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

by William McCaskey

  Reaver was confused. “Not back to the base?"

  A different voice answered, this one a bit older, probably the pilot-in-command. “Negative. Flight plan is direct to Fury’s Fire."

  "Roger that," Reaver answered, then turned and gave his squad the signal to tighten their shoulder straps further.

  As the six Marines were tightening their straps and leaning their heads back against their seats to catch some rest on the flight to the cruiser, and the flight medic was tending to the Army Lieutenant's wounds, Reaver caught sight of Harlequin popping open the casing of his scope camera and withdrawing the stored data-card. Harlequin noticed his squad leader's gaze and held a finger to his lips before making the extracted data-card disappear into his vest. Whatever Harlequin had seen, he wanted a look at it before anyone else, and now Reaver did too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Never stand when you can be sitting, never sit when you can be lying down, and never be awake when you can sleep. Words of wisdom passed down through the ages from warrior to warrior; Reaver was certain they had been uttered before man discovered fire. It was the first lesson trainees learned after their feet touched those damned yellow footprints.

  Sleep was a commodity, a highly treasured one, and the flight from Craxus to the Fury’s Fire afforded the Recon Marines of Dragon Two the opportunity to perform some much-needed preventative maintenance checks and services on the backside of their eyelids after the chaos and insanity of their operation within the city. The squad stayed awake for the burst through atmo, but after that, each one of them was out within moments and remained so until the Hawk settled itself onto the recovery pad and the locking clamps slammed into place.

  Waking was as rapid as their descent into sleep. That was the second lesson taught: when you woke, be ready to act. As the recovery pad made its descent through the interior of the cruiser, the Marines released the straps holding them into their seats. The flight medic waved them away from the left side door, indicating which door the Army Lieutenant would be removed out of as soon as the Hawk was secure on the flight deck; the squad of Marines shifted toward the right side door. The clamshell doors opened, and Reaver led his squad onto the recovery pad to make space for the crew to complete their post-flight duties. Three vehicles waited while the pad settled into the flight deck. The lead vehicle would tow the Hawk to its parking space, freeing up the pad.

  The second vehicle’s purpose was immediately evident, smaller than the other two and painted all in white except for the red cross stenciled on the nose and sides of the vehicle. Waiting medical personnel assisted the flight medic in guiding the still comatose lieutenant into place on one of two gurneys wheeled to the door and strapped him down. The corpse of the radio operator was laid on a second gurney and strapped down just as securely. He may have been a corpse, but he would be afforded the same comforts as a living patient until he had been declared officially dead by the ship's surgeon, a formality considering the lack of head and all. Together the medic walked with the two soldiers to the ambulance and helped load them aboard before the vehicle sped away from the Hawk and toward the med bay.

  The final vehicle's purpose was a mystery to the Marines and crew of the Hawk. Painted in the simple steel gray primer used on most fleet vehicles for onboard use, it lacked any deck striping or shop identifying the vehicle’s mission or driver. The figure behind the steerage controls stepping out from the vehicle made the Marines realize their mission on Craxus may have been about more than recovering the lieutenant. Highly polished, calf-high leather boots, the buckles gleaming silver with a bright shine below bloused charcoal gray trousers, exited the cab of the vehicle first. The fitted ash gray greatcoat flared open to reveal a belt buckle with the Marine Recon Intelligence flash emblazoned upon it, a pair of crossed lightning bolts behind a sphinx. A simple white dress shirt below the coat stood in stark contrast to the crimson necktie hanging from the wearer's collar and pulled the eyes’ attention to the Major's bronze oak leaves pinned on the lapels of the greatcoat. From the oak leaves positioning, it was difficult to keep the eyes from tracing the sweeping curve of the neckline up to the high cheekbones of an elfish face, framed by blond hair styled into a pixie cut. On any other woman, the hair and face might have been inviting; the frosty glaze to the major's sea-green eyes and the tight-lipped scowl she wore across her lips served to dampen that appeal. As she neared the cluster of Marines, her gaze locked onto Reaver. “Staff Sergeant Jacobs, correct?"

