PART 1

The air in the Joint Intelligence Operations Center at Pearl Harbor smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and the unmistakable, electrified scent of secrets. It was a smell I knew better than the perfume of any flower. It was the scent of my life for the last twenty years.

But today, to the forty-plus naval officers assembling in the briefing room, I wasn’t Colonel Diana Burke, JSOC Commander. I was just a woman in a polo shirt and khaki pants, fumbling with a visitor’s badge—a “lost contractor” ripe for amusement.

I stood by the side table, my fingers hovering over a stack of papers. They were deployment schedules for Operation Pacific Shield. Classified. Top Secret. And yet, there they were, sitting out like a stack of takeaway menus.

“Sweetheart, the administrative offices are in building twelve.”

The voice boomed across the room, dripping with that particular brand of condescension that only a certain type of officer cultivates. I didn’t turn immediately. I let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, feeling the eyes of every man and woman in the room land on my back.

I turned slowly. Captain Cliff Barrett was striding toward me. He was a caricature of command presence—immaculate whites, ribbons aligned with geometric precision, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was six-foot-two of unearned confidence.

“This is where we plan real operations,” he announced, playing to his audience, gesturing to the assembled officers. “Not coffee runs.”

The room erupted in chuckles. It was a low, nervous sound—the sound of subordinates laughing because the boss made a joke, not because it was funny. I cataloged that sound. It was data.

“I think you’re confused,” Barrett continued, stopping a few feet from me. He loomed, using his height as a tactical advantage. “The contractor orientation is Thursday mornings. You’ll need to come back then.”

I looked up at him. I kept my face smooth, a mask of polite confusion, but beneath the surface, my pulse didn’t even skip. I was recording everything. The arrogance. The casual dismissal. The way he preened for his men while fourteen of his sailors lay in graves they shouldn’t be in.

Fourteen. That was the number that screamed in my head. Fourteen dead kids in eight months.

“Captain Barrett,” I said. My voice was quiet, but I pitched it to carry. I’d learned long ago that you don’t need to shout to be heard; you just need to speak when everyone else is holding their breath. “I’m actually here to observe your tactical briefing. I’m conducting an operational assessment.”

The laughter died instantly. It wasn’t a gradual fade; it was a guillotine chop.

Barrett blinked. The smile faltered, replaced by a flash of irritation. “An assessment,” he repeated, dragging the word out like it tasted sour. “And who exactly authorized you to assess my operations?”

I picked up the deployment schedule I’d been examining. I held it gently, like a loaded weapon.

“That information is classified,” I said calmly. “But I have full authorization from PACOM and SOCOM to observe all briefings, review operational protocols, and conduct personnel interviews.”

The tension in the room spiked. I could feel it vibrating against my skin. A large man, built like a linebacker—Commander Greg Dalton, the XO, I noted from his file—stepped forward.

“Ma’am, with all due respect,” Dalton rumbled, crossing his arms. “You can’t just walk into a classified briefing and claim authority. We have operational security to consider.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

“Operational security,” I repeated. I looked down at the papers in my hand. “Then perhaps you should explain why classified deployment schedules are being left unsecured on side tables where any personnel can access them without proper handling procedures.”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was heavy, suffocating. I saw a young Lieutenant near the front—Graham, if I recalled the dossier correctly—flush a deep, painful crimson.

Barrett’s jaw tightened. “That’s a temporary placement. The documents were being reviewed by authorized personnel.”

“Authorized personnel who left them unattended in a room with forty people,” I countered, my voice hardening just a fraction. I gestured toward the back of the room. “Three of whom don’t have clearance for Operation Pacific Shield.”

Barrett whipped his head around. I pointed to three Ensigns huddled near the door.

“Those officers are designated Confidential clearance,” I stated. “Pacific Shield is Top Secret Code Word. They shouldn’t even be in this room.”

I saw the color drain from the face of a Senior Chief near the wall. He knew. They all knew. I had just exposed a career-ending security violation in under two minutes, without raising my voice.

Barrett stepped into my personal space. It was an intimidation tactic, pure and simple. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a preliminary briefing. Full operational details weren’t going to be discussed until after—”

“After you dismissed personnel without proper clearances?” I finished for him. “Which means you were aware of the violation and planned to correct it. That’s good operational awareness, Captain. It would be better if the violation hadn’t occurred at all.”

