“But you got the degree, right?”
“Bet your ass.” Stan straightened. “You’re lookin’ at the proud owner of a bachelor of arts from the T.J. Martins School of Psychology at Ole Miss University, class of ‘99. Go Rebs.”
Taylor smiled and sipped his water, now fully versed in the origins of the old man’s Rebel call sign. “Where ‘bouts did you meet Jack? In the Corps?”
“Yep,” Stan said. “It was my second year in. We were both stationed at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina—Jack as a staff sergeant with the 24th Expeditionary Unit, while I served as an MP on post.”
“I take it you met on base,” Taylor said.
“Ironically, no. We met at a bar.” Stan crossed his legs. “Me and a few buddies were on a weekend pass in Wilmington when we happened into a Podunk dive bar just off Grace Street. The night was rollin’ along great until some smartass punk in a cowboy hat bit off more than he could chew with one of the bar’s huskier regulars. Everything was fine, until the big guy’s friends got involved. That’s when me and mine decided to do likewise. Fast-forward 32 years and a shit-ton of deployments, and that crazy old nut and me are still watchin’ each other’s backs.”
Taylor chuckled under his breath, all the while pondering the myriad parallels between the story he’d just heard and his own first encounter with Blackjack Bowyer and Mississippi Stan.
“I owe a lot to the Marine Corps,” Stan added. “My degree. My skills. My start in the merc business. Mostly, though, I reckon I owe it for Jack. I mean, let’s face it. If we hadn’t met, who in their right mind would’ve put up with me all these years?”
“You could’ve gotten married,” Taylor said.
“Who says I didn’t?” The old man flashed a grin and a trio of fingers. After that, his expression turned slightly pensive. “Ah, they were all good girls in their own rights. I guess I’m just one of those ramblin’ old souls that ain’t meant to be tied down in one place for too long at a time.”
Taylor arched an eyebrow. “Jacksonville seems to suit you all right.”
The Mississippian chuckled. “Yeah, Chief. I suppose it does.”
A comm alert flashed in Taylor’s visual field with the name Lisa Kouvaris. “Hey Lisa. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” Her voice was broken like she was on the run.
“Trainin’ room three on campus,” Taylor said. “Why?”
“I just got a call from an old coworker at the Times,” Lisa said. “You know that Bills’ frigate that left Karma Station last month with Paul Torrio and his people? It just returned to orbit. What’s left of it, anyway.”
Taylor felt a chill. “What happened?”
“No idea,” Lisa said. “I just know it’s bad. I’m headed to Jax Memorial now. They’ve got wounded incoming.”
Taylor jumped to his feet and ran to the exit, with Stan in tow. “I’m on my way.”
* * * * *
Chapter 6: Wounded
Frank was waiting with a flyer on tarmac three when Taylor and Stan emerged from the Eagles’ training complex on the run.
“You two go on ahead and catch up with Miss Kouvaris!” Stan shouted past the engines. “I’ll brief Jack on what’s happened, then we’ll be standin’ by in the clubhouse if you need us. Just holler.”
“Thanks, Stan,” Taylor said. “I’ll be in touch.”
The old man nodded, then slammed the flyer door to seal in its passengers and stepped back on the tarmac, holding his fedora down while the craft ascended. Eight minutes later, a female voice crackled the flyer’s comm.
“Eagles flyer, this is Jax Memorial Dispatch,” the voice said. “You are cleared to land on helipad five.”
“Copy that, Dispatch.” Frank adjusted the mic on his headset. “We’re starting our approach now. ETA to touchdown, 60 seconds.”
“Acknowledged,” the dispatcher said.
Frank glided the flyer over the steel and asphalt expanse of the city’s downtown below, then dropped to the deck and swooped hard to port as the sprawling campus of Jacksonville Memorial Hospital entered the windshield ahead.
“And we are down,” Frank said, killing the engine.
Taylor flung open the flyer door and sprinted across the pavement toward the stairwell entrance on the far side of the helipad. Not long after, his nostrils filled with the pungent scents of alcohol and sterilizing agents, and he skidded to a halt amid the bustling nurses, chattering patient families, and scrub-clad personnel who filled the hospital’s triage wing.
“Taylor, over here.” Lisa waved the duo over to a small waiting area beside the nurse’s station. Apparently, she’d been on her daily jog when she’d gotten the call about Torrio’s crew. She was still dressed in her runner’s gear.
“You gotten any clarity yet on what exactly went down with the River Hawks?” Taylor asked.
“Only bits and pieces, but yeah. A little,” Lisa said. “Remember Sharon McCorvey who used to work our acquisitions office? Her husband, Kez, is a sergeant on Torrio’s crew. Per my understanding, he was among the first of their troops to set foot on Emza three weeks ago.”
“Is he okay?” Frank asked.
“He’s in surgery now, but they think he’ll pull through,” Lisa said.
“What happened?” Taylor asked.
Lisa shook her head. “I didn’t get much in the way of specifics, but apparently the Bills and Hawks crews got jumped by something on the planet not a week off the boat. According to the report I got, they were hit hard, too.”
“How hard?” Frank asked.
“Of the 653 troops who touched down on Emza, 211 made it back to the ship, and about two-thirds of those were injured,” Lisa said. “According to the Bills’ lead medic, most of the wounds were minor or modest in nature, so they could be treated with nanites during the transition back to Earth.
