Desert Son

 Desert Son

The stale hum of recycled air filled the command tent, lit by the soft, flickering glow of an overhead fluorescent bulb. Sergeant Billy "Hawk" Henderson sat stiffly on a metal folding chair, his rifle slung across his back, as the unit’s commanding officer, Major Cole, outlined the operation. His spotter, Corporal Marcus "Dusty" Owens, leaned back in his chair, absently scratching behind the ears of Koda, the sleek black Belgian Malinois lying at his feet.

“This is as black as it gets, gentlemen,” Major Cole said, pointing to the map projected on the canvas wall. “Your HVT is an arms dealer code-named Ibrahim. He’s responsible for supplying IED materials to insurgents. Intel suggests he’s holed up in an encampment here.” Cole jabbed a finger at a cluster of coordinates nestled in the highlands. “Your job is simple: find him, confirm his identity, and neutralize the threat. Exfil point will be at grid seven-four-nine at 0300, three days post-engagement. Questions?”

Hawk’s voice was steady as he spoke. “What kind of security are we expecting?”

“Light,” Cole replied, though his tone betrayed a sliver of doubt. “A handful of guards, maybe a courier. But keep your eyes open—this guy’s slippery. He’s eluded us twice before.”

Dusty chuckled softly. “Won’t be a third time.”

 Back at their tent, Billy and Dusty began the meticulous ritual of packing their gear. Every item had a purpose, and every ounce mattered.

Hawk ran his hand down the smooth barrel of his MK13 Mod 7, freshly cleaned and gleaming under the harsh overhead light. He adjusted the Leupold scope, calibrating the windage and elevation dials. “You know,” he muttered, “this rifle feels like an old friend. Reliable, even when everything else isn’t.”

Dusty tossed a bag of MREs into his pack. “Let’s hope your old friend likes the heat. You know it’s gonna hit 110 by noon tomorrow.”

Koda tilted her head, ears perked as if she understood every word. Her vest was already laid out—a lightweight harness outfitted with pouches for medical supplies and a camera mounted for reconnaissance. Dusty gave her a pat. “You ready, girl? Long crawl ahead.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, they performed a final gear check: rangefinders, hydration bladders, ghillie suits, comms equipment, extra batteries. The weight on their backs felt immense, but Billy knew it was nothing compared to the mental load they’d carry into the highlands.

 

The roar of the MV-22 Osprey faded into the distance, leaving behind a silence so profound it seemed to press on their eardrums. Billy adjusted his pack and scanned the vast expanse of rocky desert ahead. The landscape was a desolate patchwork of jagged outcroppings and dry streambeds. Heat shimmered in the distance, warping the horizon.

“Highlands are two clicks northeast,” Dusty whispered, his voice barely audible. “We move at dusk.”

By nightfall, the terrain transformed. A canopy of stars stretched endlessly overhead, their brilliance unpolluted by city lights. The moon was a mere sliver, leaving the desert cloaked in deep shadows. Billy led the way, his boots crunching softly on the loose gravel, Koda trotting silently at his side.

For three days, they pushed deeper into the highlands. The temperature swung violently—searing heat during the day, biting cold at night. They crawled through narrow ravines, scaled steep inclines, and paused for hours at a time to let enemy patrols pass. Koda, ever alert, would freeze and prick her ears long before the men heard or saw anything.

Billy adjusted the scope on his rifle, his breathing calm but deliberate, the weight of the mission pressing against his chest. The wind was barely a whisper, carrying with it the faint scent of dry earth and something metallic from the camp below. He closed one eye and steadied his aim, the crosshairs locked on the target.

Then, in the stillness, a memory stirred—unexpected and unbidden.

 The boy had never seen a place so quiet. The woods, with their towering pines and the whisper of leaves in the breeze, seemed to breathe on their own. He had only crossed the border of the reservation to see "real Indians"—he didn’t mean any harm. But when the tribal police officer caught him crouched behind a blackberry bush, his heart raced like a startled rabbit.

“Son, what are you doing here?” the officer asked, his voice firm but not unkind.

“I just wanted to see…” The boy trailed off, his cheeks flushing. His clothes, patched and worn, hung loosely on his skinny frame. “I didn’t mean any trouble.”

The officer sighed and radioed someone, and before long, the boy found himself standing before a circle of elders. They were gathered under a large oak tree, its branches reaching like fingers toward the sky. The boy shuffled his feet, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

One of the elders stepped forward. His name was Waya, meaning "Wolf." His hair, silver and long, fell over his shoulders, and his eyes carried the weight of many winters. He studied the boy for a moment, then crouched to meet his gaze.

“What’s your name, child?” Waya asked softly.

“Billy,” the boy muttered, barely audible.

“Billy,” Waya repeated, his voice rich and steady. “And why have you come to our land?”

Billy swallowed hard. “I just… wanted to meet a real Indian. I read about you in school, but they don’t tell you much. I wanted to see what it’s really like.”

Waya’s eyes softened, though his expression remained serious. “And what did you hope to find?”

Billy looked down at his scuffed sneakers. “I don’t know. Something real, I guess.”

The elders exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves. Waya stood and motioned for the boy to follow him. “Come. Let’s talk.”

