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

The two Marines moved with long-practiced ease as Bull stepped behind his squad leader and braced his arms beneath Reaver's ruck. A heavy slap between his shoulder blades signaled Reaver to let his rucksack fall from his shoulders and into Bull's waiting arms, preventing the heavy bag from crashing to the forest floor and causing any noise. Reaver rolled his shoulders, newly freed from the weight of his ruck; he almost felt like he could leap the height of the cliff unassisted. Taking the climbing gloves from their pouch on his bat-belt, Reaver tucked them into his belt before turning to his now grounded bag and pulling the cable tubes from their assigned pouch. He knew he could have easily reached into the same pouch on Bull's or Harlequin's rucks to use their tubes, but he believed in trusting his own gear if he was the one using it. The dual tubes went into the pouch the gloves had come out of, and as he tugged the form-fitting gloves snugly over his hands, Reaver popped his jaw once to field test the hands-free activation of the team net. “Radio check."

  The earbuds in Reaver's ears crackled briefly then Bull's voice came through. “Lima Charlie, Boss. We'll sit tight here until you get done doing all the hard work."

  Reaver gave his Sergeant a single-fingered salute, then double-checked the clasps and straps of belt, vest, holster on his right thigh, and the emergency pouch strapped against his left. Confident everything was hanging and attached to his satisfaction, Reaver moved toward the forest's edge, his rifle held across his body. Pausing at the tree line, Reaver took a knee for a few moments. He let his eyes sweep the cliff face across the stream as well as far upstream and downstream as he could see. There appeared to be a natural ford near his position, he'd use it to ease his crossing. He took a deep breath and let it out, quietly, then broke from the trees and dashed for the ford. Water was going to be cold, but the climb would warm him back up, as long as he didn't fall.

  Chapter Three

  Bull ensured Harlequin knew how to properly catch a rucksack before he slapped Bull on the shoulder to have him drop his ruck. Harlequin had grunted softly as the weight of Bull's ruck landed squarely in his waiting arms. With both their rucks down, Bull squatted over his heavy weapon. “Rig up the gear nets, I'll pull security." The words had barely registered with Harlequin before Bull had picked up his Ogre and moved back the way the team had approached the cliff face from and settled in to watch their six.

  Harlequin had stared at the large Sergeant's back until he'd disappeared, then moved to where the rucks lay waiting. As he pulled the gear netting from their respective pouches, Harlequin did his best to stay focused on the mission. If the Sergeant had been pissed, there was no way in hell he would have been trusted to net and sling the bags. Granted this was the shit the RIs hammered into your head at the Recon school, but both the Sergeant and Staff Sergeant struck him as the type to not cut any slack or allow loose baggage to hang around. The process had been drilled so many times in the schoolhouse that it had become nearly robotic, like breaking down his weapon or brushing his teeth. Looking down, Quinn realized that, in the time he had split his concentration between keeping an eye on his surroundings and contemplating his standing with his leadership, he had finished netting the rucksacks and weaving the connectors together. When hooked into the cables Reaver was carrying with him, the entire rig would suspend between himself and Bull, and the cable system would lift them up the cliff face. Loose straps hung from either end, for the rig to be carried to the hook-up point. Quinn understood now what the Instructors had meant about stress and repetition. School wasn't combat, and they had done everything but shoot the Recon candidates with live rounds. Quinn rechecked the weaves and cable-hooks of the sling system a second time; he didn't know if Bull was going to double-check the connections before they hooked it into the cables. He'd had instructors who could walk a line and point out the failures in a rig without laying a hand on them. He wasn't that good yet, and he was going to make sure they were right. A question had been nagging at the back of his mind, and Harlequin wanted an answer to it. Pressing the talk switch on his rifle to activate the net. “Bull, why'd Reaver climb it solo? We've all got gloves."

  It took a few seconds for Bull to respond, and Harlequin wondered if he might have crossed a line. Eventually, the earbuds crackled to life and Bull's voice came through, as clear as if he were standing right next to Quinn. “Boss's way is easier." The net went silent.

