A SOLDIER'S CREED

Location: Rockefeller Residence, Virginia

Time: 05:45 Hours

Lt. Michael Rockefeller’s eyes snapped open as if someone had yanked him from the edge of a cliff, the remnants of a dream clinging to his mind like smoke, thick and choking. He had been running across the Afghan desert, sand burning beneath his boots, gunfire tearing through the air in jagged bursts, explosions shaking the ground in violent rhythm, the screams of the unseen ringing in his ears, a cacophony that still vibrated inside him even as the soft morning light filtered through the blinds and settled across the room in pale, indifferent stripes. He hadn’t reached the extraction point; he hadn’t survived, and yet here he was, alive, though the taste of dust and fire lingered like a warning on his tongue.

Beside him, Lila stirred, a faint smile teasing her lips, half-dreaming, half-aware, and for a moment, he allowed himself a pause, leaning down to press his lips to her temple in a gesture that carried everything he could not yet say out loud. “Morning, love,” he whispered, the words soft but deliberate, carrying an undercurrent of both reassurance and the unspoken knowledge that soon, he would be swallowed by danger again.

“Morning,” she murmured, eyelids fluttering like hesitant wings before closing again, leaving him alone with the weight of the day already pressing against his chest.

Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed, muscles coiled from sleep yet ready, the familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeting him as he reached for his Marine uniform, laid out with meticulous care, every fold, every crease a silent testament to discipline, to routine, to a life lived in preparation for moments like these. He dressed quickly, efficiently, tying his boots with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times, each knot a ritual, a grounding exercise, a way to convince his body that it could survive whatever lay ahead.

His hand brushed over the edge of a photograph tucked into his wallet—Lila, smiling on their wedding day, an image of joy so pure it almost hurt to look at it—but the warmth it brought him grounded him, reminded him that despite the chaos, there were things worth fighting for, people worth surviving for. Then he was out the door, the roar of his SUV cutting through the fragile morning quiet, tires crunching over gravel as the world outside beckoned him toward the inevitable.

---

Location: Fort Bragg – Operations Base

Time: 07:10 Hours

The base was alive, a pulsing organism of diesel, hot metal, and human motion, helicopters thumping overhead like mechanical hearts, soldiers moving in formations whose rhythm synced unnervingly with his own heartbeat, every shout, every order, every distant clang of machinery adding to the dense, electric tension. Michael navigated the labyrinth of the base, eyes sharp, scanning the familiar chaos, noting small details that others might miss—a frayed cable here, a fatigued sentry there—signs that danger wasn’t always far away, even in a place designed to contain it.

By 07:20, he reached his office, the door closing behind him with a muted thud that sounded heavier than it should have. Lieutenant Harris, always punctual, crisp, efficient, entered a few minutes later, delivering the message that would shift the day’s trajectory. “Sir, General Whitmore requests your presence in the conference room immediately. CIA operatives. Urgent.”

Michael nodded, closing his laptop with deliberate calm, though inside, his pulse tightened. “Thank you, Harris. Send my regards.”

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Location: Fort Bragg – Conference Room

Time: 07:35 Hours

Inside, the air was thick, coiled with tension like a living thing ready to spring. Generals, intelligence officers, senior commanders crowded around a polished oak table littered with maps, satellite images, and intercepted communications, their whispered debates and sharp glances creating a hum of urgency that seemed almost tangible. General Whitmore leaned forward, voice low, edged with steel, yet carrying a weight of desperation beneath its calm. “CIA operatives Cole, Summers, and Reyes are held near Qandahar, inside a fortified desert compound. Taliban commander Azmar Qadir guards them personally. Previous reconnaissance failed. We need precision, speed, and lethal effectiveness. Someone capable of executing this flawlessly.”

All eyes shifted subtly, a collective recognition, and while no one spoke Michael’s name aloud, the unspoken acknowledgment that he was the man for the job hung in the room like a blade suspended by a thread. Colonel Abrams broke the silence, voice firm but measured. “Lieutenant Rockefeller. Your record speaks for itself. You are the best-equipped to lead this operation.”

Michael’s jaw clenched, a flicker of focus sharpening in his green eyes. “I’ll need a specialized team. Mercenaries, special ops, demolition experts, field medics—precision only works when it’s supported by precision.”

Abrams tapped a folder on the table, the motion deliberate. “Fifteen operators: thirteen men, two women. Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Green Berets, Marine Raiders, CIA paramilitary, and even two MI6 operatives. The best of the best. You deploy in forty-eight hours.”

Michael absorbed the weight of it, the magnitude of the mission pressing against the edges of his mind. Operation Scorpion Fang—a name chosen to sting, to burn, to echo in the nightmares of enemies. Failure was not a hypothetical; it was a living, breathing possibility that lurked behind every decision, every step, every breath.

---

Location: Rockefeller Office, Fort Bragg

Time: 09:15 Hours

The office felt eerily quiet afterward, the tension not leaving but settling like dust in the corners. Paperwork completed, emails sent, the hum of air conditioning the only constant, yet Michael’s mind raced with tactical maps, insertion points, contingency plans, every possibility spinning in relentless motion. Driving home, the hum of the SUV was a fragile shield against the storm inside, and Lila, sensing the storm before words could articulate it, reached over.

“They’re sending you again?” she asked softly, almost cautiously, as if testing the fragile equilibrium between fear and hope.

Michael exhaled, letting the quiet of the car and the faint morning breeze fill the space between them. “Two days. Fifteen operators. We bring them back. That’s the plan.”

Her fingers found his, tightening slightly. “It always sounds so simple when you say it.”

“It’s never simple,” he murmured, pulling her hand close, holding her in a moment of fragile intimacy before the storm of duty pulled him back. “But it’s my creed.”

---

Location: Secret Desert Training Facility, Nevada

Time: 09:00 Hours, Next Day

The convoy tore across the barren Nevada desert, black SUVs cutting through dust clouds that glimmered in the harsh sun, the air carrying grit and metallic tang that tasted like anticipation. Ahead lay the hidden compound, remote and fortified, a place where every shadow could conceal a threat, every gust of wind a warning. Inside, fifteen operators awaited: Captain Sarah Vance, a sniper with eyes sharp enough to find a heartbeat from a mile away; Staff Sergeant Mark “Bear” Thompson, demolition expert whose calm belied explosive efficiency; Sergeant Naomi Chen, Green Beret whose presence radiated lethal competence; Lieutenant Jason Ward, CIA paramilitary operator whose precision and focus demanded attention.

Michael’s gaze swept the team, noting their readiness, the tension coiled tight in their muscles, the silent, unspoken understanding that once they crossed into Afghan territory, no one outside would ever know what happened.

“Operation Scorpion Fang,” he began, voice calm but carrying a weight that commanded attention, “Taliban commander Azmar Qadir holds CIA operatives in a fortified desert compound. You are the spear. Strike fast. Strike hard. Leave no trace. Success ensures stability. Failure…” He let the pause linger, a dangerous shadow, “…is not an option.”

Heads nodded, eyes sharp, weapons resting at sides but alive with potential, ready to become extensions of their operators’ will.

Michael inhaled the dry desert air, anticipation sharpening every nerve. This was the moment he lived for: the unknown, the danger, the mission. They were ready—or they would die trying, and he would ensure that failure was not in their vocabulary.