Waya led Billy to a quiet spot by the river, where the water glittered in the afternoon sun. He asked the boy about his life—where he lived, his family, and why he had come alone. Slowly, the story spilled out. Billy lived with his mother in a crumbling apartment on the edge of town. His father had left years ago, and his mother worked long hours, barely making enough to keep them fed.  As they walked, Waya asked about Billy’s school, his favorite subjects, and how he helped his mom. Blly spoke cautiously at first but soon found himself sharing more than he intended—how he worried about his mom’s health, how he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

Waya listened without interrupting, his face unreadable. When Billy finished, Waya placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You carry much for someone so young,” Waya said. “But you are strong. Stronger than you know.”

Billy’s eyes filled with tears, though he quickly wiped them away. “I just… I just wanted to belong somewhere.”

Waya nodded, as if he had been waiting for those words. “Then perhaps you will.”

Waya paused again, and placing his hand on Billy’s shoulder, said Tell your mama I will be by tomorrow, his tone firm and resolute.

The next day, Waya arrived with a basket of food and a quiet offer of help. Clara, prideful yet exhausted, accepted with a nod. Over the next few weeks, Waya became a fixture in their lives, fixing the porch, mending the roof, and teaching Billy small but meaningful skills—how to carve wood, build a fire, and identify plants in the forest. Slowly, Billy began to feel a connection he hadn’t known he was missing.

Then over the next few days, Billy stayed with Waya’s family. Waya’s daughter, Ahyoka, showed him how to grind cornmeal and braid sweetgrass, while her sons taught Billy how to weave simple baskets and play stickball. Billy found himself laughing for the first time in what felt like years.

One evening, Waya called Billy to sit with him by the fire. “Billy,” he said, “in our tradition, family is not just who you are born to. It is who you choose and who chooses you. My family would like to invite you to join ours. If you accept, we will hold a ceremony to welcome you as one of us.”

Billy stared at him, his eyes wide. “You mean… like I’d really be part of your family? You mean it?”

“Yes,” Waya said with a smile, and a solemn nod. “Truly. It is not just words, but a commitment, for both of us.”

The day of the adoption was bright and clear. The community gathered by the river, the air filled with the scent of sage and cedar. Waya stood at the center, dressed in ceremonial attire, his voice steady as he spoke the words of welcome.

“Today, we embrace a new member into our family,” he said. “Billy has come to us as a stranger, but he will leave as kin. He will carry our name, our stories, and our love.”

Billy stepped forward, wearing a simple tunic that Ahyoka had sewn for him. Waya placed a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Billy, do you accept this family as your own?”

“Yes,” Billy said, his voice trembling.

“Then you are one of us.”

The elders sang a song of blessing as Waya dipped a feather into river water and touched it to Billy’s forehead, heart, and hands. Finally, Waya gave him a new name: Ahyoka’sda, “He Who Seeks.”

Billy stayed with Waya’s family through the summer, learning their traditions and stories. When it was time for him to return to his mother, he went with a new strength in his heart. He wasn’t just Billy anymore—he was Ahyoka’sda, part of something larger than himself.

From that day on, he carried the lessons of the Cherokee people wherever he went, knowing he would always have a family waiting for him under the great oak tree.

Billy quickly learned that life with Waya’s family was different from anything he had ever known. The days were long but fulfilling, filled with lessons that challenged his body, mind, and spirit. He spent the summer months living among Waya’s clan, and as the days turned to autumn, he began to grow into a young man shaped by the wisdom of the Cherokee.

Billy had never had brothers before, but now he found himself surrounded by Waya’s grandsons and other boys from the community. They welcomed him into their games with a mix of curiosity and mischief, eager to see what the "outsider" was made of.

At first, Billy struggled to keep up. The boys were swift as deer, their bare feet sure on rocky trails. They wrestled with a ferocity that left Billy bruised and breathless, but they also taught him with patience. He learned how to use leverage, not just strength, to bring down an opponent.

One afternoon, after weeks of wrestling matches, Billy managed to flip Ahuli, one of the strongest boys, onto his back. The other boys erupted in cheers, slapping Billy on the back. From that day on, he was no longer the outsider—he was one of them.

Waya took Billy under his wing, teaching him the ancient skills of the Cherokee warriors and hunters. They rose before dawn to run along the forest trails, their breath visible in the cool morning air. At first, Billy’s legs burned, and he struggled to keep pace, but Waya was unyielding.

“Strength comes from the spirit, not just the body,” Waya said as they paused by a stream. “A true hunter does not tire, because he becomes one with the land.”

Billy pushed himself harder each day, and soon he could run for miles without faltering, his steps as silent as the wind. Waya also taught him to move unseen, to blend into the shadows and approach wild game without a sound. Billy felt a thrill the first time he crept close enough to touch a grazing deer before it bolted, its eyes wide with surprise.

As summer turned to fall, Billy began to train with the older boys in the ways of the warrior. They practiced with wooden clubs and bows, their laughter turning to determination as Waya and the other elders watched. Billy’s hands grew calloused from hours of practice, but he reveled in the challenge.

One day, Waya handed Billy a small knife with a polished bone handle. “A warrior must know how to fight with his hands and his heart,” Waya said. “This blade is an extension of your spirit. Treat it with respect.”

Billy practiced tirelessly, learning how to defend himself and how to fight with precision rather than brute force. Waya also taught him the importance of restraint. “Strength is not for conquest,” he said. “A true warrior fights only to protect.”

