The convoy groaned forward, tires grinding mud and gravel into a bitter paste. The Humvee rattled like it had been welded together out of spare parts and curses.
Morales had his forehead pressed to the glass, watching the city thin into suburbs. "Arlington," he said, like it was some myth. "I always pictured white fences, neat lawns. Y'know. Real normal America."
Hale didn't look up from the map spread across his knee. "It won't look like that when we get there."
Doc sat across from Cole, digging through her medic bag, pulling vials and gauze like a card sharp. "Normal America got amputated three years ago," she said. "What's left is scar tissue." She shoved a roll of bandages back in. "Lucky for you idiots, I specialize in scar tissue."
Morales groaned. "Can you not talk about cutting and stitching right now?"
Doc smirked, chewing gum slow. "Why? Planning to get through the day without holes in you? That's adorable." She popped the gum and leaned back, eyeing Cole. "And you—Harper. You look like a walking case study. All that fighter muscle. Bet you'll bleed pretty."
Cole raised an eyebrow but didn't answer.
Morales pointed at her. "See? Creepy. That's creepy."
Hale folded the map, precise, and said nothing.
The Humvee bounced in silence for a few seconds. Then Doc tapped her gum against her teeth, almost a laugh. "Don't worry. I'll keep you alive. It's bad for my reputation if patients die too fast."
Morales leaned forward between the seats, talking loud to be heard. "Arlington. Graveyard on one side, shopping malls on the other. You tell me which one we're headed for."
Doc didn't look up from tightening a bandage roll in her kit. "With our luck, both."
Morales frowned. "C'mon, Doc, you can't say shit like that before we even get there."
"Would you rather I lie?" she asked, flat. "Say it'll be like summer camp, marshmallows and sing-alongs?"
Hale sat upright beside the gunner's stand, unreadable. His voice slid in quiet. "We're not reinforcing. Not in the sense you're picturing. If Keene's sending us forward, it's because he expects something ugly to be waiting there."
Morales shifted uncomfortably. "Like what?"
No answer came. The rattle of gear filled the silence.
Cole looked out the window, watching the rooftops roll by in the gray. Nobody seemed interested in breaking Hale's certainty.
Finally Morales huffed and sat back. "I swear, man. You people love keeping me in suspense."
Doc smirked, tucking the bandage away. "That's because you scream louder when the punchline lands."
Cole shifted in his seat, the carrier straps biting his shoulders. The radio hissed once, sharp and sudden, cutting through the low drone of diesel.
"All stations, this is Argus. Be advised—satellite grid neutralized. Repeat, every U.S. bird in orbit is down. Comms relays, GPS, surveillance platforms—all dark. Eastern Coalition strike package—cyber, kinetic, ASAT intercepts—took them out in under twenty minutes. We are blind overhead.
Command assesses this as prelude to final offensive against CONUS. Washington Line is priority target. Eastern Coalition preparing decisive push.
Convoys rerouted. All elements shift east to reinforce Arlington sector. Expect degraded navigation, degraded fire support, degraded ISR. Adjust to map-and-compass procedures. Maintain spacing, maintain comms discipline.
There was a pause—static, a clipped inhale—then the voice pressed on, harder.
"Update to tasking. Priority One mission. U.S. helicopter Falcon-Six down inside Arlington grid. Manifest confirms American VIP onboard, codename Jamrock. Status unknown. Hostile forces converging on site. Mission directive: immediate recovery. Secure Falcon-Six crash, locate VIP, extract to friendly lines. Expect heavy resistance.
This supersedes previous orders. Time-sensitive. Convoys divert now. Argus out."
The radio hissed alive, Keene's voice steady, absolute.
"Reaper. Nomad. Specter. Kodiak. You're detaching. Priority tasking is recovery of VIP Jamrock. Crash coordinates Alpha-Seven-Two. Convoy continues to Arlington sector. Task element Jamrock executes immediately."
The net went dead.
"Were we one of those?" he asked, tone flat, like he was asking for the time.
Nobody answered at first. Morales shifted, chewing at his lip. Doc glanced at Hale, who hadn't moved an inch.
"Specter," Hale said. "That's us."
Cole leaned back, expression unreadable. "Great. Always wanted to be named after something you don't see until it's already ruined your night." His voice was flat, like he wasn't sure if it was supposed to be funny.
