Chapter I: Forged in Fire
The blades of the Chinook HC.2 spun up to idle, creating a small tornado of sand eerily lit by the lights of the helipad. I tugged on the straps of my MARS (Mobile Aircrew Restraint System) again, just to reassure myself that I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't have a fear of heights per se, but if you're looking out the open door of a helicopter with your M134 Minigun being the only thing standing between you and the open air, you'd be checking your restraints just as many times as me. The engines increased their RPMs and the Chinook gently rose from the ground and began its journey west, the lights of Kandahar field fading into the inky blackness of night.
We had been scrambled for an emergency aid mission to Jalalabad. A magnitude 7.6 earthquake ravaged the city at 0235 this morning, killing hundreds and leaving countless people trapped under the rubble. Fires had broken out thanks to severed gas lines, which now raged uncontrollably on the north side of the city. The Red Cross was in the process of setting up a relief centre to the southwest, but had requested aid from us. We got word that a couple of AH-64D Apache Longbows from the US Army would be providing air cover once we reached Jalalabad, but we'd be pretty vulnerable until we got there. Thankfully, the cloud cover was dense and lower than usual, so I figured we'd be pretty safe.
The flight was pretty monotonous. I absentmindedly gripped my gun as I stared out across the desert. It'll be really weird going back to Hackney after this, I thought. After what seemed like forever, we descended from the clouds, revealing an orange horizon burning with the light of the raging infernos to the north. We were getting pretty close. To the east, the sky had begun to change from black to deep purple, heralding the coming of the morning sun. It was going to be a long day. Suddenly, ut of the corner of my eye, I saw a brief yet intense flash of light, which illuminated what looked like three figures standing near a vehicle. Then, it dawned on me. "RPG," I yelled, "NINE O' CLOCK!" Our Chinook dipped its nose down in a futile attempt to dodge the incoming rocket, but it was far too late.
The rocket made contact just forward of our No. 2 engine nacelle, and the explosion ripped open the side of the Chinook like a tin can. The force of the blast rattled my teeth inside my skull and threw me forward like a ragdoll. My restraints, thankfully, kept me from flying out the open door, but I struck my face on the housing cover of my M134. The helicopter began to spin in a counterclockwise motion and black smoke belched from the aft engine. As warm liquid began to trickle down my neck, I looked forward and saw the two pilots working furiously, struggling to regain control. It was in that moment that the helicopter broke in half, the aft nacelle flying off on its own, sending the rest of the Chinook into a violent death spiral. The ground was getting nearer and nearer; all I could do was close my eyes and await the impact-
"Hey, Sergeant Craig," a man's voice said, "our flight's about to board." I tentatively opened my eyes and squinted as the light poured in. The fiery skies over Jalalabad had been mercifully replaced by the gleaming interior of Atatürk Airport in Istanbul. I had taken a flight from Kabul to Istanbul last night, but my flight back to London had been delayed due to inclement weather. I glanced over at the gate; many people had already begun to form a line in front of the counter.
A blond-haired RAMC Corporal sat across from me, hurriedly finishing the last of his kebab. His face seemed vaguely familiar... perhaps he was stationed in Kabul. We both gathered our bags and stood in line at the gate. The woman at the counter scanned me in and I started forward towards the plane. As I stepped onto the jet bridge, I saw that the RAMC man hadn't boarded yet.
"I get them too," he told me, "you're not alone." He paused for a moment as he noticed the scar that wound its way from my eyebrow down past my chin. It finally clicked for me; he was part of the RAMC unit that patched me up after the incident. "You're headed home for good, yeah?"
"Yeah," I replied, "medical discharge." I rolled up my sleeve on my left arm to reveal the scars left by burning fuel. He nodded. "I remember you," he said. "You were that door gunner from the Jalalabad Chinook incident. You've probably heard it a couple times by now, but you're lucky you got off as easily as you did. It could have been much worse. Anyway, that life is over now. It's time you focus on yourself... start making plans for the rest of your life." I briefly thought about what I had planned, and the whole reason why I'd joined the RAF in the first place. "I've already got them," I said with a slight smirk. I shook his hand and took my seat on the plane.
