1. U.S.S
Reaper is point, that hot, wet dusk on the edge of the methane fields, five miles north of the fuel-processing center. Reaper is buzz-cut, clean-shaven, with sharp features, two dark slashes for eyebrows, and dark eyes as grim as his name. His real name is John Grimm; the other guys called him Reaper, and by now he answers to it. Monikers are a tradition in their unit.
Suddenly, the quiet crackle of the radio interrupted his thoughts. "Command just got eyes on you, John. Looks like this mission's drawing some attention from high up," his sergeant muttered, a strange edge in his voice. "They called you by another name. Thought you should know."
Reaper's brow furrowed. "Another name?"
"Yeah. Mr.Death."
John's lips twitched into a thin smile. "Guess it was only a matter of time."
The guy coming through the Amazonian rain forest after Reaper is just Kaplan; and after him, part of their single-file patrol is a bulky, implacable black man, who goes by James "One" which be a nickname to induce eye-rolling if he hadn't earned it thirty times; then, tall and wiry, comes J.D.
After James and J.D is Jumper—a red-haired soldier twitchy with nervous energy, perpetual loopy grin, and a humorous squint to his green eyes, always spoiling for a fight. His real last name is Cable—he's been there for Reaper since boot camp.
Bringing up the rear is Rain, she hasn't been with them long and hasn't earned a combat name.
Each man wears a helmet with headsets, lightly armored cammies, and Umbrella insignia on one shoulder. Each carries an M-10.
0 combination assault rifle and grenade launcher—they've been specially assigned for the mission…
Maybe not the right weapons, Reaper is thinking. Their usual arsenal is what they'd trained with…
James draws up beside him, on the edge of the clearing. Reaper slings his rifle over his shoulder and raises his right hand to signal a halt, the other hand wiping sweat from his head as he scans the tree line. Interlocked umbrella-shaped trees, branchless for a hundred feet up, make a canopy over most of the rainforest. The path leads through the clearing to the methane fields, but there is no way Reaper is going to take his men into that clearing, an ideal spot for an ambush, without checking it out first. Intel has anti-guerillas heading for the general area of the methane fields, probably bent on sabotaging something Umbrella has hidden here. Maybe they'll hit this one—or maybe not.
"These rifles—I think we're in a goddamn test drive…" Reaper adds, swinging the rifle back into readiness again.
"We're testing these weapons?" James asks softly, looking down at his weapon. "You mean all they did was, like, fire at some targets somewhere?"
"That's what I mean. M-100 hasn't been significantly field-tested. Meaning not tested for reaction to humidity, for starters."
"And goddamn if it ain't humid here," says James, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
"We should've brought our regular ordnance, left these in the…Hold on, you see something move, over about three o'clock, under that tree there?"
"That tree? That's like pointing out a snowflake in a blizzard."
"That yellowish one that's leaning, James—look, right there, two frog's hairs to the left—"
"I make the tree, but I don't see any—wait. Yeah. There's someone there…I see a weapon! Let's hit cover, John."
Reaper nods and signals the others. The patrol melts back into the underbrush—but they've been spotted and some anxious guerilla opens fire. A flock of something red and feathery takes to the air, startled by the rattling submachine gun…Twigs and leaves shower down close to the patrol as the SMG rounds cut through the brush.
"Anybody hit?"
"No."
"Negative…How many are there?"
"No telling. Kaplan, James, you head northeast, see if you can flank them, you other guys with me…But not you, Jumper…"
"Yes, sir?"
"Jumper, I'm just a corporal, and you don't have to call me sir, goddammit…"
"Hey—I like calling you sir, you're such macho hot pants of a swingin' dick."
"And you're a talented comic. Now lay some fire down over at three o'clock, do not expose yourself…" Knowing that was contradictory directions. Firing at the enemy would itself expose Jumper.
"Deploying…sir!" Jumper grins and, hunching down, slips off into the brush as another probing strafe of SMG fire chips across a tree trunk, just over their heads.
"Permission to return fire, sir," J.D. says.
"Nah, not yet," Reaper answers. "You and Rain watch my six, I'm gonna push their lines, see how far I can get before they push back…"
"Roger that."
