23. Walt
TWENTY-THREE
Walt
By the time we enter the briefing room, Ethan’s already there, stone-faced and ready for business. Rigel and Blake are seated, their attention locked on the monitors as they flicker to life.
Sam stands at the front of the room, arms crossed, brows drawn tight in focused thought. Near the head of the long table but slightly off to the side, CJ leans back in his chair, a pen moving absently over a sheet of paper in front of him. Across from him, Mitzy types steadily on her laptop, her expression sharp and unreadable.
As I drop into a chair, my gaze snags on CJ’s paper. He isn’t doodling random shapes like I first thought—he’s sketching out the Kazakhstan facility’s layout with precise, calculated lines. His pen pauses, taps twice against the table, then resumes its steady glide, tracing the edges of a building that’s haunted every strategy session we’ve had.
Before I can process what he might be thinking, Mitzy’s voice cuts through the low hum of the monitors. “I’ve got updates.”
Tension coils tight in the room. Whatever she’s found … It’s time.
“Main lab complex is here; there are many levels below ground.” Mitzy overlays blueprints with heat signature data. “I’m almost positive we’re on the right track.” She turns to me. “The North Korean facility shows no signs of activity.”
“Power consumption is climbing,” Sam notes.
“The facility’s power grid is their weakness,” Mitzy explains.
“Can we kill the main power?” CJ rumbles.
“Not that simple.” Sam zooms in on the facility layout. “Lose containment at the wrong moment…”
“And we risk triggering an uncontrolled fusion reaction,” Mitzy finishes. “We need a precision strike. Take out security without compromising the containment systems.”
“What about the patrol patterns?” I ask.
“Iron tight,” Blake says, pulling up surveillance footage. “Their patrols have so many overlapping redundancies there’s nowhere the facility isn’t covered. No blind spots. No gaps. Every entrance, every corridor—they’ve sealed it tighter than a vault.”
“Getting into that place is going to be difficult,” Ethan says.
“An assault is a no-go.” CJ pulls at his chin. “We’ve looked at this a hundred ways, and there’s no way to infiltrate the facility without setting off alarms. I hate to say it, but we’re stuck.”
“There has to be a way in.” The thought of Malia in their hands sends fresh fire through my veins. I lean forward, studying the holographic display hovering above the briefing room table. The Kazakhstan facility rotates slowly in a blue wireframe schematic, each defensive position highlighted in angry red.
“ Smaug’s latest pass confirms it.” Mitzy’s fingers dance across her tablet, zooming in on the compound’s perimeter. “Three-layer security fence, motion sensors every ten meters, thermal cameras covering every approach vector. No blind spots.”
“What about tunnels?” Ethan asks from his position at the head of the table. “Soviet-era facilities usually had escape routes.”
“All sealed.” Sam’s rumbling voice carries barely contained frustration. “Concrete plugs every fifty meters. They aren’t taking chances.”
I study the hologram, looking for any weaknesses we might have missed. The last ten weeks of recovery have given me plenty of time to memorize every detail of this place, but understanding it hasn’t made breaching it any easier.
“Air insertion?” Blake suggests.
Sam shakes his head. “Anti-aircraft battery here and here.” Red markers flare on the display. “Plus high-altitude radar coverage. We couldn’t get a chopper within five kilometers without being detected.”
“What about going in as a supply convoy?” Rigel leans forward, his usual swagger replaced by tactical focus. “They must need regular deliveries for that many people.”
“All supplies are transferred at a forward checkpoint ten kilometers from the main facility,” Mitzy explains, her tone clipped. “Everything’s thoroughly searched and repacked into their own trucks. No outside transport gets past the perimeter.”
Blake pulls up a satellite image, highlighting the barren stretch of land surrounding the facility. “The place is smack in the middle of the steppes. Miles of open terrain with only one main access road cutting through.”
Mitzy nods, overlaying the supply route on the map. “The closest natural cover is a mountain range about ten kilometers out. But from that distance, the facility’s sensors would pick up any approach long before we got close.”
“They’d see us coming from miles away,” Ethan says grimly. “Plenty of time to neutralize us.”
The room falls into tense silence, the stark reality sinking in. Every possible route is a death trap—or worse, a failed mission before it even starts. There are five scientists, with their families, trapped inside, and we have no way to get to them, let alone get them out.
“I need to know what’s on the inside before we even think about an assault. The only way I can do that is with the bumblebees.” Mitzy breaks the tension. She pulls up specs for Guardian’s micro-surveillance drones. “They’re small enough to slip through ventilation shafts, map the interior layout…”
“And confirm where they’re holding the hostages,” Sam finishes, nodding slowly. “Good. Do it.”
“But then what? What good does it do us to know where the hostages are being held if the place is impenetrable?” Every day feels like a failure.
