitely ain't in Kansas anymore.”

“Can anybody, in God's name, tell me what just happened?” grumbled Major General LeCemera as he rubbed his forehead, which had hit against his desk when he had passed out.

“S-sir?” stuttered a First Lieutenant aide, “Have you looked outside yet?”

“Have I looked-” began the Major General sarcastically before confusion and shock took hold.

“The hell?” he whispered in disbelief. Standing up, he walked around his desk and into the hall, the Lieutenant following in apprehension. The hallway was crowded with soldiers and civilians who were either waking up, treating injuries, or moving in a daze to the exits. LeCemera joined the last group. Upon seeing him, however, a path was made as all able-bodied people stepped to the side.

“Are you alright sir?” questioned Command Sergeant Major Clark. The dark skinned CSM was bleeding from a cut on his cheek but was otherwise unharmed. He quickly matched his pace to the General's, moving to walk on his left.

“I'm fine Clark. You, on the other hand,” LeCemera replied, leaving the sentence hanging. Clark understood, however, as he used a thumb to wipe away the fresh blood.

“Just a scratch sir. Take more than this to keep me down,” he explain with a smirk as they closed in on a side door. The PFC on staff duty was holding the door open as he stood outside and stared in wonder, his Patrol Cap shading his eyes from the sun. Hearing the approaching footsteps, the PFC looked inside before snapping to attention, his hand going to his hat's brim in a salute.

“Sir!” he greeted with fervor, though his eyes showed fear and confusion.

LeCemera didn't reply as he stepped over the threshold of the door, forgoing headgear. A couple steps out the door, he stopped and looked around. Smoke columns rose up all over the base, signaling fires from crashed vehicles. On the street that the door faced, LeCemera spotted two cars that had collided during the event. Already, a handful bystanders were helping to pull the occupants from the vehicles and treat wounds.

Looking farther out, LeCemera noticed the change in local terrain. He looked at the new mountain range with a frown.

“I don't think we're in Colorado anymore sir,” CSM Clark stated.

“I see that,” LeCemera replied, “I, instead, want to know where we are now and how we got here.”

“Amen to that sir.”

LeCemera looked back at the Lieutenant that had been following him, “Lieutenant.”

The aide, who had been looking at their surroundings in fear and wonder, snapped to attention when he heard his rank called, “Sir?”

“Get the post on high alert, use the sirens. I want all units combat operational by tomorrow morning,” he ordered, “And after you send out the alert, I want a status report. Casualties, infrastructure damage, number of personnel, civilian and military, on post, the whole nine yards. Think you can do that son?”

The Lieutenant's face hardened in determination as he snapped a salute, “Yes sir!”

The General returned the salute while saying, “Get to it than.”

As the Lieutenant ran back inside to get started on his tasks, the CSM looked over at LeCemera with a raised brow.

“Combat ready sir?”

LeCemera waved a hand at their surroundings, “Whatever that bright light was brought us here and though we don't know where 'here' us, we can sure rule out anywhere that we know. Until we know where 'here' is and the standings of any locals we come across, I want to be ready for any situation that may arise.”

“I see,” Clark responded, looking over at the wrecked vehicles with a thoughtful look.

“On that note,” LeCemera began, drawing Clark's attention again, “I'm going to put priority on getting an Apache or two armed and in the air to recon the new terrain.”

“Of course sir,” Clark began, “I'll put in a call and get ammo heading their way immediately.”

“U-umm, Sergeant Major?” came an unsure voice from behind the two. They turned around to find the PFC standing at a rigid Parade Rest with sweat beginning to roll down his face. LeCemera glanced at his left sleeve to see the tropical leaf and lightning bolt of the 25th Infantry Division.

“What is it Private?” Clark asked with a raised brow and genuine curiosity in his voice. It was very rarely that he was addressed personally by a PFC, after all.

“Sergeant Major, m-my unit is currentl-ly out doing Gunnery,” the PFC stated.

“What are you getting at son?” LeCemera asked. This caused the PFC to snap to attention as more sweat formed.

“I'm s-sorry sir, b-but I couldn't help to ov-verhear you earlier. My u-unit, First of t-the Twenty-Fifth Attac-ck is an Apache unit, sir,” he explained, “With G-gunnery happening, they're b-bound to have ammo already.”

LeCemera let a smile grace his face, “They are? That's great news, good work son.”

“Thank you sir!” the PFC nearly shouted before dropping back to Parade Rest when LeCemera turned away, his rigid form still holding the door open.

“There you go Clark,” LeCemera stated, resting a hand on the CSM's shoulder, “Get 1-25 on the horn and get birds in the air. Recon takes priority but have them put aside four as QRF.”

“Got it sir,” Clark stated as LeCemera removed his hand. Saluting, and getting a salute back, Clark turned and walked back into the Headquarters building.

LeCemera watched him go before turning back to the mountains. He clasped his hands behind his back as he heaved a sigh. As soon as the sigh left his lips, the closest loudspeaker, strung on a telephone pole, began to wail. The General could barely hear another in the distance, knowing that all over post, all loudspeakers were doing the same. It gave two, long screeches before someone began speaking.

“All soldiers report to your units. This is not a drill. I say again, all soldiers are to report to their units and await further instruction. This is not a drill.”

With the message given, the sirens again began wail. After two wails, the message began to play again. With the recorded voice droning in the background, LeCemera turned and strode back into the Headquarters building.

Adapt and Overcome. That's all we can do right now.