Ghost Warrior II : Irish Sister

 2007, 1350 Hours

 Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) – Dam Neck, Virginia
 Kill House Training – Briefing Room

The room stank of sweat, coffee, and CLP, or  gun oil — the unofficial scent of Tier One readiness. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing out color and casting long shadows on the concrete walls. A battered whiteboard stood to the left of a massive topographical map of the compound. Marker streaks from earlier runs had been only partially erased, red circles and notes bleeding through ghost-like beneath new scribbles.

Master Chief Tucker “Tushka” Nash stood with arms crossed, back straight, his frame coiled tight under a gray moisture-wicking shirt darkened in places with sweat. His eyes scanned the room, not as a man looking at peers—but as a hunter reading his pack. His team had done four evolutions since 0400. Mistakes had been made. Time to fix them.

“Hey! OK, Everyone listen the hell up.”

The noise dropped instantly. Six men and one war dog froze in various stages of post-run prep—chugging water, tightening belts, checking gear. They knew the tone. Tucker wasn’t angry. He was sharpening the edge.

“You’ve cleared the house four times today. This next run? It’s the one that counts. You don’t leave this building until I’m satisfied.”

He moved to the whiteboard, snapped the cap off a red marker, and drew a hard “X” through Room Three.

“New layout. HVT’s shifted. Now he’s mobile. Heat signature tracking shows movement between Rooms Three, Five, and Six. You’ve got fifteen seconds from first breach to make your initial hard contact, or you lose containment.”

He turned, eyes sweeping the team.

“Boomer—door rigged. Pressure plate, motion sensor. We know how this asshole likes to booby trap his exits.”

Mateo “Boomer” Ruiz nodded once, brown eyes hooded, fingers already checking the pouch with his shaped charges. “I’ll defuse it, or I’ll blow it. Your call, Chief.”

“Defuse it. This is a snatch, not a smoking crater. Breaker, you and Caesar lead the stack.”

Will “Breaker” Barron clipped Ceasar’s harness into place. The massive warlock Doberman shifted its weight with the silent alertness of a predator. His ears were cropped, eyes coal-black, every muscle twitching in anticipation.

“Keys,” Tucker said, “you’re running overwatch from catwalk two. I want signal interception live and your mini-drone in the air by go-time. You’ll spot threats before they can shift positions.”

Jason “Keys” Kwon didn’t look up from his tablet, already queuing the drone protocols. “Copy. I’ll have eyes by D-minus twenty. If he farts in Room Four, I’ll smell it.”

The team gave a few tight grins, tension bleeding just enough to keep the nerves in check.

“Rip,” Tucker continued, nodding to the team’s master diver and point man on fluid transitions, “you’re secondary breach if Boomer hits trouble. Doc—”  Chris “Doc” Peters looked up, tightening the sling on his SPR. His face was flushed from the last run, green eyes sharp.

“You’re my failsafe. Target drops, you keep him breathing. You go red, the whole mission collapses.”

Doc’s answer was simple. “He’ll live.”

The weight in Tucker’s voice didn’t let up. “We make contact, secure, extract, clean. No warning shots. No hesitations. We clear tight and quiet. You find the HVT, call ‘Vulture One Clear.’ No other chatter.”

He paused, tapping the map once with his knuckle.

“Sim rounds are live. The OPFOR is pissed and rested. They’re gonna use smoke, mirrors, and momentum. You make a mistake, it’s getting logged and played back in front of command. This team doesn’t screw up inside four walls.”

He stepped back, scanned each face. “Clear your heads. Breathe. You are the blade. Every motion—deliberate. Every breath—measured. Every shot—lethal.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper.

“Now go ghost.”

They rose without a word. Velcro ripped. Helmets locked. NVGs flipped down. Magazines were seated with clean, mechanical slaps. Ceasar barked once—low, excited.

Nash watched them move out, one by one, like phantoms into the mist beyond the ready room.

Behind them, the kill house waited—modular, ever-changing, and merciless.

Tucker keyed his comms. “Delta, this is Vulture Actual. Stack in motion. Execute Phase Five.”

Static answered.

Then: “Copy. Door’s yours.”

He clipped his helmet on, grabbed his suppressed Mk18 from the rack, and moved.  The hunt was on. 

The interior of Kill House Alpha was dim and stifling. No windows. No outside sound. Just drywall, plywood, steel hinges, and the promise of violence. Every wall inside had the stench of burnt powder soaked into it—like a ghost of rounds past hung in the air.

Master Chief Tucker “Tushka” Nash crouched at the lead corner, shoulder tucked against the frame, his suppressed Mk18 rifle angled tight to the door seam. He could hear the breaths behind him—shallow, rhythmic, trained. Six men stacked tight, each one primed. Ceasar’s low growl rumbled like a distant storm, the warlock Doberman straining slightly against his harness.