“Let’s focus on what we can do. We need to establish a forward staging area in-country.” CJ pulls up a topographical map of the region. “The bumblebees have a limited range—we need to get within five kilometers of the facility without detection to release them. I’m open to suggestions.”
“These mountains here.” I point to a ridge line. “Natural cover, high enough for clear transmission signals.”
“Still too far to launch the drones.” Mitzy shakes her head. “I need a way to get close enough to launch them.”
“But there’s no way.” Rigel pushes back from the table. “With one road in and one road out, how can we get within those five klicks?”
“Can we depend on any local assets?” Ethan asks.
Sam shakes his head. “Too risky. We go in completely self-contained. No contact, no paper trail.”
“That complicates things. We need our own power supply, communications relay, the works,” CJ notes. “Plus enough supplies to maintain a surveillance post for at least a week, maybe a month.”
“I can have my equipment ready in thirty-six hours,” Mitzy says. “But getting it in the country without raising flags…” She glances at Sam.
“I’ve been working that angle with my CIA contacts.” Sam pulls up flight manifests. “There’s a mining company already in place, controlled by U.S. interests. They’re the perfect cover for bringing in heavy equipment. It’s twenty klicks out, though. Not ideal, but better than where we sit now.” He turns to Mitzy, his concern about the bumblebee deployment limitations clear.
“Once we’re set up, how long will it take us to have usable intel?” I force myself to focus on logistics rather than my growing impatience.
“Forty-eight hours to get the bumblebees deployed and complete their initial sweeps,” Mitzy calculates. “Another twenty-four to process the data and build accurate interior schematics.”
“That’s three days minimum before we even know what we’re dealing with inside,” Hank observes.
“Three days they’re still in there,” I growl, but we don’t have a choice. Going in blind would be suicide.
“Sounds like we have a plan,” Sam rumbles. “Hopefully, things will look different once we’ve got boots on the ground. Let’s get the teams prepped and ready our equipment. I want us wheels up within forty-eight hours.”
“What does a forward staging area matter if there’s no way in?” Rigel blows out a breath. We’re all feeling the same frustration.
“When we find a way in, we’ll be twenty klicks away, rather than two days’ worth of travel moving in our assets.” CJ leans back and pulls at his chin. “We’ll find a way to rescue the hostages.”
“Local weather might be a problem.” I study weather projections and stare at the terrain map. “At that altitude, conditions can change fast.”
“Already modeling it,” Mitzy confirms. “We’ll need at least three days of clear weather for reliable drone operation. The long-range forecast looks good starting next week.”
“Then that’s our window,” Sam decides. “Five days to get the staging area set up and operational. Three days for surveillance. By next week, we’ll know exactly what we’re up against, and we’ll be positioned to act.”
I force myself to accept the timeline even as my instincts scream to move faster. But Sam is right— we do this smart, or we don’t do it at all.
“I wanted to talk about something else.” Mitzy’s voice cuts through the chatter as we stand to leave.
“What’s that?” Sam asks.
“I’ve been monitoring all known Sentinel intelligence channels. There’s no chatter. No movement from other Sentinel operations. It’s like they’ve been ordered to stand down.”
“You think Malfor’s keeping them away deliberately?” Ethan asks.
“Has to be. The Third Sentinel’s quantum facility is a prime target, but there is no response from the Eighth Sentinel’s intelligence networks. That feels wrong.”
“He’s letting us come.” I realize, the thought settling cold in my gut. “Why? What does he gain by losing the scientists?”
“Maybe he already has what he wants,” Forest rumbles. “The research, the breakthroughs… Maybe we’re just cleaning up loose ends for him.”
The team disperses, but I linger, staring at the facility’s imposing outline on the display. Eight days. Eight more days of waiting, wondering, and hoping we’re not too late.
I force myself to accept this is the smart play, but my hands clench under the table as I stare at the facility’s defenses. Somewhere in there, Malia’s waiting. Probably wondering if I survived. Definitely wondering if help is coming.
The first forty-eight hours drag like centuries. I haunt the equipment bay as Blake and Rigel check every piece of gear, triple-check the weapons, and verify each comm unit. My recently healed wounds ache from the constant motion, but sitting still feels impossible.
“If you’re going to hover,” Blake finally says, tossing me a crate of backup batteries, “at least make yourself useful.”
The work helps but doesn’t quiet the voice in my head counting every minute that passes.
The journey takes another full day—a carefully choreographed dance of multiple vehicles and routes to avoid detection. The mining operation provides perfect cover, but every checkpoint and delay sets my teeth on edge. Hank and Gabe try to lighten the mood with their usual banter, but even they grow quiet as we near our destination.
Setting up the mining operation takes two more days. Sam oversees the installation of our comms array, disguised as geological survey equipment scouting the mountain range. The satellite dishes blend seamlessly among legitimate mining gear, while every piece of tactical equipment is stashed in carefully marked crates.
