Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Arrival
The sun of Iraq did not shine—it scorched. A merciless, white-hot ball hanging in a sky bleached pale, it burned all life from the air, which shimmered over the ground like over a red-hot stove. The C-130 aircraft, roaring with engines, seemed like a giant metal insect that had come to this inhospitable place to die. Carina DeLuca stepped off its ramp, which had clanged down onto the concrete.
The first wave of hot air was a physical blow. It seared her lungs; the air smelled of scorched metal, dust, and something alien, bitter—the smell of war, which she had only known from textbooks and her brother's stories until now. Carina froze for a moment, squinting against the blinding light, trying to breathe, but the air felt thick and burning.
"Madonna, what am I doing here?" shot through her mind like a panicked, sharp needle. Rome, its noisy, history-soaked alleys, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries from the neighboring bakery—all of it felt like a dream from another life. A life where she was just Carina, a promising young doctor, not Private DeLuca, a medic in the hottest spot on the planet.
Her fingers, clad in rough camouflage fabric, involuntarily tightened on the strap of her backpack, stuffed with meager belongings and medical manuals that now seemed like childish toys. She felt like a raw nerve—exposed, vulnerable, and screamingly out of place in this lunar landscape dotted with barbed wire and low concrete bunkers.
"Hold on, sis. The first fifteen minutes are the scariest."
Her brother Andrew's voice sounded like a sip of cool water. He appeared as if from nowhere, his own camo uniform fitting him as naturally as a second skin. A tanned, weathered face, short-cropped dark hair, and familiar, slightly mocking brown eyes that now held genuine concern. He hugged her shoulders, briefly and in a soldierly, rough way, but for Carina, that touch was an anchor.
"Andrea—" she exhaled, almost childishly clinging to his solid arm.
"Let's go, rookie," he smiled, but his eyes were wary. "Captain Bishop doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Captain Bishop. The very commander, a base legend, about whom Andrew had written in his rare letters with restraint and immense respect. The "Iron Lady," "a soldier to the core." Carina pictured a stern, masculine woman with a face carved from granite.
They walked along a dusty road, skirting puddles of motor oil and piles of crates. Base "Sector Delta" was a beehive, teeming with life, but a strictly regulated one. Soldiers in various gear moved with purposeful speed, armored personnel carriers rumbled, a saw whined somewhere in the distance. The air vibrated with the low hum of generators. And everywhere—sand. Fine, pervasive, it crunched between her teeth, got under her nails, coated everything in a thin yellowish film.
And suddenly, all this noise, all this bustle froze for Karina. Not because it stopped, but because her attention was riveted to a single figure standing at the entrance to a low administrative building.
It was her. Captain Bishop.
And she looked nothing like Carina had imagined.
She was… honed. Like a blade of Damascus steel. Of average height, but with such posture that she seemed taller than everyone around. The camouflage uniform fit her toned, muscular frame perfectly, emphasizing a slender waist and strong shoulders. Her arms, crossed over her chest, were sinewy and strong. Short hair, barely touching her shoulders, the color of ripe wheat, gleamed gold under the scorching sun. And her face… It wasn't coarse or masculine. It was beautiful in its strict, uncompromising symmetry. High cheekbones, a straight nose, a stubborn chin. But the main thing—the eyes. Blue, like the sky over the desert on rare cool days, and just as merciless. They held no warmth, two shards of ice scanning the surroundings with cold, analytical precision.
And right now, those eyes were fixed on Karina.
Maya Bishop watched the arriving reinforcements with her usual feeling—a mix of responsibility, fatigue, and eternal vigilance. Her base. Her team. Her area of responsibility. Every new person was a potential threat to the well-oiled machine she had honed to perfection over the years. A weak link could cost lives.
She noticed Sergeant DeLuca rushing to the plane. Andrew. An excellent soldier, reliable, level-headed. But too emotional when it came to his sister. Maya saw him hug the fragile, dark-haired girl, and her mouth tightened into a thin line. Family ties in war were a luxury no one could afford. That was a vulnerability. And vulnerability killed.
And now she was looking at that very vulnerability. Private Carina DeLuca. Medic. Rookie. Ben Warren's recommendation. Maya mentally ran through her file: brilliant academic success, excellent recommendations from a civilian hospital, but zero field experience. Zero. A blank slate that had to be filled in here, in hell, where a mistake cost not a failed exam, but someone's life.
"Perfect, Warren. Just perfect. You send me a hothouse plant into the desert," Maya thought with a touch of irritation.
The girl was approaching, and Maya studied her with merciless thoroughness. Skin too pale, untouched yet by the Iraqi sun and dust. Large, dark eyes, like ripe olives, filled with frank, unconcealed fear. They looked huge on her small, almost doll-like face. She walked, trying to keep up with her brother, but her movements were stiff, uncertain, as if she was afraid to make an extra gesture, to take up too much space.
She's breaking already. Just from being here.
Maya felt the familiar cold tension in her shoulders. She would have to break her. Quickly and without sentiment. Remelt this soft, frightened bundle of nerves into something even remotely resembling a soldier. For her own good. For the good of the team.
She saw Carina's gaze dart around, freeze on a helicopter, on a group of armed soldiers, and real panic flash in her eyes. Good. Fear was a healthy reaction. Stupidity was not. It remained to be seen which would prevail.