  Still puzzled, Harlequin worked the rig into a concealed position beneath some scrub brush and then knelt on the damp ground and tucked himself in behind his rifle that lay resting on the webbed rucksacks, watching toward the stream and cliff face. Quinn triggered his mic again. “Easier?"

  Instead of Bull's gruff voice giving one of his now expected short replies, Harlequin was surprised to hear the net come to life with a strained grunt and then Reaver's voice, strained with exertion. “Gloves will only hold you on, kid, they won't do the work for you. You want to make this climb with a ruck on your back?"

  "No, Staff Sergeant," Harlequin answered as he realized Reaver's point.

  The net buzzed back to life. “Didn't think so. Now get out of my ear and let me climb."

  As Harlequin was expecting the comms-net to silence, Bull's voice cut through. “Pipe down, Quinn. You don't want to fuck up Reaver's concentration."

  Before Harlequin could hear the rest of Bull's comment, movement caught his eye at the forest’s edge, and he hit the comms override and hissed into the mic. “Contact." The net immediately died, and Harlequin could almost imagine Reaver pressing tight into the cliff face to blend in with the surrounding stones. Bringing his sightline level with his scope, Quinn scanned the tree line slowly, searching for what had caught his attention. There, two figures walking away from an ATV, parked along the edge of the forest.

  Bull's voice came through in his ear. “Whatcha got, Quinn?"

  Harlequin took up a firing position, his right forefinger resting outside the trigger well of his rifle; this put his thumb too far from the push-to-talk on the rifle, so he popped his jaw. “Two tangos with an all-terrain vehicle. Don't see any uniform or insignia. Might be locals." Meanwhile, he thought hard at the two figures, hoping to compel the unwanted visitors, 'Don't look up. Don't look up.'

  A few seconds later, Bull came back over the radio. “Local civilians is unlikely. Renks have the planet on a curfew, and the nearest anything is city slums, on the other side of the mountains. Black market is more likely. What are they doing?"

  "Pissing into the stream," Harlequin answered. "Guess I won't be refilling my bladders here."

  "If they look up or start getting excited, drop ‘em," was Bull's response before the net went dead.

  Harlequin had already figured that would be the solution. Carefully and quietly he switched off the safety on his rail-rifle, and the weapon vibrated in his hands as it came to life. Quinn steadied his breathing as he let the crosshairs come to rest on the mid-back of the figure closest to the ATV. With his free eye still open to avoid tunnel vision, Quinn watched as the two men shook the last drops from themselves. “Alright boys, tuck ‘em in and get the fuck out of here."

  As if obeying his commands, the men adjusted themselves and began walking back toward their vehicle. The vehicle purred to life, a sound that could have been mistaken for a large cat, and slid away silently into the night. Where in the fuck had they gotten their hands on something so silent?

  Harlequin waited until after the vehicle had disappeared before he breathed a sigh of relief then called over the radio. “Clear." The release of tension in the air was palpable.

  Reaver's voice came over the net. “You could have made that last longer, Quinn. I'm just hanging around up here."

  Quinn decided to take a gamble. “You were the one volunteered to climb the jungle gym, Boss."

  Silence hung over the communications network, until Bull's voice broke through it. “Good job, kid." Quinn couldn't tell what the approval was for, but he could hear the laughter in the Sergeant's voice, so he'd take it. "Boss, coming up on forty minutes
. You gonna be much longer, or did you stop to enjoy the view?"

  "See, this is where young Marines learn bad habits, like griefing their squad leader," Reaver responded. "I'm clear to the top and getting the tubes set. Two minutes."

  As soon as Reaver had closed his mic, Bull came through. “Quinn, get ready to move. I'm coming to you."

  Harlequin was working the rig-netted rucksacks from under the brush when Bull slipped past him to grab ahold of the opposite end of the rig. Bull’s mass made Harlequin, who knew that he was about the average size for most Recon Marines, feel small. How in the hell did a man that size move so quiet? He wondered if he would ever not be shocked by it.