The temperature in the room plummeted. I saw a Communications Specialist—Petty Officer Wyatt—staring at my chest. Not at me, but at my badge. He’d finally noticed.

“Captain,” Wyatt said, his voice cutting through the thick atmosphere. “Sir… her badge is Code Red.”

Barrett froze. He snatched the badge from my lanyard before I could stop him, holding it up to the light. I watched his eyes narrow. He saw the holographic seal. He saw the embedded chip. But he didn’t see a rank. Just D. Burke, DoD Observer.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” Barrett sneered, though the confidence was leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire. “DoD sends observers all the time. That doesn’t give you authority to assess my command or criticize my operational security.”

I took a step forward. I was done playing the lost contractor.

“Captain Barrett,” I said, letting the steel enter my voice. “In the past eight months, Naval Special Warfare Group One has experienced fourteen casualties across six operations. That is the highest casualty rate of any special operations unit in the Pacific Theater. In the same period, SEAL Team Seven, operating in the same areas with similar mission profiles, has lost zero personnel.”

A gasp rippled through the room.

“Either your sailors are significantly less capable than their SEAL counterparts,” I said, locking eyes with him, “or something else is happening.”

“How dare you,” Lieutenant Graham spat, stepping forward aggressively. “Those men died serving their country! How dare you imply—”

“I’m not implying anything, Lieutenant,” I snapped, cutting him off. “I’m stating facts.”

I pulled a slim tablet from the folder I was carrying. I tapped the screen, bringing up the data that had kept me awake for weeks.

“Operation Coral Strike: three casualties when intelligence about enemy positions proved inaccurate. Operation Diamond Run: two casualties when extraction timing was compromised. Operation Steel Harbor: four casualties when equipment requisitions were delayed by three weeks, forcing your teams to operate with outdated gear.”

I looked up. Barrett’s face was a mask of fury.

“Operation Midnight Sun,” I continued relentlessly. “Three casualties when supposedly cleared routes turned out to be heavily mined.”

“How do you have that information?” Barrett shouted. “Those operations are classified! The After Action Reports are restricted!”

“I have them because someone needs to determine why sailors keep dying under your command, Captain,” I said. “Someone who can look at patterns across multiple operations and identify systemic failures.”

“This is unacceptable!” Commander Dalton roared. “I’m calling Base Security.”

“Please do,” I said. “Ask for extension 7739. Tell them Diana Burke is having difficulties with local command cooperation.”

A ripple of confusion went through the room. Extension 7739 wasn’t in the directory. It was a direct line. A ghost line.

Barrett’s secure phone began to ring. It was the red phone on his desk. The one that never rang unless the world was ending or an Admiral was screaming.

Barrett stared at it.

“Don’t answer it,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You should answer it, Captain,” I said softly. “That’s Rear Admiral Montgomery. She’s calling to confirm my authorization. And to inform you that as of ten minutes ago, all operations planning for Pacific Shield is suspended pending review.”

“You can’t suspend a major operation!” Graham protested. “There are international commitments!”

“There are also fourteen dead sailors!” I shouted. My voice finally broke its calm tether, echoing off the walls. “And until someone can explain why they died, no more operations proceed under current protocols.”

The phone continued to scream. Barrett looked at me, then at the phone, then back at me. He looked trapped. Finally, he turned and stalked into his office.

“Nobody move,” he ordered over his shoulder. “This isn’t over.”

As the door slammed shut, the room dissolved into chaos. Whispers hissed like steam escaping a valve. I stood my ground, watching them. I saw fear. I saw anger. But in the eyes of a Master Chief near the back—Monroe—I saw something else.

Relief.

Monroe approached me slowly. He walked with a slight limp, a testament to decades of jumping out of perfectly good airplanes.

“Ma’am,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I’ve been in the Navy since before most of these officers joined. I’ve never seen anyone shut down a Flag Officer with a phone call. Who are you, really?”

I looked at him. I saw the combat action ribbon. I saw the tiredness in his eyes—the exhaustion of a man who has buried too many friends.