We touched down at Heathrow around 1500. It was nice flying over London, seeing familiar landmarks that I hadn't seen for the past eighteen months. As the automatic doors to baggage claim slid open, I was nearly thrown off my feet by my stepdad, who embraced me in a great big bearhug. "Hey Steve," I said. He pulled back and looked me over, tears streaming down his face. "When I heard about the crash..." he trailed off, choked up. "Taylor, I thought you were gone. I thought I'd never see you again. That's twice now, that you've done that to me!"
Through my own tears, I smiled at him. "It's going to take a lot more than a helicopter crash or a Silurian scorpion to take me down," I told him. He laughed, a sound that I'd been longing to hear in person since I left for my tour. "C'mon," he beckoned as he wiped the tears from his face, "let's get your bags and head home."
I grabbed my duffel bag from baggage claim, and the two of us headed out to Steve's car. We left Heathrow and got on the M25, the old Vauxhall's engine straining to get the car up to speed. I seemed to remember seeing something about a Columbian Mammoth on the M25 back when the old ARC files were released to the public. I wonder if that one will ever re-open, I thought to myself. Being face-to-face with the world's largest proboscidean would certainly be something else.
"I should have asked earlier," Steve stated, "but, how's the arm? I remember telling me you burnt it." I rolled up my sleeve to show him, and he winced at the sight of all the scar tissue. "It's stiff as hell," I said, "and it probably will be for a long time. But, it's just cosmetic. I don't think it'll be that much of a problem in the long run." We took the junction for the M4. "You're a strong woman," he said. "You're strong, just like your mother... I wish she could be here today to see you. She would be so proud of you."
I smiled. The thought of my mother used to be a sorer subject, but it had been long enough now that it didn't hurt as much. Also, I'm not going to say that war had hardened my heart necessarily, but seeing so much death and destruction firsthand had really sorta put things in perspective. Though it would be nice to not have to see someone's life drain from their eyes again, my tour in Afghanistan had shown me, better than anything else, that death was an inevitable part of life. Its cold hand just came for some before others, is all.
Finally, the angular shapes of the apartment loomed before us. We pulled into the car park and Steve shut off the engine. "Welcome home sweetheart," he said, looking over at me. It was surreal, finally being back home after so long. I grabbed my bag and hauled it up the stairs, plopping it down with a resounding thud in front of the door. Steve was there moments later. He unlocked the door, and it swung open.
Switching on the lights, I placed my duffel bag just inside the door. I twisted myself over the top of the couch and crashed down onto the cushions, smiling slightly as I looked up at the popcorn ceiling. Finally, I thought, I'm home once more. The quiet gurgling of the fishtank in the corner was quite soothing, but it reminded me of Sprat. She was getting old, even when I left, and she passed while I was overseas. It was inevitable, but it didn't make the hole in my heart any less painful. Steve stepped inside, hung his coat on the rack, and removed his shoes.
"Well," he started, "what do you think?" I looked around at the apartment. Minus Sprat's absence, it was as if I had only been gone a day. "Nothing's changed," I said. "Everything's just like it was before I left." Steve nodded. He walked into the kitchen and puled a casserole out of the fridge. "I tried my best," he told me. "It still feels like home... yeah?
"I don't know," I responded. "I've just been away for so long. Nowhere feels like home. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be back. But... I just think it might take a while before I truly feel at home again." Steve nodded again. "But, I appreciate everything you've done. I really do Steve." He set down the casserole dish and I hugged his neck. "I'm just so glad you're home," he sobbed. "This place has been empty without you. It's been a living hell."
