The curriculum over the past ninety days had been…
eclectic, to say the least.
It covered basic carpentry, structural metalworking, internal combustion engine diagnostics, generator repair, basic plumbing, water filtration, automated electrical systems, and antenna installation.
Aside from the final week’s modules on basic explosives, EOD protocols, and wilderness survival, Nick couldn’t for the life of him figure out how any of this connected to a top-secret military operation.
Over three months, he had learned to operate hand saws, heavy-duty drills, and angle grinders, repairing doors, window frames, and poured concrete.
Under an engineer’s supervision, he had completely dismantled a heavy diesel generator—learning everything from oil and filter changes to spark plug replacements and mechanical troubleshooting.
Initially, Nick had worried his shooting skills would blow his cover.
The “Levi” he replaced boasted an absurd operational record, with multiple confirmed long-range kills exceeding 2,000 meters, placing him among the world’s absolute elite snipers.
While Nick’s own marksmanship was solid—having placed in military competitions in his past life—he was effective out to maybe 800 meters.
Hitting the bullseye on every high-angle shot was out of the question, and he had never even held a top-tier anti-materiel rifle like the McMillan TAC-50.
Yet, precisely because “Levi’s” dossier was so legendary, his handlers saw no need to assign him a marksmanship instructor.
Nick quickly understood why: top-tier snipers possessed unique, highly individualized shooting styles.
Where were they going to find an instructor capable of “improving” a shooter with over two hundred confirmed kills?
The moment he had boarded the AC-130 transport plane three days ago, a technician had administered an intravenous sedative.
When Nick finally drifted back to consciousness, he had no idea how long the transport had been in the air or whether it had touched down for mid-route refueling.
So, silver-haired ‘Ripley’ probably isn’t the female lead I’m supposed to save, Nick thought, his mind clearing as he sat up.
While he wasn’t sure if his assigned identity was the main protagonist of whatever narrative this was, he felt a strange sense of relief.
When it came to protecting a female lead, he certainly preferred someone younger—it provided considerably more motivation.
He hadn’t seen the elderly director since their initial briefing three months ago, and he could only hope she wasn’t the antagonist.
Even knowing her identity in this world wasn’t the Ellen Ripley who fought Xenomorphs, the sheer cultural memory of that character’s track record was enough to make him uneasy.
Protagonist plot armor in those films was utterly terrifying.
Pulling the IV needle from the back of his hand and undoing his safety harness, Nick stood up from the swaying cot.
The cargo hold of the AC-130 lacked the soundproofing of a commercial airliner, and the dull, relentless roar of the turboprop engines caused a throbbing headache behind his temples. Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
The hold was entirely empty save for his cot.
Unloaded, the fuselage vibrated continuously—it felt like trying to write a letter inside an apartment building while every neighbor above, below, and beside you was running power tools.
Nick was certain the IV bag had contained a heavy hypnotic agent.
Otherwise, there was no way he could have slept through such intense vibration, let alone…
He pulled down his pants, unfastened the adult diaper someone had put on him during transit, and looked around.
Finding no trash receptacle, he irritably kicked it under the frame of the cot.
He hadn’t fully shaken the lingering grogginess of the medication.
By the time he managed to stop his hands from trembling and buckled his belt, the flight deck door opened, and a Black female pilot walked down the center aisle.
She carried a small aluminum briefcase equipped with a biometric palm scanner, holding it out toward Nick.
“Left hand on the scanner, please.”
Nick complied.
The latch clicked open.
“Place all personal effects inside,” she instructed.
“Including your smartphone, watch, and identification.”
In truth, Nick only had his phone and ID card; all other gear, clothing, and boots had been issued by his employers.
Still, he felt a slight pang of regret handing over his iPhone 15.
Once he returned to his primary reality in 2008, he’d be back to using a primitive first-generation device.
After securing the briefcase, the pilot spoke again.
“We reach the perimeter of the restricted airspace in ten minutes.
This is as far as the transport can take you.
“The aircraft will descend to minimum drop altitude, but based on current crosswinds, expect a tactical hike of 35 to 40 kilometers north after landing. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
Your hard rendezvous time is tomorrow at 1600 hours.
Good luck.”
She handed him a sealed, heavy-duty waterproof pouch.
“Open this only after you reach the drop zone.”
Nick glanced out the small porthole at the rolling, forested mountain range below.
He opened his mouth to ask for their geographical location, but thought better of it.
The entire point of sedating him was to maintain operational security regarding the drop site; asking would be useless and unprofessional.
A red warning light above the rear cargo ramp flickered to life.
The hydraulic doors groaned as the ramp lowered, allowing a roaring gust of cold alpine air to sweep through the hold, whipping the cargo netting against the metal walls.
Nick pulled on his parachute harness, strapped his pre-packed tactical rucksack tightly across his chest, and completed a swift equipment check.
Stepping toward the edge of the ramp, he kept his eyes fixed on the jump light.
The red light turned green.
Nick took a deep breath, took three fast strides, spread his arms, and leaped into the open air.
In his previous life as a standard infantryman, Nick had never received airborne qualification—and he had developed a healthy respect for heights after his fatal fall in his first life.
Following his transmigration, given how abruptly his initial adventure in Alien had ended, he had paid out-of-pocket for private skydiving and scuba diving certifications.
While he wouldn’t claim to be a special operator across all domains, as long as he stayed focused, he could navigate standard tactical insertion scenarios.
Modern military auto-deployment canopy systems were reliable, provided one wasn’t attempting high-risk maneuvers like HAHO or HALO jumps.
With a high-glide ram-air canopy deployed above him, offering a 4:1 glide ratio, Nick felt confident maneuvering through the mountain thermals.
The AC-130 had dropped as low as safely possible, and the glide capacity gave him plenty of reaction time to survey the terrain below.
Ultimately, opting for maximum safety over tactical stealth, he steered toward an open landing site: the grassy shore of a small alpine lake free of power lines and high trees.
The upcoming thirty-mile hike through rugged wilderness would be brutal, but as far as insertions went, he was on the ground in one piece.