sir, maybe after baby-sittin’ duties, we can kind of nose around for Diablo on our off-hours?”
Roc’s grin widened. “All things bein’ equal, Sergeant, yeah, we might be able to do that if circumstances dictate. But for now, get the team squared away today and ready to push off at 0530—at pad Bravo at the airport tomorrow.”
Coming to attention, Buck said, “Yes, sir!” He did an about-face and quickly left the cramped office.
Moving to the map of the quake zone, showing the entire southern Los Angeles area divided up into quadrants by Logistics, Roc studied area 5. But his mind wandered back to that redheaded witch of a woman doctor he was going to have to tangle with—again.
“What the hell kind of karma do I have?” he muttered out loud, turning back to his desk.
“Sir?”
Turning with surprise, Roc saw Lance Corporal Ted Barstow, also young and also part of his team, standing expectantly in the doorway. “Yes, Barstow?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Er…Sergeant Simmons sent me up to ask if you want demolitions loaded with our equipment. He said this was a milk run, not a real mission. We’re babysitting?”
Wryly, Roc smiled to himself. He leaned against the edge of his green metal desk. “We’re protecting. And yes, load everything. We’re going in as a Recon team prepared for any and all possibilities.” He saw Barstow’s triangular face light up with enthusiasm. Barstow was their demo expert, the guy who set the claymore mines and anything else he could get his hands on to blow up the enemy. Barstow was like a mad scientist, always fiddling with chemicals to see what would happen. A couple of times he’d had his hair and eyebrows singed, playing around with volatile concoctions. What Barstow should do was go to college and take classes, but the Oregon native didn’t take to schooling. He had grown up in the Cascade Mountains, was an outdoors kid who hunted for food for his family’s table. After barely getting his high school diploma, he’d joined the Marine Corps and had found his niche in the Recon marines.
“That’s great, Cap’n! I’ll get on it, sir!” Barstow turned and trotted down the hall, his boots thunking on the wooden floor and creating a loud echo in the nearly empty barracks.
Roc smiled again, his spirits momentarily lifted by Barstow’s visit. The kid was sharp, and eager. Everyone on his team was like that, and so was he. Gathering up the papers on his desk, he put them in his out basket. It was time to get moving. Roc was glad to be heading into the field at last. He’d been feeling restless and antsy as this earthquake mission got off the ground. All around him, Camp Reed hummed with activity. It was the hub of a great web that stretched in every direction, bringing in supplies to save lives.
Major Carson, his commanding officer, had needed Roc here at the base to help coordinate the Recon teams that were already out in the quake zone. Roc had been in charge of planning and logistics for the teams. Now it was his turn to go out in the field, which was what he lived for. Working in an office wasn’t his idea of fun. It was a special hell.
Stepping into the hall, he headed to his locker, where he kept his M-16 rifle, pack, flak jacket and helmet. He would oversee the preparations for tomorrow morning’s liftoff. All their gear would be brought to a central location to be loaded on a Humvee for transport today. And, he wanted to acquaint himself with the airport facility so there would be no screwups. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time for them to take the Humvee over to the airport. Buck would make sure their team was at the pickup point, Roc was sure. That’s how eager they all were to cut loose from this place and do what they did best: field operative work.
As he pulled the flak vest over his desert utilities and pressed it shut, Roc felt his heart squeeze in anticipation of the coming confrontation. Dr. Andrews was no weak sister. She was formidable, as he’d found out when Private First Class Louis West, a nineteen-year-old on his team, had injured his leg during an exercise. Roc had never run into such a strong, bullheaded woman. And she hadn’t budged from her position. He’d lost that first battle with her, and his ego still smarted.
“I won’t lose this time,” he growled, settling his helmet on his head. Allowing the straps to hang free, he adjusted the goggles perched atop the camouflage-colored headgear, then reached for his pack. If Andrews thought she was going to tell him what to do in the field, she had another think coming.
The truth was, Roc would much rather send his team out on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, to try and locate the Diablos. There wasn’t a marine on the base who hadn’t heard how the gang had ruthlessly murdered two pilots weeks earlier. In his heart, Roc longed to go after them. No one killed marines and got away with it. No way. Even though his wasn’t designated a hunter-killer team, Roc dreamed of finding the survivalist gang and settling the score once and for all.
As he hoisted his sixty-pound pack onto his shoulders, settling it in place on his rangy frame, a thrill shot through him. Fieldwork. It was something he loved. He’d trade indoor time for outdoor any day of the week. Despite the fact that he’d have to put up with sourpuss Andrews, the day was looking brighter already.
February 3: 0600
Sam gathered her team on the landing pad next to where the Sea Stallion sat ready to go. The two marine pilots were already in the cockpit, going through pre-flight procedures before the blades started to turn. The airport was a noisy cacophony of screams, shrieks and whistles from fixed-wing aircraft, the thump, thump, thumps of rotorcraft. It was 0600. They were slated to take off in fifteen minutes.
“Jonesy, have we got all the supplies on board?” she called to her corpsman, Jones Baker, a twenty-two-year-old African-American.
“Yes, ma’am, we’re good to go!” Jonesy flipped her a thumbs-up.
Sam smiled, noting the excitement and eagerness in Jonesy’s brown eyes. He was one of her best corpsmen, and had worked with her in E.R. for two years. Nothing rattled the Harlem, New York native. Nothing. He’d grown up on the city streets and knew how to survive anything. When things got hot, heavy and intense in E.R., Sam could always count on this young man to keep a cool head and calm presence.
Though a gangly six foot tall, Jones had the hands of a concert pianist. Sam had talked to him early about taking premed classes at a nearby college, and had told him she felt he’d make a great doctor. Jonesy had taken her belief in him to heart. He was now in his second year, a straight-A student. When he wasn’t working in his navy functions, she’d always find him with a book open, studying relentlessly. Often he came to her with questions, and they’d discuss medical points and symptoms. The world needed more people like Jonesy—self-motivated, smart, and hungry to better themselves. Sam was glad he was along on this mission.
“I’ve got all the IVs boxed up, Dr. Andrews,” Lieutenant Lin Shan announced, approaching the open cargo door of the helicopter, near where Sam stood.
“Great, Lin. Think we’ve got enough?” She looked down at the surgical nurse, her right-hand woman in the operating room. Lin was Chinese-American, her parents having escaped from their own country under political duress. Born in San Francisco, the twenty-seven-year-old nurse was five foot two inches tall, thin as a reed and beautiful. Today, her dark, almond-shaped eyes shone with excitement. Like the rest of Sam’s team, Lin was dressed in dark blue slacks, a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt, a flak vest, mandatory protection for the upper body, and wearing a dark blue navy baseball cap with Camp Reed Hospital, USN, embroidered in gold across the front.
“We’ve got three hundred IVs,” Lin said with a grin. “As many as
