A SOLDIER'S CREED

📖📖 Chapter 3 - The Departure

Location: Nevada Desert Training Facility

Time: 05:00 Hours – Two Days Later

The hangar doors yawned open, spilling cold desert air across the concrete floor. Rows of gear lay neatly arranged on steel tables—rifles cleaned to perfection, magazines stacked like bricks, night vision goggles glowing faintly green under fluorescent lights, and rucksacks packed so heavy they could break a spine. This wasn’t just preparation; it was ritual. Every operator moved with precision, checking, loading, double-checking. Mistakes here meant funerals later.

Michael Rockefeller stood at the edge of the hangar, arms folded, eyes scanning the controlled chaos. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The team knew what today meant. In less than an hour, they would leave behind the comfort of American soil and step into a furnace where one wrong move would erase them from history.

Bear Thompson tested the weight of a grenade launcher, grinning like a man who lived for explosions. Sarah Vance adjusted her sniper rifle scope with surgeon-like care, ignoring the chatter around her. Naomi Chen wrapped tape around her knuckles—not necessary for combat, but she said it helped her focus. The mercenaries, meanwhile, treated the prep like a locker room before a brawl, joking and tossing gear back and forth. Kruger sat apart, cleaning his knife in long, deliberate strokes, his expression unreadable, his eyes too still.

Michael turned to the operations officer overseeing the gear-up. “Everything accounted for?”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied crisply. “Air transport wheels up in forty-five. You’ll link with CIA handlers in Kandahar before insertion.”

Michael nodded but didn’t relax. CIA handlers meant layers of politics, too many eyes, too many secrets. He had been in this game long enough to know that intelligence came with fine print. Fine print got people killed.

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Location: Briefing Room – Nevada Facility

Time: 05:30 Hours

The operators gathered in the briefing room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of burnt coffee and sweat thick in the air. A CIA officer in a dark suit stood at the front, his clean-shaven face too polished, his smile too smooth. He tapped the screen, and grainy satellite images appeared.

“Your target remains the same,” the officer began. His voice was slick, bureaucratic. “Taliban commander Azmar Qadir. Intelligence suggests he is fortifying his compound here.” A red circle bloomed on the map. “We believe the CIA operatives are being held in the eastern wing. Time is against us—their execution could be broadcast at any moment.”

Michael raised his hand, cutting through the monotone. “What about external reinforcements? Qadir won’t sit still once we breach.”

The officer hesitated for a fraction of a second, then answered too smoothly. “We don’t expect significant reinforcements. Our intel suggests he’s isolated.”

Michael’s gut twisted. He had heard those words before—isolated, minimal resistance, clean extraction. They were lies wrapped in optimism. Reality was always bloodier.

Kruger leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Sounds like a milk run.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

Michael’s eyes flicked to him, hard as stone. “Milk runs don’t come with body bags. Keep your head straight.”

The officer cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. “Code name remains Operation Scorpion Fang. You strike fast, neutralize Qadir, extract the operatives, and vanish. The United States will not acknowledge this mission. You succeed, you disappear as heroes in the shadows. You fail—” His smile faltered. “Well, you won’t fail.”

No one clapped. No one smiled. These men and women knew the truth—missions weren’t won by speeches. They were won by grit, bullets, and luck.

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Location: Bunks – Nevada Facility

Time: 06:10 Hours

The operators packed the last of their gear in silence. Rockefeller sat on the edge of his bunk, a pen in hand, a piece of lined paper balanced on his knee. He stared at it, the words refusing to come. Letters were harder than missions. Letters meant facing the possibility that he wouldn’t come back.

Lila, he wrote finally, the ink bleeding into the paper. If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it home. I want you to know you were the reason I fought. Every bullet, every step, every drop of blood—it was for us. Don’t grieve too long. Live. Find light in the dark. And remember—this was my choice. My creed.

He folded the letter carefully, slid it into an envelope, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt heavier than any rifle.

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Location: Airfield – Nevada Facility

Time: 07:00 Hours

The sky was still dark when they marched across the tarmac, the thrum of engines filling the air. A C-130 Hercules waited, its ramp yawning like the mouth of a beast, ready to swallow them whole. Floodlights cast long shadows across the cracked concrete, and for a moment the scene looked less like a departure and more like a funeral procession.

Michael walked at the front, helmet under one arm, rifle slung across his chest. His team followed, fifteen figures draped in gear, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts. They boarded in silence, the metallic clang of boots on steel echoing in the belly of the plane.

Inside, the aircraft hummed with restrained energy. Seats lined the walls, crates of supplies strapped down in the center. The operators strapped in, their faces set in masks of focus. Bear stretched his shoulders, muttering about blowing something sky-high. Sarah checked her scope again, even though it was perfect. Naomi closed her eyes, lips moving silently—some said prayer, some said focus. Kruger leaned back, smiling like he was boarding a flight to paradise.

The engines roared, drowning out everything. The C-130 lurched forward, gathering speed. Michael closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Lila’s face, the warmth of her hand, the life he was leaving behind. He opened them again as the plane lifted into the night.

The mission had begun.

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Location: Over the Atlantic – In Flight

Time: 09:45 Hours

The cabin was dim, lit only by red bulbs that gave the operators’ faces a ghostly glow. No one spoke. The sound of the engines was a steady growl, the vibration a reminder that every mile carried them closer to death.

Michael unrolled the map of Qandahar again, tracing routes with a gloved finger, memorizing every corner, every wall, every tower. He wasn’t just planning. He was breathing the map, making it a part of him, so when the time came, instinct would guide him where logic faltered.

He glanced up and caught Kruger watching him, eyes like two shards of ice. Kruger smiled again, too calm, too confident. Michael didn’t return it. He just filed it away in his mind. There were enemies on the ground waiting for them. But there might also be one sitting inside this very plane.

The red light above the ramp flickered, bathing the cabin in a deeper shade of blood. The operators stirred, checking weapons, tightening straps, preparing. Michael leaned back, letting the growl of the engines sink into his chest. He knew the truth: once that ramp opened over Afghan soil, the line between life and death would blur.

And only the creed would remain.