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

by William McCaskey

  After sliding back the chair and sitting down to pull on a pair of black leather boots, Reaver silently thanked his Drill Instructor for pounding into his head to always shine a pair before leaving on a patrol; extra work beforehand spared stress on the back end. The material lining the boots removed the need for socks while granting more support for the arches of the feet and still protecting against trench foot and blisters. Tucking the legs of his uniform trousers into his boots, Reaver slapped the maglock clips on his boots together, tightening the straps that circled twice around each foot before wrapping three times around his lower leg. The lowest wrap of the band situated to form a brace for the ankle, which could be tightened further in the event of a break to provide emergency support. Reaver took an additional moment to adjust the hang of the blousing of his pants, around the top of his boots; the boots reached halfway up his calves, while the blousing hung two inches down each boot. Snatching down one of the duty covers from its resting place in the closet, then sliding the closet door shut, Reaver unclamped his screen from his desk before making his way to the door. A glance back into the room and a rundown of the checklist in his mind to ensure he had everything he would need for the operations debrief were the last things he did before exiting. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock automatically engaging, set to open only to his fingerprints.

  Reaver made his way through the barracks section of the Fury’s Fire, where he and the other Staff NCO Marines quartered, toward the lift that would carry him to the command sections. The passageways were relatively empty, residents either at work or bunked down after coming off shift. The Alliance's naval fleet followed the twenty-four-hour day/night cycle of humanity’s home world and natural biological imperative; it worked fantastic for operations on planets having a similar cycle; however, when the planet did not, like the one Reaver and his team had just come off of, the readjustment was tough. Standard Operating Procedure allowed teams coming out of the field to receive three days for re-acclimation to the time cycle. Anyone who had been in longer than a day realized that SOPs were only adhered to in port or in garrison; in a warzone or simply on cruise, jobs needed doing.

  Reaching the main lifts, Reaver stepped into the tube and keyed the code for the command deck. The doors slid shut, and Reaver moved back to lean against the rear wall. Passing his hand over the top edge of the screen brought it to life; Reaver’s trip from barracks to command deck would not be long, but it would give him enough time to check the status of the Marines they had recovered from Raider Two-One the previous day. Quick movements of his fingers above the screen navigated from the confirmation message that his Lieutenant had received his action reports to the personnel status screen. That he could not access the names of the injured told him they weren't from within his platoon; not all that surprising as there were four other Recon platoons aboard. The condition of their injuries was accessible, and Reaver breathed a silent prayer of thanks as he saw that none of the three were reported to be critical, though all three had down periods of at least a week, with the longest being over a month.

  The changing pitch surrounding the lift forewarned Reaver of his imminent arrival at the Command Deck, and he tapped the top edge of his screen to turn off and lock the device. When the door slid open, Reaver paused for a second, his eyes sweeping the corridor ahead of him, before stepping from the lift, his screen tucked under his left arm. His pace was parade ground perfect, the only movement above his hips was the natural swing of his arms, nine inches to the front and six inches to the rear, the fingers of his right hand curled with the pad of his thumb resting against the second knuckle of his right forefinger. Here were signs of life and activity, aides moving quickly down the passageway on some errand or other for higher brass, while Lieutenants and Captains carried out their own errands or those delegated to them from on high.

  Reaver navigated his way through the controlled chaos of blue, green, and a bit of tan, faster than most because many of the lieutenants and all of the enlisted moved out of his way as soon as they saw the silver-winged skull of the Recon badge on his right side, just under where his name was embroidered on his duty uniform. Arriving at the entryway to his platoon leader's office, Reaver rapped the knuckles of his right hand against the closed wooden door and waited. A voice, muffled behind the door and the noise of the passageway, came from within the office. "Enter."

  At the command, Reaver twisted the latch and pushed the door open. Stepping into the office and letting the door close behind him, Reaver strode forward until meeting the regulation three steps distance from his Lieutenant's desk; this centered him directly between two dark leather chairs set in front of the desk. A sharp salute, the fingers of his right hand barely touching the corner of his right eye and his upper arm parallel to the ship's deck, was held and Reaver snapped out the official reporting spiel. "Staff Sergeant Kyle Jacobs, reporting as ordered, Sir." Reaver's eyes bored a hole into the bulkhead an inch above and behind the lieutenant's head.

  Lieutenant Mikael Davis was the son of defectors from the People's Socialist Planetary Union. For over half his career, he had served as an enlisted Marine; now he was a Mustang, and one of the few officers Reaver didn't want to launch out of a torpedo tube on a regular basis. The Recon badge on the lieutenant's right breast was identical to Reaver's, save for one small detail: a single ruby was set under the right eye socket of the skull. Cut in a teardrop shape, the ruby was a symbol that the lieutenant had lost an immediate family member in the line of duty. In the lieutenant's case, the teardrop was for his younger brother, a corporal who had been killed while operating behind enemy lines with his Recon team. The lieutenant's office was Spartan. Where other officers hung mementos and awards they had been given, the wooden paneling laid over the metal bulkheads of Reaver’s commanding officer’s cabin was bare. The only personal effects on Lieutenant Davis's desk were two photographs, one of his mother, and one of his brother. Lieutenant Davis had been scanning the screen in front of him when Reaver reported. After Reaver finished, the Lieutenant looked up and returned the Staff Sergeant's salute with just as much precision and crispness, before motioning to one of the two chairs.

