"Is everybody here? Good. Secure the door, please. . . .Gentlemen, please be advised that this briefing is classified TOP SECRET. No part of what is to be given out here will be discussed outside these walls.
"Gentlemen, I am authorized to inform you that today is
[Oh, shit; here we go again. . . .]
"Our tasking is to provide both strategic and tactical intel to the Marine Expeditionary Force both immediately prior to and during the operation. The operation will unfold as follows. . . ."
[Damn it, couldn't they have waited until I retired for this? Well, this shouldn't take long. . . .]
"Our mission and support operations need to be in place on this island... here, no later than
"Sir. Number three is currently FMC, with 125 operational hours remaining until the next required maintenance cycle. Will this be sufficient?"
"Mmm, yes, more than sufficient. I'll need you to coordinate with Contract Maintenance Support and Military Airlift Command to set up our forward logistics base. Any questions?"
"Yes sir: What is our airlift priority with MAC?"
"A-1-A, Sergeant Halliday; top priority."
Yeah, right. "Very good, sir, I'll get right on it."
The days that followed could best be described as Hell on Earth. First, they couldn't make their minds as to where they wanted us. Then Air Force MAC turned their dainty little noses up at these smelly Army pukes that wanted to use their precious aircraft. Then there was trouble getting access to the forward staging area . . . I tore up my sixth load plan. . . .
My mate could sense that something was wrong, and did her best to soothe me. But I was showing up every night teetering on the edge of exhaustion, too tired to show any interest in her. Some nights I couldn't show up at all.
I could see her growing worried; perhaps thinking I was about to abandon her like her former mate. I nuzzled her, trying to soothe her in turn, but how could I explain human war to someone like her?
Finally, we began to pull the thing together: A site was finally decided upon. A call from the CG of the XVIII Airborne Corps, and suddenly MAC couldn't do enough for us. The bureaucrats and the bean counters were all flogged into submission, and things started to work.
The last three days were round-the-clock: We telephoned, trucked, packed, inventoried, fetched, stacked, yelled, loaded until we were staggering around in circles. Finally, though, the last C-141 left the strip to the weak cheers of my exhausted crew.
I watched the plane disappear into the early morning sky with a sense of relief, then shook my head. This was the last time: No more wars, no more druggies, no more spook shit, no more God-Damned military bureaucrats. This was it. I'd done my time, and now the rest of my life was mine.
And hers. . . .
I gave my crew the next two days off and sent them home, then closed shop. The walk back to the barracks passed in a blur, but I certainly remember my bed. I hoped she was forgiving, but even us dragons have limits, with it being worse in human form. Not even bothering taking off my boots I flopped down on top of my covers, took three deep breaths, and was gone.
Eighteen hours later it was dark again, and I was winging my way to my mate with the biggest cow I could find held tightly in my jaws. For three days I hadn't been able to see her, and I hoped she wouldn't be angry. It was the last time, though; another few weeks, and I would finally be free.
The waxing moon lit my way, and soon I reached her ragged little clearing and began to spiral in. I spotted my mate lying before the mouth of her den. Asleep so early? I was hurt: I'd thought she'd be watching and waiting for me. . . .
I quietly alighted, then padded toward her with my peace offering. Suddenly I slowed: Something was wrong. I set down our meal and moved forward, and as soon as my head cleared the dead steer it hit me like a wall:
Blood. The whole clearing stank of it.