Part 1: The Punishment Gate

They didn’t just assign me to Gate 4; they exiled me to a furnace.

The sun over Naval Base Pacifica didn’t just shine—it blazed, turning the asphalt into a shimmering, cruel mirror that reflected the 105-degree heat straight back up at my face. This wasn’t California sunshine; this was Commander Brett Huxley’s punishment, a six-hour straight duty in the most isolated, exposed checkpoint on the base.

For six hours, Lieutenant Zira Cassiss stood motionless.

Officers drove past, their air-conditioned SUVs offering a brief, mocking reprieve from the heat that was already soaking through my uniform. Some smirked. Others tossed empty water bottles that landed with a soft, dismissive thud at my feet. Everyone knew what this was: Huxley’s calculated way of breaking me after I had humiliated him during the tactical qualification drills.

I had embarrassed him in front of Admiral Blackwood’s staff, and now, I was paying the price.

My dark hair was pulled tight in a regulation bun, not a single strand daring to escape the discipline of my position, even as sweat beaded at my temples. While other officers had shifted their weight or wiped their brows on the parade ground the day before, I remained perfectly still. There was a difference in my stillness, though. It wasn’t the nervous rigidity of a junior officer. It was the practiced calm of someone who had stood in worse places, under much hotter fires.

The small scar that traced my jawline was barely visible, a relic of a past life that Zira Cassiss was supposed to have outrun. My eyes tracked movement with an unconscious precision that my peers lacked. They were just officers. I was something else entirely.

“Lieutenant Cassiss,” Commander Huxley had announced yesterday, stopping directly in front of me. “You’ll lead Team Delta through the maritime interdiction scenario.”

I knew the scenario. Team Delta was a dead end. Three failures already. A setup. “Yes, sir,” I replied, my voice quiet but firm.

Ensign Merritt, lanky and perpetually smirking, had tried to argue protocol. “Standard protocol is to breach from the starboard entry point.”

I studied the vessel mockup. I saw the defense patterns, the predictable chokepoints. “We’ll approach from the port side, use smoke for cover, and breach simultaneously at two points.”

“That’s not standard.”

“It’s the correct approach for this vessel configuration,” I said, leaving no room for debate. It was the approach Damascus would have taken.

During the exercise, someone—Huxley, I suspected—tampered with my tactical radio. The frequency kept shifting, cutting my communications. Instead of reporting it, I adapted. Hand signals. Silence. When the scenario ended, we had completed the objective three minutes faster than any other team, with perfect accuracy.

Huxley’s voice was tight in the debriefing room. “Explain your deviation from standard protocol.”

“Sir, the vessel configuration presented a predictable defense scenario if approached from starboard. The dual entry approach from port side circumvented the likely resistance points.”

“You’re suggesting our established protocols are flawed?” His question carried a dangerous edge.

“No, sir. I’m suggesting they’re optimized for different vessel classes. This particular configuration required adaptation.”

The room had gone silent. A staff representative from Admiral Blackwood’s office had leaned forward with unexpected interest.

And the communication failure? Huxley pressed.

“Equipment malfunction, sir,” I replied, looking him directly in the eye. “We adapted.”

Later that afternoon, the verdict. My name was not among those qualified for advanced tactical training.

“Lieutenant Cassiss,” Huxley paused for dramatic effect. “You’re reassigned to Gate 4 security detail, effective immediately. Report at 0600 tomorrow.”

Gate 4. The farthest checkpoint, where only maintenance crews and supply trucks passed. It was where you sent someone to make them disappear.

As the officers dispersed, Master Chief Finola Reeves passed close to me. Her eyes, usually holding a brutal honesty and unwavering fairness, gave nothing away. But as she passed, her fingers brushed my wrist—the smallest, almost imperceptible gesture of solidarity.

In my barracks that evening, I methodically prepared my uniform. Efficient, practiced movements, betraying no emotion. A photograph sat face down on my desk. I touched it once, but didn’t turn it over. I continued my preparations.

Lieutenant Webb Carrington entered without knocking. “Heard the news. Cassiss, Gate 4. That’s rough.”

“Did you need something, Lieutenant?”

“Just thought you’d want to know what they’re saying. Word is you embarrassed Huxley in front of the admiral’s staff, questioned his tactical judgment.”

“People talk,” I said, inspecting my boots.

“They do,” he leaned against the door frame. “They also wonder where you really came from. Six months here and nobody knows a thing about you. No hometown stories, no dating, no drinking with the crew. You’re either hiding something or running from something.”

