by R. K. Syrus
His chair handles the corner well but the next corridor is narrower. Sienna hears a crash. A tray rolls out.
“Oh, I truly am sorry. Just charge that to my room, please.”
Sienna knocks and enters.
11
The door whispers shut. Sienna winces. She thought they were going to hold off re-fracturing Roger’s skull and mandible until after his other surgeries. Some doctors jumped the gun. Some doctors armed with precision bone saws and surgical chisels. The parts of her boyfriend’s face not covered with bandages are splotched with bruises and the stain of persistent silver disinfectant gel. His right leg and hip are shrouded by a hyperbaric tent. Underneath, metal rings of Ilizarov arrays hold mending pieces of bones in place.
“Hey, Roger.” Sienna forgets about kissing him. His face is a minefield of potential pain. “You’re…”
“I know.” Roger’s mild Boston accent filters through his wire-locked jaw. “A sight for sore eyes. And sore everything else.”
Sienna takes his hand. It is warm and welcoming.
“Guess who I met outside.”
“Ennis the Menace. The whole hospital wing heard.”
The room’s window frames the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting Pool. Early tourists are out. Except for the wake wash of a few ducks, the rectangular lake is pristinely smooth.
“At least you got a nice view,” Sienna says.
A chill crawls down her spine. It’s been nearly a year. But damn. Seeing Roger’s damaged body. The snowy whiteness of the sheets. It brings back horrors of Bentley Trench. Their fight in the frozen wilderness against a relentless enemy over something no one really understood then or understands now. The glowy thing. The Ansible. Despite Roger’s training and education and breeding, as ground commander, he made mistakes. Bad ones.
Roger tries to smile. He gives up. “Pretty gross, huh?”
“Compared to back then…” Sienna stops herself. Roger is a male in uniform with a senior officer’s ration of pride. She has no blame for him. Roger’s dark eyes reveal inner pain.
“Sienna, I know I aced up. Real bad. I nearly got everyone killed. I had no business, no right, insisting on leading Antarctica.”
“If you hadn’t HALOed in, we never would have known what we were up against.” Sienna tries to stem the tide of self-recrimination. “Enemy mechanized would have bushwhacked us.”
“What I had to tell you, it’s not something I could have put in a text. Still…”
Sienna searches for a tactic to lighten his mood. Even attended by the best doctors in the nation’s capital, there is danger. And the only weapon Roger has now to fight with is heart.
“I’m serious. Don’t beat yourself up. We all made it back. Without that fancy jump pod you came in we couldn’t have jury-rigged Ansible comms and gotten air support.” She mimes polishing her rank insignia. “And I wouldn’t have this tom turkey if you hadn’t hacked the command and control mechBrains.”
Her encouraging words have the opposite effect. Bedside manner has never been her thing, despite having the last name of a famous surgeon.
Roger’s hand trembles. “I even managed to screw that up.”
Maybe the autoinjector registers his mental distress as physical pain and is pumping meds. Man, I hope it’s not Red Mist, or conversation is gonna get real strange in a hurry.
“…even managed to screw that up,” Roger repeats. “I gave Sarge Bryan the command. I just wanted… wanted you guys to make it back even if I couldn’t. I thought Bryan was best, best chance.
“Hey, just rest.”
“Sarge,” Roger continues. “Good ol’ Bryan, he did the right thing, Sarge did. Soon as they iced me. He gave you the field bump to colonel. It was the best decision of my career, and I was out cold when I made it. Get it? Out cold?”
“Still, you made it stick afterwards. It wasn’t just a coincidence the senator from North Carolina put pictures of himself and the local girl made good on all his re-election posters, was it? After that, they had to make the battlefield promotion permanent.”
That was huge. She gets twice as much money to send home and way less people are able to tell her no.
“Just occurred to me.” The anesthetic makes him talkative. “Command of D Group, heck, even commandant of the Base, those are full bird colonel’s billets.”
