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

by William McCaskey

  Reaver had grown convinced that time was a sadist, fickle and cruel, with its attentions. The rain of artillery shells had fallen silent only seconds prior, and Reaver moved to the now barren doorway to peer out into the square. His eyes scanned the damage done while his ears listened intently for the telling scream signaling another barrage. As the seconds ticked by in his head, his perception fought with reality. He knew the bombardment could not have lasted for more than a minute, maybe two, but his mind tried to tell him it had been hours.

  Thirty seconds since the shelling had stopped and the only sound that filled the square were the low groans of the wounded, the calls of NCOs checking on their Marines, repeated and sometimes panicked shouts of “Medic,” and the silence of the dead. Reaver coughed to clear his throat as best he could and triggered the push-to-talk switch on his rifle. “Bravo Two, give me a sitrep.”

  Bard heard his squad leader’s call and the sound off of his squadmates. In his head, he counted them off until the only two remaining were himself and Wolf, and he would have responded except that his hands were currently covered in blood and too engrossed in concentrating on the task before him. He knew Wolf couldn’t make the call either since she was in a similar state. The Marine with his legs crushed by a falling piece of graphcrete wasn’t making Bard’s life any easier, as the Recon Marine fought to staunch the blood flow from the man’s right leg. The Marine’s two buddies, who had been huddled with him in the shadow of the building the rubble had been knocked from, attempted to hold their comrade down as Bard worked.

  It took the combined efforts of Wolf and the two un-injured Marines to lift the rubble enough for Bard to pull the wounded Marine from beneath it so that he could work; as soon as the Marine was free, Wolf began assisting other Marines nearby.

  The Marine’s left ankle was crushed. A simple splint would get him to the med station and then rehab after the docs got the cloning and grafting done, which was why it still hadn’t been splinted yet. The right leg was causing the most issues and the highest threat; the rubble had shattered the right kneecap and smashed the bones below and above it. The fractured bones in the upper thigh had pierced the femoral artery, and the Marine was losing blood rapidly. Cursing in Gaelic, unable to get a tourniquet high enough on the thigh to stop the bleeding and with time against him, Bard went for his hot-shot. Using a high bore needle, the system forced a molten-hot gas mixture into the body to cauterize bleeding and stave off infection. The mixture cooled almost as quickly as it was delivered. It was the Marine’s last chance, but it was going to hurt like hell.

  Pulling the needle from its pouch inside his first aid kit, Bard directed the Marine’s battle-buddies. “Hold him.” Without waiting to see if they followed his directions, Bard slammed the needle into the inside of the wounded Marine’s lower thigh, just above the spurting artery. The system activated a split-second after piercing the skin.

  A ragged scream ripped through the wounded Marine’s throat as his body thrashed against the hands holding him down. His buddies just managed to restrain him, though it was a close contest. Seeing the flow of blood cease, Bard lay his left hand on the Marine’s thigh, above the needle’s entry point, and felt the heat dissipating, which told him that the shot had worked as intended and the pain-killer should be kicking in. Bard noticed tears leaking from the corners of the Marine’s eyes and hoped he never had to feel the effects of a hot-shot first hand.

  Finishing splinting the Marine’s ankle, Bard signaled to the Marine’s buddies that he was done, and they could carry their friend to the medic station. Wiping his hands on his trousers to remove the blood from them left dirty crimson streaks across his pant legs and his hands coated in a gritty layer of pink dust. His earbud crackled to life, Reaver’s voice coming through. “Wolf, Bard, check-in.”

  Wolf’s voice responded. “Wolf and Bard are green. We’ll be at the rally point momentarily.”

  The transmission cut and Bard looked over to see Wolf, her hands stained like his, and met her gaze. Her right forefinger extended toward the sky and drew circles to give him the universal ‘rally up’ signal, and he responded with a nod. Gathering the ration packs from where he had dropped them when the artillery strike had begun, Bard rejoined Wolf, carrying her own load of rations, and the two Marines moved through the square, back toward their squad.

