Dragon Two-Zero (Fury's Fire Book 1)

by William McCaskey

  The wind had died down, and for a little bit, all was quiet. Reaver turned his eyes and thoughts back to the mission at hand. Scarface had reported an hour ago that Dragon Two-Charlie had called its ride. Reaver’s team would be the second to last of the teams to leave the planet’s surface.

  His right eye and the scope of his rifle paired up to bring the cityscape below back into focus. The sun had set nearly five hours past, and many of the lights below had been extinguished. The briefing had put this as the largest metropolitan area on this side of the planet, with under a hundred thousand permanent residences with nearly a quarter more as transient to work in the weapons factories. Reaver’s scope settled on the team’s target, and with his right-hand thumb, he depressed the switch that acted as the push-to-talk button for the Marines’ communications network; the selector switch below the PTT was tuned to the internal channel. Keeping his voice low, Reaver spoke into the sub-vocal microphone contained within the high collar of his combat shirt. “Bull, we clear?”

  From the buds secured in his ears, Reaver heard the mic click, followed by the steady tone of Bull's voice through the radio. “No movement on the backside.” Currently, the heavy weapons specialist pulled rear security, keeping an eye on the lone, seldom used trail the team had discovered during their security sweep before taking the outcrop for their use. Reaver had cursed to himself for not finding the path before he made the climb up the cliff face, which would have saved him a lot of trouble. But the trail would make their exfil from the area that much easier.

  Reaver pressed the transmit switch on his rifle again. “Quinn, I have your target. Ready to walk you in.” Releasing the button, Reaver waited for the team’s sniper to acknowledge.

  Moments later, Harlequin’s voice came across the comm-net. Less steady, this voice carried its owner’s excitement. “All set, Boss. Let’s make people’s lives interesting.” The radio clicked off.

  Reaver shook his head slightly. Quinn was eager, and the hike in hadn’t dulled the shine of being on his first combat mission with Recon. Kid was a damn good shot and a damn good Marine; but he was still a cherry, and the only time he calmed down and got serious about something seemed to be when he settled into the stock of his rifle and looked at the world through his scope. “Alright kid, eastern side of the city. There are three towers. First one is furthest east and about two hundred meters from the other two. Your target is the westernmost tower of the three. Confirm your target.”

  Within his hide-spot, Harlequin moved slowly, smoothly letting his sightline and the scope of his rifle meet. The range-finder inside the scope clicked almost inaudibly as the cityscape in the distance rolled in and out of focus until, computations done, the view settled tightly on the westernmost tower of the three that highlighted the city. The filters within the scope worked like the night-shades and turned the night surrounding the cityscape to daylight. The tower stood in stark contrast to the dark sky behind it. Clicking his mic on. “Target confirmed, and steady.” Harlequin clicked his mic off and let his finger ghost over the trigger of his rifle, the knowledge of exactly how much pressure it would take to send the round toward its target was ingrained into his mind.

  “Confirm you have link to the Fury,” Reaver knew that if this thing didn’t work, he’d have to contact fire control on the Cruiser directly and call in the strike. He’d done the calculations already and had the grid coordinates prepped, just in case.

  Harlequin’s voice came back, steadier and more focused. “Link confirmed.”

  Reaver’s breathing slowed, readying for what would come next. As soon as he gave the word, life would get very interesting, very quickly. Depressing the transmit switch, Reaver gave his last set of instructions to his team. “On my call, Quinn, send the shot. Bull, get the party favors ready. I'll call our ride." A pair of double-clicks answered him in succession after his transmission. His team had heard and acknowledged. Time to work. Reaver clicked his mic for the team radio. “Send it.” With the command given, Reaver released the transmit switch and began rapidly cycling through the preset channels to call for their extraction.