In the evenings, Billy sat by the fire with Waya and the other elders, listening to the stories of their ancestors. He learned about the great migrations, the origins of the clans, and the spirits that guided the Cherokee people. These stories were not just entertainment—they were lessons, teaching him about courage, humility, and the interconnectedness of all life.

One night, Waya shared a story about a young wolf who left his pack to wander the forest alone. The wolf faced many challenges but eventually found a new pack, where he grew strong and wise. “Do you see yourself in the wolf, Billy?” Waya asked.

Billy nodded, understanding that the story was about him. “I do,” he said softly.

As the leaves turned gold and crimson, Waya decided it was time for Billy to prove himself. He called the boy to him one morning and handed him a bow and a quiver of arrows. “Today, you will hunt alone,” Waya said. “Bring back food for the family, and you will show us that you are ready.”

Billy’s heart raced as he set out into the woods. He moved carefully, remembering everything Waya had taught him. Hours passed before he spotted a wild turkey pecking at the ground. Billy nocked an arrow, took a deep breath, and released. The arrow flew true, and the bird fell.

When Billy returned to the village with his prize, Waya greeted him with a rare smile. “You have done well,” he said. “Today, you are not a boy. You are a hunter.”

By the end of autumn, Billy had transformed. His once-slender frame was lean and strong, his movements quick and purposeful. He could track animals through the forest, wrestle his friends to the ground, and run for hours without tiring. More importantly, he had gained the respect of the community and the wisdom of the elders.

Waya saw the change in him and knew that Billy’s journey was far from over. “You have the heart of a warrior,” Waya told him one evening. “But remember, a warrior’s greatest strength is his spirit. Never forget where you came from or the family that has chosen you.”

Billy nodded, his chest swelling with pride. He was no longer just a boy searching for belonging. He was Ahyoka’sda, “He Who Seeks,” a young man with a purpose and a place in the world.

As the first snow fell on the village, Billy prepared to return to his mother for the winter. Though he would leave the reservation, he carried with him the lessons of the Cherokee people: the strength of family, the wisdom of the land, and the courage of the warrior.

Billy knew he would return in the spring, ready to continue his journey. For now, he was content, knowing that he was part of something greater than himself—a legacy of resilience, unity, and the enduring spirit of the Cherokee.

Billy stood at the edge of the river, the same spot where Waya had once taught him the secrets of the forest. The reflection of the sky rippled on the surface, and he could see himself in it—no longer the skinny boy who had stumbled into the reservation years ago, but a man.

“Why the Marines?” Waya asked, standing beside him. His silver hair glinted in the sunlight, and his voice carried the weight of his question.

“I’ve learned what it means to be a warrior,” Billy replied. “Now I want to protect others—like you taught me. The Marines are where I can do that.”

Waya nodded slowly, pride and concern mingling in his eyes. “Then go with our blessing, Ahyoka’sda. You will always have a home here.”

Billy’s mother hugged him tightly the morning he left, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face. “You’ve always been strong, Billy,” she said. “Now, show the world what you’re made of.”

The first day at Marine Corps Recruit Training was chaos. Drill instructors stormed onto the buses, barking orders that sent recruits scrambling. Billy felt the familiar adrenaline surge he’d experienced before a hunt, his senses sharpening as he absorbed his surroundings.

He learned quickly that boot camp was a test of endurance, discipline, and mental toughness. The days began before dawn with grueling physical training, followed by weapons drills, obstacle courses, and endless inspections. Many recruits struggled, but Billy found himself thriving.

The lessons Billy had learned among the Cherokee gave him an edge. Running miles under the weight of a heavy pack was no different than the long-distance treks Waya had taken him on. Crawling through mud and brush reminded him of sneaking up on game in the forest. And when it came to marksmanship, Billy’s steady hand and sharp eye made him a natural.

During rifle training, the drill instructor noticed Billy’s skill almost immediately. “You’ve done this before,” the instructor said, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Billy replied. “My grandfather taught me.”

The instructor gave a rare nod of approval. “Keep it up, recruit.”

Billy’s ability to move silently and stay calm under pressure also set him apart. During a nighttime exercise, he led his squad through enemy territory, using the skills Waya had taught him to avoid detection. By the end of the exercise, his squad had completed the mission without a single “casualty,” earning them the highest marks.

Billy’s quiet confidence and willingness to help others earned him the respect of his fellow recruits. When someone struggled to climb the rope or keep up during a run, Billy was the first to offer encouragement. He shared tips he’d learned from the Cherokee—how to pace your breathing, how to focus your mind when exhaustion threatened to take over.

His squadmates began calling him “Chief,” a nickname that spread across the platoon. At first, Billy wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but he realized it was their way of acknowledging his strength and leadership.

“You’ve got a knack for this, recruit,” the drill instructor told him one day. “You ever think about leadership training?”

Billy thought of Waya, of the lessons he’d learned around the fire, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The final test of boot camp, the Crucible, was a 54-hour marathon of physical and mental challenges. Recruits carried heavy packs, navigated obstacle courses, and worked together to complete missions. It was designed to push them to their limits.

By this point, Billy was a natural leader. When his squad’s morale began to falter during a grueling uphill march, he reminded them of why they were there. “We’re stronger together,” he said. “Keep moving. One step at a time.”