Andrew said something to her, and they headed towards Maya. She didn't move, didn't take a step to meet them. Let them walk the entire distance under her gaze. This was the first test.
Carina felt her legs going numb under that icy gaze. It seemed Captain Bishop could see right through her—all her doubts, all her unprofessional terror, all those nights she cried, already regretting her decision. Saw and despised.
"She hates me." The thought came with desperate clarity. She hasn't said a word yet, but she already hates me.
"Captain Bishop, may I present Private Carina DeLuca, reporting for duty as a medic," Andrew reported, and his voice sounded unusually formal and tense.
Karina instinctively straightened up, trying to mimic her brother's bearing. She felt the sand grating between her teeth, the sun burning through the fabric of her uniform on her shoulders.
The captain's blue eyes slowly lifted from the documents she had been mentally reviewing and bored into Karina again. Time seemed to stop.
"Private DeLuca," the captain said. Her voice was low, even, devoid of any emotional inflection. It cut through the air like a blade. There was no warmth in it, no greeting, only a statement of fact.
"Yes, ma'am!" Carina blurted out, and her own voice sounded squeaky and childish to her.
Maya Bishop took a step forward. She was slightly shorter than Carina, but the feeling of her overwhelming presence was as if she were looking down from two meters up.
"Your academic achievements are impressive, Private," she said, and Carina dared to hope for a moment. But the hope died before it was born. "Here, in Sector Delta, we are not interested in grades. Here, we are interested in only one thing—the ability not to fail the person to your left and right when bullets are whistling and shells are exploding. Do you understand the difference?"
Every word was honed and cold as a bullet.
"Yes, ma'am," Carina squeaked again. "I understand."
"I doubt it," Bishop parried, and her gaze slid over the perfectly pressed but still baggy uniform on Carina. "But we will find out. Did Sergeant DeLuca inform you of the rules on my base?"
"He... I..." Karina floundered, feeling her face burn.
"'Yes, ma'am' or 'no, ma'am,' Private. There is no room for extra words here."
"No, ma'am!" Carina almost shouted.
The corner of the captain's perfect lips twitched a millimeter. It wasn't a smile. It was an expression of contemptuous understanding.
"Rule one," she pronounced, crossing her arms again. "On my base, there are no brothers and sisters. There is Sergeant DeLuca and Private DeLuca. Your family ties remained outside the perimeter. Violation of this rule will be considered insubordination. Is that clear?"
Carina felt her heart stop. She shot a quick glance at Andrew, who stood staring into space ahead, his face a stone mask.
"Yes, ma'am," she whispered.
"I didn't hear you."
"Yes, ma'am!" Carina shouted, a lump forming in her throat.
"Rule two. You are a medic. Your task is to save lives. But to save someone else's life, you must first be able to preserve your own. Your inexperience is a time bomb for my entire unit. You will learn. Quickly. You will listen. Carefully. And you will follow orders. Unquestioningly. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Good." Captain Bishop cast a final, assessing glance, as if mentally checking a box next to her name on some list. "Sergeant DeLuca, get the private settled. She's assigned to Second Platoon. Tomorrow at 0600 she reports to the parade ground for formation. Tardiness is unacceptable."
Without granting Karina another glance or word, Captain Bishop turned on her heel and walked away, her straight back and confident stride speaking of complete mastery of this space, this base, this life.
Karina stood rooted to the spot, feeling a tremor run down her spine. The air she finally inhaled deeply burned her lungs again.
"Let's go, Private," Andrew said quietly, and in his voice, she heard not brotherly support, but the dry, official tone of a sergeant.
She nodded, unable to utter a word, and followed him, feeling dozens of curious and evaluative eyes on her. She had been here only five minutes but already understood one simple thing: surviving here would be a thousand times harder than she could have imagined. And the cold blue eyes of Captain Bishop would haunt her even in her dreams.
Maya walked across the base, her steps quick and precise. The encounter replayed in her head.
"Too soft. Too scared. Eyes like a cornered deer." She mentally thanked Ben for the headache and mentally sent him a couple of unflattering epithets.
She entered her quarters—a Spartan room with an iron bed, a desk, and a map of the area on the wall. She took off her cap, ran a hand through her short hair. The pale, frightened face of the newly minted medic rose before her mind's eye again.
"She won't make it," an inner voice stated with cold certainty. "She'll break at the first firefight, and someone might die trying to cover her."
But then, against her will, her memory recalled not just the fear in those huge dark eyes. It recalled the determination with which she had still straightened up under her gaze. The determination with which she forced herself to shout "Yes, ma'am!" There was not only panic in them. There was will. A huge, untapped will, hiding beneath a layer of terror.
Maya stabbed the button on the communicator forcefully.
"Herrera, to me. Let's discuss the patrol schedule for next week."
She chased away the intrusive image. She had no time for doubts. She had a base, a team, a war. And Private DeLuca was just another problem to solve. Quickly and efficiently. As she always did.
But somewhere deep inside, in a place she had long and carefully locked away, something stirred, akin to a strange, almost forgotten feeling. Not pity. Never pity. But something… sharp. Something that made her remember precisely those eyes, and not the eyes of dozens of other recruits who had passed through her base.
She shook her head forcefully, banishing this weakness. She was Captain Maya Bishop. And she had no room for anything but duty.