  Harlequin muttered to himself as he felt his breathing even out. “Easier than the General’s daughter." As his breath slide from his lungs, he held the natural pause and let his finger tighten on the trigger. Instead of the usual kick that accompanied a high velocity round leaving the barrel, this time the rifle didn't move at all. The bright flash erupting from the device secured under the barrel of his rifle, visible through the rifle’s scope, was the only confirmation that the device had worked correctly. A half-second was all it took for the energy packet to travel the distance between the outcropping where the Marines were hidden and the westernmost spire at the eastern edge of the city, almost fifty kilometers away. As the energy impacted the spire, the packet seemed to burst, coating the spire and causing it to light up in Harlequin's view.

  "Target's painted. Confirmed by Fury. Damn thing must look like Christmas up there."

  As Harlequin confirmed the success of his shot and the reading of it by the Fury’s Fire, Bull shifted inside his hide and reached across his body with his left hand to tap the detonation pad, located high on his right shoulder. On the other side of the city, explosives planted by Scarface and his team the night prior began detonating in staggered patterns. Incendiary bombs ignited fires inside warehouses, setting off alarm klaxons throughout the city, Bull clicked his mic. “Party's started. Call the girls?"

  Reaver stood up from his hide, rainwater dripping from his ghillie suit causing the material to hang heavily around his body and giving him the appearance of a creature risen from a bog or swamp. “Hawk's inbound to the extraction point. Ten mikes. Let's go."

  Bull and Harlequin rose from their hides, water cascading from their ghillie suits as it had from Reaver's. Taking point, with Bull bringing up the rear, Reaver had his team secure their rucksacks before leading them away from the outcropping and the panicked city behind them. The Recon team had spent the total of a day and a half on the outcropping. Even the most skilled tracker would have been hard-pressed to pick this as the spot where three grown men had lain; not that it would matter in just under ten minutes.

  Their path cut through the forest and down the backside of the mountain ridge west of the city. Nine minutes later, the team crouched on the perimeter of a clearing in the forest. Thirty seconds after their arrival the radio bud in Reaver's ear crackled into life, a calm voice cutting through the static. “Thunder."

  A half-grin split Reaver's face as he clicked his mic to respond with the matching code phrase and inform the pilots of an enemy-free landing zone. “Rain. Ice."

  "Ice confirmed." As the radio clicked off, a low roar filled the clearing, and the Hawk lowered into the dale. Reaver slid the night shades up from his helmet and let his eyes readjust to the darkness once again. In the shadows cast by the trees, the blackened Hawk was difficult to make out; the curves of the ship designed to cause the aircraft’s presence to go unnoticed by observers. It wasn’t cloaking, but it was a close second and incredibly effective at night. As the Hawk touched down, a clamshell hatch opened on its side, forming a ramp for the Marines to enter. A figure in the hatchway snapped a light beam into the darkness, and as one, the team rose and dashed for the ramp. Letting his team embark before him, Reaver gave a parting look to the forest before stepping through the closing hatchway and making his way to an open seat.

  Reaver buckled in, pulling the shoulder straps down to join with the latch connecting to the waist straps in a quick-release snap. After the clamshell doors sealed, light strips running the perimeter of the cabin ceiling lit up, casting a dim blue-green glow throughout the interior of the aircraft. The glow was just enough for Reaver to ensure his teammates were secured and their weapons turned muzzle down between their legs. He threw a thumbs-up across the cabin toward the nearest crewmember, who was watching expectantly from his seat. Bull and Harlequin had already removed the hoods of their ghillie suits and stuff
ed them into a utility pouch on their rucksacks, secured behind their feet and under their seats. Reaver did the same. Suddenly he felt cool air against the skin of his face, and his nostrils weren’t choked with the stench of what amounted to a combination of wet dog and sweat. Laying in the same spot for hours upon hours was not his most favorite part about Recon.

  Seconds later, the tone of the engines changed, and the ship began to rise on a cushion of air. A subtle change in the pitch of aircraft and Reaver was pushed back into his seat as the bird accelerated forward. His body pulled side to side with the minor shifts left or right, signaling the evasion of a tree jutting up from the forest below as the Hawk skimmed low over the canopy. The radio clicked on, and the voice Reaver had heard in the clearing came through the earbuds of the entire team, clearer now. “Three o'clock. Someone's having a bad night."