Dinner was pretty simple, but it was better than anything I had back in Afghanistan. After watching a couple of Top Gear re-runs, I washed up and got ready for bed. It was nice to have a hot shower for once; it was so hot in the Middle East that everyone only ever took cold showers. My burns on my left arm and leg twitched unpleasantly as the water made contact. Though the wounds were healed, it would still be a long time before everything was back to normal. I sighed and placed my face in my hands, running my index finger across the scar on my face. I guess I'm destined to be a movie villain or something now, I thought to myself. I chuckled.
That night, I lay awake in bed. I thought it would be easy to fall asleep, being back in my own bed and all, but that just wasn't the case. Instead, it felt foreign, ethereal almost. I don't remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew, I was back in Afghanistan once more. I was helpless as I watched the rocket come in, impacting the rear of the aircraft. And once again, I was plummeting towards the ground...
I sat bolt upright, sending bedsheets flying. Breathing hard, I wiped away the sweat from my brow and took a drink of water. The hall light flicked on. Steve appeared in the doorway and knocked on the doorframe. "Is everything okay? I heard..." he paused. "I heard quite a bit of activity." I nodded.
"Steve," I whispered, "I've seen some... things. A year and a half in a warzone will do that to you. And, if I'm honest with you, I can't stop reliving that crash. I watched that man fire that rocket at us. Every time I relive that memory, I can't help but think about what would have happened had I alerted the pilots earlier. It took me about a second before I realised what was going on. If I had..." I trailed off. Steve seemed to be at a loss for words. He put his arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the forehead, but I honestly don't think he knew what to do beyond that. How could he? I wouldn't even know what to say, and I was there.
"I'll be fine," I lied, "I promise. Just, go back to sleep. If I can make it through a war, I can make it through the night." Steve wiped his eyes and nodded. He hugged me again. "I love you Taylor," he choked. "Sleep well. If you need anything... just tell me." He left the room, and shut off the hall light. I laid back down, wiping my own eyes. Somehow, I needed to get back to sleep. I had a big day coming up, and I didn't want to look shabby for my interview. After another thirty minutes, I was asleep once more.
My alarm went off just as the first smatterings of pink and red began to spread across the sky. I took another shower, got into my dress blues, and brewed myself a cup of tea. I sat out on the balcony and watched the sky as it began to get lighter, the shafts of light through the fog illuminating East Hackney in an eerie glow. I took a couple long drags off a cigarette; a bad habit I'd formed in Afghanistan to keep myself sharp on long missions. I needed to quit before it really became a problem. I finished off my cup of tea, extinguished my smoke, and began poaching an egg. I washed my hands to get the smell of smoke off, scarfed down my egg, and brushed my teeth.
Steve took the day off, so I'd have the car. I got in the Vauxhall, turned the key, and the little four-cylinder engine rattled to life. I crossed the Thames as the sun finally peeked over the London skyline, and squealed the tyres as I pulled into a multistory. Checking my watch, I speedily walked a couple of blocks down Kipling Street, and stepped through the door of the Thames House.
The young man at the front desk wore a black suit and a blank expression; his steely blue eyes following my every movement as I approached. "Good morning Sergeant," he said in a deep, gruff voice. "What can I do for you?"
"I need to speak with Mr. Lester," I told him. "I have a seven o' clock appointment." He drummed his fingers on the desk as his other hand clicked away at the computer. "Thank you Sergeant Craig," he said, "I'll get ahold of him" He tapped his earpiece again. "Sir, I've got a Sergeant Craig here to see you. Said has an appointment in three minutes. Yes sir. Roger that." He looked up at me from the computer. "He'll be out in a moment."
I sat down on the brown leather couch that spanned the far wall and anxiously fiddled with my watch. I'm not really certain why I was nervous; I had the best possible credentials I could get, and fit the open position like a glove. I knew, deep down, that I would get the spot, but I still couldn't steel myself for some reason. The ornate wooden door swung open, and a middle-aged man in an exquisite suit stepped over the threshold.
"Sergeant Craig," he said in a silky voice, "please come with me." I got up and followed him through the door, which shut silently behind us. "I'm Sir James Lester, Head of Operations at the Anomaly Research Centre. You have quite the impressive CV." He opened the door to his office and waved me through. It was absolutely beautifully decorated, complete with Victorian furniture. "Please sit down," he instructed.