  Debris spilled from the surrounding buildings littered the square anew in a maze of rubble and chaos, and many Marines had turned to assist in digging out buried comrades when Lieutenant Davis's growl raised over the commotion. “Eyes out. Fourth squad on recovery detail. Everyone else keep the perimeter tight." The platoon leader from the second Hawk was quick to echo the command to his platoon. The other platoon leader then moved to join in the recovery efforts, while Lieutenant Davis grabbed his radio operator to call for an extraction of the wounded.

  Alice and Harlequin had been the first back to the squad’s rally point, each sniper carrying three water bladders, having already restored their own to their combat vests. Titan and Bull arrived next, and Reaver knew he'd sent the right guys for the job when he saw the load that each of the Marines carried. Space Case was sauntering back to the CP as Wolf and Bard arrived, blood staining their hands and uniforms; if Wolf had not given him the green signal, Reaver would have believed it was theirs.

  Dropping his load of ration packs, Bard eyed his friend. “What’s got you in such a jovial mood?”

  “Rode out the attack in the corner of a building with a scared young Marine, who appreciated the strong arms of a Recon to keep her safe,” Space answered matter of fact as he started passing out the coup-sticks he had requisitioned.

  “Did you at least get a name this time?” Bard chided.

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Space asserted.

  “You didn’t,” Bard responded.

  “Ass,” Wolf added after dropping the ration packs.

  Reaver ignored the chatter and inventoried the supplies; his scroungers had scavenged enough ration bags for the squad to have two each. Reaver didn't ask how they had managed that feat; common rule of sending out scavengers: never ask how they accomplish it.

  After magazines and drums had been reloaded and replaced into their proper pouches, and the coup-sticks passed out two to a Marine and slid into their own pockets, the Recon Marines divvied up the ration bags. Each bag was sliced open and anything non-essential, like utensils, was removed. Recon teams often deployed with only ration bars to sustain them, requiring the calories and energy while also needing to pack light and leaving more room for equipment. Line units of Marines and Army were supplied with ration bags; full meals contained within a vacuum-sealed bag with each meal item individually wrapped that when twisted sharply would dispense a heating agent into the meal. A few seconds of shaking to ensure the meal inside properly mixed followed by about a five-minute wait time for everything to cook resulted in a surprisingly tasteful and filling meal in field conditions. Recon freed their brothers-in-arms of these extra weight burdens whenever they had the chance.

  With the squad packed and ready to step off, Reaver led them to the street they had marked for the close-air-support strike, pausing behind the team of Marines who had set up a fighting position just inside the street's mouth. Reaver moved forward to talk to the team leader, a corporal, and let him know that a team of eight Recon was departing the perimeter. The corporal would count the Marines as they left, confirming the number out and reporting to his squad leader, which would work its way up to the Battle Captain, who in this case was Lieutenant Davis. While a rare thing for a lieutenant to be double-hatted like Davis was now, the situation developing made it necessary to get him onto the ground where his combat experience could be best utilized.

  Reaver waved his squad out, Bard taking point, and waited for Bull, who was pulling up the tail end to pass him before he slapped the corporal on the shoulder.

  The corporal confirmed, “Eight out."

  Reaver stepped over the rubble pile
and into Marx country. As he moved forward to his position within the order of march, Reaver pressed the transmit switch on his rifle. "Dragon Actual, Dragon Two-Zero is stepping."

  His platoon leader, Lieutenant Davis wearing his other hat, responded through the earbuds. “Good hunting, Dragon Two-Zero.”

  Reaver double-clicked his response then rotated his comms switch to the squad internal channel. The Marines moved cautiously. The city was enemy territory, and there was no telling how deeply entrenched the Renks had gotten themselves or their strength of force, but that was the point of this hunting party. Bard's chosen path led the Marines through the most direct route toward the docks; if they were clear of enemy presence, it would be possible for the assault boats to land in the open areas designed for the recovery and preparation of crops from the ocean floor. Taking the docks would also give enemy forces an out through the city border rather than cornering them between pissed off Marines and the ocean.