True. With a West Point diploma and eagles on her lapels, Sienna could move up from leadership of her tiny detachment right up to garrison commander. Roger’s mention of this possibility and his manner instantly puts a small knot in Sienna’s gut. Commandant is a full-time, on-base position. With an office. And a desk. And a real steno-typist who is not a kleptomaniac killing machine. T-Rex would be out of a job. And there would be no more field deployments.
The symbol of her rank is a struttin’ badass eagle, wings spread, ready to drop fiery arrows on the enemy. Why would you make someone a full bird then clip their wings? A silence drags.
From under fast-drooping eyelids, Roger looks at the mission fob. Two pinpricks of green and one of amber glow on matte-black casing.
“Are you sure about Sidewinder?”
Sienna nods. Roger’s meds kick in. He talks with an endearing three-martini slur.
“Just in case they didn’t let you out of Europe, CENTCOM’s… a Plan B with some SEALs. They’re on the Lee. Team leader’s Ty Denbow, Ty, great record. Ready to go.”
Roger’s hoping she’ll back off? That he won’t have to green the last mission fob light? Sienna wants to say: Not on your damn life! This is my fight. I’m gonna finish it.
Instead she says, “And let SEAL swabbies take credit? Don’t let Ennis hear. You know what he thinks about Navy, and his new wheelchair is a weapon of mass destruction.”
It’s about time for a reunion with her cousin. “With what’s in Sidewinder’s head, we can get him. We can save lives.”
Roger’s gaze drifts to the lake and the monument. “Go.”
Roger activates the mission module. Three lights green. The mission clock starts ticking. MechBrains flex the steel muscles of the nation’s military. Part of Sienna wants to stay. But the most powerful part becomes activated at the same time as the fob. Dozens of logistical and tactical factors spring into her mind.
“And after?” Roger says, dreamily staring at the ceiling. “You think there’ll be time? For us, I mean. To live like normal people?”
No words immediately come to Sienna. She does not know if there is a reply inside her. The place where it might come from seems empty and hollow. It is guarded by a vǫrthr spirit in the darkness there. A watcher who never blinks. She’s about to respond, some quip about no one ever having accused her of normalcy.
Then she sees a reflection in a water jug. Something is under the bedsheet by Roger’s good hand. A square, black box. At first she thinks it’s Roger’s rumored Brigadier stars. But why hide those? Suddenly she realizes what the box must hold. Weeks ago she’d noticed a big charge to a jewelry store on top of his desk. Something for his aunt, the DC socialite, she thought. It ain’t that.
Oh, Roger. If you pull out an engagement ring, here, now, like this…
Sienna’s left hand tightens around the fat band of her class ring.
A knock on the door is accompanied by a familiar bass-tinged voice.
“Colonels, hope I’m not interrupting.”
You are. And thank you, Sarge.
“Never, Bryan,” Roger says through metal and plastic retainers. “Just take care of our girl. You’ve got the Lee’s battlegroup. Captain’s kind of odd. Odd bird. But the air group commander is a friend. He’ll make sure, all covered, covered. Black-bag op or not.”
Bryan’s eyes beam. Literally. His albino pigmentation gave him extraordinary night-vision. But eventually the eyes he was born with needed augmentation. Since Sienna was about sixteen, Bryan has watched ov
er her through one or another set of ocular cybernetic implants. The current versions look like binary stars of liquid gold. They shine at her.
Roger’s own black-box op is put on hold. The object, which she’s now certain is what she thought, gets pushed back under the covers.
Bryan can see the mission fob lights through her pocket. They settle into their shared mindset. Sidewinder is only scheduled for a few hours total. A single, low-value target who has no idea they’re coming. Doesn’t get simpler. Those few hours could change everything. She and Roger will have time to talk later.
“Were you able to square Whitebread’s release?”
“Yup. He’s got to learn,” she says, like she’s repeating a backwoods adage. “If you go out for moose with a grenade launcher, civilian hunters always complain.”
Bryan stares out the window to the front entrance. He squints. “Do my eyes need an overhaul, or is that Ennis Reidt down there being escorted out of the hospital by four security guards?”