"So," he started, unbuttoning his jacket, "if I remember correctly, you were the girl that Nick Cutter and Stephen Hart rescued from the Silurian, yes?" I nodded. "Excellent. So you are familiar with what we do here. It's a pity neither of them are around anymore; they would have been quite pleased to see you.
"Anyway, as I was saying before, you have impressive credentials. Studied biology and palaeontology at the University of Manchester, enlisted in the RAF right after graduating top of your class, culminating in an eighteen month tour of Afghanistan where you were decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Victoria Cross." He looked me in the eye, smiling slightly out of the corner of his mouth. "And now you're here." He got up from his chair and began pacing behind his desk.
"You seem to be the perfect candidate," he continued. "Fortunately for you, none of the other recruits came anywhere close. I'm guessing you're good with animals as well?" I nodded again. "That would explain the two years you worked at the Whipsnade Zoo during your time at University. Work much with reptiles?'
"My entire last year," I said. "I've worked with everything from venomous snakes to crocodiles, sir." He smiled again. "Excellent," he praised, "we seem to get a lot of... reptiles. Anyway, I think you and a certain Mrs. Temple would get along famously. In any case, I don't see any reason to continue this interview any further. I think you're exactly what I'm looking for." He stepped forward and he extended his hand. As we shook, his eyes crinkled into a smile. "Welcome to the team, Sergeant Craig."
That night, Steve and I went out to the pub to celebrate. As I drank deeply from a pint of Guinness, Steve looked at me and smiled. "What?" I asked him. He laughed and took a sip of his beer. "I just can't believe how much you've grown. When I first met your mother, you were this energetic little eight-year-old, always amazed by everything, always interested in trying new things. And now, here you are; a grown woman, an esteemed intellectual, a war hero, and now a government agent. You never cease to amaze me. Taylor, I've got something for you. It's been a long time coming."
He paid the tab, and we caught a cab home. For some reason, we didn't go directly inside- Steve instead lead me to the car park. "Close your eyes," he instructed, "and open your hand." I did as he told, and felt the elongated, cold strip of metal drop into my hand. My fingers folded around the key and gripped the plastic handle. "Open them." I looked down into my hand. It was a single black key with no fob, but my heart couldn't help but beat faster when I noticed the Kawasaki logo.
"No way," I breathed. I looked around the car park and finally caught sight of a sleek, black form. I sprinted over to the motorbike and gaped at it's beauty. It was a Ninja ER-6F, one of my all-time favourite bikes, and one that I'd been talking to Steve about for ages. It was satin black with gunmetal wheels and pipes that gave it a look reminiscent of a stealth bomber. Steve suddenly appeared next to me. "You can't just keep using my car for work every day," he said with a smirk. "You need a set of quick wheels, and I heard about that little stunt you pulled in Afghanistan. And you've been talking about getting a Ninja forever, so I thought 'why not?'"
I laughed. When I was in Afghanistan, we "reclaimed" an old Husqvarna dirtbike that was used in an attempted attack on the airbase. I decided it would be funny to re-create Steve McQueen's bike jump from The Great Escape over the checkpoint fence, and my stunt became the talk of the town for a week. I was so proud of it, that I did it again, and got the folks at the checkpoint to film it. That video somehow made it home to Steve, who got a good laugh out of it.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I ran my fingers over the fuel tank, black seat, and black plastic fairings. I put the key in the ignition and started the bike, which filled the car park with a loud throaty growl. I couldn't help but smile like an idiot as I revved the engine slightly, careful not to wake the neighbours. "Congrats, kid," Steve smiled. As I trailed him back up to the flat, I smiled to myself. I had secured the job of my dreams, I had a super cool motorbike, and everything seemed right with the world... my chunk of the world, at least. For once, my dreams were not filled with the horrors of war. For once, I was content.