When another recruit fell behind, Billy took part of his gear without hesitation, lightening the load so they could finish together. By the end of the Crucible, Billy’s squad had bonded like brothers, and they all stood tall as they received their Eagle, Globe, and Anchor pins.

After completing boot camp, Billy set his sights on Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC). He knew the path would be even harder, but he embraced the challenge. The Cherokee values of perseverance, humility, and community remained with him, guiding him through every obstacle.

During sniper training, Billy’s natural precision and patience set him apart. He could remain perfectly still for hours, waiting for the perfect shot, a skill honed in the forests of his youth. His instructors described him as “calm under fire,” and his fellow Marines came to rely on him as a steady presence in the chaos of training.

By the time Billy completed his MARSOC training, he had become a warrior in every sense of the word. He was skilled, disciplined, and deeply committed to his brothers-in-arms. But he never forgot the lessons of his Cherokee family.

On the day he graduated from MARSOC, Waya and Billy’s mother stood in the crowd, beaming with pride. Waya presented him with a small pouch of sage and cedar. “To remind you of where you come from,” Waya said.

Billy nodded, his voice steady. “I’ll never forget.”

The faint rustle of fabric brought him back to the present. Dusty’s voice crackled softly in his ear. “Hawk, you good?”

Billy blinked, the memory fading like mist under the sun. His finger hovered over the trigger, steady as the rock beneath him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just lining it up.”

On the fourth night, they reached their overwatch position—a rocky outcrop overlooking a small, dimly lit encampment nestled in a valley below. A single fire crackled at the center, casting flickering shadows on the tents. Through the scope, Billy spotted five figures, their AK-47s slung casually across their backs. One man sat apart from the others, speaking animatedly into a satellite phone.

Dusty studied the scene through his spotting scope. “That’s gotta be him,” he murmured. “Same build as the intel. Check the phone—could be confirming a shipment.”

Billy steadied his breathing, his crosshairs settling on the man’s chest. “Hold fire,” he said softly. “We need confirmation first.”

Koda stiffened suddenly, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Dusty looked up sharply. “We’ve got movement—east side of the camp.”

Through the scope, Billy saw two figures emerging from the shadows, weapons raised. An ambush? He tightened his grip on the trigger, his senses razor-sharp. Dusty activated his comms. “Command, this is Echo Team. Possible reinforcement arriving. Advise?”

Static crackled in his earpiece. Then: “Hold position. Confirm identity of HVT before engaging.”

The tension was palpable as they waited, the seconds dragging into an eternity. Billy’s finger hovered over the trigger, his heart pounding in his ears. Below, the figures exchanged brief words with Ibrahim, then disappeared into the night.

“Time’s running out,” Dusty said. “If he moves, we lose him.”

Billy exhaled slowly, his voice steady. “Not tonight. We wait.”

Dawn broke over the highlands, painting the landscape in shades of gold and crimson. The camp below began to stir, the men oblivious to the predators watching from above. Billy’s scope stayed trained on Ibrahim, who sipped tea near the fire, his demeanor relaxed.

Command’s voice crackled in his ear. “Echo Team, you’re green. Repeat, you’re green.”

Billy’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Dusty, confirm wind.”

“Two knots, west to east.”

Billy adjusted the scope and took a final breath. The shot rang out, shattering the morning calm. Ibrahim slumped forward, the tea spilling from his cup. Chaos erupted in the camp as the remaining men scrambled for cover.

Koda barked sharply, ready to spring into action. Dusty tapped her harness, keeping her calm. “Exfil point’s ten clicks out. Time to move.”

As they slipped away from the overwatch, Billy felt the weight of the mission lift, replaced by a deeper understanding of its cost. The highlands swallowed them once more, leaving only echoes of their presence behind.

The mission had been a success, but as the helicopter lifted them out of the highlands, Billy couldn’t shake the weight of it all. The stars still sparkled in the night sky, indifferent to the lives changed beneath them. Koda rested her head on Billy’s knee, a quiet reminder of the bond that kept them all alive.

“One down,” Dusty said, breaking the silence. “A thousand more to go.”

Billy nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “One at a time.”

The rhythmic thump of the rotors filled the cabin, a steady drumbeat reverberating through Billy’s chest as the Black Hawk cut through the night sky. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of adrenaline slowly bleeding away. His rifle rested across his lap, hands still gripping it loosely, unwilling to let go just yet.

Koda shifted at his feet, the Belgian Malinois pressing her muzzle against his thigh. He ran a gloved hand over her head, feeling the dampness of her fur where sweat had matted it down. “Good girl,” he murmured, scratching behind her ears. Her tail thumped once against the deck, a quiet reassurance that she was still with him, still solid, still breathing.

Across from him, Dusty leaned back against the seat, head tilted toward the open door. His helmet was off, exposing sweat-matted blond hair, and he took a deep pull from his canteen before nudging Billy’s boot with his own. “You always get this quiet after a job, or is this just your way of saying you love me?”

Billy smirked, shifting his grip on his rifle. “Figure if I stay quiet long enough, you might finally shut up.”

Dusty scoffed. “Fat chance. That went smooth, though. No hiccups.”

Billy nodded, eyes drifting toward the darkness outside. “Yeah. Almost too smooth.”

Dusty rolled his eyes. “Jesus, man, just take the win.”

Billy wanted to. But experience had taught him that an easy op usually meant something was waiting just over the horizon. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a second.

And suddenly, he wasn’t here anymore.