Morales laughed anyway. Doc just shook her head. Hale didn't move at all.
The convoy crawled like a steel serpent, engines howling, heat shimmer rising off armored plates. Arlington drew the bulk of it forward, hundreds of soldiers grinding toward the defensive line.
At the junction, the order snapped down the net. Brakes squealed. Lights flared red in the gloom. Dust plumed high.
Four Humvees split from the column. One after another they broke formation, swung left down a side road, engines growling as tires chewed through cracked pavement. The rest of the convoy thundered straight on, a river of steel and men flowing toward the sound of artillery.
The split was stark. Two hundred men pushing toward the meat grinder. Sixteen veering into the silence of a burned-out suburb.
Streetlamps leaned at odd angles, wires drooping like nooses. Ash clung to the windshields. Their new road narrowed, closed in by sagging houses and blackened yards. The rumble of the main body faded behind them until there was only their own engines, their own dust cloud hanging low in the evening air.
Inside, nobody spoke at first. Just gear rattling, Morales' coin flicking against his knuckle. Hale leaned forward from his seat, voice low but cutting through the hum like a scalpel.
"Listen. Four squads don't get pulled for a VIP unless it's big. That means the crash site's hot. Expect layered security from the other side, expect contact before we see smoke. You'll want rifles up before boots hit dirt."
He looked at each of them in turn. Not hurried. Not warm. Just taking measure.
"Morales, eyes sharp. If you see anything out of rhythm, you sing out. Doc, don't wander too far from cover. Harper—" Hale let his gaze hold Cole a second longer than the others. "Stay close. You're not a passenger anymore."
Cole shifted his rifle in his lap, glanced out the slit of the armored window. His mouth twitched, voice flat.
"Great. Always wanted the deluxe package. No seatbelt, no refund."
The Humvee rocked over a pothole, and Morales tried to break the tension with a mutter. "So basically we're running into a burning hole full of angry Russians and hoping Jamrock's still breathing?"
Hale didn't blink. "Exactly."
The convoy rolled single file down the main street, empty houses boxed in tight on both sides. Nomad in front, then Reaper, Specter, Kodiak. Engines loud in the silence, tires crunching broken glass.
The radio cracked alive with a scream.
"Ambush! Ambush!"
The street ahead lit up. Nomad's Humvee disintegrated in a flash, the fireball boiling black smoke up into the rooftops. Hale was already shouting in the cab, voice cutting through the chaos.
"Out! Dismount now!"
Gunfire tore down the line before the order even finished. Reaper's Humvee caught the burst—rounds from an IFV autocannon ripping through steel like it was paper. The truck went up in a shower of sparks and burning fuel, bodies spilling into the street as the wreck skidded sideways.
Specter and Kodiak's doors were already kicking open.
Engines droned in unison as the column pushed through the suburb. Houses shuttered, lawns overgrown, a ghost's idea of America. The Humvees rolled single file down the main drag, four squads strung together under gray light. Cole sat cramped in the rear, rifle across his lap, every bump in the road rattling through his teeth.
Then the radio cracked. A voice ahead, ragged and breaking with panic:
"Ambush! Ambush!"
The street tore open. Nomad's Humvee vanished in fire, a blossom of black smoke swallowing metal and men. Shrapnel clattered against windshields. Hale was already shouting—"Out! Out, move!"—when Reaper's vehicle caught a burst of autocannon fire. The Humvee folded in on itself, flames jetting through the roof.
Specter and Kodiak bailed, boots hitting pavement as more fire raked the column. Cole barely cleared the door before a concussive blast heaved him sideways, heat and pressure tossing him like a rag. He hit asphalt hard, ears ringing, lungs refusing air.
Through the haze he saw it: a squat armored silhouette nosing from behind a row of stores, turret grinding as it swung down the line of burning vehicles. An IFV, its cannon belching again, stitching fire into the convoy.
Cole forced air into his chest and pushed off the pavement. His legs wobbled, ears shrieking, but Hale's voice cut through the roar.
"Behind the house! Move—back yard, now!"
Bullets chewed into brick and siding as the squad broke across the street. Morales was the first through, sprinting crooked, helmet half-cocked. Doc had her aid bag slung high, already running low like she'd rehearsed it a hundred times. Hale herded them with one arm out, rifle barking in the other.
