A SOLDIER'S CREED

📖📖 Chapter 2 - The Desert Crucible

Location: Secret Desert Training Facility, Nevada

Time: 09:00 Hours – 19:00 Hours

The Nevada desert shimmered under the midday sun, a sheet of molten gold stretching to the horizon. The training facility had been carved into the earth like a scar, hidden from satellites and maps, its barbed wire perimeter glinting with menace. Towers stood at each corner, unmanned but bristling with sensors, their cameras tracking every movement like silent predators. To an outsider, it was just another forgotten compound in a wasteland. To those who stood inside, it was the crucible where men were sharpened into weapons.

Michael Rockefeller stood before his team of fifteen, his shadow long on the cracked dirt. Fifteen strangers—mercenaries, special operators, agents of different flags—yet in two days they would have to move as one body, one blade. He studied their faces: seasoned eyes, scarred knuckles, postures that spoke of discipline or arrogance. He had seen it before. The quiet killers, the cocky veterans, the ones already halfway in the grave.

“Alright,” he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard, calm but edged with command. “You know why you’re here. Operation Scorpion Fang is not a mission—it’s survival in the shape of a blade. If you don’t trust the person beside you, you’re already dead. Let’s get to work.”

The introductions came first, though they were hardly polite. Captain Sarah Vance of Delta Force spoke with a cool detachment, her words measured like her sniper shots. Mark “Bear” Thompson, Navy SEAL, carried his bulk as if the earth itself might crack beneath him, his grin hiding a predator’s instinct. Naomi Chen, Green Beret and close-quarters combat expert, had eyes like sharpened steel and a voice that cut through noise. Jason Ward, CIA paramilitary, looked like he belonged in a bar fight more than a briefing, but the scar along his jaw suggested he’d walked away from worse.

Then came the mercenaries. Some were ex-military, others ghosts from conflicts no one admitted had ever happened. They wore their experience like armor, but Michael saw the cracks: too much pride, too little discipline, loyalties that ended at the promise of a paycheck. One of them, a lean man with hollow cheeks and cold eyes named Kruger, smiled too much. It wasn’t the smile of a soldier. It was the smile of a man who liked to see things burn.

The day stretched into a storm of training. Under the glare of the desert sun, they fired live rounds at pop-up targets, the crack of rifles shattering the silence. Sarah dropped every target with sniper precision, her movements smooth, her breath invisible. Bear handled explosives, setting charges on derelict vehicles, the controlled detonations sending up plumes of fire that vibrated in Michael’s chest. Naomi moved like water through the close-quarters kill house, her silenced pistol snapping with surgical efficiency, no wasted step, no wasted bullet.

But not all went smoothly. During a hostage extraction simulation, Kruger ignored the protocol. Instead of covering the flanks, he kicked down a door early, rushing into the mock compound. The gunfire simulators roared in response, and when the smoke cleared, one of the wooden mannequins meant to represent a CIA agent lay in splinters. Dead.

The courtyard froze. The operators stared at him, some with disbelief, others with disgust. Michael’s jaw tightened. He walked over, slow, deliberate, until he stood inches from Kruger.

“What the hell was that?”

Kruger smirked, wiping dust from his hands. “Getting it done. Fast and clean.”

Michael’s voice was low, dangerous. “Fast doesn’t matter if the hostages come back in body bags. You ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll leave you in the desert myself. Understood?”

The smirk faltered. For a moment, the cocky mercenary shrank beneath Rockefeller’s stare. Then he nodded. “Understood.”

Michael turned back to the group. “This isn’t about who can kill the fastest. It’s about who can keep someone alive. Drill again. No mistakes.”

They ran it again. This time, the compound fell in silence, the “hostages” extracted without a scratch. Still, the tension lingered in the air like the sting of smoke.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the desert in bruised orange and crimson, the team gathered for the night briefing inside a dimly lit hangar. A massive screen displayed the satellite images of Qandahar, the compound where Azmar Qadir held the CIA operatives. It was a fortress of mud walls, steel gates, and watchtowers, surrounded by nothing but sand and silence.

Michael pointed at the map with a gloved hand. “This is where we’re going. Heavily fortified, multiple sentries, unknown number of tangos inside. Qadir is smart—he’ll expect us. Which means we have to be smarter. Vance, you’ll provide overwatch from elevated ground here. Bear, your charges will open us a back door where they least expect it. Chen, Ward—you’re point on breaching. The rest of you cover and clear. We move like ghosts, and we leave like shadows.”

The operators leaned in, their eyes fixed on the grainy images. For them, it was just another target. For Michael, it was already personal. He knew what Qadir was capable of—stories whispered in warzones, footage of executions, the memory of allies left behind. Qadir wasn’t just an enemy. He was a shadow that devoured men whole.

The briefing ended, and the team dispersed to their bunks, some joking, some silent, some sharpening blades in the fading light. Michael lingered, the glow of the satellite map reflecting in his eyes. His phone buzzed—a message from Lila. Just four words: Come back to me.

He stared at the words, his chest tightening, then slid the phone away. He had made promises before. Some he had kept. Some he hadn’t.

Outside, the desert stretched into darkness. The night air was cool, the stars sharp above, and in the silence Michael found himself standing alone. His creed echoed in his mind: Never abandon the mission. Never abandon a brother. But tonight, with the desert wind biting at his face and the image of Qadir’s compound burned into his vision, he felt the weight of an unspoken truth pressing against his chest.

Some missions weren’t survived. They were endured.