  "Relax, Staff Sergeant. Take a seat. I managed to catch a First Class wandering the passageways. If he doesn't get lost again, he'll be coming back with coffee."

  Reaver's arm snapped back to his right side after the lieutenant had dropped his salute. At the order, Reaver's body visibly relaxed, having been bowstring taut throughout the entirety of the reporting process. "Thank you, Sir."

  A half step forward and a full step to his right had Reaver in the perfect position to allow himself to settle down into the chair, both feet still planted on the deck and his screen now resting across his thighs. The leather of the chair was supple enough that it made no sound as Reaver sank his weight into it. Whatever planet had supplied the leather would have also supplied the wood for the paneling. No way of knowing for sure where it had come from, but damned if the military didn’t make good choices in its corporate planet suppliers.

  Davis, who until this point had maintained a stoic, almost blank visage, broke into a grin. “Have you finished with the parade ground routine, Reaver? There aren't any cherries in here to scare this time."

  Reaver laughed and leaned back in the chair. “Have to keep you on your toes, LT. Can't let you forget you went over to the dark side."

  Davis laughed in response and shook his head. “Trust me, there are days I wish I hadn't." The lieutenant's voice grew a touch more serious. “Sounded like you and your guys had some fun hardside, and then that issue with the damaged Hawk. What happened, Reaver? Your report was a little barren on details about what you found."

  Reaver shrugged his shoulders, his demeanor shifting to match that of his superior. "Hardside was cut and dry, in and out with no issues. The Hawk was something else. From what I could tell they were either hit at the pick-up or the site was already hot before the Hawk got there. I don't know who got hit when, but there wa
s definitely a wasp grenade that got into the cabin. Left side crew got the brunt of it; good chance he was dead before he knew it. The rest of the cabin got banged up pretty bad, but it looks like the pods did their job. The cockpit was a mess. One pilot got into his pod, and from the damage done I’m guessing the other held on long enough to get through the burn and get the bird pointed toward home. He saved everyone else on that bird, LT. He was fucked up and got them close enough for recovery to work. Make sure whoever is writing that letter home knows what he did."

  Davis nodded, having taken notes while Reaver spoke. After completing what he was typing on his screen, the lieutenant glanced up at Reaver. "I'm adding what you said to your report and sending it up higher."

  A sharp rapping on the door interrupted Davis, and he rose from behind his desk with the ease that showed the lieutenant still maintained the physical training required by Recon. Yanking open the door allowed the muffled noises from the passageway to spill into the room in a cacophony. Twisting in his seat, Reaver could see personnel moving more rapidly past the door, and a lance corporal standing in the doorway with what had the appearance of a clear sheet of plastic in his hands. Plas-sheets and runners could only mean one thing: the fleet was shifting to a war footing.

  As Lieutenant Davis took the sheet and waved off the Lance Corporal's salute, Reaver rose from his chair and moved to the door; he had to get his squad to the ready room to start gearing and prepping for whatever would come down the pipe. Davis gripped Reaver's elbow as the two passed each other, Reaver moving toward the door and Davis toward his desk. "Consider this your WARNO, prep for a long trip. I'll let the rest of the platoon know. Go get your guys ready." Releasing Reaver's elbow, the Lieutenant continued back to his desk.

  A comment from his platoon leader had Reaver pausing at the door. “Nice to put this brush fire behind us and get into a real war again. Been a while since we’ve had one of those.” Davis stepped behind his desk and sat down, his fingers flying over his screen as he sent the warning order out to the Marines under his command.

  Reaver nodded to his platoon leader and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. Reaver shared his leader’s sentiment and hadn’t needed to convey that. The energy in the passageway was electric, the air filled with the anticipation that comes as warriors sense the shift in the winds and ready for the chains to be loosed. Here, where the majority of those on this level would spend most of the time moving personnel and watching unfolding events on a screen, an energy charged the environment; Marines trained for war and were required to serve at least a tour in a combat mission, regardless of their primary job specialty.

  Knowing the lifts would be prioritized to the messengers, Reaver moved through corridors from the Command deck toward the Marine Barracks. Halfway to the barracks, the general message klaxon sounded twice before the ship commander’s voice came over the ship-wide net. "This is Captain Jarrus. At eleven-thirty earth Zulu we received notification that an Alliance colony world was under attack by PSPU forces and requesting immediate aid. We are ordered to rendezvous with Battle Group Carolina under Admiral Kurosawa. Until further notice, we sail at combat status. Captain Jarrus out."

  Alice had commented on more than one occasion that the Fury’s Captain had a voice that could melt butter and drop panties even if he was reading from a tech manual. Given that he was Navy, Reaver always figured dropping panties was the farthest thing from the Captain’s mind.