“Someone who’s trying to keep your sailors alive, Master Chief,” I said. “Your casualty rate isn’t an accident. It’s not bad luck. It’s a pattern.”

“Failures at what level?” he asked. But we both knew the answer.

“That’s what I’m here to determine.”

Lieutenant Commander Jill Carson moved closer. She was young for her rank, sharp-eyed, with the posture of someone who had to fight for every inch of respect she got.

“If what you’re saying is true,” she said, keeping her voice low, “then the problem isn’t just here at Pearl Harbor. It’s… bigger.”

“It’s a cultural issue,” I confirmed. “One that’s been building for years.”

The door to Barrett’s office flew open.

Barrett stood there. He looked gray. The swagger was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunted look. He held the secure phone out toward me like it was a live grenade.

“Admiral Montgomery wants to speak with you,” he said, his voice trembling. “She said to tell you… she said Crimson Flag protocols are active.”

The air left the room. Crimson Flag. It was a designation most of these officers had never heard, and the ones who had prayed they never would. It meant immediate priority status. It meant the highest level of scrutiny. It meant the gloves were off.

I took the phone. I walked to the corner, turning my back on them.

“Admiral,” I said.

“Diana,” Montgomery’s voice was crisp, clear. “You have full control. Lock it down. If Barrett gives you any pushback, I’ll have him relieved of command within the hour.”

“He’s stunned, Admiral. I don’t think he’ll be a problem. But we need to move fast. If there’s a systemic failure here, we need to find the root before we lose anyone else.”

“Do what you have to do, Colonel. Get me answers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I handed the phone back to Barrett. I turned to the room. I felt a cold calm settle over me. This was the part I was good at. The dissection.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” I said. “In approximately five minutes, this building will be locked down. No one enters or leaves without authorization. Your personal phones will be collected and secured. Over the next seventy-two hours, each of you will be interviewed individually.”

I scanned their faces. “I am not here to destroy careers,” I lied. I would destroy every career in this room if it meant saving a single life. “I am here because fourteen sailors died, and their families deserve to know why.”

Lieutenant Graham, still riding the adrenaline of his indignation, stepped forward again. He just couldn’t help himself.

“With all due respect, ma’am, you’re talking about operations you weren’t part of. It’s easy to criticize from behind a desk in Washington.”

I turned my head slowly to look at him.

“Lieutenant Graham,” I said. “You participated in Operation Diamond Run, correct?”

He blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You were the operations officer responsible for coordinating extraction timing. The After Action Report notes that extraction was delayed by seventeen minutes due to communication failures. Can you explain what happened?”

“The helo crew was using encrypted burst transmission on a different frequency,” he stammered. “By the time we switched…”

“And during those seventeen minutes, two sailors were exposed to enemy fire. They died.”

Graham went pale.

“Now tell me, Lieutenant,” I pressed, stepping closer. “When you briefed that mission, did anyone raise concerns about the complexity of the communication protocol?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes darted to the side. To Senior Chief Bowen.

“Senior Chief Bowen suggested we simplify the protocol,” Graham whispered. “But Captain Barrett felt multiple frequencies provided better security.”

I turned to Barrett. He was staring at the floor.

“Captain,” I said. “Why did you prioritize theoretical operational security over practical communication effectiveness?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because that’s how we’ve always done it,” he finally whispered.

“That’s how we’ve always done it,” I repeated. The phrase was a tombstone epitaph. “That sentence has killed more sailors than any enemy weapon.”

A knock on the door broke the heavy silence. Major Holly Pierce, my JSOC liaison, entered with a security team.

“Colonel Burke,” Pierce said sharply, snapping a salute. “The security team is ready to begin lockdown procedures.”

Colonel.

The word rippled through the room. Not a contractor. Not a civilian observer. A full-bird Colonel.

“Thank you, Major,” I said.

I looked at Barrett. “For those wondering, yes, I am Colonel Diana Burke, JSOC Commander. I’ve been conducting this assessment for six months. And Captain… you failed.”

I walked to the front of the room, standing where Barrett had stood when he mocked me.

“Some of you laughed,” I said softly. “Some of you said nothing. And that is exactly the problem. The culture that allows you to mock someone you think is beneath you is the same culture that ignores valid concerns from junior officers. And that culture is killing your friends.”