  Almost in unison, the heads of the Marines turned to look out the right-side windows of the ship. They watched as night turned to day for a stunning moment under the terrible might of a cruiser's planetary bombardment gun, in this case. “Mjolnir” aboard the Fury’s Fire, worked as a precision weapon against the tower painted by Harlequin's shot. The triple spires turned to rubble under the devastating barrage. Minus the damage done to the buildings immediately surrounding the spires and the diversionary fires, the rest of the city remained untouched.

  "Skies clear. Prepare for burst," another voice, most likely the second pilot, sounded in their ears, and the Marines tightened down the straps holding them to their seats as the Hawk rotated vertically on its tail and the engines screamed alive. Reaver gritted his teeth when the increasing g-forces wrapped his body in a giant fist and squeezed tightly, pressing down on his chest and causing the quick-release on the straps to dig painfully into his diaphragm. Shadows began to form at the edges of his vision, growing gradually larger with each passing second. Reaver flexed the muscles in his arms and abdomen while forcing his lungs to inhale deeply before exhaling sharply, repeating these breaths in an effort to stave off the blackout. Just as the sense of disorientation that preceded unconsciousness started to pull him completely under, the heavy pressure disappeared. As the aircraft broke free from the planet’s atmosphere, its profile shifted from atmospheric, atmo-flight, to the vacuum of space, vac-flight. With the onset of weightlessness, Reaver loosened the straps over his shoulder and across his waist enough to restrict his body to the security of his seat but freeing some movement; he shook his head and focused his breathing, forcing the blackness to recede.

  In his seat, Harlequin loosened his straps, visibly enjoying the feel of his body floating slightly above his chair, the wonder in his voice apparent. “These boys know their shit. Full burst from forward flight, and I didn't even get airsick."

  Bull's head wheeled toward the newest member of their team. “You get airsick, and you didn't think to warn us?"

  Harlequin laughed. “What? The big, bad, Recon Marine scared of a little puke?"

  Bull leaned his head back against the seat and laced his fingers behind his head. “Nope. I saw what you had for lunch. That ration bar looked bad going down. I don't want to see what it would look like on a return trip."

  The voice of one of the pilots cut the team’s laughter short. “Gentlemen, you puke in my bird, you clean it." The firmness in his voice was barely offset by the half-chuckle they heard through the radio before the pilots switched back to their own channel.

  Reaver smiled and shook his head; if Harlequin could already needle Bull and get anything but a grunt from the big man, then the kid was going to do alright. Loosening his straps further, Reaver adjusted the hang of the holster on his right thigh and the equipment pouch on the left side of his Bat-belt so both rested on the tops of his thighs and their respective straps weren’t biting into his legs from being pinched between him and the seat. Tightening the shoulder straps to pull himself back down into his seat, Reaver stretched out as best he could, crossing his legs at the ankles. With a small pop, the pressure in his right knee let go, and he sighed in relief. Not for the first time the words, ‘Too old for this shit,’ echoed in his mind, and it wouldn’t be the last time he thought them; God willing it would be a long time till the words were true. Letting his head fall back against the worn cushion of his seat’s high back, Reaver closed his eyes while his hands fell to rest on the butt of his rifle. The low rumble of the engines with the distinct lack of gravity and weight on his body combined to create a rocking motion that assisted in a different sort of darkness washing over him, one he didn’t fight.

  Chatter between the pilots and the flight controller on the Fury’s Fire woke Reaver. The pilots were all business, and Reaver was struck again by the professionalism exhibited by the Warrants; where Navy pilots would have been flirting and making crude remarks toward the female voice on the other end of the radio, the Army didn’t tolerate any of that bullshit.

  From the transmissions, Reaver knew they were five minutes from touching down in the same bay the team had launched from two weeks prior. A swift kick to the boots of each man woke his team, instant alertness showing in their eyes. Reaver held up his left hand, fingers spread, to show them the time to landing, and he was answered with a thumbs-up from both. Like most Army pilots, these guys brought them in above the cruiser and lowered down to the recovery pad. They saved the craziness for atmo-flight.

