Another Jack "Doc" Malone Short - Grenada Operation "Urgent Fury"
A Routine at Sea Turned to War
The USS Guam (LPH-9) cut through the rolling swells of the Caribbean with the steady, purposeful grace of a ship accustomed to the ceaseless motion of the ocean. The deck vibrated faintly beneath the boots of Marines and sailors as they went about their business, performing the thousand small tasks that kept an amphibious assault ship running smoothly. Overhead, the tropical sun burned bright, casting harsh shadows across the deck where a CH-46 Sea Knight sat idle, its rotors still but ready. The wind was warm, carrying the faint scent of salt and oil, mingling with the ever-present hum of machinery and the rhythmic clangs of boots on the non-skid deck above. Below decks, the ship's routine carried on with an almost monotonous predictability—drills, maintenance, briefings, chow, and the endless monotony of paperwork that came with military life.
HM1 Jack “Doc” Malone sat hunched over his desk in the medical bay, flipping through a stack of forms with the detached efficiency of a man who had long since stopped questioning the necessity of bureaucracy. The dim fluorescent light cast sharp shadows over the bulkhead, the steady creak of the ship’s hull filling the silence between his sighs. Malone sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing his eyes to stay open. The paperwork was endless—vaccine records, readiness reports, inventory sheets. He ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair, his fingers lingering momentarily at the back of his neck where the tension had settled. Malone wasn’t new to deployments—he’d been bouncing between ships and Marine units for years—but this one had been particularly dull. The Guam had spent the last several weeks on a standard cruise through the Caribbean, part of the 22nd Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU), attached to Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 2/8. It was routine—drills, training, port calls, more drills. Not that he minded. A boring deployment meant no one was getting killed. He’d take treating heat exhaustion and the occasional sprained ankle over stitching up gunshot wounds any day.
His pen scratched over a report, logging the latest round of vaccinations given to the Marines. His eyes flicked to the bulkhead clock. 1325. Another hour until he could grab a cup of coffee from the mess. He shook his head and went back to the forms.
He flicked his pen against the table, staring at the numbers, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
Instead of supply reports, Malone’s thoughts wandered to her.
Emily.
She was back home in Virginia, working her shifts at the naval hospital in Portsmouth. They had met two years ago while he was stationed there between deployments. She was an ER nurse—sharp, quick-witted, and beautiful in that natural, effortless way. Her dark hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, and she had this way of tilting her head when she smiled that could make a man forget where he was.
They had spent long weekends together when his schedule allowed, driving down to the Outer Banks, talking about everything and nothing. She had joked that she was better at patching up Marines than he was, and maybe she wasn’t wrong. But she had never asked him to stay. She knew the life he led.
Before he left for this deployment, she had kissed him outside the barracks at Camp Lejeune and told him, “Come back to me, Doc.”
He could still hear her voice in his head.
Outside, the familiar hum of shipboard life continued—Marines laughing in the passageway, the distant thump of rotor blades as a CH-46 went through pre-flight checks on the deck, the occasional bark of orders from senior enlisted. It was another day at sea, another day closer to home.
Shaking off the thoughts, he refocused on his work, signing off on the last of the vaccination reports. He had just capped his pen when the shipboard 1MC communication system crackled to life.
“All department heads and division officers report immediately to the wardroom.”
Malone’s pen stilled mid-signature. The announcement was clipped, urgent. Unmistakably different from the routine calls for drill meetings or standard briefings.
A beat of silence followed before the usual background noise resumed, but there was a shift now, a ripple of tension that passed through the ship like a cold wind. Malone pushed back from his desk, standing just as the door to sickbay swung open.
“Doc,” one of the corpsmen, HM3 Riley, stepped inside, brow furrowed. “You hear that?”
“Yeah,” Malone said, already pulling his duty blouse on over his khakis. “Something’s up.”
They stepped out into the passageway, where sailors and Marines moved with purpose, a low murmur of speculation carrying through the air. It wasn’t a drill—everyone could tell. The CO didn’t call all department heads in the middle of a routine deployment unless something serious had just landed on their plates.
The usual easy banter among Marines and sailors had quieted. Men moved with purpose. A few looked up as he passed, speculation written on their faces.
Malone made his way through the narrow, steel corridors, the faint scent of oil and saltwater thick in the air. He turned a corner and nearly ran into Captain Jennings, the ship’s senior medical officer.
“Sir,” Malone greeted, falling into step beside him.
Jennings, a seasoned Navy doctor in his early fifties, gave him a sideways glance. “Any idea what this is about, Malone?”
“No, sir,” Malone admitted. “But it’s got people on edge.”
Jennings grunted. “Damn right it does. Let’s see what kind of mess we’re walking into.”
They reached the wardroom to find it already filling with officers and senior enlisted personnel.
By the time they reached the wardroom, the space was already packed. Officers stood in tight clusters, murmuring among themselves. The XO, a tall, wiry man with graying temples, stood near the front, his arms crossed as he waited for the Captain to arrive. The ship’s department heads—combat systems, navigation, engineering—were present, their expressions unreadable.
The room was thick with speculation.
Malone grabbed a spot near the bulkhead, next to a Marine officer he recognized—Captain Evan Slater, the executive officer of BLT 2/8.
“What do you think this is?” Malone asked quietly.
Slater shook his head. “No clue. But they don’t call a meeting like this unless something serious just hit the fan.”
Before they could speculate further, the door opened, and someone called out sharply:
“Attention on deck!”
The room snapped to attention as Captain James Dwyer, the commanding officer of the Guam, strode inside, his expression unreadable. Captain James Dwyer was a career officer, a man with the calm, steady presence of someone who had seen a lot and knew when to keep his emotions in check. He walked to the podium at the front of the wardroom, his
“At ease,” Dwyer said, stepping to the front of the room. The officers relaxed, but the tension remained.