Hunched over, Reaper leads J.D. and Rain around to the right, skirting the edge of the clearing. It's getting darker: shadows lengthening, air seeming to thicken to transparent blue gel as the sun eases into the horizon. He hears stuttering gunfire from Jumper, jabbing at the guerillas' flank and hears the guerillas returning fire.
Reaper hurries, trying to take advantage of the decoy fire, and finds himself in a narrow opening in the leaf-carpeted, underbrush-
And suddenly there's a young guerilla, SMG in his hands, popping up from behind a lichen-coated fallen tree, his face drawn in fear as he fires sloppily at them—firing in sheer hysteria.
Reaper fires back, and the guerilla goes spinning backward, seeming to fall in slow motion…
Rain vaults the log, comes down beside the kid, gun butt at ready to smash his head in if he's still got any fight in him…Hesitates. Stares.
The young guerilla—not more than fifteen years old, Reaper guesses—has been torn open just under the rib cage by the close-range burst from Reaper, and he's lying on his back twisting like a salted slug. Whimpering.
In the glass coffin, Reaper twisted his body exactly as the kid had…
The boy is moaning something in his language. Reaper knew Spanish so he understood him immediately. "I'm sorry," the kid repeats himself. "Sorry, I let them know we were there…I made up for it, Uncle, didn't I? I made them come to me…"
It hits Reaper that they are the ones who've been decoyed.
He puts a bullet in the boy's forehead, avoiding looking into his eyes as he does this, and heads for the clearing, touching the headset's transmission node. "Jumper—they're flanking you, we were decoyed over here, they're—
"I've got 'em, Reaper, I can hold 'em till you get here—"
Gunfire racketing from the jungle.
"—I can hold 'em if…dammit it quit on me again…" His voice in the headset lost in crackle for a moment.
"What? What quit on you?"
"This fucking M-100, John, it's jamming, it's—I can't get the grenade launcher to work either—oh fuck here they come…where's James? James! Rain!"
"Reaper—don't go out there!"
Ignoring J.D.'s warnings, Reaper breaks from cover, and sprints across the grassy clearing, risking both mines and small-arms fire—as bullets make blades of grass, just behind him, fly like cuttings from a mower.
"James!" Reaper shouts into the headset, "Can you guys get Jumper's back?"
"Negative, we're pinned down! My rifle's only working every third round!"
Reaper tries his auto rifle grenade launcher, and he's in luck: he fires a grenade into the jungle, just where the muzzle flash had been. Sees the blast, and hears a scream.
Then he reaches the line of trees, punches through like brush like a linebacker through defense, swearing, shouting for Jumper…
Finds him sitting up against a tree, with the upper half of his head shot almost evenly away.
Nothing left but some nose, and a gaping, blood-drooling mouth.
The guerilla who killed Jumper turns, seeing Reaper running at him—and that's when Reaper's gun jams. But it doesn't matter, because he's using the butt, roaring as he smashes the man's forehead in, throws the rifle at another guerilla, draws his sidearm, and snaps off three pistol shots in two faces. Those two go down, but more are coming—then Kaplen and Rain are there, firing from the hip, their weapons choosing to work.
Reaper screams and fires and screams and…
"John? Are you okay?" The therapist's face—a pretty girl if a bit pudgy—smiling down at him. "How do you feel?"
He thought: Like I'd like to kill you and everyone in here.
But aloud he said, "I want to go back to my fucking unit."
Reaper was packing his bag, almost cheerful for the first time since they'd gotten back from their tour of the methane fields. How long had it been, six weeks? Seemed like a year.
He snorted, as he put a T-shirt in the bag, thinking: "battle stress." That pretty term for how you felt when you blew a fifteen-year-old kid in half, then found you'd let the closest thing you had to a friend get his head shot off because you'd misread the situation…
And because I agreed to use untested rifles.
The humidity had made the M-100s lock up—they all knew that could happen with cheap ordnance. And Umbrella was cutting corners on the weaponry.
Sarge had trusted him with that patrol—and it'd gone south; it was his cluster-fuck, no one else's. And that kid…probably had been a guerilla for about an hour and a half.