  The flight deck was a 'no salute' zone, so Reaver refrained from calling his squad to attention at the Major's approach, though he did turn to face her as she addressed him. "Yes, Ma'am. What can I do for you?" Reaver met the Major's gaze.

  He knew who she was by reputation. She had done her requisite tour in a line unit, then quickly rotated back to a desk, working her way through the officer ranks of Recon the back way, through intel, and she had a hard-on for making the enlisteds’ lives difficult, having forgotten what it meant to get her boots muddy and her hands dirty. So far, Reaver had counted himself lucky to have avoided dealing with her; luck always ran out in the end.

  "Staff Sergeant, I understand you had an altercation with a unit of the Council’s Blades. I expect a full report within twenty-four hours." Her tone was brisk, and she turned before waiting for a response from Reaver, as if expecting him to comply without a second thought.

  Reaver was having none of her bullshit, and he figured disavowing any misconceptions now would save him trouble in the future. The sardonic laugh he let escape pulled the major up short, and she spun, her eyes flashing.

  Reaver didn't give her a chance to speak. “Ma'am, Intel Branch doesn’t have order authority over Operations. You'll get your report through appropriate channels, after our chain of command debriefs us. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got Marines to bury."

  With that last parting shot, Reaver led his squad past the stunned Major. Not one of them looked at her. Reaver was pretty sure she had never had her tail pulled that sharp before, and he knew he was going to hear it from his platoon leader, but desk jockeys needed reminding that the Marines on the ground were paying in blood for the ground they gained. He shook his head and wondered when senior officers had forgotten they were warriors as well; his knowledge of history told him it was probably when one man gave another man a club and pointed him at the enemy without watching his buddy’s back. Shrugging his shoulders, he let the worry go; she'd bitch to someone, and shit would roll downhill. Such was life for the enlisted.

  The initial stop for the squad was their equipment locker— “vault” would have been a more appropriate nomenclature—to inspect their gear for any necessary immediate fixes and deposit that which was not in dire need of repair into their personal gearboxes. Even leaving a combat zone, they still needed to be combat ready, and the trip to Earth would consist of inspections, weapons maintenance, and continuation training. Being considered the tip of the spear required a level of readiness that line units could only dream of achieving. Reaver knew the ship's personnel had begun prepping for their return to the Fury by the presence of Wolf's gearbox having already been stored and secured. They would probably find her in the squad room having enjoyed a few hot showers and some alone time.

  With their gear stowed away, Reaver cut them loose to grab showers, with instructions for their after-action reports to be in the squad data stream within twenty-four hours; they would reconvene in the mess for dinner, or breakfast, whichever time of day it was.

  His walk toward his quarters was slow and measured. He wasn't in any real rush, and the adrenaline drop caused the zee-monster to snap kick him, repeatedly, in the side of the head. Rounding the corner of the hallway, after exiting the lift at the floor for his quarters, Reaver nearly collided with a young woman wearing the scrubs of a shipboard nurse. Her head was down, staring at her data-pad, and Reaver's reaction of catching her by her upper arms prevented her from walking head first into Reaver's face. Her dark brown curls caught his initial
notice, followed by the firmness of the biceps beneath his grip that he would not have noticed with the way her uniform fit her small frame; third was the silver bars of a lieutenant junior grade sewn onto the lapels of her scrub top.

  She started when she felt his hands wrap around her arms and glanced upward quickly, a light rosy tint of a blush darkening the pale complexion of her cheeks. "Oh! Pardon me, I didn't see you there. I'm trying to find someone, and it doesn't seem like any of those quartered on this deck have returned to the ship yet." The dialect and cadence of her voice were similar to those in Bard's, telling Reaver she was Earth-born and probably from the same region around Edinburgh that Bard called home. Had called home.

  Releasing her arms, Reaver shifted his gaze to the data-slate imprinted on her screen and suppressed a chuckle at seeing his name atop what appeared to be a medical chart. "Tell me who you're looking for, Ma'am, and I'll help ya find ‘em, if I can." It was fair of her not to realize who she addressed; Recon didn't wear name-tapes on their combat shirts, simply a stenciled 'Marines' over their left breast.