“Neither,” I replied. “I’m here to do my job.”

“Well, your job is checking IDs at Gate 4 now. Have fun with the truckers, Cassiss.”

At 0545 the next morning, I reported to my new post. The guard booth’s air conditioning had been broken for three months. Webb handed over the log book, looking bored. “Nothing happens here. Maintenance trucks, occasional brass driving through to the weapons range.”

He hesitated, studying me. “You know, nobody actually knows where you transferred from.”

“Base rotation, same as everyone.”

Webb snorted. “Right. It’s like you’re a ghost.” He left with one parting shot. “Or maybe just a washout, hoping nobody notices.”

I stood at perfect attention. By 0800, it was 85 degrees. By noon, 103. I didn’t move. I didn’t seek shade. I didn’t lean against the guard booth. As I adjusted my sleeve, the fragmented symbols of a partially removed tattoo were visible on my wrist—a ghost of the past that refused to be scrubbed away.

The first vehicles passed. Supply trucks. Officers who recognized me slowed their Jeeps to stare. Lieutenant Commander Davis offered false sympathy: “Quite a view out here, Cassiss. Scenic.”

Others were less subtle. A group of Ensigns drove through repeatedly, claiming they’d forgotten items, forcing me to log each entry manually while they watched me sweat. “Enjoying your new assignment?” one asked, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“ID, please.” My face remained impassive.

Around 1300, Lieutenant Commander Thacker pulled up with two junior officers. “Lieutenant Cassiss,” he announced with artificial formality. “Surprise security inspection.”

They spent twenty minutes finding imaginary infractions. Log book entries 0.3cm from the margin line. Hat 0.5 inches off regulation position. He marked each violation on his clipboard with dramatic flair. “Consider this an official reprimand.” As they drove away, one tossed an empty water bottle at my feet.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was exposed, yes. Humiliated, certainly. But I was also watching.

At 1530 hours, a convoy of dusty maintenance trucks approached from within the base. Routine. I checked the ID of the lead driver, a grizzled man named Eldridge. He studied me with an unexpected intensity. As I checked his clearance, he mumbled something under his breath. The words were barely audible, but unmistakable to my trained ear.

“Never thought I’d see Damascus standing gate duty.”

I froze. Imperceptibly. My hand still holding his ID. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He held my gaze a beat too long. “My mistake, ma’am.” He took his ID back and drove through, his eyes fixed on me in his rear-view mirror until his truck disappeared.

Damascus. The name caused the first crack in my perfect composure. A slight tightening around my eyes. The internal shift of a weapon unholstered.

At 1620, Commander Huxley’s black SUV approached from the base side. His smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Comfortable, Lieutenant? I hear Gate 4 is where careers come to die.”

His companions laughed on cue. But in the back seat, Lieutenant Riker didn’t laugh. He studied me with growing discomfort, noticing the dignity with which I held myself. The humanity beneath the uniform.

The sun began its slow descent. My shift was supposed to end at 1800. But the loudspeakers announced the changing of the watch, and no relief officer appeared. The log book indicated a double shift. Sixteen hours straight.

I opened the paper bag Petty Officer Indra had delivered hours earlier. The water was warm. The sandwich stale. My movements were economical. As I finished, I noticed something at the bottom of the bag: A folded note that hadn’t been there before.

Written in precise block letters were five words: Lazarus protocol – 0600 hours. Prepare.

My hands trembled for the first time all day. I immediately refolded the note and tucked it into my pocket. Lazarus. The name of a program long buried, a contingency plan for threats thought neutralized.

At 2145, Master Chief Reeves’s unmarked sedan approached. “Long shift,” she acknowledged, her eyes alert.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Resilience is an admirable quality, Lieutenant. So is patience.” She handed over a small package. “Messaul sends dinner to extended posts.”

As I accepted the package, she added, quietly: “The Admiral’s inspection tour begins at 0600 tomorrow. All posts are expected to be in perfect order.”

Their eyes met with shared understanding. Something was happening at 0600 hours. Just as the note had indicated.

“Understood, Master Chief.”

 

Part 2: Lazarus Protocol

 

The hours between midnight and dawn were the quietest. I used the time not for rest, but for observation. From Gate 4, I had clear sightlines to the main approach road and the distant lights of the command buildings. Anyone watching saw an officer maintaining her post. They didn’t see the woman mentally logging blind spots, calculating distances, and identifying potential security vulnerabilities.

