Black Dragons
It had been two months since the funeral, yet Ian could still see the pitiful remains when he closed his eyes. It had been a closed casket funeral, but he had not been able to believe it was real. Nottingham had slipped past his brothers and opened the lid at the gravesite. Just a peek, before Mobius had dragged him back, yet the image was burned into his brain.
Moira must have made them very angry when she killed two of their number. Under the long fall of black hair he could see that the jaw had been crushed, as if from repeated kicks, and the ocular bone had collapsed on the left side. The dress uniform the coroner had put on her had hid all the other damage, but he had seen enough to guess at the rest.
He had heard afterward that if it hadn't been for her dog tags, they might never have identified her, and he believed it. The jaw was crushed and her fingers had been cut off, making identification problematic. Luckily they had found the aluminum tags among the tattered remnants of her clothing several feet away from the body and identified the base.
The thought of what she must have endured before she died tormented him. Even worse, Ian had no way to avenge her. Security was so tight that the most he was able to do was make a call to Irons and request that a team be assigned to investigate from the civilian end. He had been unable to get out himself, and the forced inactivity chafed his honorable soul.
Then entire project had been moved to another state, making it even more difficult for Ian to find Moira's killer. He had hoped that security would lighten up once the move was finalized, but bad luck followed them to their new location. The dropped dosages had affected several members as Moira had warned Ian it might. The enlarged areas of the brain, without the chemical support, began to shrink back down unevenly.
Paranoid delusions, seizures, and incidents of violence became more frequent. The victims of those outbursts were most often lab techs and scientists. The Dragons no longer turned on each other, no matter how far gone they were. They had become a unit in truth, bound by their experiences, emotions, and chemical indicators.
Soon an unspoken line of battle was drawn, with the Black Dragons on one side and the researchers on the other. The suspicion each side regarded the other with increased tension, and led to petty sniping. The Dragons did their best to intimidate the scientists, and the researchers demanded that the Dragons be restrained before, during, and immediately following their treatments. They wanted M.P.s present at all times, and the Brass agreed after the reports began to roll in. It was more of an armed camp than a research project.
The bridge between the two factions came in the unlikely form of Father Allen. Hearing the confessions of both sides gave him a unique perspective, which he used to the best of his abilities to smooth the way between the two parties. He did what he could, but the Dragons were not stable enough any more to adhere to his advice. They tried for a while, but they were so sensitive to signals that no one else even noticed that instinct would override intellect, and another incident would happen.
Nottingham was an irritable shadow of his former even-tempered self, brooding and wracked with guilt. He did not sleep much; Moira haunted his dreams. Yet of all the Dragons he was, oddly enough, the most stable. His brain chemistry did not change, remaining at the same level, despite the lesser dosages.
Taking Nottingham's relatively more relaxed behavior as an indicator, the dosage was stepped back up in an effort to level out the brain activity of the other Dragons. It worked to a certain extent, but the damage had been done. Even though the incidences of seizures and violence decreased, paranoia remained on both sides. Perhaps it was inevitable, considering the nature of the experiment, but it didn't make the situation any easier for those involved.
It was with great relief that Pym called everyone together on the third day of the third month to announce that the Black Dragons were going on their first field-training mission. It was the ideal solution for everyone involved, as well as being an opportunity to stave off budget cuts. After all, it was nearly time for the quarterly expenditure wrangling with the exchequer, and that would go better if they had something to show for all the money being poured into the project.
Or so he said, whenever he was asked. But for someone who had been handed an ideal solution, his eyes were surprisingly haunted.
The mood in the bay was jubilant. Finally they would be allowed out into the field. Giddy as though they were already breathing the heady air of freedom, the Black Dragons celebrated. Even Nottingham came out of his funk enough to smile at his brothers' antics.
Well after 'lights out', the men traded speculations on the training mission as well as bragging about their prowess. It seemed that no one could calm down enough to sleep. For once Ian had plenty of company during the dark hours that normally haunted him with reminders of Moira. He drifted off to sleep, the comforting murmur of his brothers around him.