Flashback: First Time on a Helo

He was twenty-two, still raw, still learning how to shape himself into something more than just another jarhead with high hopes. The helo had been louder then—maybe because it was his first ride, maybe because his heart had been hammering so hard he could hear it over the rotors.

His instructor, a grizzled Marine Raider with a voice like crushed gravel, had leaned in close. “You’re gonna want to puke,” he had said matter-of-factly. “Don’t.”

Billy had white-knuckled his rifle, staring out at the ground falling away beneath him, his stomach twisting. But he hadn’t puked. Hadn’t even let himself breathe too deep. Just clenched his jaw and forced himself to absorb every detail—the way the bird rocked in the wind, the vibrations through the seat, the weight of his kit pressing him down.

That was the moment he knew he was in it for life.

Present

A sharp jolt brought him back. The pilot’s voice crackled in his headset. “Base in sight. Two minutes.”

Billy exhaled, shaking off the memory. The Black Hawk banked slightly, the distant glow of the base coming into view. Dusty gave him a knowing look. “Where’d you go just now?”

Billy shrugged. “Nowhere.”

Dusty smirked. “Yeah, sure. You get all broody like that every time, it’s like watching a moody action hero in real-time.”

Billy chuckled, shaking his head, then bent down and scratched Koda behind the ears again. “He’s just mad because you’re better company than him,” he told her. Koda gave a soft huff, as if in agreement.

The landing was rougher than usual—rotor wash kicking up a thick storm of sand, blinding even through the helo’s open doors. The moment the skids hit the tarmac, the crew chief signaled them to disembark. Billy slung his rifle, guiding Koda off as Dusty fell in beside him.

The mission was done. But as his boots hit solid ground, he knew the next one was already waiting.

Billy adjusted the strap on his rifle as the helo’s rotor wash died down, a thick haze of sand settling around them. Koda shook herself off, sending a fine mist of dust into the air. Dusty coughed, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Jesus, Koda, you trying to suffocate me?" He shot Billy a look. "Your dog’s a menace, man."

Billy smirked, patting Koda’s flank as she fell into step beside him. "She’s just evening the playing field. You reek worse than she does."

Dusty sniffed his own sleeve. "Eh. Smells like victory and gun oil. You should bottle it."

Billy snorted. "Yeah, call it ‘Eau de Gunfight.’ Bet the ladies would love that."

Dusty cracked a grin. "Speaking of love, I’m about five minutes from a deep and spiritual relationship with a double helping of whatever they’re slinging in the chow hall tonight. I need food, man. My stomach’s trying to eat itself."

Billy’s stomach gave a low growl of agreement. "Yeah, let’s grab some grub. Koda too. She earned it."

The three of them made their way across the tarmac, boots crunching over gravel and dirt, their exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline had burned off. The base was alive with its usual nocturnal hum—vehicles rumbling in the distance, the occasional bark of orders from a nearby squad, the low thrum of a generator somewhere out of sight.

A group of operators passed them, fresh off their own mission, their gear still caked in dust. One of them, a burly guy named Tate, lifted his chin in greeting. "How’d it go?"

"Too smooth," Billy replied, not breaking stride. "Either we’re getting better, or the universe is saving up a kick in the nuts for later."

Tate chuckled. "Ain’t that the truth. Enjoy the mystery meat, boys."

Dusty groaned. "Don’t remind me."

Inside the chow hall, the scent of hot food wrapped around them like a warm embrace—over-salted, over-cooked, and somehow still the best thing they could imagine right now. The line wasn’t long, just a handful of guys ahead of them, most moving through in a tired daze.

As they grabbed trays, Dusty leaned over to Billy. "If they’re serving that weird gray stew again, I swear to God—"

Billy cut him off. "You’ll what? Whine about it and eat two servings anyway?"

Dusty pointed at him with his fork. "That’s beside the point."

The chow hall staff, a mix of civilian contractors and enlisted personnel, looked equally unimpressed with life as they ladled out food. A bored-looking specialist plopped something onto Billy’s tray that vaguely resembled chicken. Maybe.

Billy eyed it. "You sure this isn’t just rehydrated boot leather?"

The specialist smirked. "What’s the difference?"

Dusty peered at his own tray. "Think I saw something like this in a biology textbook once. Looked under ‘unidentified organisms.’"

A crusty old mess sergeant overheard and let out a dry chuckle. "Don’t like it? There’s always MREs."

Billy shuddered. "I’d rather eat my rifle."

"Suit yourself," the sergeant said, slapping an extra scoop onto Dusty’s tray with malicious glee.

Koda, ever the opportunist, sniffed the air expectantly. Billy crouched and held up a piece of something resembling beef. "What do you think, girl? Fit for consumption?"

She sniffed it, then turned her head away.

Dusty cackled. "Damn, even the dog has standards."

They made their way to an empty table and sank down onto the hard benches. Billy stretched his legs out under the table with a tired groan. Koda curled up beside him, still on alert but finally settling now that the mission was behind them.

For a moment, they just ate in silence, too hungry to talk. The food was terrible, but that was expected. After a few minutes, Dusty jabbed his fork at Billy. "Alright, deep thoughts time. What do you make of tonight?"

Billy chewed, thinking. "Like I said earlier—too smooth. No resistance, no real surprises. Either we got lucky, or someone wanted us in and out without a fight."

