by E. M. Smith
I got on my hands and knees and started to search the box again. The pain in my cheek was spreading, pounding in my temple and jaw, but I had to find a crack, a rusted-out part, anything.
Fuck whoever betrayed me and Bravo. All that mattered was getting back to my nieces, Della and Eva.
The last time I’d talked to Ms. Baker, she threatened to kill one of them. She had said Dr. White—the head of NOC-Unit’s R&D division—only needed one. I didn’t know if Ms. Baker had said that just to fuck with me or if she really meant it, but I sure as hell wasn’t fixing to die and leave Della and Eva alone with her.
I should’ve never left. I should’ve told Whiskey to go fuck herself when she told me and Bravo about this op. I should’ve found a way to get the girls and run. Maybe we could’ve hidden out somewhere until NOC-Unit quit looking for us. Jesus only knew what a black ops agency wanted with two little girls, but it couldn’t be good.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda, my dad used to say. Get your ass doing something useful. Kind of ironic coming from a guy who had never held down a steady job in his life.
Maybe I could kick my way out of the hot box. It was just a bunch of old tin, wood, and screws. If I held onto one of the two-by-fours that ran along the top of the frame, I could jump-kick the welds until something gave.
I stood up and reached for the board that framed out the top of the wall.
Red flooded in.
Then Bravo was shoving me off his legs.
“Keep fainting at it, bitch-boy. I think you’re wearing it down.”
I sat up. Everything was tinted greenish-silver. I had to put my face between my knees until the right colors came back into the picture.
“Why don’t you fucking help me?” I snapped.
“Because I’m not retarded,” Bravo said, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes again. “Fallujah in the summertime in full gear? Been there, done that, and now I know better.”
“What, your plan is to sit there and wait to die?”
“Nope. It’s to wait for nighttime when the temp drops.”
“That’s—” I tried to think. “—eight or nine hours from now. This rate, we’ll cook before the sun goes down.” I smacked a mosquito on my forearm. “Or get eaten alive.”
“Maybe you will, bitch-boy. I’ll survive. I’m a real soldier.”
The heat must’ve been getting to me. Usually I just told Bravo to fuck off when he pulled that “real soldier” shit. This time I said, “What the hell is your problem with me, Jersey Shore?”
Bravo sat up and tapped his chest.
“I did a tour in Afghanistan, two in Iraq, and six years with a black detachment. You’re a prison-bitch reject. What the fuck did you ever do? Not murder somebody? Congratu-fucking-lations. I mean, shit, Dog Team had a five-six, hundred-thirty-pound lesbian who could’ve kicked your candy ass. You’re the reason we’re here. If you had just fucking put up a fight at the airport—”
I punched him. Not as hard as I meant to. The heat had drained most of my energy, and the pounding in my face was sucking down the rest of it, so I know I just barely hit Bravo.
But he went out like a light.
“Shit,” I said.
I crawled over on my hands and knees and checked his eyes. One pupil was dilated. The other was normal.
I sat down to catch my breath. Leaned against the wall.
“Sorry, Jersey Shore. Didn’t realize you had a concussion. I’ll try to remember that. Hit you in the solar plexus next time.”
Nine years ago
There wasn’t a clock in the exam room, but Wil estimated that it had been a little over an hour since the nurse left to page NOC-Unit’s on-call surgeon. The nurse had offered her painkillers, but Wil had declined, knowing they might cause a delay in how quickly she could go under the knife.
Finally, the door opened. A woman entered, carrying Wil’s chart.
“I’m Dr. White.” She sat down and rolled her chair over to the exam table. “It’s nice to meet you…?”
“Wil.”
“Wil?” Dr. White said. “That’s weird.”
“How is that weird?” Wil shifted on the exam table.
“Shouldn’t you go by a call sign?” Dr. White asked.
“I’m a recruit. Only active NOC-Unit operatives use call signs.”
“Well, you’ll be active soon,” Dr. White said. “Don’t you need to get used to answering to a different name?”