At 0500 hours, the base began to stir.

At 0545, the first unusual sign: Security personnel taking up positions at key intersections—more than a standard morning shift change required.

At 0550, a convoy of three security vehicles, identifiable by the Admiral’s protection detail patches, passed through my checkpoint, headed toward the highway.

At 0555, my radio, which had been mostly silent, suddenly came to life. “All checkpoints, this is command. Priority protocol Delta in effect. Repeat, priority protocol Delta in effect.”

Protocol Delta. Reserved for flag officers of Admiral rank or higher.

Then, the base alarm blared. Not a drill.

The PA system crackled. “Attention all personnel. Priority One. Arrival in 15 minutes. Security Protocol Delta.”

My radio exploded with chatter. Then, Commander Huxley’s voice cut through. “Cassiss, you are relieved. Report to—”

Master Chief Reeves interrupted, her voice overriding his. “Belay that. Lieutenant Cassiss remains at post. Admiral’s orders.”

A tense silence. Then Huxley, his voice tight with controlled anger: “Confirmed. Cassiss remains at Gate 4.”

I maintained my position, but my senses were heightened. The Lazarus protocol was underway.

In the distance, a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, growing larger. A convoy was approaching, not from within the base, but from the civilian highway. They were coming to Gate 4. To me.

Officers and enlisted personnel began gathering, clearly curious about the unusual activity.

The convoy was close enough now: Five black SUVs with diplomatic flags, motorcycle escorts. The full security package. And they weren’t heading for the main entrance.

Radio chatter confirmed it: They were coming directly to my checkpoint.

Commander Huxley’s Jeep screeched to a halt nearby. He rushed over, breathless and agitated. “What the hell is happening? They’re supposed to enter through the main gate. Why are they coming here?”

“Sir, you should stand aside.”

His face flushed red. “I don’t take orders from a—”

Master Chief Reeves appeared behind him, her voice carrying a steel edge I hadn’t heard before. “Step back. Now.”

Huxley reluctantly moved aside, his expression a mix of confusion and mounting unease.

The central SUV stopped directly in front of me. The base held its breath. Everyone was watching.

The door opened.

Admiral Julian Blackwood emerged. The Ghost. Silver-haired, weathered, the legendary SEAL commander whose uniform bore the weight of decades of service. Beside him, Director Emara Collins of Naval Intelligence, her tailored suit marking her as someone who operated at the highest levels of global consequence.

Admiral Blackwood scanned the assembled personnel, his gaze cutting through the crowd like a searchlight until it found me. His stern expression shifted—imperceptibly to most, but Master Chief Reeves saw it. So did Huxley, whose confusion was rapidly turning to dread.

I executed a perfect salute, my form flawless despite standing post for over 16 hours straight.

Huxley, clutching a folder, stepped forward. “Admiral Blackwood, sir, welcome to Naval Base Pacifica. I’m Commander Huxley, executive officer. If I may explain the irregular routing—”

“Not now, Commander,” Blackwood said without looking at him. His voice carried the quiet authority of someone who rarely needed to raise it to be obeyed.

He approached me slowly, each step deliberate. The silence stretched across the checkpoint like a physical presence.

When he stopped directly in front of me, the world seemed to hold still.

Then, breaking all protocol, Admiral Blackwood returned my salute, holding it a beat longer than regulation required.

“Damascus,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The name rippled through the witnesses. First confusion. Then recognition from some of the senior officers as understanding dawned. Shock followed, radiating outward like a shockwave.

Director Collins stepped forward, emphasizing the rank. “Lieutenant Commander Zira Casis. Operational Control, Special Activities Division, Task Force 88.”

I remained at attention, eyes forward, betraying nothing despite the revelation that had just shattered my cover identity.

Admiral Blackwood turned to address the assembled personnel. “Three years ago, a classified operation prevented a biological attack that would have killed millions. Official records state it was prevented by intelligence assets.” His gaze swept across the officers. “The truth is standing before you.”

He turned to Commander Huxley, whose face had drained of all color. “This officer allowed her record to be obscured, her rank reduced, and her reputation damaged rather than violate operational security.” His gaze hardened. “You’ve been testing equipment reconfigured according to Lieutenant Commander Casis’s protocols for the last six months. The protocols that saved your entire team during the Doha simulation.”

Huxley stood frozen, his earlier confidence evaporated entirely.

Director Collins spoke next. “Damascus is being reactivated, effective immediately.” She handed me a secure tablet.