Dusty nodded, his usual playful demeanor darkening just a little. "Yeah. That’s what’s bugging me too. Feels like we walked into something, but we won’t know what until it’s too late."

Billy set his fork down, rubbing a hand over his face. "We’ll get intel soon enough. Could be nothing. Could be we just hit a weak spot in their network. But I don’t like relying on ‘could be’s."

Dusty sighed, leaning back. "Well, whatever it is, it’s not our problem tonight. Right now, our biggest challenge is keeping this crap down and getting some damn sleep."

Billy nodded, finishing the last few bites of his food despite his better judgment. "Yeah. Rack time’s next. Koda’s probably the smartest of us—she gets to sleep whenever she wants."

At the sound of her name, Koda perked up slightly, then yawned, resting her head on her paws.

Dusty chuckled. "She’s got the right idea."

Billy sat back, staring at his empty tray, his mind still running over the night’s events. He had a feeling that the smoothness of this op was just the calm before the storm. But for now, he let himself feel the weight of exhaustion, the rare stillness of a job completed.

Tomorrow would bring new orders, new targets, new dangers.

But tonight, they’d rest.

The morning air was already thick with heat as Billy and Dusty made their way across the compound, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath their boots. Koda padded beside them, her ears flicking as she took in the early stirrings of the base. Despite the calm of the morning, a knot had settled in Billy’s gut. Something felt off.

Dusty adjusted the strap of his rifle, glancing over. "Alright, Hawk, what do you think this is about? New op? Another wild goose chase?"

Billy exhaled slowly. "I don’t know. But if they’re dragging us into an intel briefing at oh-seven-hundred, it ain’t nothing."

The tent ahead was standard issue—olive drab, reinforced, guarded by two lance corporals who snapped to attention as Billy and Dusty approached. The junior of the two held the flap open. "They’re waiting for you inside, Sergeant."

Billy and Dusty stepped in.

Inside, the air was cooler thanks to a couple of standing fans humming in the corners, but the atmosphere was anything but comfortable. At the head of the long, battered table stood Colonel James Beckett, the kind of Marine officer who didn’t just command respect—he earned it. Late forties, close-cropped silver hair, squared jaw, the kind of man who had been in the fight longer than some of the young warriors under his command had been alive. He glanced up from the documents spread before him and nodded at them.

"Sergeant Henderson. Corporal Owens. Take a seat."

To the colonel’s left stood a CIA field operative, a civilian dressed in desert tan tactical gear, sleeves rolled up, exposing tanned forearms lined with scars. David Raines—a man whose presence made most Marines uneasy, mostly because spooks like him only showed up when things were about to get complicated. His gaze was sharp, unreadable.

A couple of admin staff sat at the far end, typing away on laptops, pretending not to listen.

Billy and Dusty pulled out chairs and sat, Koda settling at Billy’s feet.

The colonel wasted no time. He placed his hands on the table, fingers splayed. "Let’s get straight to it. You both know why you’re here?"

Dusty leaned back slightly. "We assume it’s about our last op, sir."

The colonel gave a slow nod. "Correct. It appears there’s some… conflicting intelligence regarding your target, Ibrahim."

Billy felt a flicker of something deep in his gut. A warning. He kept his face neutral. "Conflicting how, sir?"

That’s when Raines stepped forward, dropping a manila folder onto the table. It slid to a stop in front of Billy.

"We have reason to believe Ibrahim wasn’t just an arms dealer," Raines said, his voice smooth, measured. "He may have been working with us—as an asset."

Silence settled in the tent, heavy and suffocating.

Dusty let out a short breath, shaking his head. "No way. That bastard was dirty. We had SIGINT, visual confirmation, HUMINT backing it all up. You’re telling us we took out one of ours?"

Raines didn’t blink. "That’s exactly what I’m telling you."

Billy opened the folder, scanning the documents. Photos, reports, grainy surveillance images of Ibrahim meeting with different groups—some of them insurgents, some of them unmarked figures.

Billy clenched his jaw. "We had green light. That means the intelligence pipeline went through every verification channel. Are you saying someone screwed up?"

Raines exhaled through his nose. "Or someone wanted him gone."

The colonel crossed his arms. "The question now is—why? If Ibrahim was playing both sides, feeding us intel, then who wanted him dead bad enough to manipulate our operational chain?"

Dusty rubbed a hand over his face. "And more importantly, do they know we were the ones who pulled the trigger?"

Raines tapped a finger on the table. "That’s the part that concerns me the most." He glanced between them. "You two were the triggermen. That makes you targets. If someone out there thinks you just eliminated a valuable asset, there’s a chance they’re going to come looking for you."

Billy’s fingers curled into fists, tension winding through his shoulders. "Do we have a suspect?"

Raines hesitated, and that hesitation told Billy everything he needed to know.

The colonel’s gaze hardened. "Spit it out, Raines. Who are we dealing with?"

Raines exhaled. "We don’t know for sure yet. But we have a lead." He tapped the folder. "A few hours before your op, Ibrahim contacted someone using an encrypted channel we still haven’t cracked. We traced the signal—it came from inside a U.S.-controlled zone. Meaning, whoever he was talking to wasn’t just some low-level insurgent. It was someone on our side of the fence."

Billy exchanged a look with Dusty. That wasn’t just a mistake. That was betrayal.