  Once the Hawk settled onto the pad, locking clamps secured around the landing struts, the pad began its descent into the cruiser’s belly. The interior walls of the recovery chute were gunmetal gray and scrubbed clean by deckhands and maintainer-bots; easier to detect hull breaches that way. At the top of the chute, the airlock doors closed.

  The reassuring slam of the doors echoed down the darkened tube as strip lights illuminated, casting the entire descent in a reddish glow. After only a few moments, the strip lights turned green, signaling the chamber’s environment was restored and the vacuum of space regulated to the cold environs outside the relative safety of the ship’s hull. The clamshell doors on either side of the Hawk opened, allowing the Marines to exit.

  The two crew members had removed their helmets and followed the Recon team out of the bird. It came as no surprise to Reaver to see that one of the crew members was a woman. Her sweat-slicked blonde hair stuck to the back of her neck, and the pixyish resemblance to her face made her appear much younger than he knew she had to be. The female crew member excused herself past Harlequin as she pulled a hatch-key from a pocket on the left forearm of her flight-suit and popped open a maintenance panel. Harlequin was standing still as a statue, his gaze locked on the backside of the female crewmember and jumped visibly when Reaver popped him in the back of the head with the heel of his palm. The younger Marine spun to face his Staff Sergeant’s gaze and at least had the decency to look sheepish when he realized he had been caught gawking. A tilt of Reaver’s head was all the signal Harlequin needed to move over to join Bull near the edge of the descending platform. As Reaver turned to join his team, he took a glance of his own at the young woman’s profile. No military uniform is flattering to the female figure, but even in her flight-suit Reaver could tell she had some curves. With the “any port in a storm” mentality that began near the midpoint of any cruise, a point they had passed over a year ago, he had to admit that it was a very attractive backside.

  It took a few moments from the time the light strips turned green and the Marines and crew stepped from the aircraft, for the landing pad to leave the docking tube and enter the hangar bay of the Fury’s Fire. The platform still had nearly a half a kilometer to descend to the hangar floor, and it would take just under three minutes to get there. Reaver moved to the platform’s edge, out of the way of the working Hawk crew, rolling his head from side to side to loosen the knots and tension that had built up. The tightness in the left side of his neck stretched momentarily and then gave way, the pop sounding loud in his ears and pulling a muttered curse from between his lips. Bull and Harlequin joined their squad leader, each M
arine rolling out or massaging the joints most affected from the flight and time spent hardside.

  Reaver unslung his rifle and laid it on the landing pad with the barrel resting on the top of his foot. Built on a frame similar to the pre-Corporations Earth FNH PS90, the Recon Assault Weapon, or RAW, was the standard carry weapon for all Recon Marines; though the RAW had begun to see expanded use in the Army and shipborne Marine forces. With his rifle out of the way, Reaver could pull the top half of his ghillie suit up and off. Now that the material wasn’t physically a part of him, he could differentiate the smell of the suit from those around him; the heavy scent of rain-washed foliage with undertones of sweat still clung to the damp material. Weaving the foliage into their suits had taken less time than it would take to get the last of it out, and the flight deck was not the place to spend the time on it. Thankfully, the Navy and the Marines had learned from past experience, and recessed lockers had been installed into the flight deck for storage and delivery to the squad’s armory. Rolling his suit up as tight as possible and putting one foot on it to hold it down, Reaver bent down to grip the nearest locker’s release latch. The latch had to be lifted then twisted at least ninety-degrees to activate the pneumatics surrounding the locker. Reaver understood the reasons why but it was still a bitch-and-a-half to get the handles up and turned, even using two hands, when you were coming down from a combat-high. The locker was a meter tall and four meters wide, with a shelf bisecting the space. Sensors within the locker would read the ident codes laced through the suits and rucks and make sure they were delivered to the proper Arms Room.

  After stuffing the ghillie on top and his rucksack beneath, Reaver lifted his rifle and slung it back over his shoulder so that it hung across his body, muzzle down; the weight of the weapon was a comforting presence against him.