I let that hang in the air.

“Master Chief Monroe,” I called out.

“Colonel?”

“You asked me why I let him humiliate me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I needed you to see who your Captain really is when he thinks no one important is watching. I needed him to reveal his character.” I glanced at Barrett. “Now we know.”

The security team moved in. Phones were confiscated. The room transformed from a place of arrogance to a place of reckoning.

As the officers were shepherded out for interviews, Master Chief Monroe stopped by my side.

“Colonel,” he said. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you’re here. A lot of us have been waiting for someone to ask the hard questions.”

“Then help me find the answers, Master Chief,” I said. “Because the real work starts now.”

I watched him leave. The room was empty now, save for Pierce and myself. But the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was the calm before a storm. I looked out the window at the harbor, the gray water churning.

Somewhere in this command, buried under paperwork and protocol, lay the reason why fourteen people were dead. Was it just incompetence? Was it Barrett’s ego?

Or was it something worse?

My gut twisted. My instincts, honed in the mountains of Afghanistan and the backrooms of the Pentagon, were screaming at me. Incompetence is usually messy. Random. But these failures… they were consistent. Too consistent.

“Major,” I said. “Bring me Lieutenant Commander Carson first. And get Dr. Webb on the line. I want a full forensic analysis of the intelligence feeds for those six operations.”

“You think there’s more to this than bad leadership?” Pierce asked.

“I think,” I said, staring at the empty chair where Barrett had sat, “that we’re just scratching the surface.”

PART 2

The interview room was a stark box of gray metal and humming fluorescent lights. It was designed to make people uncomfortable, to strip away the armor of rank and protocol.

Lieutenant Commander Jill Carson sat across from me. Her spine was steel-stiff, but her hands were trembling slightly where they rested on the table. She looked like someone holding back a scream.

“I read your report from six months ago,” I said, sliding a manila folder across the table. “Three times. It was brilliant. You predicted the communication failures in Operation Coral Strike. You identified the intelligence lag that would doom Operation Diamond Run.”

I leaned forward. “So tell me, Jill. Why wasn’t it implemented?”

Carson stared at the folder. “I presented it to Captain Barrett. He gave me eleven minutes.”

“Eleven minutes?”

“He told me my analysis was ‘academically interesting but operationally naive,’” she said, the bitterness coating her words like ash. “He said I was too focused on theory. That changing protocols mid-deployment would confuse the men.”

“Confuse them?” I asked. “Or save them?”

She looked up, her eyes wet but fierce. “He said, ‘Lieutenant Commander, we have traditions. We don’t reinvent the wheel just because a junior officer thinks she’s found a better way.’ He dismissed it. Commander Dalton was there. He nodded along. ‘Trust the chain of command,’ he told me. ‘Don’t be a problem officer.’”

“So you stopped pushing?”

“I was afraid,” she whispered. “I wanted a career. I thought… maybe they were right. Maybe I was missing something.” She took a shaky breath. “Then eight more sailors died. And I realized I’d traded their lives for my fitness report.”

“That’s not on you,” I said firmly. “That’s on the leaders who chose ego over evidence. But now I need you to do something harder than writing a report. I need names. Who protects the status quo? Who sees the problems but stays silent?”

For the next forty minutes, Carson drew me a map of the command’s rot. She named the sycophants, the careerists, and the few good officers—like Lieutenant Graham—who were too terrified to speak up. She told me about Captain Donovan, a rival commander in the same building whose unit had zero casualties.

“Donovan and Barrett hate each other,” she explained. “Old rivalry. Barrett thinks Donovan is soft because he listens to his NCOs. Donovan thinks Barrett is a cowboy.”

I was making notes when a sharp knock rattled the door.

Dr. Arthur Webb, my lead analyst, burst in without waiting for permission. Webb was a civilian, a man who cared more about data patterns than military courtesy. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Colonel,” he said, breathless. “You need to see this.”

He slammed his tablet onto the table. “I ran the cross-reference you asked for. I compared the intel Barrett’s team received against the intel provided to other units operating in the same sectors.”

“And?”

“It’s not incompetence, Diana,” Webb said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “It’s not bad analysis. It’s manipulation.”

The air in the room seemed to freeze. “Explain.”

