I walked away from Seller and toward the rest of the troops, most of whom were preparing for the onslaught we were about to walk into. Thousands of soldiers, all of them loading their rifles and sidearms, distributing ammo, and some dismantling and rebuilding their guns to check for issues.
"Alan?" Eli questioned, running up to me from his squad, who were all loading up a Humvee with ammo boxes.
"What happened in the US? There should be way more soldiers here, and we're facing a goddamn army, so where's the big guns?" I asked, checking over my KRISS Vector, which was almost destroyed after the last battle. I guess some things can't be salvaged.
"Close to a thousand soldiers were deployed around some states where rioting is getting pretty bad. I think one seal mentioned earlier that it's looking like we might be dealing with a civil war on top of all this shit. I don't think anyone agrees with that, though," He answered, passing me a magazine as we passed into the armory tent.
I passed a few rows of weapons, none of which stood out to me. Some were semi-automatic, others were fully automatic, and a few were machine guns.
"You hear me?" He asked as I passed into a different row, searching for a weapon to replace the one I lost.
The armory tent was a mess of crates and weapon racks, like a graveyard of gear waiting for the next hell to break loose. The smell of oil, sweat, and dust hung thick in the air. My busted KRISS Vector felt heavy in my hands, useless now, and I needed something dependable, fast.
I moved past rows of rifles and machine guns, scanning each one like a soldier hunting a lifeline. Most looked beat up, missing parts, or just plain wrong about what was coming next.
Then, tucked in the corner, almost like it was hiding, was the Scar-H. Ethan's Scar-H.
Black and battle-scarred, but still solid. Under the dull light, the metal gleamed, and use had worn the stock, but it remained unbroken. My fingers traced the grip, steady and sure. Picking it up felt like accepting a torch passed from a brother in arms.
A few notches were etched into the stock. Ethan never told me what they were from, just that it had to do with a nasty deployment in Baghdad in 2019.
I slung it over my shoulder and took a breath. This gun meant something to him; it was more than just a weapon. It was a promise to keep fighting, no matter what.
The war wouldn't be over, not by a long shot, but his gun felt right in my hands. "For you, bud. While you rest, I'll finish this."
"You say something?" Eli questioned as I rejoined him at the entrance.
"Yeah, let's finish this. Then we can worry about home," I answered, throwing the tent entrance open.
A few thousand soldiers against over ten thousand troops, all highly trained, not the best odds I'd ever run into, but at that point, it was the average day.
"What the fuck are you doing with the crayon eaters?" A husky voice asked as we left the tent. I knew who it was; he had just talked to Seller not too long ago.
"Organizing, we're teammates, aren't we?" I answered, turning around to look Leon in the face.
"Yeah, they have their side and we have ours," He replied, pushing my shoulder back.
Something I didn't get was the difference between the two groups. SEALs and Marines, what was the issue? Sure, there were bound to be disagreements, but that shouldn't matter in war.
Clearly, he did not get the memo.
"We have one side, teammates. It's unnecessary to argue amongst groups when we're all about to go march to our death," I commented, wiping the dirt from my chest.
"Whatever, yellow-eyed fucker," He finished, walking off to join the rest of his platoon.
Eli and I stared at each other, both of us wearing the famous 'What the fuck man?' stare.
Before either of us could discuss what just happened, a member of his battalion came up and spoke.
"Sir, there's a group of Marines trying to get out; they're talking about running away. Our main pointman just left after throwing out choice words regarding the rules for this op."
Eli let out a sigh and followed behind him, muttering about how things were getting bloody before we entered the bloodbath.
I didn't want to say anything out loud, but I thought the same thing. What's the point in fighting for freedom if we can't have any? Why did we have to get involved in the damn war in the first place?
"Casper, we need you, man. Captain Seller is about to discuss our main tactics during the battle," Xavier called out from behind me, his face a mask between the thousand-yard stare and genuine fear.
Soldiers aren't supposed to be afraid; they're supposed to march into the unknown and conquer it so more lives won't be lost. But the way his eyes were dark, clouded, I knew it already, and lives were going to be lost, more than any other battle.
I hesitated to follow, I knew our mission, for whatever it was worth. We and all other forces deemed expendable were going to be the meat shields to get Team Six to the Russian General.
My feet started moving without my permission as the sun began to set further in the distance. This was it, the stretch of a lifetime. The time we decide if we die or survive, one day till D-Day.
Seller was leaning over her desk, her knuckles bright white as we stepped into the tent. Despite everything, her face remained calm, but her fear was evident. She wasn't sure if we'd be making it back either.
"Alright! Listen up, right now we're in Hereford. We'll be taking the A438 and then traveling up to the A449 until we reach Worcester."
She paused briefly, watching as the few of us in the tent waited for her to continue. Her knuckles got whiter as she went back to the map.