Dwyer took a breath, then began reading from the message in his hand.
“Gentlemen, as of 0900 this morning, President Ronald Reagan has authorized military action in Grenada. Operation Urgent Fury has been initiated.”
The room went dead silent.
Malone felt a cold weight settle in his gut.
“The situation on the ground has deteriorated,” Dwyer continued. “Cuban-backed forces have taken control. There are American citizens—students at the medical school—who are at risk. Our mission is to secure key objectives, neutralize hostile forces, and ensure the safety of American citizens.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Dwyer raised a hand. “We are now en route to Grenada. We expect contact within forty-eight hours.”
Dwyer’s eyes swept over the room.
“Major Reynolds,” he addressed the Marine detachment commander.
“Sir,” Reynolds responded.
“I don't have to tell you your job. But we need every Marine ready for combat. Review their packs, weapons, and equipment. We need to be sure that they are squared away before we hit the LZ. Please advise me or let me know if there is anything you need from me or the ship's staff to help you prepare.”
“Aye, sir.”
Dwyer turned back to the group. “Expect further briefings in the coming hours. For now, prepare your men. Dismissed.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Malone took a slow breath, his mind racing, pulse quickening.
This was it.
Routine had just turned into war.
Back in the medical bay, the mood had shifted. Marines and sailors were already talking in hushed, urgent voices. Weapons were being checked, gear inspected, orders issued.
Malone leaned against his desk, listening to the conversation in the passageway outside.
“Cuban forces, huh?” one Marine muttered. “Didn’t expect that.”
“They say we’ll be landing by helo. Straight in.”
“Gonna be a fight. No way those bastards give up easy.”
Malone ran a hand over his face. His first real action.
He’d trained for this. He’d patched up Marines in exercises, stitched their wounds after bar fights, pulled them from heat casualties on twenty-mile humps. But now? Now he might be pulling them off a battlefield.
He thought of his training, of the corpsmen who had come before him. The ones who had gone into combat with the Marines they swore to protect. Some made it home. Some didn’t.
His job wasn’t to fight. But he’d be right there in the thick of it.
Malone's mind drifted back, to a time a few years ago, as a young Second Class Corpsman, or HM2, in his Field Medical Service School training, in Camp Pendleton, CA, where he was immersed in a field medical exercise...
The scent of sagebrush and damp earth filled his nostrils, mixing with the sweat trickling down his temples. Doc Malone crouched low, his knees grinding into the loose dirt as the shouts of instructors and the simulated chaos of war echoed around him. The California sun beat down hard, baking the terrain, the hills rolling in the distance, dust hanging thick in the dry air.
“Corpsman! You got wounded over here!”
His head snapped toward the voice—one of the instructors, a grizzled HM1 with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual scowl. A Marine role-player lay sprawled in the dirt, covered in moulage makeup that simulated a gaping wound in his thigh. Fake blood oozed, pooling in the soil beneath him.
Malone sprinted forward, the weight of his medical pack bouncing against his back. He dropped to his knees, hands already moving.
“Stay with me, Marine,” he muttered, pulling trauma shears from his vest and slicing through the cammies, exposing the wound. The ‘blood’ was thick, seeping, realistic. His pulse spiked as he reached into his pack.
He heard the growled voice of an instructor behind him. “What’s the priority, Doc?”
Assess, prioritize, act.
“Femoral bleed—high priority!” Malone called back, yanking out a tourniquet and cinching it high on the Marine’s thigh. His fingers worked quickly, tightening until the bleeding slowed. The “casualty” groaned, playing his part.
“Talk to him, Doc! Keep him in the fight!”
Malone leaned close. “You’re good, Marine. Tourniquet’s on. You’re going home.”
The next steps came in rapid succession. He packed the wound with gauze, pressed down hard, and checked for other injuries. Simulated battle noises filled the air—distant gunfire, the occasional crack of an instructor setting off a training charge.
Another cry. Another casualty.
Malone’s mind raced as he glanced up. Down the dirt path, another Marine clutched his chest, moaning.
“Move, Doc! You got another one!”
He glanced at his first patient. Stable. He patted the Marine’s shoulder. “Hang in there.”
Then he was up, running toward the next one. The ‘wounded’ Marine was struggling for breath, fake blood coating his flak. Tension pneumothorax.
Malone slid to his knees, yanked an IV catheter from his kit, and without hesitation, jabbed it into the Marine’s chest, second intercostal space, midclavicular line—just like they’d drilled over and over.
A hiss of air escaped. The ‘casualty’ took a deep breath, exaggerated for effect.
“Good stick, Malone,” came the gruff voice of the HM1. “IV next. Get fluids going.”
His hands were steady as he prepped the saline bag, spiked it, and slid the needle into the Marine’s arm. He taped it down, watching the fluid drip into the line.
Then the whistle blew.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! Training complete!”
Malone rocked back on his heels, breathless. Around him, other corpsmen were wiping sweat from their brows, instructors critiquing their work.
The HM1 loomed over him. “Not bad, Malone.”
Not bad. That was as close to praise as it got.
As he stood, flexing his stiff knees, he glanced down at his hands—sticky with the fake blood, the scent of antiseptic mixing with the dirt and sweat.
Someday, it wouldn’t be training. It wouldn’t be fake blood.
And that day had come.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
“Doc,” a voice said. It was Corporal Eddie “Eagle” Martinez, one of the Marines he’d gotten to know over the deployment. “Looks like we’re gonna need you in this one.”
Malone nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”
And just like that, the USS Guam sailed toward war.
Slater clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like this just got real, Doc.”
“Yeah,” Malone murmured. “It sure as hell did.”
Malone rubbed his hands together.
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