  Bull motioned for him to take the lead straps as the Sergeant looped the carry straps on his side of the rig over and behind his shoulders. Quinn looped the ends of the straps around his hands to secure his grip, then mirrored the larger Marine's movement, pulling the straps over his shoulders and holding his clenched fists about even with his diaphragm. Harlequin heard Bull grunt and knew the Sergeant had lifted his end. Harlequin quickly lifted his end, cursing under his breath at the weight. A flash of anger shot through him when Bull's voice came through without any strain bleeding through his voice. “Edge of the forest, clear it, check the wires, then we cross. Hook left side, I'll hook right. Go when you're ready."

  Knowing that the longer he spoke, the more the strain would show, Harlequin popped his jaw and responded with a simple. “Roger." The weight wasn't unbearable, but it yanked his chain that Bull could sound like it was nothing. Harlequin promised, silently, to hit the gym harder. Recon had to be in shape and capable of carrying their load, but this shit was ridiculous. For the second time that night, Harlequin realized why the Instructors had put him and his fellow candidates through so much bullshit.

  With Harlequin in the lead, he set the pace of moving the awkward load. He did his best to guide Bull as close to the area that Reaver had exited from, and as they neared the edge of the forest, Bull's voice came across the comms-net. “Boss, we're at the tree line."

  Reaver quickly answered. “Area's clear, cables are hanging. There's a ford directly across from where I said I'd make the climb. I'll walk you to it, once you break cover." Harlequin figured the Staff Sergeant had a set of field glasses trained on the tree line to watch for them.

  "Don't stop at the tree line, Quinn," Bull instructed. "Reaver'll walk you to the crossing point."

  Quinn didn't respond; he merely kept moving forward, the daylight provided by his visor allowing him to avoid getting slapped in the face by most of the branches in his way. He had gotten used to the slightly damp feeling his uniform maintained; he knew it would have been much cooler without the built-in warming system. Breaking clear of the forest, Quinn heard the rushing stream and headed toward the overflowing bed, looking for the ford Reaver mentioned. Reaver's voice came through his earbuds, about the same moment he spotted the crossing. “On your right, about five yards." With the confirmation, Harlequin turned toward the ford.

  The water-worn rocks of the ford had been tumbled smooth by the constant current across them, and Harlequin swore as he felt his footing slip. Instinctively he dropped his left arm down into the water to catch himself, the water soaking and chilling up to his forearm. Behind him came the splash of his end of the rig crashing into the water and then the muttered curses of Bull. As he waited for the berating to come, Harlequin’s hands quested through the water, searching for the carry straps. Finding them, he lifted them over his shoulders once again, gasping as the sharp cold of the stream’s water ran down the straps and doused his upper body. No scolding followed, and Harlequin realized he would be getting it later. Right now, they had a mission to accomplish. When he felt the rig press once again against the small of his back and soak him further, he thanked the rucksacks for being waterproof.

  Even with Quinn’s stumble, the crossing took only a minute and a half, and no sooner had they crossed the stream than the sky opened and the constant slow but steady drizzle they had dealt with since landing became a downpour. Had he not already been soaked from the stream, Quinn would have muttered something about God being a sadist; instead he kept his mouth shut and continued toward the cliff face.

  Quinn pulled his right arm across his body, then his left to stretch out his shoulders, glad to be free of the weight of the sling's straps. Lifting the cable link from the sling, he slipped the links through the dangling wire and clipped the final hook to the carabiner built into his bat-belt. After slipping a retaining strap from his vest and over his rifle's stock and then looping a second around the base of the barrel, Quinn took an extra moment to check that the leg straps of his belt were tight. Glancing up, Quinn caught the look that Bull was giving him and shrugged before saying. “What? I don't want to get my nuts crushed."

  Bull snorted and shot a thumbs-up his way before keying his mic. “Strapped and latched, Boss." Moments after Bull's radio to Reaver, they began to ascend. The motors in the cable tubes hauled them upward. Quinn had to admit it was a hell of a lot easier than making the climb with a ruck on his back.