On day six, the Rufi units deploy with their precious cargo. I watch through binoculars as the robotic canines navigate the rugged terrain, their movements eerily fluid and precise. Their radar-shielded exteriors keep them invisible to the facility’s surveillance grid—a crucial advantage given the vast, exposed steppes.
Each Rufi carries a compartment housing the bumblebee hive—a swarm of micro-drones engineered for stealth reconnaissance. They’re nearly undetectable to humans—just another cluster of harmless insects—but their one flaw is limited range. With a maximum flight distance of five kilometers, the Rufis have to get them close enough to deploy.
If the drones can breach the facility undetected, they’ll map the interior, locate critical systems, and, most importantly, confirm whether the hostages are inside—or if we’ve been chasing ghosts all along.
“Five klicks to target,” Mitzy updates through comms. “Rufi units maintaining stealth protocols. No indication of detection.”
The waiting becomes almost physical—a weight pressing against my chest that has nothing to do with healing wounds. I find myself touching the scar where the bullet nearly took me out of the game permanently—nearly kept me from being here for this mission.
Nearly kept me from finding her.
Finally, in the pre-dawn hours of day eight, we gather in the Command tent. The first wave of bumblebee drones prepares for deployment. These micro-drones represent over a week of preparation, careful planning, and agonizing patience.
“Drones launching now,” Mitzy’s voice carries clearly through our comms.
“How long before the bumblebees can give us internal layouts?” I ask.
“We’ll need at least 36 hours to map the critical areas. More to process the data, but we should know soon.” Mitzy places a hand on my shoulder, doing her best to provide comfort.
“When those drones give us the interior layout,” Sam says, his voice sharp with conviction, “I want multiple plans ready to go.”
We grind through scenarios until the maps are burned into my mind—every corridor, every access point, every weakness we can exploit. But each idea crumbles under the brutal reality of the facility’s defenses.
“We’ve already ruled out ground insertion,” Ethan growls, pacing the room. “There’s only the one road in with checkpoints along the way.”
“Air’s out too,” Blake adds, tapping the map’s perimeter. “SAM sites blanket the area. They’d see us coming and shoot us out of the sky before we hit the ground.”
“What about the supply convoys?” Rigel suggests, but even he sounds doubtful. “We could intercept one?—”
“Supplies transfer ten kilometers out,” Mitzy cuts in, arms crossed, frustration etched into her face. “Everything gets searched, repacked, and driven in by their transport under their guards. I don’t know how we’d smuggle in an entire Guardian team.”
Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Every route, every angle, everything—blocked.
Sam rubs a hand over his face. “We need a miracle.”
No one speaks. No one moves. The room feels like it’s closing in, the oppressive weight of failure pressing against my chest. Outside, the wind howls across the desolate steppes, relentless and unforgiving—just like the facility we’re trying to breach.
I catch what sleep I can between planning sessions, but my dreams are filled with images of Malia. Sometimes she’s scared, sometimes she’s calling for me, but I always wake up reaching for her. The wound in my chest aches with phantom pain, a constant reminder of how I failed to protect her that night.
Finally, Mitzy’s voice crackles through our comms with the update we’ve been waiting for. “First wave entering the ventilation system. Tracking signals strong.”
I watch the drone feeds with Ethan while Blake and Rigel maintain our perimeter security. The rest of the teams wait at the mountain staging area, ready to move the moment we have actionable intelligence.
Mitzy’s fingers do their magic. The hologram shifts, overlaying heat signatures in ghostly orange. “They’re keeping everyone here.” She highlights a section three levels below ground.
“What kind of security is inside?” Ethan asks.
“Card readers, biometric scanners, armed guards at every checkpoint. The whole level’s designed as a containment zone—probably repurposed from the facility’s Cold War days.”
“Show me the ventilation system again.” I lean forward, ignoring the twinge in my chest.
“Here.” Blue lines thread through the hologram-like veins. “But they’re not stupid—everything larger than six inches is reinforced with steel mesh. That’s why we’re using the bumblebees. Anything bigger won’t fit.”
“What about the power infrastructure?” Blake asks.
“Multiple substations feeding into the main reactor core,” Sam says, “but like CJ said—we can’t risk cutting power without potentially triggering a catastrophic reaction.”
I study the rotating hologram, frustration building in my chest. Every potential approach hits another wall.
They’ve thought of everything.
“Get creative. Run scenarios,” Ethan orders, his voice tight with the same frustration we’re all feeling. “Every possible insertion point, every method of approach. There has to be a way in.”
“And we need to find it fast.” Mitzy pulls up another display showing power consumption graphs. “These readings are getting more unstable. Whatever they’re building in there, it’s either close to working?—”
“Or close to failure,” Forest rumbles.
Ice slithers through my veins. Malia’s not just trapped in there—she’s caught in the middle of an experiment that could vaporize everything within kilometers if things go wrong.
We’re nowhere near an actionable mission plan, but we know the most important thing.
This is the right place.