  Regaining her composure, the nurse straightened her scrub top. “Thank you. I'm looking for Staff Sergeant Kyle Jacobs. Do you know him?"

  With a nod of his head, Reaver moved past the young officer and made his way down the hallway, hearing her footsteps falling in beside his. “Reaver? Yeah, I know him; his bunk is just down this hallway."

  "I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that he's not in his bunk at this moment, else he would have answered when I knocked." Her tone revealed that she wasn't finding nearly as much humor in the situation as Reaver was.

  Without looking at her, Reaver neared the door to his quarters. “Ma'am, I can guarantee you that Staff Sergeant Jacobs will be in his quarters in about two minutes, less if you'd tell him what you want from him." Pausing at the shut door, Reaver pressed his right palm and fingers against the biometric reader set into the door, a low click sounding as the locks rolled and the door slid open.

  The nurse stopped just outside the opening door, and as Reaver turned to face her, he saw the color rising in her cheeks, and he knew it wasn't embarrassment this time. Her voice took on a chill tone when she next spoke.

  “Staff Sergeant Jacobs, I don't know if you consider yourself to be humorous. I happen to find you quite offensive. By command of the Ship's Surgeon, you are hereby confined to quarters for ninety-six hours followed by a mandatory medical examination. I'm also to notify you that you are charged with going absent without leave from a designated Alliance military medical facility. Your chain of command has been notified, and the orders posted to your personnel file." She stepped away from the door.

  Reaver fought down the laugh that he wanted to let loose in the nurse's face. What was it with officers and their bullshit today? Instead, he tossed her a half salute. “Doc ordered bed rest, got it. Thank you, Ma'am." With that, he stepped into his room and triggered the door, leaving the lieutenant staring open-mouthed at the gall of the Marine Staff Sergeant as the door shut in her face.

  Reaver switched on his screen, the notification of the orders and pending charges flashing up to be the first thing he saw. He dismissed them with a wave and fired a message to Bull and Wolf, letting them know about the order to quarters while refraining from telling them about the AWOL charge. He couldn't help but shake his head at the irony that he had told one officer to essentially go fuck herself without questioning the orders of another. Granted, Ship's Surgeon could do a whole lot more to him than a jumped-up pencil pusher, like rescind his qualification for combat duty.

  No sense stressing about what he couldn't control. Pulling open his closet and grabbing an empty laundry bag from a shelf, Reaver stripped off his uniform and dropped the blood and mud-stained clothing into the bag. His boots sat in front of the closet, as a reminder to clean them, and the laundry bag hung from the foot of his bed. Then a short walk for a quick shower.

  The shower took longer than expected. In the process of scrubbing the grime and sweat from his body, he discovered quite a bit of blood had dried in his hair and under his fingernails. He was damned if he was going to leave any of that son of a bitch around as a tribute; he also discovered quite a few new bruises that hadn't been there during his last shower.

  While adrenaline pumped, your body ignored as irrelevant an amazing amount of information. But the moment the hot spray of a shower hits your body, it goes, 'Oh yeah, remember this!?'

  Cutting off the shower, Reaver pulled down the towel he had left hanging from the hook on the back of the door and began drying himself off. He stepped out of the latrine and into the main room of his quarters; droplets of water slid from his body, leaving a trail across the deck to the closet. Dropping the towel to the floor and standing in the open door of the closet, Reaver drew on a fresh pair of skivvies followed by a well-worn ship's utility uniform. He stepped into a clean pair of boots set aside for wear aboard ship, and left the clasps undone while he mopped up the trails of water with the towel, then ran the damp cloth across the entirety of his floor to pick up any stray dirt or debris he had tracked in.

  Wadding up the now well-stained towel, he shoved it into the laundry bag and made his way back to his desk. Three messages were waiting for him on his screen, the first from Wolf informing him that she was under similar orders by the Ship's surgeon; a personal note at the end questioned the legitimacy of his parentage for leaving her in the hospital while the squad went back outside the wire. The second message was a confirmation from Bull that he had received his squad leader's message and would keep an eye on the squad while the Staff Sergeant got his beauty sleep. The last message was from Lieutenant Davis, who was still hardside and well aware of Dragon Two's success within Craxus; apparently, a very relieved Army Colonel was looking for the team that had rescued his son.