Dusty leaned forward. "So what’s the move here? We sit tight and wait for some ghost to come after us, or are we taking the fight to them?"

The colonel sighed, rubbing his temple. "We don’t move blind. We find out who gave Ibrahim that green light to make contact, who he was talking to, and whether or not we were set up." He locked eyes with Billy. "Until we have answers, you and your team stay sharp. No unnecessary risks. No lone wolf moves. We don’t know how deep this goes."

Billy nodded, his mind already spinning through the implications.

Raines spoke up again. "I’ll be handling the intelligence side, but I need you two to do what you do best—stay alive, watch your six, and keep your ears to the ground. If someone comes for you, we want to know before they make their move."

Dusty huffed. "Yeah? And what happens if they do?"

Raines gave a humorless smile. "Then we’ll know we’re asking the right questions."

The colonel straightened. "You’re dismissed. But I want hourly reports if anything seems off. Understood?"

Billy and Dusty stood, snapping to attention. "Aye, sir."

They turned to leave, stepping into the blinding sun.

Dusty exhaled, shaking his head. "Well, Hawk, we wanted a little excitement. Guess we got our wish."

Billy didn’t respond right away. He glanced down at Koda, who was sniffing the air, ears twitching.

Something didn’t feel right.

And that meant whoever had set them up wasn’t finished yet.

The First Threads

Billy and Dusty walked side by side across the compound, their pace slow but deliberate. The midday sun bore down on them, baking the hard-packed earth beneath their boots, but neither paid it much mind. Their focus was elsewhere—on the nagging suspicion that they’d been played.

Dusty adjusted the strap on his rifle and muttered, “We digging into this, or waiting for the boogeyman to come knocking?”

Billy exhaled, his jaw set. “We dig.”

They knew where to start. The encrypted signal. The CIA’s briefing had been vague on the details, but Billy had caught one important fact—the signal had originated from inside a U.S.-controlled zone. That meant someone on their side had direct access to comms systems that weren’t supposed to be open to civilians, let alone an arms dealer like Ibrahim.

Dusty shook his head as they moved. “A guy like that doesn’t just ‘accidentally’ get access to secured comms. Either he had inside help, or someone wanted him to talk.”

Billy nodded. “And if someone wanted him to talk, it wasn’t to us.”

Their first stop was the Base Communications Hub—a squat, windowless building near the airstrip, surrounded by high fences and posted with signs warning against unauthorized access. It wasn’t the kind of place grunts or even operators casually walked into.

As they approached, a bored-looking lance corporal at the entrance perked up. “Can I help you, sergeant?”

Billy handed over his ID. “Need access to the comms logs from three nights ago. Operation Echo Team, HVT neutralization.”

The young Marine hesitated. “Sir, that data’s classified beyond field-level access. I can’t—”

Dusty clapped a hand on the Marine’s shoulder. “Look, man, we’re not here to poke holes in your security protocols. Just need to talk to whoever was running the system that night.”

The lance corporal glanced toward the building, then back at them. “That’d be… Specialist Harlow. But he’s in the secondary ops trailer today, running system diagnostics.”

Billy nodded. “Appreciate it.”

The secondary ops trailer sat on the edge of the base’s restricted section, just outside the main control center. It was the kind of place usually staffed by analysts, comms techs, and intelligence officers who didn’t see much field time.

Billy and Dusty knocked once before stepping inside. The space was dim, the air thick with recycled AC. At the far end, a pale, wiry specialist in his mid-twenties sat at a console, headphones around his neck, tapping away at his keyboard. Specialist Nick Harlow.

Harlow jumped slightly when he saw them, his fingers pausing mid-keystroke. “Uh… can I help you?”

Billy didn’t waste time. “We need to talk about the encrypted signal from three nights ago.”

Harlow blinked. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I… I don’t handle signal encryption, that’s above my pay grade.”

Dusty crossed his arms. “Funny, ‘cause the base comms chief says you were on duty that night. Meaning you saw the logs before anyone else. So let’s skip the part where you pretend not to know what we’re talking about.”

Harlow hesitated, eyes darting toward the door. Billy caught the subtle shift in his posture—nervous, uncomfortable, maybe even scared.

Billy took a step closer, keeping his tone even. “Look, we’re not here to burn you. We just want to know how Ibrahim—an arms dealer—had access to a secured channel.”

Harlow opened his mouth, then closed it again. He glanced toward his monitor, then back at Billy. “I don’t know.”

Dusty scoffed. “Try again.”

Harlow exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I… I flagged it, alright? The second I saw the signal, I flagged it as an anomaly. It wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Billy’s brow furrowed. “So what happened?”

Harlow hesitated again, then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “An hour later, the log was scrubbed. Like it never existed.”

Billy felt his stomach tighten. That wasn’t normal. Someone with clearance had manually erased evidence of that signal.

“Who scrubbed it?” Billy asked.

Harlow shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s the thing—it wasn’t a normal access override. I tried backtracking, but the system kicked me out. Like someone way higher up had put a lock on it.”

Dusty let out a low whistle. “That’s not a mistake. That’s a cover-up.”

Billy studied Harlow, reading the tension in his face. The specialist was nervous, but he wasn’t lying.

“You said you flagged it. Did anyone else see it before it got wiped?”

Harlow hesitated again, then nodded. “Yeah. One of the intel officers. Lieutenant Keene. I told him about it, and he told me to forget I ever saw it. Next thing I know, it’s gone.”