  Heads constantly scanned left to right, eyes tracking up to sweep the upper rooftops and windows, and every so often Bull would shift his facing to walk backward while his eyes swept the route they had already traveled, seeking any sign of a threat following them. It was Bard who first noticed something wrong. He signaled by raising his weapon to his shoulder as he lowered himself to a knee, his weight resting on his front leg ready to push off and move should it be needed. Reaver's voice, quiet and calm, sounded through his earbud. “Whatcha got, Bard?"

  A slight shift on his thumb and Bard hit his transmit switch, his voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but still soft enough not even Space Case, who was less than a meter from him, could hear. “Movement, twelve o'clock, passing right to left, ‘bout a hundred and fifty maybe two hundred meters. Don't think they saw us; they were moving pretty fast, Boss." Releasing the talk button, Bard waited for his squad leader's direction. Behind him the rest of his squadmates had followed his movement and lowered themselves to cover. While Bard kept his eyes locked on the area where he had last seen the enemy troops, movement behind him told him that Space Case had moved his field of observation to the rooftops and upper windows of the surrounding buildings.

  Reaver was quiet for a moment before the radio clicked. “Move up and take the street they went down. Keep your eyes out for surprises. Let's see where they're headed."

  Bard double-clicked his talk button while rising smoothly from his kneeling position and setting off down the street; he kept his weapon ready, in between the low, relaxed sling of the weapon across his chest and the high shoulder tucked position used when engaging a target. The final distance between where Bard had spotted the movement and the actual side street was just under one hundred and seventy-five meters by the pace count as Space Case was reporting, and it took the squad of Marines nearly five minutes to cover at the speed they were maintaining. Bard paused about three meters from the turn of the corner. Only once the entire squad was assembled and an overwatch set to keep an eye back along the street they had been traveling as well as on the street they were about to put their backs to, did Bard move back from the corner and out into the middle of the traveled street while slowly working his way around the corner with the butt of his weapon now tucked securely into his shoulder and ready to engage.

  In his mind, he overlaid a circle on the street, the center being the corner of the building he had to get around. Measured and slow side-steps became slices he removed from the pie, each step giving him a clearer view and removing the building from obstructing his vision.

  When Bard had reached the far side of the street and taken cover behind a pile of debris, Space Case ducked around the corner of the nearside building and took up position. It was at this point that every Marine in the squad ceased moving and reached out with their other senses as they kept their eyes scanning, watching for any threats.

  Reaver took a deep breath in through his nose, letting the smell of the city wash over him just as he knew his Marines were doing, searching for the salty tang of sweat that didn't belong to their squadmates. Reaver let his ears do their work, picking through the sounds of the ruined city, waiting for the tell-tale thunk of man-made material against a hard surface or the crunch of glass and rubble as a booted foot walked over it. The wind whistled through buildings and the holes blown out of them by the initial explosions set off by the Renks and the resulting concussive blasts and firestorm.

  Three minutes ticked by with no sign of enemy troops in the immediate area, though Bard and Space Case had both spotted boot prints in the dust on the ground, protected from the wind by the rubble before it, and reported them sub-vocally through the net. Reaver, who had taken a position at the corner base of the nearside building to keep an eye on his lead element and the trail of his squad, gave the move out signal to Bard.

  As one, the squad of Marines rose to their feet, pressing off the ground with their off hand while keeping their other hand securely on the grip of their weapons. The boot prints pointed toward the docks, so Bard led the squad in that direction.

  Walking point was exhausting, requiring constant vigilance for enemy positions, as well as tripwires or booby traps. Every Marine took their turn at point, except for the squad leader; his concentration and duty needed to be focused on his teams. Reaver's chosen position was always behind the paceman, and he kept Wolf ahead of the tail; with two over-strength teams as opposed to the usual three, the spacing of the teams was unfamiliar to everyone in the squad; times like these made Scarface's absence felt.