A nurse and a surgery prep bot appear in the doorway. Both seem impatient. Sienna and Sarge promise to check in when they can. Before she leaves, Sienna risks giving Roger a light kiss on a patch of cheek that is relatively free of bruising.
12
USS LEE
GULF OF OMAN
OUTSIDE KHORASANI TERRITORIAL WATERS
Sienna and the Dogs arrive on the aircraft carrier Lee in a cloud of steam issuing from monopropellant landing thrusters. Their multi-personnel HALO pod is basically an eight-passenger tin can attached to a big silk hanky. While still on the scRamjet, Sienna checked out the descender rig. It was a similar spec to the one they used in Antarctica. This one had space for a small dune buggy, which fit Specialist Whitebread perfectly.
Once the pod was ejected from the jet, she had a great view of the Gulf. At first, the Lee was only the largest dot trailing a dash of white. The most significant cipher among smaller groups of Morse code engraved on rippled metallic water. As they glided down, the Howard-class Lee got hella larger. Despite these most modern ships of the line belonging to the Navy and being filled with sailors and Marines, Sienna always feels something special about being on one of them. These are floating islands of USA sovereignty and whupass. What’s not to like?
Before the deck crew has completely subdued the parasail, Sienna pops the hatch. Ear-splitting roars of catapults and hot blasts of engine backwash greet her. Contrails of departing aircraft extend from the bow. Temporary scars in the sky, pale streaks bleeding into deeper shades of dusk. The metal deck feels as solid as any ground. Long enough to land a fair-sized transport plane, it is firmament on a liquid infinity. She feels the vast presence of the sea.
Sienna checks her people. All of them want to get going on the next leg of Sidewinder.
T-Rex warms his gripe engines. “They coulda slowed down for us. My man Nobu-san had to bang us around just so we didn’t end up ditching.”
Whitebread unfurls his massive frame from the pod’s cargo bay. “Not their fault.” He tosses his oxygen mask and speaks quietly. “Fixed-wing craft need about thirty knots across the deck to help liftoff. A good flattop skipper will follow trade winds. They have the most predictable isopleths.”
T-Rex decides to remain indignant. “Trade winds? Isocraps? My ass! Downright unhospitable, them zig-zaggin’ for no reason when they know we’re comin’.”
Things go well. At first. The carrier strike group was officially rerouted out of its Pacific Command zone into Central Command’s Arabian Sea backyard for a joint training exercise. The real reason is her covert op. And her captain didn’t cotton to that, not at all.
The Lee’s captain, Nestor Stahlback, is the acting flag officer of the whole Navy strike group. A dozen other ships sail beside the Lee like asteroids around a comet. Among the guided-missile cruiser, two anti-submarine destroyers, and smaller vessels is a large, odd-shaped replenishment ship known as an oiler. Its long snout latches onto the Lee, feeding it fuel and supplies. The oiler is named Aardvark. T-Rex wastes no time spouting off rude jokes about intership copulation.
Instead of greeting them personally, Stahlback sends his exec officer, Matt Bianchi, down from the bridge tower. During the plane ride, she and Bryan reviewed key Lee personnel: Stahlback, the ship’s XO Bianchi, and Amman Kanin, the Carrier Air Wing commander. Known as the CAG, he is in charge of everything that lifts off the deck under its own power.
Bianchi is an able-looking man in his late thirties. He’s got that starched quality some career Navy guys get. As her squad sorts out equipment on the flight deck, he introduces himself.
“Welcome, Colonel.” Bianchi doesn’t stare at the eagles, which make her his interservice superior. He’s obviously studied up on her and the Dogs. That could be a good thing. Or not. When he looks the other way, Sienna makes sure her flight suit completely covers what’s underneath.
“Commander, thanks in advance for accommodating us.” They are playing on Navy’s turf for now, and her parents always taught her to be a polite guest. “I assume the captain will want to debrief us. We’ve got a narrow window—”
Bianchi holds up his hand. “You are good to go. Captain had some last-minute ship’s business,” the XO says in a way that tells her Stahlback had no last-minute business and Bianchi is glad his superior is not here. “He’s approved the briefing package and flight plans. There’s no contingency for search and rescue. If anything happens, you’re officially on your own. That’s not uncommon in these, well, these types of operations.”