“Look at Operation Coral Strike.” Webb swiped the screen. “Theater Command assessed enemy strength at thirty-five combatants. That’s what they told SEAL Team Seven. But look at what Barrett’s team got.”

I looked at the digital file. Estimated Hostiles: 15-20.

“Fifteen men,” I murmured. “They walked into a buzzsaw expecting a skirmish.”

“It’s the same for all six failed operations,” Webb continued, pacing the small room. “Timing windows compressed by ten minutes. Equipment specs altered just enough to be wrong. Routes marked ‘clear’ that other units knew were mined.”

I stood up, the chair scraping loud against the floor. “These aren’t errors. Errors are random. This is targeted.”

“Someone is scrubbing the data,” Webb confirmed. “Someone inside the loop is intercepting the raw feed and modifying it before it reaches Barrett’s planners. They’re setting these teams up to fail.”

My mind raced. This was no longer just about a toxic captain. This was sabotage.

“Who has access?” I demanded. “Who sees the intel after it leaves the Theater Command but before it hits the briefing room?”

“The workflow is complex,” Webb said. “Analysts, comms specialists, the XO… maybe a dozen people.”

“Narrow it down,” I ordered. “I want to know who touched all six files. And Webb… do it quietly. If we spook them, they’ll go to ground. Or worse.”

“Worse?” Carson asked, her face pale.

“If they know we’re onto them,” I said, “they might try to destroy the evidence. Or create a distraction.”

As if summoned by my words, the door flew open again.

It was Lieutenant Graham. The young officer looked terrified, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Colonel Burke,” he gasped. “We have a situation. A Priority One situation.”

“Spit it out, Lieutenant.”

“SEAL Team Four,” he said. “They’re on an interdiction mission off the Somali coast. They missed their check-in.”

My blood ran cold. “How long?”

“Ninety minutes. They’ve gone completely dark.”

“Get me to the OPS Center. Now.”

We ran. The hallways of the building blurred as we sprinted toward the Operations Center. The quiet, administrative atmosphere of the assessment was gone, replaced by the frantic energy of a crisis.

When we burst into the OPS Center, it was chaos. Officers were shouting into headsets, fingers flying across keyboards. Captain Barrett stood in the center of the storm, staring at a giant tactical display. He looked paralyzed.

“Report!” I barked.

Barrett jumped. He looked at me with wild eyes. “Colonel… they… the transponders are down. Last contact was 0742. They were approaching a target vessel. Standard interdiction.”

“Who planned this mission?” I asked.

“Captain Donovan’s team built the profile,” Barrett stammered. “But we took over operational control six hours ago.”

“Donovan,” I snapped at Major Pierce. “Get him in here. Yesterday.”

I moved to the main screen. The map showed a jagged stretch of Somali coastline. A red icon pulsed near the shore—Team Four’s last known position.

“Dr. Webb,” I whispered, pulling him aside. “Check the intel for this mission. Compare Donovan’s file with Barrett’s file. Now.”

Captain Donovan arrived two minutes later, looking like he wanted to punch someone. He ignored Barrett and came straight to me.

“My plan was solid,” Donovan growled. “Low risk. Single supply boat, light resistance. Maybe six pirates with AKs.”

“Dr. Webb?” I called out.

Webb projected two documents onto the main screen. Side by side.

“Left side is Captain Donovan’s original assessment,” Webb announced. “Target: Supply vessel. Support: Two armed skiffs. Hostiles: 25-30, heavy weapons suspected.”

Donovan nodded. “Standard nest.”

“Right side,” Webb continued, “is the assessment Barrett’s team was given.”

I read it aloud. “Target: Isolated vessel. Hostiles: 4-6. Small arms only.”

The silence in the OPS Center was absolute. You could hear the hum of the cooling fans in the servers.

“My God,” Barrett whispered. “They walked into a trap.”

“They didn’t just walk in,” Donovan said, his voice trembling with rage. “They were invited. Someone stripped the threat warnings out of the file.”

“Who?” Barrett shouted, spinning around. “Who the hell is doing this to my men?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said, my voice ice cold. “But first, we have a rescue to launch. Master Chief Monroe!”

“Ma’am!”

“Spin up the QRF (Quick Reaction Force). I want birds in the air in ten minutes. Get me satellite imagery of that sector.”

