Logan
FOB near the Spratly Islands
The night is so still, it feels wrong.
Like the air knows what’s coming before we do.
I’m halfway through my patrol when the first blast shatters the silence, a deafening roar that shakes the ground beneath my boots.
The base comes alive in chaos.
Sirens wail, warning of incoming rockets.
Shouts erupt over the comms.
“Rocket attack! Take cover!”
I’m sprinting before I can think, instincts on autopilot.
Around me, the world explodes—first one impact, then another, each blast closer than the last. The air smells like burning fuel and scorched metal, and my ears ring from the force of the detonations.
The hangars, the barracks—everywhere we’ve built a semblance of order—is under fire.
“Bishop to flight. Status?” Townsend’s voice cuts through the comms, sharp and urgent.
The second the base gets hit, securing the Raptors becomes everything.
These jets aren’t just aircraft—they’re apex predators, packed with classified tech and capabilities that give us the edge in any fight.
If one falls into enemy hands, even grounded, it’s a goldmine of intel.
The thought of insurgents getting anywhere near them makes my blood run cold.
I know what these machines can do, the destruction they’re capable of, and what could happen if that power got twisted against us.
We don’t just guard the jets. We guard the balance of air superiority. If that tips, people die.
“Viking. On the move,” I yell back, skidding behind a stack of crates. Another explosion hits, shaking the earth. Shrapnel rains down, and I duck instinctively. “What the hell are we dealing with here?”
“Mortars and rockets,” someone else answers. “Insurgents breached the perimeter.”
I glance toward the flight line. Toward my destination. Toward the Raptors, still intact in the hangar for now. A fire burns near one of the fuel trucks, smoke curling into the sky like a dark omen.
“James.” Ryan’s voice jolts me, and I whip my head around. He’s sprinting toward me, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to secure the hangar!”
“Copy,” I shout, falling in step beside him.
We’re almost there when a mortar hits close, too close.
The blast knocks us off our feet, the shock wave ripping through my chest. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing, the taste of dirt and blood in my mouth.
My vision clears just in time to see a group of our ground crew pinned down near the wreckage of the burning truck.
Rockets are still incoming, the air thick with smoke and dust. They’re trapped and completely exposed.
I try to stand but my boots slip on loose gravel.
“Fuck. Logan!” Ryan scrambles to his feet, his hand on my arm.
“Get up! Come on!” He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet, I nearly black out, unable to ignore the blinding pain of shrapnel lodged deep in my shoulder blade.
“We’ve got to get them out of there!” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms, sharp with urgency.
“Carter, wait—”
But he’s already moving, sprinting into the open like the reckless bastard he is, no hesitation, just pure instinct.
“Cover him!” I bark. I favor my left side as I raise my rifle toward the source of the attack, adrenaline finally overriding the pain in my arm. Bullets chew up the dirt around Ryan, zipping past like hornets. My heart pounds, each beat a countdown I can’t stop.
I squeeze the trigger, and the storm of rounds goes silent. For now.
Ryan nods at me as he reaches the crew, dropping to his knees beside one of the guys slumped against the ground. “Move! Go, go!” he shouts, hauling the man up, shielding him with his own body as he pushes them toward cover.
I want to scream at him to hurry. To stop being a damn hero.
Then I see it.
A flash from the treeline—a rocket.
Time slows. My body’s frozen, mind trying to catch up, knowing there’s no way we can move fast enough.
“Carter!”
He turns, his eyes locking with mine for a split second before he takes off in my direction.
He doesn’t think, he just moves. Ryan slams into me with the force of a freight train, knocking me hard to the ground.
The breath explodes from my lungs as we hit the dirt, me landing on my bad shoulder forcing the metal in deeper, him landing on top of me—covering and shielding my body.
The rocket impacts a heartbeat later.
The explosion is deafening. Heat and debris wash over us.
When I come to, there’s a ringing in my ears, dust choking the air. I shove at the weight on top of me—Ryan.
“Spartan.” My voice is raw, panicked.
He doesn’t move as I slide him off me as gently as I can. I leave bloody handprints when I crawl around him on my knees to rip open his torn flight suit.
Blood. Too much of it.
“Spartan.” I shake him, my hands slick with crimson. “No, no, no. Come on, man. Ryan!” I choke out his name, pressing my hands against the wound just below his heart. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine.”
He blinks up at me, his hazel eyes glassy but still holding that damn spark. “Logan,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
“You idiot,” I say, my voice breaking. “You didn’t have to…why the hell did you do that?”
He coughs weakly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Someone’s gotta keep your ass alive.”
Tears blur my vision, but I don’t stop applying pressure, even as his blood slips through my fingers. The medic arrives, but one look at his face tells me what I don’t want to admit.
“See you on the other side, brother.” Ryan’s hand twitches, gripping mine for a moment before it goes still.
“No!” The word rips from my throat, raw and broken. “No, Carter, you don’t get to fucking do this. Ryan!”
Around me, the fight rages on, but it feels distant, like I’m underwater.
Townsend grabs my good arm, dragging me to my feet. I shove him off, stumbling back toward Ryan, but he steps in front of me.
“He’s gone, Logan,” Townsend says, his voice cracking on my name. “We have to move.”
The words are a hammer to my gut. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at Ryan’s lifeless body as the world burns around us.
I glance back at the Raptors as we retreat. Somehow, miraculously, they’re untouched.
But it doesn’t matter.
Nothing fucking matters.
I don’t remember how I keep going after that.
We secure the base, clear the perimeter.
Offices were hit, a possible intel breach, but we’re still verifying.
I move on autopilot, my body a vessel of rage and grief.
The base is ours again by dawn. The insurgents driven back, the fires mostly extinguished, the damage assessed.
Six KIAs.
The pain in my shoulder grows unbearable, but I don’t care. Not when Ryan’s body lies under a tarp, not when I failed to save him.
Medics finally drag me down, forcing me to sit. That’s when the world tilts, colors blurring. The last thing I see before blacking out is Ryan’s covered body, a stark silhouette against the burning wreckage.
***
I come to briefly in the med unit, pain crashing over me like a tidal wave. Voices shout, hands press down on me, trying to stabilize the bleeding. I hear someone say, “Shrapnel’s deep. We need to operate.”
I don’t care.
“Carter…is he…?” My voice is slurred, weak. They don’t answer.
When I wake up again, the sterile white of the medical bay blinds me. My shoulder is heavily bandaged, the burning pain dulled by drugs. But nothing numbs the hollow ache in my chest. I close my eyes, and all I see is Ryan’s face, the life fading from his eyes.
I survived. He didn’t.
And that truth hurts more than the shrapnel ever did.