Reaper turned to look at the others, wondering if they thought he was some kind of liability, being ordered to therapy.
But they were just chilling in the barracks here in Raccoon City.
James "One" Shade, their second leader of the squad, lean and focused, played video games. One had always been the tactical brains of the group, but Sarge—he was the iron fist when things got ugly. Their partnership was unconventional, but it worked.
The others were getting ready for leave, too, or already packed.
The new kid—Kid, they called him, imaginatively enough—wasn't going on leave. He'd just gotten here: Jumper's replacement. A gangly nineteen-year-old, the Kid was sweeping the floor with an old-fashioned broom—they made him use the broom, although maintenance had sonic sweepers. He looked lost and miserable.
Kaplan was pitching oranges the length of the room to J.D., who was "up to bat," teeth bared.
Reaper thought about complaining about the mess they were making as J.D. swung the bat, making the orange into a juicy, disintegrating ground ball spattering down the aisle between the bunks…but Reaper didn't feel like a hard-ass today. Let Sarge deal with it.
Behind J.D. was a cardboard cutout of a naked girl wearing a catcher's mask. She caught the next orange on her right breast, as J.D. whiffed one. Juice ran down her exquisitely taut tummy.
The barracks normally smelled of sweat, leather, and boot-black—but they were getting ready for vacation, so tonight it smelled of aftershave and hair gel.
"I don't fucking believe this shit," Rain said, banging her watch on the end of her metal-frame bunk. She glared at the watch, then at the clock on the wall, comparing. "Six months without a weekend, and the fuckin' transport's five minutes late. That's five minutes of vacation I'll never get back."
"Relax," James said, not looking up from his game. "You're on vacation."
Rain stuck her hands in her pockets, scowling, and came to look over James' shoulders. "Why do you play those fuckin' stupid old games?"
James shot down another video invader with a practiced snap of his index finger. "You ever play chess, Rain? Some games will never die."
Rain walked away, snorting. James shook his head sadly at Rains' ingrained philistinism. "This game was layered, man."
Kaplan tossed an orange up, caught it, tested its weight in the palm of his hand as he looked for a pitch opening. "So where are you going, J.D.?"
J.D. did a couple of near-light-speed practice swings with the bat, grinning as he thought about his leave. "Grover Island. Surfin'. I'm telling you, man, their weather is crazy. Thirty-foot breakers."
J.D. put his finger meditatively to his mouth and licked orange juice. "How about you, Rain?" he asked. Every so often one of them remembered to try to "include" Rain.
"I'm goin' go down to El Honto," Rain said, a dreamy look coming into her eyes, just as if she was going to talk about sitting on the porch with her dear old granny, "lock myself in a motel with a bottle of tequila."
J.D. made a face at that but said nothing.
Kaplan pitched his citrus baseball—J.D. swung, hit the orange dead on. It angled like a meteor across the barracks and smacked wetly into the wall just above James' head. Fingers dancing over keyboard and mouse, James didn't even flinch.
Another orange whooshed by, just missing J.D.'s left ear. Maybe Kaplan did that on purpose—being a practical joker, he probably did.
"Where you going, Kid?" James asked, still not looking up.
The Kid paused in his brooming. Everyone looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Me? Oh…I gotta stay here."
Rain made a bogus sound of sympathy. "Oh, that's tragic. Grunt's been here, like, ninety seconds. He ain't never been in rotation."
Kaplan reached into his bag of oranges. "Sorry, Kid, you don't get vacation till you've at least been shot at…"
Head ducked low, Rain shot the Kid a glare. "My heart fuckin' bleeds for you. Sweep up, you fuckin' pussy."
James clucked his tongue in disapproval of Rain's tone. "Hey, this kid was the best marksman in his entire division. Don't listen to 'em, Kid. We're all glad to have you here." After a moment he added, "Now sweep up, you fuckin' pussy."
Everyone laughed at that, even the Kid. Okay, so not everyone, after all: Reaper hadn't laughed since the last assignment. Right now, the Kid saw, as he swept his broom into an alcove off the main room, Reaper was sitting at a table, assembling and disassembling a heavy, gunmetal black light machine gun so fast his fingers blurred. The Kid whistled in admiration at Reaper's skill.