“We can’t launch without Flag authorization,” Commander Dalton interjected smoothly. He was standing near the comms station, looking concerned but controlled. “Somalia is a geopolitical minefield. We need State Department clearance.”

I turned on him. “I don’t care if it’s the surface of the moon, Commander. Eight American sailors are dying on that beach. I am invoking Crimson Flag authority. Launch the damn helicopters.”

Dalton hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. But I saw it. A flicker of… calculation?

“Aye, ma’am,” he said finally.

I turned back to Webb. “The list,” I hissed. “Who had access to this file? Who could have changed those numbers?”

Webb looked at his tablet. He tapped a few keys, filtering the names.

“I’ve got three names who had access to all compromised files,” Webb murmured.

“Give them to me.”

“Lieutenant Junior Grade Amy Foster. Intelligence Analyst.”

“Who else?”

“Chief Petty Officer Frank Walsh. Operations.”

“And the third?”

Webb looked up at me. He swallowed hard.

“Commander Greg Dalton. Executive Officer.”

I felt the room tilt. Dalton. Barrett’s right hand. The man who had shut down Carson. The man who was currently coordinating the rescue frequencies.

I looked across the room. Dalton was speaking into a secure handset, his back to us.

“Barrett,” I said.

Barrett looked at me. He saw where I was looking. He saw the look on my face.

“No,” he whispered. “Greg? He… we went to the Academy together. He’s the godfather of my kids.”

“He’s the only one with the clearance and the access to pull this off without tripping alarms,” I said. “And right now, he’s on the radio with the rescue team.”

“He could be warning the enemy,” Donovan realized, stepping closer. “If he tells them our approach vector…”

“He’ll turn the rescue mission into a massacre,” I finished.

“What do we do?” Barrett asked. He looked broken, but for the first time, he was looking to me for orders, not arguments.

“We play him,” I said. “Barrett, I need you to go over there and give him a fake order. Tell him we’re changing the extraction point. Tell him we’re coming in from the North, low altitude.”

“And then?”

“And then,” I said, checking my sidearm, “I’m getting on that helicopter. We’re going to come in from the South, high and fast. And if the enemy is waiting in the North… we’ll know.”

“You’re going?” Donovan asked. “Colonel, you’re a JSOC commander. You don’t lead tactical insertions.”

I looked at the map. At the red dot that represented eight men who had been betrayed by their own leadership.

“I’m the one who found the leak,” I said. “I’m the one who’s going to plug it.”

I turned to Master Chief Monroe.

“Get me a headset and a rifle, Master Chief. We’re going hunting.”

PART 3

The interior of the MH-60 Black Hawk smelled of hydraulic fluid, sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. I sat sandwiched between two members of the Quick Reaction Force, the vibration of the rotor blades rattling my teeth. I checked my rifle for the third time. The magazine clicked home—a sound of finality.

Through my headset, the secure channel crackled.

“Colonel,” Barrett’s voice came through, tinny and strained. “I just gave Dalton the false coordinates. I told him we’re inserting at Sector North, low approach.”

“Copy that,” I said, shouting over the engine whine. “Pilot, keep us on the Southern vector. High altitude until the last second.”

“Roger, Colonel,” the pilot, Lieutenant Hudson, replied. “Approaching target area in two mikes.”

I closed my eyes for a second, visualizing the map. If Dalton was innocent, the Northern Sector would be empty. If he was guilty…

“Contact!” Hudson screamed. “Thermal imaging picking up massive heat signatures in Sector North! Multiple vehicles, heavy weapons. They’re lighting up the approach corridor!”

My stomach dropped, not from the turbulence, but from the grim satisfaction of being right.

“He took the bait,” I said into the mic. “Barrett, arrest him. Arrest your Executive Officer right now. He just tried to feed us into a woodchipper.”

“God help him,” Barrett whispered. “We’re on it.”

“Hudson,” I commanded. “Dive. Get us to the Southern insertion point. They’re looking the wrong way, but they won’t be for long.”

The helicopter banked hard, gravity pressing me into the floor. We plummeted toward the Somali coastline, the jagged rocks rushing up to meet us.

“Thirty seconds!” the Crew Chief yelled, holding up three fingers.