  Reaver slid the tubes into their pouch on his ruck and shouldered his pack. The motors worked like a charm and had Harlequin and Bull with all the gear up the cliff face in about ten minutes. Granted, it had been ten minutes of stress for Reaver as it was time that his guys were hanging in midair just waiting for another patrol to come along. Mr. Murphy hadn't played any of his typical games with them in a bit, and while Reaver was wondering what he had done to get on the old codger’s good side, he wasn't going to complain. Seeing Bull and Harlequin both with packs shouldered and weapons in their arms, Reaver gave the signal to move. This close to their final objective, Reaver took the lead to the overlook he had pinpointed before leaving the Fury’s Fire. The storm clouds overhead continued their deluge and darkened the night sky even further. Reaver hoped they would remain. It would help mask the presence of not only himself and his team on the planet, but the rest of the units operating near the factory city as well.

  The trek to the overlook should have taken thirty minutes. Twenty minutes from stepping off from the climb Reaver's earbud crackled to life, and a voice he hadn't expected to hear yet came through. "Dragon Two-Zero, Dragon Two-Charlie."

  Reaver triggered his mic. Scarface was early. He hoped nothing had gone wrong. “Charlie, Zero. Go ahead."

  Scarface's voice came back through almost immediately. “Party favors are in place and tuned to Bull's frequency. Alice has a beautiful view of the veranda and is pissed she won't get to see the fireworks or do any painting."

  Space Case and Scar were damn good at their jobs. Tell them to find a way to wire the north side of a city and they'd be done and back before you told them how long they had to do it. Reaver chuckled silently before activating his mic. The only reason Alice was pissed was because Harlequin would get to use the new toy before anyone else. "Give Alice my regards. Enjoy your trip. Zero out." Chances that the Renks had even picked up their broadcast signal, much less broken their encryption, were low, but they would still use code. In many cases, even their own side wouldn't know what one team was saying to another unless they were working the same mission.

  Knowing that his only other team on the ground had completed their task and was simply waiting for the go-signal to call their ride and head back to the Fury took a little weight off Reaver’s shoulders. As close as they were to the overlook, Reaver signaled a rest and lowered himself to the ground. With his rucksack sinking slightly into the sodden ground, Reaver slipped his arms from the straps and freed his body from its weight. As he pulled the top and bottom halves of his ghillie suit from their compartment of his rucksack, he saw Bull and Harlequin doing the same. Laying the pieces on top of his ruck, Reaver began working on matching his suit to the surrounding vegetation. They'd stash the rucks and set a perimeter before creating their sniper hides overlooking the city below. Right at five hours to get into place, so far so good.

  Chapter
Four

  The dim lights of the city’s skyline were hazy in the periphery of his rifle scope, but even the focus of his team’s mission couldn’t detract from that too human trait to investigate something that catches the eye. Clouds rolled across the sky, darkening what little light was cast by the waning moon. In a brief instant, at the edge of his peripheral vision, Reaver thought he caught a glimpse of Orion’s Belt hanging low on the horizon. He hoped he’d never lose the feeling of seeing old comforts on foreign planets. Reaver knew Orion wasn’t watching over them, but for a brief instant, it felt like he was and that the hunter was smiling down on them.

  The slight breeze that managed to thread its way through the foliage woven into the outer shell of Reaver’s ghillie suit teased more than brought any true sense of comfort or relief. The Recon Team leader grunted and shifted the lower half of his body to stave off a cramp building in his lower back and upper thighs. Forcing certain muscle groups to tighten while loosening others kept a form of comfort when locked into a single place for any length of time, and Reaver, Bull, and Harlequin had been in place for nearly twenty-six hours. Ghillie suits were great for breaking up body shape and camouflaging outlines, but a moving bush would draw attention, and attention of any sort was a death sentence on an operation like this one. The rainstorm that had started on their climb up the cliff face had ended a few hours prior and assisted in masking their presence through the dim light hours that counted for daytime on this rock. Thankfully, their equipment had worked as advertised and once the rain stopped the circuitry laced through their combat shirts and uniform trousers had kicked into high gear, drying their clothing and warming the Marines once again. The ghillie suits, however, were still soaked; the material that worked so well at masking their presence absorbed the falling rain and settled down over each Marine like a soggy woolen blanket.