"How fast, sir?" he asked.
"Not fast enough," Reaper said.
Reaper assembled the weapon again. His fingers, picking up components and snapping them into place, seem to have a life of their own.
"Looks damn fast to me, sir," the Kid said.
Reaper looked at him. "Call me John, Kid. I work for a living, just like you."
The Kid smiled. But the uncertainty must've been there in his face anyway, because Reaper added, "Give it time, Kid. You'll get it."
"What about you, Reaper?" Kaplan asked, raising his voice so Reaper could hear, in his alcove, tossing an orange from hand to hand. "Where you going?"
Reaper didn't answer.
They all turned to look—they knew about the incident. They'd picked up on his mood, anyway, you couldn't miss it.
You felt the burn of his bad mood like a tanning light on sunburn, Kaplan thought."Yeah, what's it gonna be, Reaps?"
James asked—actually glancing up from the game this time. "An armed conflict someplace quiet."
"Little relaxing jungle warfare?" Rain chimed in.
James grinned. "Or you gonna stay here cleanin' your piece, doing push-ups?"
Reaper winked at the Kid and picked up his rifle. "Well you know, James, I thought maybe I'd drop by your mom's house, wait in line."
The others laughed. James didn't. Reaper just stared him down.
Reaper didn't feel like letting them know that for once he was looking forward to Vacation. He figured maybe a break would get him into another frame of mind. Anything so he could stop thinking about Jumper. That day in the jungle. He put the gun aside and went to pack his duffel.
But he was wasting his time, packing for leave.
He didn't know it yet, but he wasn't going on vacation.
He was going to Hell.
In the dimly lit, spartan NCO quarters down the hall, sat the NCO himself, the guy whose men just called him Sarge. He sat on his bunk, shirtless, staring at a blank wall. Big guy. About as muscular as you can be without being pussy enough to resort to steroids. Head shaved, dark skin reflecting his indeterminate racial mix. But you could see the tattoos—he's a living canvas for tattoos muraling his massive shoulders, down his arms, across his chest: each one a souvenir of a campaign, or an invasion—an invasion of a whorehouse, in some cases.
Anybody just walking in might've thought he was talking to himself, till they noticed the headset.
"Go ahead…" He listened. Nodded to himself. "Access level of threat," he said. "Code black. Containment or quarantine…"
He was repeating what someone was saying to him, verifying, confirming it to memory.
"…Extreme prejudice…Search and destroy…Orders received and understood."
Sarge stood up and shrugged into a Cammie T-shirt, already on his way out the door, down the hall, his big boots ringing on the steps down to the barracks.
At the bottom of the stairs, he took one step out into the barracks, and the laughter in the room ceased. Everyone looked at him with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
"Ah, shit," Rain muttered.
Something in Sarge's face, his whole manner clued them into what was coming.
"Listen up," Sarge said. A voice like an electric bass on its lowest note. The Marshall amp's volume knob was on three but it could go up to ten. "Leave is canceled."
The men looked at one another. Amazement. Disgust. Wry resignation. No one with the nerve to complain, though it was obvious from Rain's expression that she'd like to. Finally, looking at those expressions, J.D. had to laugh out loud.
"You got a problem, J.D.?" Sarge asked.
"Me, Sarge? Hell, no. I love my job." J.D. smiled sunnily.
Rain grinned.
Sarge just looked back at him, his dark, deeply etched face almost expressionless.
It was time to ask the obvious question. They waited. Finally, Kaplan asked it. "Whassup, Sarge?"
"We got us a game." He looked at the Kid. "Kid—you're up."
The Kid leaned his broom against a locker. Reaper could tell he didn't know what to do with himself after that. Just sort of stood there in the middle of the floor.
"You're in the U.S.S. now, boy," Sarge went on. "And what do we do in the U.S.S.?"
Everyone responded to that one at once: "Pray for war!" Reaper was thinking maybe it was better this way. In some part of his mind, he'd been afraid he might be a loose cannon in the civilian community. The way he'd been feeling, it might be dangerous if he got drunk.
He didn't want to spend any time in prison. Not even a civilian one.
