"—So that day, every swinging dick from TF Orange's Gray Horse element was on the manifest, Captain?"
"—Yeah."
"—You confirm Hassan was there too? You previously testified he was one of only two survivors."
"—Confirmed."
"—Hold. Box is green."
"—Then the box can go fuck itself."
25 December 2035
Strait of Hormuz, low-level
7 °C, 78.3 % humidity
Black Sabbath's "War Pigs" pulsed quietly through bone phones. A neat row of battered boots sat under the red combat lighting, and someone was still tapping the bass line on the deck like always.
Inside the stealth-skinned MH-60M skimming the desert, Gray Horse was amped.
A veteran staff sergeant ran an oily rag down the warm barrel of his Mk 18, tapped the forward assist, racked the bolt once to make sure the chamber was clean.
Across the cabin, bodies were bulked out by plate carriers and pouches. PVS-31As flipped up on every helmet, morale patches with skulls and "INFIDEL" in Arabic wherever the sergeant major couldn't see.
"Hey, sir!"
Hassan, the new interpreter, had to shout over the rotors.
"What's up, Corporal?"
John Hastings hated shouting. He scratched his stubble, looked across at Hassan—still smelled like the FOB—and stopped wiping his rifle.
Hassan grinned, pointed at the porthole.
John leaned over. Nothing but black coastline and wing-pylon strobes.
"Nothing there, brother."
Hassan shrugged, still smiling. "Thought you might see the reindeer too, sir."
John shook his head, went back to drumming the rail of the URG-I on his lap.
"Nah," Logan cut in. "I saw Elena Houghlin flying escort outside."
The cabin cracked up. Hassan looked confused.
"Who's Elena Houghlin?"
That got another laugh.
"Charlie's angel, man," Logan said, scribbling in a pocket notebook with a golf pencil. "You think the angels are on our side tonight?"
John glanced over—kid was updating his death letter again. He reached across, squeezed Logan's neck.
"Relax, dude. Write some dirty jokes instead."
Logan scratched his beard. "Little privacy, boss?"
Across the aisle Hassan pulled his helmet off, fished out a creased photo from the padding, handed it to John.
"Speaking of angels… my daughter, sir."
John took it carefully. Five-year-old girl, big smile, holding up a crayon family portrait.
He stared longer than he meant to.
"Why the hell didn't you say you had a kid, Hassan?"
His voice came out rough. He passed the picture down the line. Gloved hands passed it like it was fragile, jokes and whistles bouncing around.
"She's gonna be Middle-Eastern Elena Houghlin. Bro, you lucky bastard."
Even Logan managed a nod and a grin.
John's voice suddenly cut through the rotor noise.
"Listen up! Hassan is a father. That means we bring him home breathing. His little girl doesn't get to see her old man on a litter. Clear?"
"Clear!"
Fists hammered plates twice—Gray Horse's amen.
Photo came back. John watched Hassan slide it under his helmet band.
Hassan thumped his own chest. "I can still fight, sir. Same training."
John locked eyes with him.
"Listen close. You're not fighting for the flag tonight. You're fighting to make it to her next birthday. We'll do the dying. You go home, cash your check, read her bedtime stories. That's your mission now."
"But—"
"He's watching your six, dumbass," Logan said.
The silver-bearded sergeant beside Hassan slung an arm around him, rapped his helmet.
"That's how Gray Horse works, kid. No one knows our names till they carve them in stone. You can't be a good dad and a good killer at the same time. Pick one."
John nodded once.
"You stay glued to my six. No debate."
"Roger that."
John checked his blacked-out G-Shock.
"No baggage past the LZ. You want to live, you leave everything else on the bird."
He banged the bulkhead twice.
"Five mikes—checks!"
Bolts racked, mags slapped home, comms antennas straightened, boot laces double-knotted.
Black gunner slapped the 100-round soft pouch home, rapped the charging handle, let the bolt slam forward on a hot chamber.
Brazilian DM cycled her M110A1, dry-fired twice.
Logan fed 00 buck into the breacher.
John press-checked his Staccato XC, safetied it, holstered clean.
"Five mikes!" pilot called, killing the music.
John gripped his kit, roared, "Five mikes—lock in!"
NVGs down, plates biting thighs, heart hammering.
"Deck clear!" ×3
Bird flared, hovered.
Ropes out.
Logan first man, wind ripping, black water thirty feet below.
"Go!"
Five-second intervals, gloves smoking, boots hitting steel.
Last man down.
John keyed his PTT, voice low.
"Quick brief: north side abandoned platform, rogue PMC. Speed, surprise, violence of action. Package is small—cooler-size Pelican. Find it, sanitize the site, exfil."
Bird peeled away, ropes disappearing into the dark.
Four dim red chemlights blinked alive.
IR lasers on.
Rain started—cold, salty, perfect cover.
John stepped off last, rifle up.
This is why we train.
This is why Gray Horse exists.
Finger on the trigger, brothers at your back.
Move.