Wil wouldn’t need an adjustment period. For one, she had never adjusted to the name ‘Wil.’ It was just a placeholder until she made it onto a team. Wil was dead—Father had killed her the night she tried to take Mina away from him.
The NOC-Unit shrink had told Wil that the significance she assigned to naming pointed to a pathological fear that, without a source of strength outside herself, she would remain powerless. Up until that session, Wil had really liked him. She hadn’t been back since.
Dr. White smiled—an expression Wil recognized as a nervous response to her silence—then turned back to the chart. “Posterior malleolus fracture on your night bivouac and navigation exercise. Yikes. Says here you didn’t alert the course monitors or radio for medical help.”
“That’s not true,” Wil said. “I alerted my instructor when I got to the final checkpoint.”
Dr. White wrote something in the upper right corner of the paper.
“You should’ve told them as soon as you broke it,” she said. “Looks like you complicated what would have been a simple fracture. You could’ve been back on exercises after six weeks. Now you’re going to be laid up for…” She shook her head. “Could be as long as five or six months.”
Wil didn’t feel that she needed to explain herself. Dr. White dressed and acted the part, but she wasn’t one of NOC-Unit’s staff doctors. Wil had met most of them over the last fifteen months. NOC-Unit doctors rarely lectured the recruits or operatives because they knew it was wasted breath.
Dr. White read the chart to herself in a breathy mumble. “Low bone density, history of malnutrition, three, four, eight, twelve remodeled fractures, all the classic markers of—”
“Is there a reason they sent you instead of Dr. Taylor?” Wil asked.
Dr. White blinked up at her.
“Oh, yes. I’m with NOC-Unit’s R&D division,” she said. “I’m here to talk to you about one of our projects. Your training record indicates that you would be perfect for the KiloT-4 clinical trials we’re starting.”
Wil found it hard to believe that her training record indicated she would be perfect for anything.
“My record is mostly citations for improperly carrying out orders,” she said.
“Citations for refusing to quit and carrying on in imprudent conditions—with a broken ankle, for instance,” Dr. White said. “Finish this sentence for me: ‘When it hurts too much to continue, I…’?”
Wil stared at Dr. White, unsure of what she meant. There wasn’t a correlation between pain and continuing.
Dr. White reached out and squeezed Wil’s broken ankle.
The muscles in Wil’s neck tightened, but she didn’t make a sound.
“Exactly!” Dr. White’s eyes lit up. “You experience pain, but you don’t allow it to dictate your actions. There’s an informal term for ‘pain threshold’ that some people use. They call it ‘the wall.’ It’s the point at which a human’s suffering overcomes his or her ability to keep moving. You, Wil, are unique because you’ve never reached the wall.”
That wasn’t true, either. Wil had hit the wall once, but it had been due to emotional exhaustion, not pain. But she didn’t like to think about that. It was in the past, part of a person she had left behind.
Dr. White was still talking. “You’re one in maybe…one-point-five million. Maybe even two million. Similar cases have been documented in prisoners of war and other victims who survived long-term torture. Obviously—”
Wil glanced at the clock.
“Do you know when my surgery is sche
duled?” she asked.
That seemed to take the wind out of Dr. White’s sails.
“Surgery? Oh, I didn’t ask. Probably soon. Dr. Taylor was on his way in when they called me.” She set the chart on her lap and leaned forward. “Wil, I understand that you’re anxious to get into the field. All new recruits are. But the average career of a NOC-Unit operative is less than five years, due to injury and death. What I’m offering you is a chance to increase the length of your career exponentially with the KiloT-4 clinical trials.”
“I’ll do it,” Wil said.
“You’re sure?”
“Now you don’t want me to?”
“Well, it’s a series of painful injections. And you’ll need to be monitored twenty-four-seven for the first ninety days, just in case.”
“I’m not allowed on exercises for the next few months anyway,” Wil said, nodding down at her ankle.