Cole stumbled after them, lungs on fire. The IFV's cannon roared again and another Humvee erupted, fire washing over the street. He didn't look back. He hit the fence of a corner lot and vaulted, boots cracking wood on the way down. The squad tumbled into the back yard, grass wet under their knees, smoke drifting over the rooftops.
Hale's face was pale but steady. "Get cover! Eyes up, that bastard's hunting!"
Hale jabbed a finger toward the house. "Inside—now!"
Cole didn't think, just sprinted for the back door. He yanked the knob. Locked. The rattle of gunfire cracked closer, brick splintering overhead. He brought his rifle up, drove the stock into the glass. It shattered in one sharp scream.
He cleared the shards with his forearm and shoved through, boots crunching on broken glass as he crossed into the dark kitchen. The air smelled of dust and stale bread. Behind him Morales spilled in, then Doc, then Hale, the squad crowding fast into the narrow space.
"Move it, move it!" Hale barked, forcing the door shut behind them. The house trembled with the echo of another detonation down the street.
The squad barely had time to breathe. Then the ground shook. Heavy wheels grinding pavement.
Cole looked at Hale. Hale was already at the window, face lit in pale dust. Two fingers went up for silence.
The backyard fence blew apart. Wood and dirt flew as a ZBL tore through, eight wheels crushing everything flat. Its turret swiveled, the 30mm cannon sweeping the yard like an eye.
The squad pressed low inside the kitchen, plaster dust snowing down with every vibration of its hull.
The cannon slowed, nose angling toward the house. The machine idled there, engine growling, like it could hear their hearts beating through the walls.
Hale's voice cut through the dust. "Cole—on me."
Cole slid across the broken glass, boots scraping, rifle tight in his hands. The two of them pressed to the frame of the back door, the hole he'd smashed still glittering with jagged shards. Beyond it, the yard was lit in a sick glow.
The ZBL loomed outside, hull blocking half the world, its wheels grinding deep into the torn-up soil. The cannon on its turret moved in short, deliberate arcs, pausing, listening, the way a predator sniffs for heat.
Hale leaned just enough to see. His jaw barely moved. "It knows we're here."
Cole felt the weight of every vibration in his chest, the low growl of the engine bleeding through the walls. Dust sifted down from the ceiling in lazy trails.
The machine idled, turret angling closer to the house. One squeeze of its trigger and the kitchen would be gone.
Hale's hand closed hard on Cole's shoulder. "When it turns," he whispered, "we move."
The ZBL's turret twisted, the barrel dragging off the ruined house and slewing toward the fence line, spitting short, angry bursts across the yard.
"Go," Hale said.
Cole ran. Boots hammered dirt, lungs hot with dust. Hale came right behind, both of them breaking cover at a dead sprint.
"On top of it!" Hale's voice chased him.
Cole vaulted, fingers catching a welded handhold, hauling himself onto the armored flank. The steel thrummed under him, hot and shaking. Below, Hale slid tight into the vehicle's rear blind spot, pressed to the hull where the gun couldn't reach. The cannon kept barking wide into the yard—fence, tree, shed—searching, not finding.
"Catch!" Hale shouted.
He threw the grenade up. Cole snatched it from the air, the weight solid in his palm.
Cole ran hard across the hull, boots hammering steel. He wrenched the hatch open.
A fist exploded out, cracked him across the jaw. His vision flashed white but he caught himself, teeth bared. He ripped the pin free and shoved the grenade down into the dark.
The man inside panicked, scrambled up and vaulted out past him. Cole didn't wait—he jumped, throwing himself clear.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, the ZBL shaking beneath him. Then the explosion ripped it apart, turret coughing flame as the blast punched the air from his chest.
Cole staggered up, rifle rising with him. Ten feet away the man from the hatch dragged himself upright, dust and blood streaking his face.
The soldier's hand went for his sidearm.
Cole fired. Four shots, center mass. The man folded but didn't quit, his fingers still twitching toward the pistol on the ground.
Cole stepped closer. One squeeze. The round cracked his skull open. The body went still.
Smoke and dust drifted between them, the ruined ZBL hissing behind. Cole lowered the rifle, chest heaving, ears ringing.