Chapter 12
Dozens of mechanics, grease-stained and disheveled, were standing in scattered, uncertain lines along the edges of the concrete bays. They stood with their grease rags forgotten in their hands, their mouths slightly open as they watched the unfolding spectacle.
Four massive, matte-black armored Chevrolet Suburbans, their windows completely blacked out and their grills flashing with hidden red and blue emergency lights, had formed a perfect, defensive perimeter around the central wash rack. Ahead of them sat a heavy, midnight-blue command bus, its sides bearing the subtle, gold-embossed seal of the Department of the Army. On the front bumpers of the lead vehicle, two small, rigid flags fluttered in the hot breeze—the red fields bearing four brilliant, silver stars.
Specialist Tommy “Jax” Jackson was standing near the front wheel well of a disabled five-ton cargo truck, his utility cap held in his hand as he stared at the convoy. His jaw was literally slack. He had spent his entire military contract avoiding anyone above the rank of Captain, and now the literal apex of the military hierarchy had parked directly next to his oil pan.
Beside him, Master Sergeant Chief Evans stood like an old oak tree, his massive arms crossed over his chest, a deep, knowing squint in his grey eyes. Evans wasn’t looking at the four-star plates on the vehicles. He was looking at the long gravel road leading from the headquarters building, watching the distinct figures of Major Ross, Captain Miller, and Staff Sergeant Vance approach.
Major Ross was practically jogging, his face slick with sweat, his eyes darting frantically across the hangar to see if any stray tools or oil spills were visible. He looked like a man trying to outrun an avalanche. Behind him, Captain Miller walked with his head bowed, the weight of his own compliance pressing heavily on his shoulders.
And behind them both came Maya.
She walked with the slow, measured, rhythmic stride of a soldier who had marched through hell and back. Her chin was up, her shoulders squared, her gaze locked onto the command bus. The blank, black square on her left sleeve sat exposed to the bright afternoon sun, a deliberate, glaring void on her pristine uniform.
As Ross reached the edge of the wash rack, the heavy, armored door of the lead Suburban swung open.
A man stepped out into the blinding light, and an immediate, instinctive shiver went down the spines of every soldier in the hangar.
Command Sergeant Major Albert “Gunnar” Thorne looked like he had been manufactured in a heavy munitions factory. He stood six-foot-four, with shoulders so broad they seemed to block out the sun behind him. His combat utility uniform was immaculate, but it sat over a frame that was heavily scarred from three decades of continuous special operations deployments. His left eye was gone, replaced by a matte-black glass sphere that never shifted, while his right eye possessed the piercing, predatory intensity of a hawk. The faint, unmistakable scent of gun oil and old tobacco seemed to follow him into the humid air.
Ross immediately snapped his hand to the brim of his cover, his spine locking into a rigid, trembling salute. “Command Sergeant Major! Major Bradley Ross, Executive Officer and Acting Commander for the 4th Logistics Support Battalion! Welcome to our facility, sir! We received the flash directive and have—”
CSM Thorne didn’t return the salute. He didn’t even look at Ross’s face. His single, terrifying eye scanned Ross’s uniform, dismissed him entirely within a fraction of a second, and then locked onto the blank black Velcro square on Maya Vance’s shoulder.
The Sergeant Major’s jaw tightened, a hard, dangerous muscle jumping in his cheek.
“Save your breath, Major,” Thorne said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded like heavy stones being dragged across concrete. “The man who wants to talk to you doesn’t care about your titles.”
Thorne turned back to the command bus, stepping aside and snapping a flawless, rigid salute as the pneumatic doors of the main vehicle hissed open.
The Chief of Staff of the Army, General Raymond Sullivan, stepped down onto the greasy concrete of the Fort Liberty motor pool.
Sullivan was an legendary figure within the service—a man who had spent the majority of his career in the shadows, leading the nation’s most elite counter-terrorism units before being brought into the light to run the entire institution. He didn’t look like a bureaucrat. His hair was a stark, close-cropped silver, his face lined with the deep, permanent furrows of a leader who had spent years making life-and-death decisions under the midnight sky. On his chest sat four rows of ribbons, topped by the Combat Infantryman Badge with an operational star, and on his left shoulder sat the historic insignia of the airborne divisions he had commanded.