Dr. White grinned and clapped her hands.
“This is so great!” She handed Wil a stack of paperwork. “Here’s the non-disclosure agreement, the waiver, a release that says I explained the terms of the trial to you clearly, and a second-generation clause that allows NOC-Unit to observe any offspring you might produce on the outside chance that they begin presenting effects or defects from the KiloT-4.”
“I’m sterile,” Wil said, scanning the top page for the first signature line.
“That’s really just a formality anyway,” Dr. White said.
*****
On the first day of the trials, Wil was running late. She had stayed longer than she intended at physical therapy and missed her train. When Wil finally made it to the classroom, Dr. White and a man in scrubs were sitting on stools in front of the whiteboard.
A few of the recruits who had arrived on time threw disapproving looks her way. Wil ignored them, slid into a desk, and leaned her crutches against the wall.
“That’s everyone,” Dr. White said, standing. “Let’s get started. I’m Dr. White, this is Dr. Chan. By now you should’ve received and read the protocol on KiloT-4. Is there anyone who hasn’t?”
A soldier in muddy fatigues raised his hand. Wil tried to decipher the tattoo on his forearm. Could have been a bird’s wing or just a collection of feathers. It was hard to tell under the dirt.
Dr. Chan snorted.
“Let me guess,” he said to the soldier. “Alphadog-six sent you over in the middle of maneuvers?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said.
“He would,” Dr. Chan said. “I’ll get the binder to you ASAP and chew Dog-six’s ass.”
“Appreciate it, sir.”
“For now, we’ll just hit the highlights,” Dr. White said. “You’re all here today for a course in field medical. Before you can begin KiloT-4 treatments, you’re required to score at or above a 95 in triage, setting, and dressing.”
Dr. Chan crossed his arms over his chest. “KiloT-4 has been shown to speed the healing process exponentially, but at this point in development it’s still unable to replicate the previously healthy tissue, cure preexisting conditions, or make the human body invulnerable.”
For a moment he paused, allowing the recruits taking notes to catch up.
Wil didn’t take notes. Over the last fifteen months, she’d taught herself to hear and memorize everything said within earshot.
“What this means,” Dr. Chan continued, “Is that you’re just as likely to break a bone with or without KiloT-4. The difference is KiloT-4 will cause the bone to heal completely in a matter of hours as opposed to months. This’ll put you at greatly increased risk for malunion. If the bone isn’t set correctly when the healing begins, the remodel could be as debilitating as the original injury. And that’s just with bones. The effects of rapid healing on major organs, systems, and tissue can incapacitate a soldier for the rest of his or her life.”
Dr. White adjusted her glasses and looked down at her clipboard.
“You’ll be working in pairs to field dress several different types of injuries you might receive in the line of duty, using only the items you would have in standard issue gear,” she said. “Since this is a cross-agency trial, it should go without saying that you will use your call signs today whether or not you are currently active within your respective agency or branch. When I call you, please take a vest, rifle, knife, and box of ammunition from Dr. Chan.”
The next few minutes went to Dr. White reading off the pairs.
“Whiskey,” Dr. White read. “You will be working with Tango.” She indicated a woman on the opposite side of the room.
Tango was up before Wil could get her crutches straightened out and under her. She picked up their gear and moved to the desk beside Wil’s. Tango was tall, with dark, flawless skin and cat-shaped eyes. While most of the other recruits were dressed for combat or exercises, Tango looked as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her clothes were obviously designer and her makeup was expertly applied. She oozed sexuality and confidence.
If it was an act, then Tango was as good an actress as Mina had been.
Wil focused her eyes forward.
Dr. White had come to the last pair of the recruits.
“And Trick, you will be working with Samson,” Dr. White said.
The muddy soldier who hadn’t read the protocol yet picked up a set of gear from Dr. Chan and sat in the desk next to a black man in sweats.
“Are there any questions?” Dr. White asked.
No one said anything.