  Perhaps three or four minutes after they had made the turn to follow the enemy troops, they heard a distant rumble of thunder, and moments later the shrieking wail of artillery shells filled the sky as they screamed overhead. The crash of explosions could be heard from the direction of the square they had left, and their fellow Marines were fortifying.

  When the sky was silent once again, Reaver's earbud came to life with Lieutenant Davis's voice. “Dragon Two-Zero, Dragon Actual. Do us a favor and shut those damn guns up. Eagles can't get back into the city right now."

  Reaver flipped the channel switch on his radio and pressed the talk button on his rifle. “Dragon Two-Zero copies." His thumb flipped the radio switch back to internal and moved back to the transmit switch. “Frago, we're going after the guns. Gotta be Banshees based on the shell scream, means they’re inside the city proper. We head to the docks and work north, then back to the east."

  Reaver clicked off his transmit switch, and Bard jumped on his. “Buildings are causing echoes and pinpointing the guns is going to be hard until we are right on top of them. We got the rumble of the launch though, and we didn't get that at the CP, so they have to be north of us." Bard released his transmit switch and mentally kicked himself; Reaver already said to turn north after they hit the docks.

  He was raising his eyes to scan the rooftops when a glint of light caught his gaze and drew his attention back down. His left arm went up, his hand clenched into a fist as he lowered his body down to a knee. The entire squad froze and lowered themselves, eyes panning up, forward, and back as Bard searched.

  His own eyes tracked from where they had caught the glint and slid right. There it was at shin height, a thin stretch of cord tied off to an anchor hammered into the wall; that was what had caught the sunlight and caused the flash. Now, to find what it connected to.

  Following the line from its anchor point, Bard found the cable ran through a crevice and into a small rubble pile. Keeping his eyes locked onto the tripwire, Bard reached into his Bat-belt with his left hand and drew out a small pair of wire snips. Taking care not to put any more tension than was already present on the thin cable, he let the teeth of the snips slide around the tripwire and, with a prayer that the set-up was as simple as it looked, closed them sharply.

  The click of the teeth snapping closed almost drowned out the wire's snap from its strands violently separating.

  Bard released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Moving, he gently lifted the top stones fro
m the rubble pile where the wire disappeared. Nestled inside he found a wasp grenade, its pin partially removed and positioned so that its initial charge would have launched it from the debris into a passing target. All it would have taken was for someone to step through the tripwire, completing the process of pulling the pin. Depending on how fast the squad had been moving, the blast would have landed somewhere between Reaver and Titan, maybe behind Titan. Tenderly, Bard took hold of the grenade and seated the pin firmly back into place; only after he had made the grenade safe did he lift it from its cradle in the rubble pile and slide it into a spare pouch on his combat vest.

  He returned the wire snips to their proper place, and with hands shaking from the rush of adrenaline, undid the chin strap of his helmet. Holding his helmet in his left hand, the back of his gloved right hand wiped at the sweat on his brow. The first bullet shattered the bones of his hand before crashing through his skull and exiting in a spray of pink mist. The second round punched through his chest as he was falling. He never heard either shot.

  Chapter Twelve

  The double crack of the rifle sounded as Bard's body crumpled to the street, splaying across the same rubble pile he had pulled the booby trap from, and sending his squadmates diving for cover. Space Case dropped, his rifle smacking the ground beside him with a loud clatter; he felt the heat emanating off the street surface through his uniform as he dragged himself forward.

  He had seen Bard fall. He had to get to his friend.

  From the direction the first two shots had originated, the throaty roar of a heavy cannon opening up echoed, and a fusillade of rounds tore through the air above Space’s head; but he could see Bard’s boots, and he wasn’t going to be stopped now. The moment he was within reach, Space Case grabbed for his friend’s ankle. “C’mon man, let’s get you out of this shit.” Holding Bard’s ankles, Space pulled hard, and as soon as he had the smaller Recon Marine close enough, Space rolled behind the rubble pile Bard had been laying across and huddled down. The enemy gunner took an interest in the movement and directed his shots toward the stacked debris.