We flared out just above the deck, dust billowing in a brown cloud. Ropes were kicked out.

“Go! Go! Go!”

I slid down the fast rope, the friction burning my gloves even through the leather. My boots hit the rocky soil, and I rolled, bringing my weapon up. The heat hit me like a physical blow—110 degrees of dry, dusty hell.

We moved. Master Chief Ross, the QRF leader, signaled for a wedge formation. We sprinted toward the ravine that offered our only cover.

800 meters away, the sky lit up with tracer fire—green streaks arcing into the empty Northern sky where the enemy thought we were. Dalton’s betrayal was putting on a light show.

“We have to move fast,” I hissed to Ross. “Once they realize they’re shooting at ghosts, they’ll pivot.”

We scrambled over loose shale, lungs burning. My shoulder, the one that had taken a bullet months ago, throbbed in protest, but I shoved the pain into a mental box and locked the lid.

We found them near a cluster of boulders 300 meters from the shoreline.

It wasn’t a team anymore. It was a remnant.

Six men. Two were unconscious, their uniforms soaked in dark blood. Four were returning fire sporadically, conserving ammo. They looked haggard, their faces caked in dirt and exhaustion.

“Friendly! Friendly coming in!” Ross shouted.

The SEALs lowered their weapons, relief washing over their faces. I slid into cover beside the team leader, a Lieutenant named Caldwell. He had a tourniquet high on his thigh.

“Colonel?” he wheezed, eyeing my rank. “You came?”

“We don’t leave family behind,” I said, scanning the perimeter. “Sitrep.”

“It was a setup,” Caldwell spat, wincing as he shifted his leg. “Intel said light resistance. We walked into a brigade. They were waiting. Killed Jackson and Morrison in the first volley. They’ve been toying with us… waiting.”

“Waiting for the rescue,” I finished. “To maximize the casualty count.”

Suddenly, the ground erupted dirt and stone. The enemy had realized their mistake. Heavy machine-gun fire began to chew up our position from the north. They were flanking us.

“Hudson!” I yelled into the radio. “We are pinned! Need immediate extraction!”

“I’m hot, Colonel!” Hudson’s voice was strained. “Taking heavy ground fire! I can’t set down!”

I looked at the wounded men. They couldn’t run. If the bird didn’t land, we died here.

“Suppressing fire!” I ordered. “Everything you’ve got!”

We unleashed hell. For ten seconds, the roar of our weapons drowned out the world. It bought us a window.

“Now, Hudson! Now!”

The Black Hawk swooped in, skids crunching onto the gravel. It was a controlled crash more than a landing.

“Load them up!” Ross screamed.

I grabbed the harness of an unconscious Petty Officer, dragging him through the dust. Bullets pinged off the helicopter’s fuselage like hail on a tin roof. I heaved him onto the floorboards, slick with hydraulic fluid leaking from a severed line.

Caldwell hobbled on one leg, firing his sidearm as he moved. I grabbed him by the vest and hauled him inside.

“Colonel, let’s go!” the Crew Chief screamed.

I was the last one on the ground. I turned to fire one last burst, covering Ross as he dove into the cabin. A round snapped past my ear, the sonic crack deafening. I scrambled aboard, the metal deck burning my palms.

“Pull! Pull!”

The helicopter lurched into the air. We took hits—sickening thuds that shook the airframe. Smoke filled the cabin. I lay on top of the wounded, using my body to shield them as we banked away over the ocean.

“Status!” I yelled.

“We’re leaking fluid, but engines are green!” Hudson called back. “We’re going home!”

I slumped back against the bulkhead, my chest heaving. I looked at Caldwell. He was staring at me, his eyes wide.

“You came,” he said again, softly. “The XO… he sent us to die.”

“And he’s going to rot for it,” I promised.

I keyed my mic. “Barrett. We have the package. Six survivors. Two KIA. We are RTB.”

There was a long pause. Then, Barrett’s voice, thick with emotion. “Copy, Colonel. Dalton is in custody. He confessed. He was working with Aegis Solutions. They wanted to privatize the ops. He sold his soul for a consulting contract.”

I looked at the bodies of the wounded men, at the empty spaces where Jackson and Morrison should have been.