  Reaver picked up his pace; the light jog he had been maintaining turned into an almost dead sprint. Bringing together an entire battle group meant full hardside drops. Life was about to get a whole helluva lot more interesting. He hit the barracks deck where the other members of his squad bunked and slowed his pace. Here the barracks were laid out for squads to maintain their integrity with eight Marines to a room; breaking the squad down further into three-man teams was a concept used across the Marines and the Army, but only in Recon were teams deployed independently of one another to achieve specific objectives.

  A gravel voice raised above the din pulled Reaver’s attention as it cut through the noise within the corridor. “Got enough rest, Reaver? Wouldn’t want you to miss this one.” The speaker was a barrel-chested Gunnery Sergeant, who had been Reaver’s team leader when he had first joined Recon, and was now the platoon Gunnery Sergeant and acting as Lieutenant Davis’ second.

  Reaver laughed and raised a single finger salute to his harasser. “Have fun sipping coffee while Dragon does the real work, Gunny. We’ll have the red carpet out for you and the LT when y’all finally come hardside.” He received a loud guffaw in response, and a returned salute.

  All eight members of Reaver's squad were in the common area of the squad room, sitting around the stainless-steel table bolted to the floor, when Reaver pushed the door open and strode through. To either side of the common area and directly across from the entry door were the sleeping quarters and latrines for each team. Rock music thumped in the background, quiet enough not to disturb conversation but the distinctive growl of Five Finger Death Punch deafening now in the silence falling over the squad as they looked to their Staff Sergeant. Reaver paused and listened for the chorus, recognizing "Death Before Dishonor," silently marveling that Bard had managed to get his hands on so much twentieth and twenty-first-century music.

  Bull and Titan still had their fists locked together. The olive tint and residual tan of Titan's skin showed his hardside origins and contrasted against the albino-pale skin of Bull's space-raised form; their forearms and biceps corded as neither refused to surrender their arm-wrestling match. Wolf and Alice had their bare feet braced on the table, in the midst of painting their toes. The bright red polish against Wolf’s ebony skin was less conventional next to the black Alice was applying against her pale and freckled flesh. Reaver was less than surprised when he noticed Bull’s bare feet resting in Wolf’s lap and a bottle of Bull’s preferred shade of gold nail polish next to Wolf’s red. Recon spent a lot of time on their feet, and a little pampering was never discouraged.

  The corporations making up the Alliance had instituted set standards for military employment when the governments collapsed; if you could hack it you were in. The medical advancements, hormone suppression implants specifically, allowed women to easily serve in long-term field deployments alongside their male counterparts without hygiene products taking up space and weight in their rucks.

  Two of the handful of women who had qualified for Recon, Wolf and Alice differed from one another as much as from their male teammates. Wolf's sable black hair hung loosely down her back, though Reaver knew she could have it up and within regulation standards with a simple twist before he could say “inspection.” At a hundred and seventy-eight centimeters, she stood five centimeters taller than her squad leader. Her demeanor and body posture screamed "alpha bitch," and she could back it up; her introduction to the squad as a team leader had ended with Titan on his back and Wolf's knee in his throat.

  Alice had come to the squad around the same time Reaver had been transferred in to take over as squad leader; she was content as a Corporal and claimed she saw the truth of the world through her rifle scope. The redhead's reserved and quiet demeanor was a direct paradox to what many expected from Recon Marines.

  Scarface, the third team leader within the squad, had been engrossed in a card game with Harlequin and Space Case, scowling at his current hand; the scars along his jawline twisted the scowl into a sneering smile. Space Case’s lively eyes darted to Reaver and seemingly lit with the realization that now he had an out, as he appeared to be losing the game. Reaver knew better; Space controlled the pace of a game without letting on. The Staff Sergeant never knew quite what was happening behind those eyes, but it usually was two steps ahead of everyone else in strategy. Bard slid a bookmark into the book he had been reading, Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe, to mark his spot, and laid it on the table.

  Reaver had learned Bard’s source of the books near the beginni
ng of his tour with the squad. Somehow, the Corporal had convinced the Navy personnel in the Machine Shop to build a printer, and they manufactured books for him. Bard had to keep the requests small and eventually turn them in to be recycled for materials, but he had real books without having to transfer heavy bookcases on each reassignment.

  No Recon Marine could be accused of being small, but Bard neared that descriptor when compared to the other Marines. Even Alice, who edged him out by three centimeters. Where Titan and Bull made their money based off their size and lifting ability, Bard was without a doubt the brightest in the squad and could have made a fortune in the corporations, but instead had enlisted and gutted his way through Basic and then Selection; Reaver was glad for his technical expertise.

  Bard spoke first, the touch of excitement in his voice causing the brogue marking him as Earth-born and a son of Scotland to come to the fore. "What's the deal, Boss?" Everyone's focus tightened a little more on Reaver at Bard's question. There was no fear in the air, no anxiousness, simply a tightening tension of nerves, the pressure buildup of the finger squeezing down on the trigger and the hammer drawing back.