  The latter half of the message contained what could only be described as the precursor to an upcoming ass-chewing of epic proportions. The Intel Major had moved fast and fired off a not-so-pleasant message to the lieutenant that had in not so many words demanded Staff Sergeant Jacob's balls on a silver platter. The Lieutenant's final piece of instructions to Reaver were for him to do what the Ship's Surgeon had ordered and 'stay in his damned bunk and keep his damn mouth shut.' Reaver had no intention of making his platoon leader's life harder than he needed to, so quarters it was.

  Picking up the transmitter of the intra-ship communications system, he punched in the code connecting him directly to the squad room a few decks down.

  Decks away, within the common area of Dragon Two's squad room, the communications system buzzed loudly, startling Alice, who had been thumbing through a book she had borrowed from Bard before the first drop onto Aidrian. Shifting the towel wrapped around her head to dry her hair, she snatched up the attached mic and flipped the 'Answer' switch. “Dragon Two, Corporal Andrea Dawson speaking, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?"

  The intra-ship net worked more like a telephone system and less like a radio, so Reaver's voice came through the handset as clear as if he were standing next to her. “Alice, I need you to get Harlequin on the horn."

  Alice nodded without thinking about it and replied, "On it, Boss. One sec." Setting the handset down, Alice slid her chair back from the table and went to knock on the shut door of Bull and Harlequin's quarters. A muffled response that sounded like 'Yeah?' came from behind the door, and Alice called through the barrier. “Quinn, Reaver's on the set and needs to talk to you."

  A few moments later the door slid open and Harlequin, hair still damp from his shower but fully dressed in ship utilities, stepped through and slid the door shut behind him. Giving Alice a thumbs-up, her fellow sniper brushed past her and moved to the squad table and laid out handset. He picked it up. “What's up, Boss?"

  Alice couldn't hear the other half of the conversation, as Harlequin was holding the receiver end directly against his ear, but it sounded like Reaver was asking Harlequin to grab him something from the mess hall, as the half of the conv
ersation she could hear consisted of Harlequin asking what their Staff Sergeant wanted on his burger. Her stomach liked the idea and growled loudly at her, reminding Alice that she had yet to eat as well, and Wolf would need someone to bring her food back for her. The female sniper made her way to the room she and Wolf shared to see if she wanted something to eat.

  It took Harlequin nearly half an hour to get through the line in the mess hall, and to Reaver's quarters. It seemed no one had warned the cooks that the Marines and soldiers' first stop after getting off their transports would be the mess. Harlequin was relieved that Reaver had changed his mind about the squad taking a meal together; he enjoyed the family-style meals, but this madhouse would have had most if not all of them chewing the scenery.

  Balancing the packaged meals, the sniper slammed his open palm against the Staff Sergeant's door three times then waited. He didn't have to wait long as the door slid open moments later, probably the time it took for Reaver to get up from wherever he had been sitting, walk to the door, check the view-screen to see who it was, and then open it. Reaver took the offered meal container and, as Harlequin followed him in, waved the corporal to take a seat on the bunk.

  Harlequin used the time it took to walk to the bunk to scan the room; this was the first time he’d been inside his squad leader’s quarters. Catching sight of Reaver’s bookshelf, Quinn had to keep himself walking as he marveled. Reaver had more books than Bard had ever had at one time.

  Before sitting down, he noticed the way Reaver’s bed had been made up; it could have been the model for the boots at the Recruit Depot. Harlequin wondered who influenced who more, Bull or Reaver. Taking his seat on the bunk, Harlequin’s eyes caught the open closet doors and the layout, same one they used in the squad barracks, and Quinn’s opinion of his Staff Sergeant increased. Reaver held himself to the same standard as he held his people. Quinn had seen it in the field, but no lax on ship was what really impressed him.