“A contract,” I whispered. “Fourteen people dead for a quarterly earnings report.”

The medical facility in Djibouti was a white-walled purgatory. The smell of antiseptic couldn’t quite mask the scent of copper and burnt propellant that clung to my uniform.

I sat in the waiting room, refusing treatment until every sailor was stabilized. My shoulder was screaming, a dull roar of pain that made it hard to think.

The doors opened. Admiral Montgomery walked in. She didn’t look like an Admiral right then. She looked like a mother who had almost lost her children.

“Diana,” she said, sitting beside me. She didn’t ask for a report. She just handed me a bottle of water.

“They’re alive, Admiral. Most of them.”

“Because of you,” she said. “Dalton is singing. We have the FBI raiding Aegis headquarters in Virginia right now. The CEO is in cuffs. It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” I said, crushing the plastic bottle in my hand. “It’s never over. We caught Dalton, but how many others are out there? How many commanders are too arrogant to listen? How many contractors are buying access?”

Montgomery sighed. “That’s why I have new orders for you.”

I looked at her. “I haven’t even washed the blood off my hands yet.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. But the Joint Chiefs want you. They want this assessment expanded. Army Special Forces. Air Force PJs. Everyone.”

She paused. “They want you to go to Fort Liberty. We have reports of… similar anomalies.”

I laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. “Fort Liberty. Of course.”

Just then, Captain Barrett entered the room. He was out of uniform, wearing civilian clothes. He looked smaller, deflated. But his eyes were clear.

He walked up to me and stopped. He didn’t salute. He extended a hand.

“Colonel,” he said. “I…” He choked on the words. “I’m resigning my commission. Tomorrow.”

I looked at his hand, then up at his face.

“Don’t,” I said.

Barrett blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t run away, Cliff,” I said, using his first name for the first time. “Resigning is easy. You go play golf, you collect your pension, and you try to forget the names of the dead. That’s cowardice.”

He flinched.

“You want to fix this?” I stood up, wincing as my shoulder popped. “You stay. You take the demotion. You accept the humiliation. And you spend every day for the rest of your career teaching young officers how not to be you. You become the living lesson.”

Barrett stared at me. Tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Then you don’t deserve the uniform,” I said simply. “But if you stay… if you change… you might save the next fourteen.”

He stood there for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I’ll stay.”

SIX MONTHS LATER

The wind at Pearl Harbor was gentle, carrying the scent of plumeria and salt.

I stood at the memorial wall. Fourteen names were etched into the black granite. I ran my fingers over them. Jackson. Morrison. Ruiz…

The base was different now. You could feel it in the air.

Captain Donovan was in command of the Group. The casualty rate for the last six months was zero.

Lieutenant Commander Carson had been promoted to XO. She was running the show with a terrifying efficiency, and her door was always open.

And Commander Barrett—demoted, humble, working in training doctrine—was giving lectures on “Ego as an Operational Hazard.” The juniors called him “The Monk.” He was tough, but he listened. He was finally the leader his men deserved.

“Colonel?”

I turned. Lieutenant Caldwell was standing there. He was walking with a cane now, his leg scarred but functional. He was in dress whites.

“I heard you were shipping out today,” he said.

“Duty calls, Lieutenant.”

He looked at the wall. “We’re rebuilding the team. We got some new guys. I’m teaching them the new protocols. The ones you fought for.”

“Good,” I said. “Keep teaching them. Don’t let them forget.”

“We won’t.” He hesitated, then stood at attention. He rendered a slow, perfect salute. “Thank you, Colonel.”

I returned it. “Give ’em hell, Caldwell.”

I picked up my duffel bag and walked toward the airfield. A C-130 was waiting on the tarmac, engines turning, ready to take me to North Carolina. To Fort Liberty. To the next fight.

My shoulder ached, a phantom reminder of the beach. I touched the spot under my collar where my tattoo lay hidden—the wolf.

Some people think the war ends when the shooting stops. But the war against incompetence, against arrogance, against greed? That war never ends.

And as long as there are sailors and soldiers being led into the dark by blind leaders, I’ll be there. Waiting in the shadows. Ready to ask the hard questions.

I walked up the ramp into the darkness of the plane.

The hunt continues.

THE END.