"After we reach there, we'll be joining the M5 Southbound and meeting at the M40. From there, we'll begin the reoccupation of London while other forces spread out and attempt to meet with British intelligence. If all else fails, do not retreat; lead large enemy forces to our reinforcements, who will be spread out around exits in the city."
She finished speaking, her hand shaking at her side as the others took a look at the map and agreed on the decided route. Luckily enough, this time there was no fighting back against her orders, probably because they made sense, unlike the bullshit ROEs we had to follow.
"...Captain, I have a question about the rules for this fight," One of the SEALs spoke up, briefly raising his hand from the back.
"Continue," Seller ordered.
"What happens if we engage enemy forces before receiving fire? It's pretty obvious they're all hostiles, they have guns, and tanks, and... Well some big shit from what the recon team said. Shouldn't we be taking the chance if we get one?"
Even though the room was fairly silent already, it got quieter. Some soldiers looked at their boots, waiting for her to say something back.
Whether we wanted to admit it or not, it was a death wish to let the enemy fire first to get permission to engage. It was a fast track to an early grave.
"You all, including me, have rules to follow. I will not tolerate any subordination on this assignment, and you will follow the rules as they are set," She finally answered, her tone sounding like a mix between venom and annoyance.
Nobody else spoke up; there was enough electricity going through the air already. Tensions among the soldiers were already higher than ever, we had shit rules to follow, and there was a high chance we died to begin with.
I briefly thought again about whether the universe had a personal problem with me when she dismissed everyone, not that I wanted to stay longer, anyway.
Outside the tent, the air felt heavier. Not from the fading daylight or the dust hanging low over the camp, but from the silence between men who were supposed to be united. Something about the silence was worse than ever, whether anyone said it or not, we all had the same thoughts on our minds.
The camp was set up across an open, half-burnt field on the outskirts of Hereford. Canvas tents flapped weakly in the breeze, secured by stakes that looked like sleep-deprived ghosts hammered them in.
Broken crates of MREs, loose magazines, and water bottles half-filled with cigarette butts lay scattered across the dirt. In the center of the field, someone had built a small fire pit surrounded by metal folding chairs, but no one was sitting around it. Nobody wanted to be seen relaxing, or maybe nobody wanted to try.
Everywhere I looked, it was soldiers pretending not to watch each other.
"Motherfucker, say that again!"
A voice ripped through the stale quiet, cutting through the fog of nerves and diesel fumes. I turned my head just as the SEAL shoved a Marine square in the chest, sending him stumbling back into a supply rack. Cans of CLP and a pack of field dressings crashed to the ground.
"Thought so," the SEAL growled, puffing his chest like he was still in boot camp.
The Marine didn't back off; instead, he lunged.
They slammed into the dirt like rabid dogs. Fists flew, someone's helmet skidded across the rocks, and within seconds another fight sparked just ten feet away, two Marines shouting in each other's faces over stolen medicine.
A lieutenant ran in to break it up, got clocked in the jaw, and hit the ground like a sandbag.
I didn't bother stepping in, and oddly enough, neither did Eli, who was standing nearby with a flare in one hand and a half-bitten ration bar in the other. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn't find the humor in anything anymore.
"This whole thing's a powder keg," he muttered, watching another SEAL shove two soldiers apart. "And tomorrow we're lighting the match."
I didn't respond right away. My leg burned in a sharp, biting heat that pulsed up from the calf and settled deep in the bone. The medics had pulled out the shrapnel a few days ago, but they hadn't given me much for the pain except gauze and a few syringes that I pretended to use. I shifted my weight and bit down on my tongue to ease the pain.
It didn't matter; I needed to be in that convoy, I needed to get to London, I needed to be with my teammates. If I weren't there, someone else would die. Maybe someone who hadn't already seen too much.
So I walked, one step, then another. The limp was barely noticeable if I kept my stride short and didn't think about it.
The sun was nearly gone now, dragging shadows across the camp like fingers. You could hear the low hum of vehicles being prepped near the perimeter, Humvees getting their tires checked and radios calibrated.
A few of the older soldiers were stacking ammo into crates, mumbling quietly about the old days when wars had actual fronts.
I made my way to a rusted table where our squad had dumped gear. My hands were on autopilot, checking straps, securing magazines, tightening the scope on Ethan's Scar-H. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the side of a polished ammo tin.
I looked like hell, with mud-smeared over my face, dried blood still underneath my nose and cheek, and a few scabs barely even hanging on by my ear.
"You sure about this?" Xavier asked, coming up behind me. His eyes were still distant, like they'd never come back from whatever he saw on that last recon mission through Birmingham. Whatever it was there, we needed air support for, which was still a no-go.
"No," I replied flatly. "But it's not like we're getting a vote."
He didn't argue, and I'm pretty sure he didn't have the energy to even pat himself on the back.
Most of the fights were broken up by midnight. Two Marines were being treated for busted noses, one SEAL had a concussion, and someone swore they saw Leon sharpening a piece of broken shovel behind one of the tents.
Tensions were higher than ever, and steadily climbing as the sky got darker.