Sgt. Leamon, whom they had not seen since their first day in the lab, arrived the following morning with their mission briefs. It would appear that they were going to South America. The D.E.A. had taken out a high- level drug lord in Columbia, and the Dragons were going to be using the abandoned site for a training simulation.
It was perfect for everyone involved. The site was exactly the sort of thing they were going to be hitting once their training was complete, it was isolated, so civilian casualty would be non-existent, and all the traffic would discourage anyone from thinking to reactivate the facility.
Maybe it was a little too perfect. Nottingham reread his file, trying to get a feel for what wasn't being said. On his left, Mobius was doing the same. They exchanged a glance over the folders; both had little inclination to trust their superiors at this point. The feeling was partly from the chemically induced paranoia, but mostly from prior experience. There was a very good reason that 'military intelligence' was held by most soldiers to be an oxymoron.
Even with both looking, neither could find anything to answer the nagging suspicion that something was not right. Mobius and Nottingham took turns asking questions, but Leamon's explanations jived with the paperwork. They were getting nowhere. Finally Ian made a subtle gesture with his hand, letting Moby know he would pursue this later, from a different angle.
During rounds on the obstacle course, the Dragons discussed their mission brief. The general consensus was that something was rotten in Denmark, but no one was exactly sure where the smell was coming from. They finally decided that they would present one battle plan to their superiors, and enact another, based on what their own reconnaissance uncovered once they arrived.
The only thing they could not get around was the fact that, as a training exercise, no live rounds would be issued. If the worst-case scenario happened, they would have only their survival knives against the dangers of the jungle. The Dragons were not particularly concerned about the wildlife, it was the locals that were sure to deem them hostiles, and with good reason. If someone had moved in to fill the void left by the deceased drug lord, they would not take kindly to finding a bunch of American soldiers mucking about in their business.
They drilled mercilessly, knowing they had only two weeks before they would be sent out into the field. Already impressive, the self-imposed step up in training elevated the Dragons to amazing. When the time came to ship out, the Dragons were confident they could compensate for whatever SNAFU they would walk into.
A/N: SNAFU: Situation Normal, All Fucked Up
It had been two months since the funeral, yet Ian could still see the pitiful remains when he closed his eyes. It had been a closed casket funeral, but he had not been able to believe it was real. Nottingham had slipped past his brothers and opened the lid at the gravesite. Just a peek, before Mobius had dragged him back, yet the image was burned into his brain.
Moira must have made them very angry when she killed two of their number. Under the long fall of black hair he could see that the jaw had been crushed, as if from repeated kicks, and the ocular bone had collapsed on the left side. The dress uniform the coroner had put on her had hid all the other damage, but he had seen enough to guess at the rest.
He had heard afterward that if it hadn't been for her dog tags, they might never have identified her, and he believed it. The jaw was crushed and her fingers had been cut off, making identification problematic. Luckily they had found the aluminum tags among the tattered remnants of her clothing several feet away from the body and identified the base.
The thought of what she must have endured before she died tormented him. Even worse, Ian had no way to avenge her. Security was so tight that the most he was able to do was make a call to Irons and request that a team be assigned to investigate from the civilian end. He had been unable to get out himself, and the forced inactivity chafed his honorable soul.
Then entire project had been moved to another state, making it even more difficult for Ian to find Moira's killer. He had hoped that security would lighten up once the move was finalized, but bad luck followed them to their new location. The dropped dosages had affected several members as Moira had warned Ian it might. The enlarged areas of the brain, without the chemical support, began to shrink back down unevenly.
Paranoid delusions, seizures, and incidents of violence became more frequent. The victims of those outbursts were most often lab techs and scientists. The Dragons no longer turned on each other, no matter how far gone they were. They had become a unit in truth, bound by their experiences, emotions, and chemical indicators.
Soon an unspoken line of battle was drawn, with the Black Dragons on one side and the researchers on the other. The suspicion each side regarded the other with increased tension, and led to petty sniping. The Dragons did their best to intimidate the scientists, and the researchers demanded that the Dragons be restrained before, during, and immediately following their treatments. They wanted M.P.s present at all times, and the Brass agreed after the reports began to roll in. It was more of an armed camp than a research project.