I finally broke my stance to accept it, scanning the contents. Whatever information the device contained, my expression remained unchanged.

Admiral Blackwood addressed the silent crowd one last time. “You’ve been guarding your checkpoint, Lieutenant Commander. Now we need you to guard ours again.”

As the convoy prepared to depart, Admiral Blackwood paused beside Commander Huxley. “I’ll expect your full report on Lieutenant Commander Casis’s reassignment by 0800 tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Huxley managed, his voice barely audible.

The convoy departed, leaving a wake of confusion and whispered conversations. Master Chief Reeves approached me as the dust settled.

“Commander Casis, you’re relieved of checkpoint duty. Report to Command Building Alpha at 0700 tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master Chief,” I replied, breaking my post for the first time in sixteen hours.

As we walked away, Reeves kept her voice low. “You maintained excellent bearing, Commander.”

“The assignment served its purpose,” I replied simply.

“That it did. The Admiral doesn’t reactivate assets without cause.”

“No, he doesn’t.” My voice carried a new edge.

 

Part 3: The Threat Reactivated

 

The next morning, I wore my proper uniform: Lieutenant Commander insignia restored. Special operations patches visible. The difference wasn’t just the uniform, but how I carried it. I was no longer concealing my authority; I was embodying it.

In the mess, chairs scraped as personnel stood in respect—a military courtesy I hadn’t received in years. Commander Huxley approached, visibly uncomfortable.

“Commander Casis, I want to express my—”

“Not necessary, sir,” I interrupted quietly. “Operational security required my cover to be authentic. You performed your role.”

I was offering him a graceful exit, a way to save face. He took it. “Thank you, Commander.”

Lieutenant Riker, the officer who hadn’t laughed, approached my table. “Did you request Gate 4?”

A ghost of a smile crossed my face. “Best vantage point on the base. Clear sight lines to all approaches.”

“You were never being punished,” he realized. “You were watching.”

“Damascus,” he said quietly. “The name means something.”

“Names often do.”

At 0700 sharp, I reported to Command Building Alpha. Master Chief Reeves, Director Collins, and Admiral Blackwood (via a secure video feed) were waiting.

“Commander Casis,” the Admiral acknowledged. “Your reactivation has been approved at the highest levels. The Damascus protocol is in effect as of 0600 this morning.”

Collins activated the electronic security. “Three days ago, our intelligence network detected communication patterns consistent with ARI cell activity.”

My expression hardened. ARI Cell—the terrorist organization whose attempted biological attack three years ago had led to my classified cover.

“They’re active again,” I stated.

“Yes,” the Admiral confirmed. “And the communication pattern suggests they’ve acquired new assets with military training. Assets like Varys.”

The name hit the room with tangible weight. Colonel Anton Varys. Former special forces operator. Mercenary. The man responsible for the deaths of four members of Task Force 88 during the original Damascus operation.

Collins slid a dossier across the table. “Facial recognition flagged him entering the country three weeks ago under an alias.”

I opened the file. Varys. Close-cropped gray hair, eyes like chips of ice. “He’s operating on US soil.”

“Which is why we need Damascus back in the field,” Blackwood said. “You know his methods, his contacts, his patterns. You’re the only one who’s ever gotten close to him.”

“And the only one who’s ever let him escape,” I added, a rare crack in my professional veneer.

“Extraction was the right decision,” Collins interjected firmly.

I closed the dossier. “What’s the objective?”

“Identify Varys’s target and neutralize the threat,” the Admiral stated.

My team was reactivated: Lieutenant Commander Nazari (undercover in San Diego) and Lieutenant Wilson (instructing at Coronado).

“I understand the stakes, Admiral,” I said, my voice carrying the weight of personal experience. “I carried Specialist Torres six miles through the mountains after Varys’s ambush. I watched Lieutenant Rivera die from his bioweapon. I know exactly what he’s capable of.”

The mission was clear. We had a potential mass casualty event on American soil.

 

Part 4: The True Target

 

By midday, the auxiliary communications building had been converted into my forward operating base. I was immersed in intelligence briefings. Varys specializes in maximum impact: critical infrastructure, public gatherings, symbolic locations.

“We have a Fleet Week celebration in San Diego Harbor in three days,” Collins confirmed. “Over fifty naval vessels, plus hundreds of thousands of civilians.”

“Perfect target,” I agreed. High visibility, military significance.

At 1600 hours, Lieutenant Commander Amir Nazari arrived. “Damascus lives,” he smiled.

