Logan
FOB near the Spratly Islands
The briefing room is brimming with a quiet, electric tension, the kind that settles in before something big.
I sit with Townsend, Dalton, and Wells at a long table surrounded by a few guys from Delta Force, General Mathers—the JSOC commander; Colonel Daniels—the JSOC task force commander; and Sergeant Wade—the Delta team leader.
The faint scent of coffee and stale air lingers, mixing with the whirl of the overhead projector.
Maps and satellite images cover the far wall, casting shadows that flicker like ghosts.
Every detail of the insurgent compound is laid bare—fortifications, patrol routes, suspected entry points—stark in black and white.
My leg bounces under the table, a restless rhythm I can’t stop. I keep my face cool and unreadable. Professional. Focused. Inside, though, I’m boiling.
General Mathers steps forward, his uniform crisp and his voice as sharp as the edges of his medals. “This is the target. The insurgent stronghold responsible for the attack on our base and the death of our men.”
Ryan. The weight of his and five other deaths hang over the room like a storm cloud. I struggle to breathe easy, but I don’t let it show. Ryan’s gone, and nothing we do tonight will change that. But we can make damn sure this asshole doesn’t try something like it again.
He takes a deep breath and continues. “We’ve confirmed our high-value target is inside. This mission will be a coordinated effort with Joint Special Operations Command.” Meaning we’ll have Delta on the ground to get the son of a bitch responsible while we fight off his air support.
Townsend shifts slightly in his seat next to me, his jaw tight. Dalton sits to my left, arms crossed, his sharp gaze glued to the map. Wells taps his pen against the table, his usual nervous tic.
The general steps back, giving the floor to Colonel Daniels. The JSOC task force commander looks like he’s been through more hell than most of us could imagine. His uniform is muted, his demeanor no-nonsense.
The kind of guy who could stare down a missile and tell it to wait its turn.
“Listen up,” he begins, scanning the room.
His gaze lingers on Wade and then shifts to Townsend, acknowledging the weight both men carry as leaders.
“We’ve confirmed that during the attack, insurgents infiltrated the operations center.
In the chaos, they managed to extract classified intel—mission details, troop movements, and encrypted communications.
We don’t have a full inventory yet, but it’s bad.
They knew what to hit, and they exploited the breach. ”
He takes a step forward, voice lowering. “This wasn’t random. The attack was a coordinated effort to cripple our operations and steal information they can weaponize against us. And they paid for it—hard. But not before they got what they came for.”
Daniels’s jaw tightens. “We lost good men and I won’t let that sacrifice be in vain. Right now, we’re working with Intelligence to track the stolen data and identify the leak that compromised base security. But understand this—they have our playbook and they’re going to use it.”
He looks directly at Wade and his team. “You know what that means. We go hunting. But we do it smart. No more losses.” Then he turns to Townsend, and looks between our flight. “We’ll need eyes in the sky. And when we find them, I’m going to need you ready to rain hell down.”
Daniels exhales, the room heavy with the unspoken weight of grief and anger.
“I know we’re hurting. But we lock that down.
We channel it. Because the best way to honor the men we lost is to make sure the bastards who did this never get another chance.
” He steps forward, laser pointer in hand, and gestures to a clearing on the map.
“Our team will infiltrate here, under the cover of darkness.” He nods at Wade, who makes eye contact with each of his men.
“We’ll move into overwatch positions to laser designate key targets for your airstrikes. Timing will be critical.”
I lean forward, studying the terrain. The compound is nestled in rugged hills, a natural fortress with only a few narrow approaches. Anti-aircraft systems. Hostiles everywhere. A damn nightmare.
Wells mutters under his breath, barely audible, “What a lovely little deathtrap.”
I almost smirk, but the sinking feeling in my gut won’t let me. I raise my hand, forcing my voice steady. “Sir, what’s the risk assessment on their air capabilities? Are we expecting a lot of resistance in the air?”
Daniels doesn’t hesitate, his expression grim.
“There’s a possibility. Satellite intel suggests a small fleet of older aircraft—likely MiG-29s and Su-25s.
We expect them to scramble a few MiG-35s from nearby as well.
You’ll be busy. We need your Raptors simply because we cannot afford not to have them.
We have enough to worry about on the ground without having to think about the sky, too. ”
Busy. Yeah, that’s one way to put it. My hand drops to my lap, curling into a fist under the table.
Dalton leans back, his tone dry. “Busy’s an understatement. If they scramble fourth-gen fighters, we’ll be threading the needle up there.”
“Welcome to the dance, Ghost,” Townsend says, his voice calm but with an edge that doesn’t exactly make sense since I’m pretty sure Dalton’s already been in serious combat.
“We establish air dominance first. Saint, you’re lead air-to-air.
Keep their fighters off our backs. Ghost, you’re on his wing.
Viking, I want you running support. Both you and I will be fitted for ground attack as well as air-to-air. ”
His tone leaves no room for argument, not that I have one. He’s in charge, and he knows what he’s doing. Doesn’t make me think this is any less of a suicide run.
Daniels steps back into the conversation, his laser pointer cutting through the air like a knife. “Once their defenses are neutralized, we’ll move on to the HVT. Your air support will be our shield if anything goes sideways.”
Sideways. I take a deep breath and press my lips together, my mind already running through contingencies. What happens if we’re pinned down? What happens if they’ve got something we missed? I blink, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Wade raises his hand, his voice low but firm. “What’s the extraction plan?”
Daniels gives a faint smirk, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Quick and clean. If all goes well, we’re in and out in under forty-five minutes.”
Wade doesn’t react, but I can tell he’s already calculating the variables. His arms are crossed over his chest, the black tactical gear stretching across his broad frame, every inch of him controlled. The kind of man who never walks into a room without knowing exactly how he’ll get out of it.
Daniels continues, his tone brisk. “Primary exfil is by bird—two Black Hawks waiting one click east of the target compound. Secondary fallback is ground-based, armored convoy staged five clicks out. You’ll have air cover the entire time.” He glances toward us. “That’s where these guys come in.”
Wade meets my gaze across the table. There’s no bravado in his expression, just quiet understanding.
Daniels clicks the remote, pulling up the satellite render of the target site. “H-hour is twenty-three-thirty.” He glances from Wade to Townsend. “You have until then to prep your teams.”
Wade gives a sharp nod. “Copy.”
“Yes, sir,” Townsend says.
Nothing about this is clean. And there’s no such thing as quick when the men you’re hunting were never meant to be found.