Tucker’s voice came low and precise in the comms, barely audible.
 “Execute. Execute. Execute.”

A soft click as Breaker’s gloved fingers turned the knob. Then—

BOOM.

The door crashed open. The stack flowed in like poured steel. Smooth. Silent. Violent.

Breaker surged left, sweeping his HK416 toward the corner. “Clear left.”

Doc pivoted right, tight against the frame. “Clear right.”

Room One – Secure. Three seconds.

Ceasar darted in at a hand signal, nose low, ears alert. His harness-cam fed real-time footage to Keys, perched in the catwalk above, tracking movement through the thermal feed. “No heat in Room Two,” came Keys’ clipped report through the internal net. “Target’s deeper. Recommend bypass.”

Tucker moved forward in the stack. “Negative. Confirmed tripwire flagged at Door Two. Boomer—front.”

Petty Officer Mateo “Boomer” Ruiz moved low, swapping rifle for his compact diagnostic wand. The laser flicked across the base of the frame—red indicator blinked. “Pressure sensor. Old-school style. Single strand wired into the jamb.”

He reached into his thigh pouch, retrieving a miniature det cord cutter and wedge block. In ten seconds flat, the plate was neutralized.

“Breach clear,” Boomer confirmed, stepping back.

Tucker gave a two-finger signal. Breaker re-stacked on the hinge side. Doc posted high and rear. Tucker kept the point.

Second breach. Flashbang.

Breaker yanked the pin with muscle memory, rolled the device into Room Two.
 CRACK–THUMP. The flash lit the hall. Stun gas and light peeled back silence like a scab.

Stack flowed in hard. Tucker led now, muzzle sweeping left.
 Target dummy popped on a rail track.

“Contact left!”

One controlled squeeze—pop.
 The sim round hit center mass. The dummy jerked and froze on impact.

Tucker advanced fast, slicing the room with precision. “Room two secure. One down.”

Doc’s voice was tight in the channel. “Echo 2 covering long. Movement up hallway.”

Ceasar growled low again—focused, not anxious. He locked on the far threshold.

“Room Three is hot,” Keys transmitted. “Thermal bloom confirmed. Multiple heat signatures. Possible HVT.”

“Stack up,” Tucker ordered. “Boomer—rig the frame.”

The team formed fast—Breaker and Ceasar on point, Boomer behind with the breach charge. Doc and Rip rounded the stack, rifles up, eyes slicing through nods of darkness.

“Frag sim armed,” Boomer whispered, taping the last hook of the shaped charge to the doorframe.

Tucker keyed in. “Room Three is your punch-through. Doc—left slice. Breaker—hard right. I’ll cross. We clear fast and aggressive.”

He held up his fingers—three, two, one—

“BREACHING.”

BOOM.
 The door blew inward with a thunderclap. Splinters. Smoke. The team surged through like a kinetic wave.

Targets—three steel poppers, one non-com “hostage” dummy zip-tied to a chair. Two targets armed, center-fire ready.

Doc hit the left with a quick two-shot rhythm.
 POP POP.
 First threat down.

Breaker fired at point blank—one controlled burst to the chest of the second.
 POP-POP-POP.

“Hostage secure!” Rip called, hand up. No shots fired toward the dummy. Movement halted.

Ceasar held mid-room, muzzle level with the fourth dummy—unarmed, decoy civilian.

“Hold positions,” Tucker snapped. “Checking hallway—Keys, status?”

“Room Four is negative,” came Keys’ voice, cool and clinical. “But I’m losing feed on thermal. Something’s spoofing. Might be a jammer.”

“Breaker, eyes on Ceasar,” Tucker said.

But Ceasar was already fixed—ears back, one paw raised. That signal meant explosive scent detected.

Breaker grabbed his collar. “Target bagged. Unknown device. Breach Team—hold perimeter.”

Boomer crouched, flipping down his mask. Swept the base of the wall behind the dummy.

“Low-level transponder,” he muttered. “Not real C4. Training clay—green dye sim. If this was real...”

Tucker cut him off. “We’d be cooked. Lesson learned.”

He keyed his mic again. “All stations, Vulture Actual. Target secured. Kill house cleared. Time to black.”

A long silence followed. Then from overhead:

“Copy, Vulture. Full clear. All hits registered. Zero collateral. Clean run.”

The radio cracked once more.

“Stand by for after-action.”

But Tucker wasn’t listening to that yet.

He looked over at Doc, who was already removing his gloves, sweat glistening across his brow.

Doc raised one brow. “We breathing or bleeding?”

Tucker gave the ghost of a smile. “Still breathing. But that dog outperformed three of you.”

Breaker smirked. “That’s ‘cause he doesn’t talk back.”

The laughter was quiet. Earned.

The real work would begin in the debrief. But in that moment, the fog outside thickened again, and inside Kill House Alpha, Delta Team stood tall.

Alive. Sharp. And ready for the next war.