You mean underhanded, lower-than-a-snake’s-belly, deniable, black-bag op.
Sienna gives the XO props for not saying it. Still, it is bad form for Stahlback not to even come over and meet them. Maybe he thinks that’s part of deniability in case the mission goes south. Fat chance. The Dogs and Bryan are a tried and tested machine. The Lee is just their thousand-foot taxi ride.
On the other side of the deck lurks a line of metal manta rays sheathed in stealth carbon black. No windows or cockpit. These robotic cicadas seem alien to the Lee. Their wings are studded with cluster bombs hanging like dark, jagged jewels.
“Stymphalian drones? I thought DoD grounded them after those complications.”
Complications in which semi-autonomous systems overrode remote pilot inputs in reaction to a perceived threat. A Stymph mechBrain eliminated guerillas aiming a SAM battery at it. Then, pretty logically for a machine, it decided since those hostiles were not in uniform, everyone was a combatant. Those drones returned to their floating roost empty of ordnance. Behind them were terrible friendly casualties. Maybe Bianchi gives Sienna props for not saying “negligent Navy blue-on-blue massacre.” She cannot tell. The executive officer of the Lee has a game poker face.
“Captain got permission to do some test runs with the Stymphs while they work the bugs out,” Bianchi says. “He loves these birds. If you need fire support, I’m sure I could talk him into loaning you one.”
“Thanks, but we’re here for intel, not random body parts.”
***
While Sienna is up in the steel oak tree of the bridge island to file their final flight plan, she passes by the captain’s ready room and catches sight of perhaps the flat-out freakiest thing she’s ever seen in her military career.
Stahlback takes no notice of her. He’s taking care of his urgent business: yelling about the mess menu. A cook in a laundry-fresh chef’s apron stands at attention in front of him. Behind his big leather chair is the thing that strikes Sienna as being off-the-chain weird.
The wall of the captain’s private study has custom-made cherry-wood shelves. These hold about fifty major-league baseball figurines. Antiques. Team names date them back to the 1960s. Despite being vintage, they all work. They are nodders. Their heads bob up and down and sideways behind Stahlback. With each sway of the ship, fifty plastic heads nod.
After that peck of abnormal, Sienn
a decides she’s fortunate to be dealing exclusively with Bianchi. What a tightrope the Lee’s executive officer must be walking.
Sienna’s sense of reality becomes more grounded the closer she gets to being with her team on their assigned stealth copter. It wears the same non-reflective skin as the Stymphalians, but is flown by two very solid pilots.
She puts on her HUD visor. As she’s getting feedback on the aircraft’s readiness, the mission fob updates itself. The little piece of plastic reports an unspecified delay.
Naturally.
Nothing to do but wait through their optimum launch window. Sienna spends the downtime making sure Sarge Bryan is making sure the Dogs are staying out of trouble.
Without preamble, the mechBrain signals pre-takeoff flight checks. She climbs the gantry into the aircraft’s midsection, glad to be leaving all that Navy drama junk behind. Nearly. Stahlback has arranged one last parting shot.
A man runs toward them. A set of really white teeth flash underneath a just-been-to-the-ship’s-barber crew cut. The square-jawed man with broad shoulders and fractional body fat saunters up.
“Colonel McKnight? Lieutenant Denbow, ma’am.”
He holds out a stylus-sized order scroll. A moment later, Sienna gets Captain Stahlback’s punchline. And doesn’t laugh.
“Okay everyone, listen up!” Sienna says.
Her words instantly silence a low baritone of grumbling which underpinned the high-pitched whine of warming plasma rotors. They have been waiting nearly two hours past median launch time. The reason why is Denbow.
“While I did not put in an RFF for any additional personnel,” Sienna explains, “Central Command and the Lee’s captain have graciously sent one of their most capable officers to assist. This is our chaperone.” Sienna flicks her head to the SEAL. “Lieutenant Commander Tyler Denbow. Formerly with the Marines’ MARSOC, he moved laterally to the Navy.”