“Let’s get to it, then,” she said. She went to the door and leaned out into the hall. “Bring them in!”
A soldier in a black balaclava led twelve prisoners wearing jumpsuits and leg irons into the classroom.
Dr. White gestured to one of the prisoners—a thin man with dull eyes and a scraggly beard. The soldier pulled his sidearm, spun on a suppressor, and shot the man once in the thigh.
The prisoner dropped, whimpering and clutching the wound.
None of the other prisoners made a move to help the injured prisoner or escape while the balaclavaed soldier wasn’t looking. They barely reacted. Wil guessed that they had either been drugged or beaten into submission a long time ago.
Wil focused on the blood, forced the disgust and pity out of her chest, then encased her organs in steel. She wasn’t weak like these prisoners were. Not anymore. Whatever happened to them, they were allowing to happen.
“Dr. Chan,” Dr. White said, “If you would be so kind?”
Dr. Chan grabbed the set of gear he’d kept for himself and knelt beside the bleeding prisoner.
“Gather around, grunts,” he said. “This is how you field dress a bullet wound if you know it’s shattered the bone.”
Present
After a while—which might’ve been a few minutes and might’ve been an hour—I got to my knees. Waited for the dizziness to pass, then stood up, keeping my head bowed so I didn’t pass out again.
Bravo was still unconscious.
I leaned against the wall and inched one arm up, a little bit at a time, until I could grab the two-by-four at the top of the frame. When the buzzing in my head quieted down, I did the same with my other arm.
Had to hurry. My hands were slick with sweat. Keeping hold of the board was getting hard. I jumped up and kicked with everything I had.
The wall barely had any give to it, but the boom was loud enough that anybody within a mile had to have heard it. I waited, trying to catch my breath and listen for someone coming.
No shouts or running.
I made sure I had a good hold on the board, then I jumped and kicked again.
Another boom, but underneath, I could’ve sworn I heard the screws pop out. I dropped down to my knees to check.
“Hell yeah.” Some of the screws had broken through the tin. A few more kicks like that and I could pop the rest of the screws, then start working on the welds. “Be there soon, girls. Just hang on.”
Over my shoulder, I heard Romeo say, “Are you still playing that stupid game
?”
“I’m fixing to be done here in a minute,” I said.
I was in my trailer, on Xbox Live with Roy and Bravo. I didn’t know the name of the game, but we were clearing a cave full of terrorists and searching for Della and Eva.
Romeo came around the corner from the kitchen. “You said that two hours ago.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t just quit in the middle,” I said. “We’re almost out.”
“Dude, is that your girlfriend again?” Roy said.
“Ask her if you can have your balls back, then tell her to go nag somebody else,” Bravo said.
“I can hear you, dumbass,” Romeo said. “He doesn’t have the headset on.”
“I know,” Bravo said.
I knew I should tell Bravo to fuck off and leave Romeo alone, but we were at the door. Della and Eva were in there. I switched my M16 for a master key tactical rifle. Stuck it against the lock and pulled the trigger.
The screen went black.
“Does this mean I actually get to see my boyfriend today?” Romeo asked, taking the controller away and straddling my hips.
“You can see me any day,” I said.
We made out on the couch for a while, then we were in Romeo’s bed back at the NOC-Unit barracks.
My phone started ringing.
“I have to get it,” I said. “It’s Owen.”
“Let it go to voicemail,” Romeo said. “If it’s important, he’ll leave a message.”
But he wouldn’t. Owen didn’t leave messages.
“It might be about the girls,” I said.
“I can’t believe you would rather play that fucking game,” she said.
“I ain’t got a choice,” I said.
“Hallucinating like a bitch,” Romeo said.
“Will you shut your mouth?” I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but she didn’t get that Owen was dead. I might never have another chance to talk to him.
Something pressed on my broken cheekbone and pain shot up through my eye socket. I screamed.
“Payback, bitch-boy.” That was Bravo’s voice. “Now wake the fuck up. You’re delirious.”