Someone shouted for lights out, but no one listened. Soldiers just sat in silence, under the dim haze of floodlights, waiting for morning to tear the rest of us apart.
The floodlights buzzed above, casting long shadows across the table. I sat down on a busted folding chair, my gloves were off, fingers stiff as I replayed everything that had happened in the past few days in my head.
I set Ethan's Scar-H down in front of me like it was a puzzle I had to solve before the world ended. I wasn't excited this time, I couldn't be. This differed from saving a life or trying to take all the burden onto my shoulders; people were going to die.
My hands worked from memory, lock bolt back, check chamber, empty. Magazine out, set aside. I pressed the takedown pin through and pulled the upper from the lower, the familiar clack grounding me more than any breath could.
It was all mechanical, all steps I'd done a thousand times before. But tonight, it felt like I was holding onto each one for dear life.
I disassembled the bolt carrier group, pulling the bolt from the carrier, setting each piece down with methodical care. I wiped the carbon buildup off the firing pin, checking for wear. Everything looked good enough, solid at least.
Slide the charging handle out. Check the buffer spring. The recoil rod had a minor dent, nothing major, just something to watch for. I focused on that detail longer than I needed to, just in case, maybe because it didn't bleed, didn't scream, didn't remind me of the people I might not bring back tomorrow.
I cleaned the rails with the corner of my shirt, slowly. Every motion was an excuse not to look around at the camp. A few of the soldiers were asleep under a lie. At the ones who couldn't sleep at all. At the handful of sharpening knives that they'd probably never get the chance to use.
I stayed locked in that rhythm, rebuilding the rifle. Bolt carrier reassembled, pin seated, gas rings aligned. The pieces clicked together with soft, hollow sounds. Familiar, almost comforting, more than what tomorrow would bring.
Slide the bolt back into the upper, attach the upper and lower receivers, push the takedown pin back in, and function check. It clicked quietly, but it may as well have been a gunshot.
Safety. Fire. Trigger reset.
It was as perfect as I could get it for now, or maybe I just wanted it to be.
"Hey," Eli's voice came low, like he was trying not to startle me. He crouched next to the table, rifle cradled in one arm. "You look like someone gutted you and forgot to finish the job."
I didn't answer at first. My eyes were still on the rifle, my thumb brushing the grip like it was skin. "I'm fine."
"Yeah?" He gave a faint snort. "Because that's what people say right before they stop being fine."
I finally looked at him. He studied my face like it was a minefield.
"I just… I keep thinking about tomorrow," I admitted. My voice was quieter than I expected. "I keep thinking someone's not coming back."
He didn't pretend to cheer me up, didn't bother to tell me we'd all make it. That would've been bullshit, and we both knew it.
My eyes drifted past him, toward the edge of camp. Near the Humvees, SEAL Team Six gathered, double-checking gear and syncing comms. Most of them looked sharp, not tense, but trained for this.
Of course, there were a couple who looked off. One guy had been staring at the dirt for ten straight minutes, helmet cradled in his lap like it was an infant. Another was sitting with his back against a tire, muttering something I couldn't hear while tapping his knee on a loop.
Even though they weren't immune, part of that made me a bit glad. If the best of the best were nervous, then I was right to be. But if they were nervous, it was going to be worse than I ever expected.
This whole op stunk. A plan built on wishful thinking and ROEs written by people who'd never held a rifle. Even if we followed orders to the letter, people were going to die, a lot of them, and that was if we got lucky. That was if there would be anyone left to come back home.
"I'm not stupid enough to think I can save everyone," I said.
Eli looked at me, waiting for me to continue. Maybe waiting for me to say something that would take the pressure off, that would never come.
"But fewer people need to die."
I said it like a promise, even though it felt more like a challenge from the universe.
Eli nodded slowly, as if that was the only answer that mattered. "Then we make sure that happens."
We sat like that for a moment, two men in a dying camp, surrounded by men playing at bravery, some better than others. The wind picked up and rattled the flaps of the nearby med tent as a generator coughed in the background.
I adjusted the sling on the Scar-H, testing the weight. It felt heavier than usual, like it knew what it was about to be dragged into.
A scream burst out from a tent on the far edge, short and sharp. Somebody was waking up from a nightmare, or reliving one. No one even turned their head, because we all knew what we would see tomorrow would put all nightmares to shame.
I stood, the ache in my leg flaring again, hot and sharp. For a second, it made my breath catch. But I forced myself forward, ignoring the limp. Every step mattered, I couldn't afford to slow down, not tomorrow, not ever. Not with what was waiting for us in London.
I couldn't figure out for myself why I wanted to push myself to keep going; I had somebody to get back to, I had my sister and my mother still. But these people around me who were losing their cool and sinking into a mental hole of depression were my family as well.
As I got closer to the edge of the temporary camp, I decided why I would keep going. I wasn't going to lose my family, not again. Even if it meant I would die, I would never leave these soldiers behind.