Sarge glanced around, making sure everyone was ready.
"Before we head out, I want to introduce Warner and Danilova. Danilova will be our medic."
"Nice to meet you all," Danilova said with a nod, her voice steady. Warner gave a brief wave, a smirk on his face.
"Let's hope we don't need her skills too soon," Reaper remarked.
"Just don't get yourself hurt, Grimm," Warner shot back. "I'd rather not play doctor today."
"Fall in," Sarge told them, his eyes on Reaper as he spoke.
Rain growled deep in her throat but fell in with the others to file out of the room, heading upstairs.
"Great vacation," J.D. muttered to Kaplan, as they went.
"They go so quick, don't they?"
"Almost like we've never been away."
Reaper started to go with them—but Sarge stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Not this time, Reaper."
"What?" Reaper was genuinely surprised.
"Take the vacation. We can handle this one."
"We got a game, Sarge." The term in this unit's argot meant it was going to be tough—balls-out, hard-core tough. Yeah: maybe that was just what he needed. Something so demanding there'd be no time to think. That was another problem with vacation: you had too much time to think.
"We got a game, I'm ready." And Reaper started obstinately for the stairs.
"It's the Hive" Sarge said, simply.
Reaper stopped in his tracks. A shiver went through him. A feeling like superstitious dread.
"Hive?"
"Just take the leave."
"Is that an order?"
"It's a recommendation."
Reaper stopped for a moment by the thought of the Hive. The personal ramifications of it.
But those connections were exactly why he had to go…
Still. It'd be hard to be objective.
Sarge looked at him—then turned and climbed the stairs, leaving him alone to think.
But thinking was something Reaper was trying to avoid, lately.
U.S.S. Without Reaper, was crossing the tarmac in the predawn grayness. They were headed to the big, armored transport chopper, already warming up, its rotors lazily turning. It showed their squadron's insignia: a red and white umbrella.
They clambered into the large troop bay of the chopper and went immediately to their spots along the face-to-face wall-mounted jump seats.
Each one grabbed a weapon from the overhead rack—the one they specialized in, or, in the case of the Kid, the ones they were cleared for.
J.D. grabbed the double-barreled, multi-round shotgun…
"Any idea where we're going?" the Kid asked, getting his ordnance down from the rack.
"Yeah," J.D. said, slinging an extra ammo chain over his shoulder. "Wherever they send us."
Rain grabbed the M4 carbine, modified with an under-barrel grenade launcher and a sight for better accuracy. Rain chuckled, hefting her weapon.
The Kid started for a chaingun, but J.D. shook his head at him. He hadn't been cleared for the weapon yet. The Kid sighed and took the two handheld semiautomatic.
Kaplen took the massive Grenade Launcher off the rack. He made a low growling Mmmm sound as he hefted it, like a man who's just bitten into a perfect cut of steak. This was so much better than the M-100.
Warner stepped up, scanning the racks. He settled on an M249 SAW, the belt-fed machine gun feeling familiar in his grip. "This should do the trick," he said with a confident nod.
Danilova, on the other hand, chose a compact MP5 submachine gun. "I'll stick with something versatile," she said, ensuring the safety was off before slinging it across her shoulder. "And I have my medical gear if things go sideways."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Warner replied, giving her an encouraging smile. "Just keep your eyes on our six."
Danilova smirked. "You just focus on keeping the bad guys down, and I'll do the rest."
James "One" lit a cigarette with one hand, grabbed his automag with the other: light, similar to a Mack 10, but chockablock with lethal rounds, it had decent long-range accuracy.He twirled the automag.
"Oh yeah," James said.
A huge hand reached into the overhead rack, in one scoop—in that one hand—taking both a sniper rifle and a big 65mm pistol. He took the rifle in one hand——and stuck the pistol in his holster.
"All set?" Sarge asked.
He turned to shout the liftoff order to the chopper pilot up forward…"Hold it!" came a deep voice from the tarmac—someone just outside the chopper passenger hatch. They all turned as one to see John "Reaper" Grimm entering, dressed for combat, complete with helmet.
"You sure about this?" Sarge asked, his voice soft, as discreet as he could manage in the circs.