The bridge between the two factions came in the unlikely form of Father Allen. Hearing the confessions of both sides gave him a unique perspective, which he used to the best of his abilities to smooth the way between the two parties. He did what he could, but the Dragons were not stable enough any more to adhere to his advice. They tried for a while, but they were so sensitive to signals that no one else even noticed that instinct would override intellect, and another incident would happen.
Nottingham was an irritable shadow of his former even-tempered self, brooding and wracked with guilt. He did not sleep much; Moira haunted his dreams. Yet of all the Dragons he was, oddly enough, the most stable. His brain chemistry did not change, remaining at the same level, despite the lesser dosages.
Taking Nottingham's relatively more relaxed behavior as an indicator, the dosage was stepped back up in an effort to level out the brain activity of the other Dragons. It worked to a certain extent, but the damage had been done. Even though the incidences of seizures and violence decreased, paranoia remained on both sides. Perhaps it was inevitable, considering the nature of the experiment, but it didn't make the situation any easier for those involved.
It was with great relief that Pym called everyone together on the third day of the third month to announce that the Black Dragons were going on their first field-training mission. It was the ideal solution for everyone involved, as well as being an opportunity to stave off budget cuts. After all, it was nearly time for the quarterly expenditure wrangling with the exchequer, and that would go better if they had something to show for all the money being poured into the project.
Or so he said, whenever he was asked. But for someone who had been handed an ideal solution, his eyes were surprisingly haunted.
The mood in the bay was jubilant. Finally they would be allowed out into the field. Giddy as though they were already breathing the heady air of freedom, the Black Dragons celebrated. Even Nottingham came out of his funk enough to smile at his brothers' antics.
Well after 'lights out', the men traded speculations on the training mission as well as bragging about their prowess. It seemed that no one could calm down enough to sleep. For once Ian had plenty of company during the dark hours that normally haunted him with reminders of Moira. He drifted off to sleep, the comforting murmur of his brothers around him.
Sgt. Leamon, whom they had not seen since their first day in the lab, arrived the following morning with their mission briefs. It would appear that they were going to South America. The D.E.A. had taken out a high- level drug lord in Columbia, and the Dragons were going to be using the abandoned site for a training simulation.
It was perfect for everyone involved. The site was exactly the sort of thing they were going to be hitting once their training was complete, it was isolated, so civilian casualty would be non-existent, and all the traffic would discourage anyone from thinking to reactivate the facility.
Maybe it was a little too perfect. Nottingham reread his file, trying to get a feel for what wasn't being said. On his left, Mobius was doing the same. They exchanged a glance over the folders; both had little inclination to trust their superiors at this point. The feeling was partly from the chemically induced paranoia, but mostly from prior experience. There was a very good reason that 'military intelligence' was held by most soldiers to be an oxymoron.
Even with both looking, neither could find anything to answer the nagging suspicion that something was not right. Mobius and Nottingham took turns asking questions, but Leamon's explanations jived with the paperwork. They were getting nowhere. Finally Ian made a subtle gesture with his hand, letting Moby know he would pursue this later, from a different angle.
During rounds on the obstacle course, the Dragons discussed their mission brief. The general consensus was that something was rotten in Denmark, but no one was exactly sure where the smell was coming from. They finally decided that they would present one battle plan to their superiors, and enact another, based on what their own reconnaissance uncovered once they arrived.
The only thing they could not get around was the fact that, as a training exercise, no live rounds would be issued. If the worst-case scenario happened, they would have only their survival knives against the dangers of the jungle. The Dragons were not particularly concerned about the wildlife, it was the locals that were sure to deem them hostiles, and with good reason. If someone had moved in to fill the void left by the deceased drug lord, they would not take kindly to finding a bunch of American soldiers mucking about in their business.
They drilled mercilessly, knowing they had only two weeks before they would be sent out into the field. Already impressive, the self-imposed step up in training elevated the Dragons to amazing. When the time came to ship out, the Dragons were confident they could compensate for whatever SNAFU they would walk into.
A/N: SNAFU: Situation Normal, All Fucked Up