Billy exchanged a look with Dusty. Someone inside the intelligence loop had shut this down—fast.

Billy leaned in. “Where’s Keene now?”

Harlow licked his lips, clearly debating whether to keep talking. “He, uh… he left base this morning. Took a flight out on short notice.”

Dusty let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “Convenient.”

Billy nodded. “Alright, Harlow. We were never here. You never talked to us. Got it?”

Harlow nodded quickly, relief flashing across his face.

Billy turned to Dusty. “We need to find out where Keene went.”

Dusty smirked. “And more importantly—who he was working for.”

As they stepped out of the trailer, Billy felt it again. That deep, familiar instinct warning him that they were stepping into something bigger than they’d ever anticipated.

And someone—someone powerful—wanted them to stop.

A Whisper From the Past

Billy and Dusty walked back to their tent, the desert sun now sinking lower, casting long shadows across the compound. The conversation with Harlow still churned in Billy’s head.

Someone inside the intelligence loop had scrubbed the logs.

Someone had made sure Ibrahim’s transmission disappeared.

And now, the one guy who saw it—Lieutenant Keene—had suddenly vanished.

Dusty exhaled as they reached the tent, tugging off his gloves. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Billy didn’t answer right away. He crouched down, running his hand along Koda’s back, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. She was alert but calm, her ears flicking slightly.

“I think we’re in deeper than we thought,” Billy said finally, standing.

Dusty scoffed. “That’s an understatement.” He unzipped the tent, stepping inside. “Let’s figure out where Keene went before—”

He stopped.

Billy was right behind him, catching the shift in his posture, the slight tension in his shoulders. His hand went to his sidearm. “What?”

Dusty didn’t answer at first. He just pointed.

There, sitting neatly on Billy’s cot, was a small, folded note.

Nothing else in the tent had been disturbed. Their gear was untouched. But the note hadn’t been there when they left.

Koda sniffed the air, then let out a low, throaty growl.

Billy moved forward cautiously, picking up the note and unfolding it with practiced care. It was handwritten—short, precise, and impossible to mistake as anything but a warning.

You’re asking the wrong questions. Stop now before you get buried.
- D

A slow, creeping sensation spread through Billy’s chest. His grip on the note tightened slightly.

Dusty leaned in. “D?” He frowned. “You know a ‘D’?”

Billy didn’t answer. Not at first.

But he did know.

David.

David Cain.

A name he hadn’t spoken in years.

Dusty caught the look on his face. “Alright, spill it. Who’s ‘D’?”

Billy exhaled, sitting down on the cot, his mind already racing. “His name’s David Cain. He was MARSOC. Before that, he was something else.”

Dusty narrowed his eyes. “Something else like what?”

Billy stared at the note, remembering.

Flashback: A Ghost From The Past

Six years ago. Syria.

The op had been deep cover—the kind that didn’t officially exist. Billy had been new to MARSOC then, running with a different team, learning the ropes of unofficial warfare.

David Cain had been their liaison, if that was even the right word. He wasn’t military, wasn’t CIA, wasn’t anything officially attached to their unit. But he knew things—the kind of things that made even senior operators pay attention when he spoke.

Billy had never known where Cain came from. Some said he had started in Army Special Missions, others claimed The Company had burned his file long before he ever stepped foot in the Middle East. What Billy did know was that Cain operated differently.

Where most of the guys fought battles in the open, Cain waged invisible wars. Wars fought in whispers and quiet assassinations, where one conversation could change the course of a conflict just as easily as a well-placed bullet.

And then, one day—he was gone. No explanation. No debrief. Just vanished.

Now, after all these years, he was back.

And he was warning Billy to walk away.

Back to the Present

Billy’s fingers traced the edge of the note, his mind piecing things together.

Dusty watched him closely. “I take it this Cain guy doesn’t do social calls.”

Billy smirked, but there was no humor in it. “No. If he left me this, it means two things. One, he knows exactly what we’re digging into. Two, someone doesn’t want us digging at all.”

Dusty nodded slowly. “So do we listen?”

Billy looked at the note again. The message was direct—back off or get buried.

But the signature—that small initial at the bottom—meant something else. It meant Cain had left a door open.

“If he really wanted to shut us down, he wouldn’t have left his mark,” Billy said finally. “This isn’t just a warning. It’s an invitation.”

Dusty raised a brow. “Invitation to what?”

Billy stood, folding the note neatly, tucking it into his pocket. “To find him before someone finds us.”

The night air had cooled, but the tension pressing down on them was suffocating. Billy knew what had to happen next.

Cain wasn’t a man who could be traced through official channels. He was a ghost, moving outside normal intelligence networks. The only way to reach him was through old back channels—unofficial contacts, whispers from people who knew the real war behind the war.

Billy turned to Dusty. “I need you to tap into our logistics guys. Find out if Keene’s departure was a planned rotation or something off the books.”

Dusty nodded. “And you?”

Billy exhaled. “I’m gonna see if I can get a message back to Cain.”

Dusty smirked. “So much for backing off.”

Billy met his gaze. “We were set up, Dusty. I want to know why.”

Koda let out a soft whine, pressing her nose against Billy’s leg. He ran a hand down her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. She could sense the shift—something was coming.

And Billy had a feeling it wasn’t going to wait long.