For answer, Reaper selected his handheld machine gun: lighter than the chaingun but lethal close in, with good accuracy for longer ranges. Reliable—no matter the humidity.
Reaper turned and met Sarge's eyes. Gave out a tiny smile. Sarge nodded.
"Take us up!"
The chopper lifted off, carrying the squadron to the Arklay Mountains.
Inside the humming aircraft, the team sat in silence, the sound of the rotors cutting through the tense air. Reaper leaned back against the hull, eyes fixed on the horizon.
As the minutes passed, Sarge glanced over, studying him, something heavy in his expression.
"Always wondered," Sarge muttered, just loud enough for Reaper to hear over the noise. "They ever call you something else? Back in the old days?"
Reaper's gaze flickered, just for a second. He leaned in closer to Sarge, his voice low, almost drowned out by the rotors. "Some did," he said quietly, his tone carrying an edge of finality. "HUNK."
"Wait…you're HUNK? The HUNK?" The Kid breathed, awe creeping into his voice.
Reaper said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. He didn't need to confirm it.
The whir of the helicopter blades drowned out all other sounds as the U.S.S. team descended toward the ominous mansion. Sarge gripped the edge of his seat, scanning the surroundings through the window. The moonlight illuminated the darkened estate.
"Prepare for insertion!" Sarge shouted over the roar of the engines. The team secured their gear, adrenaline coursing through them as the chopper hovered above the ground.
With a sharp command, they jumped from the helicopter, cables trailing behind them as they swung into action.
The windows of the mansion loomed ahead, their glass glinting in the night. The U.S.S. members broke through with precision, shattering the silence of the interior as they entered.
As the U.S.S. team burst through the shattered windows, chaos erupted in the room. Glass crunched underfoot, and the soldiers moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
Matt Addison, already on high alert, instinctively reached for his Beretta, drawing the weapon in a swift motion.
"Stop right there!" he shouted, pointing the gun at the nearest soldier.
In an instant, Reaper lunged forward, grabbing Matt's wrist and twisting it violently. The gun clattered to the ground as Matt was slammed face-first onto the floor, the wind knocked out of him.
Reaper's weight pressed down hard on Matt's back, pinning him in place.
"Get off me!" Matt struggled, gritting his teeth against the pain.
"I'm a cop! I'm a—"
"Doesn't matter," Reaper said, a low, menacing tone in his voice as he cuffed Matt's hands behind his back.
"You're not in charge here." Reaper removed the cop's handcuffs from his back belt loop while Rain rooted through his jacket to pull out his wallet.
"You're breaking my arm," the cop said as Reaper handcuffed his arms behind his back.
Sarge turned to Alice, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. "Report," he commanded, his voice steady and authoritative, a clear demand that brooked no dissent. Alice opened her mouth to respond, her mind racing with a jumble of thoughts. Who was this man, and what did he want from her?
Before she could utter a word, the unmistakable sound of heavy boots pounded against the wooden floor. The USS soldiers exchanged wary glances, their attention momentarily diverted.
"Did you hear that?" one of them asked, tightening his grip on Matt as they all turned toward the noise.
In an instant, the door swung open, and 4 members of the STARS team stormed into the room, weapons drawn and ready. Their tactical gear glinted in the dim light, and a palpable sense of determination radiated from them.
"Put your weapons down!" Chris Redfield shouted, his voice commanding as he took in the chaotic scene. His eyes quickly darted from Alice to Matt, who was still pinned on the ground.
"More company!" Sarge snarled, his demeanor shifting from authoritative to defensive in an instant. He stepped back, creating a barrier between his men and the newly arrived STARS operatives.
The room erupted into chaos, the air crackling with tension as both teams assessed each other, weapons trained and fingers twitching on triggers.
"Stand down!" Jill Valentine demanded, stepping forward, her gun aimed steadily at the USS leader.
"Everyone, just stay calm," Sarge growled, his eyes shifting between the STARS members. "No one has to get hurt if we can talk this out."
"Drop your weapons, or we will respond with force," Jill warned, her voice steady and firm.
Both sides remained locked in their intense standoff. What happens now? The fate of everyone in the room was anyone's guess.