“So it seems,” I returned the smile.

Nazari reported unusual activity at a private marina—shipments arriving at odd hours, security personnel with military bearing. A pattern that fit Varys.

Lieutenant Derek Wilson, my second in command, arrived two hours later. “Commander on deck,” he announced with his characteristic boldness. “Heard about Varys? Thought that bastard was dead.”

“Apparently not,” I replied. “And he’s planning something on American soil.”

“Then we stop him. Permanently this time.”

That night, Lieutenant Webb Carrington, who had been assigned as my communications liaison, surprised me. He had been running pattern analysis on shipping manifests.

“This company has been receiving unusual chemical compounds at multiple locations across the West Coast,” he reported.

I studied the data. “These aren’t biological precursors. They’re components for explosives. High yield, military grade.”

The pieces began to fall into place. “He’s not planning a biological attack. That’s just misdirection.”

“Then what?” Webb asked.

The secure communication device vibrated. “Commander Casis.”

Lieutenant Wilson’s voice was tense. “Riptide reports movement at the warehouse. Multiple vehicles departing, heading north toward the naval base. And Commander, they’ve identified Varys. He’s on site, personally supervising the operation.”

My expression hardened. “Lock down that warehouse. No one else leaves. I want a strike team ready in thirty minutes.”

I turned back to Webb. “Alert all team members. Operation status is now active.”

The sun crested the horizon, bathing the base in golden light. After sixteen hours of checkpoint duty and a full night of planning, I felt a clarity of purpose that transcended physical fatigue. Damascus was rising again, and this time, Varys would not escape.

Drone teams confirmed: Three SUVs and a panel truck, heading north on Interstate 5. The refrigerated panel truck—our most likely transport for the device.

“Interception on the interstate would create potential civilian casualties if the biological agent disperses,” Nazari pointed out.

“They’ll have to slow at the naval base checkpoint,” I decided. “That’s our interception point. Controlled environment, limited civilian exposure.”

But not the main gate. “We create an alternative entry point, force them to adapt.”

My plan: Divert the convoy to a secondary gate, where my team would be waiting with concealed armored vehicles and non-explosive ordnance.

“Permission to proceed with Operation Crosscut.”

The Admiral’s voice came through clearly. “Granted. Good hunting, Damascus.”

 

Part 5: The Culvert Chase

 

The helicopter lifted off, banking sharply toward the secondary gate. Below, I could see Gate 4—the isolated checkpoint where I had stood just the day before, now manned by a young Lieutenant who had no idea of the operation unfolding miles away.

The convoy was committed. As they entered the narrow approach to the secondary gate, hidden barriers deployed behind them, blocking retreat. Armored vehicles emerged from concealed positions ahead, forming an impassable blockade.

Gunfire erupted from the escort vehicles. Varys’s team recognized the trap.

My strike team responded with disciplined precision, targeted fire disabling the escort vehicles without compromising the panel truck. “Secure the truck!” I ordered.

Through the chaos, I caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from the rear escort vehicle, moving with tactical discipline toward a drainage culvert that ran beneath the perimeter road. Varys.

“Nazari, secure the truck,” I commanded. “Varys is moving southwest toward the perimeter fence.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, I changed course, pursuing the fleeing figure with single-minded focus. Three years of waiting. I would not let him escape again.

He disappeared into the concrete tunnel. I followed, my movements efficient and silent. The culvert branched in three directions. I paused, listening.

“Damascus.” His voice echoed through the concrete passages, impossible to locate precisely. “I wondered if you survived Syria. Four of your team didn’t, I made sure of that. Did they tell you how long Rivera took to die?”

I remained silent, calculating angles. A slight scrape of boot against concrete came from the leftmost passage. Too obvious. A deliberate sound.

“Your mission failed before it began,” he taunted. “The truck is a decoy. The real devices are already in position throughout the harbor. When they detonate in two hours, the legacy of Damascus will be failure—complete and catastrophic.”

His smuggness didn’t ring true. The details were too readily offered. I moved silently toward the right passage, where the water flowed fastest—the most logical escape route.

“By the time you realize—” His voice cut off as I rounded a corner and came face-to-face with him. My weapon was already trained on his center mass.

He froze, his own pistol half-raised.

“The truck isn’t empty,” I said calmly. “It contains biological materials, but they’re inert. Vaccine components, not weapons. Your real plan involves conventional explosives placed on or near naval vessels. You’re using the biological threat as misdirection, drawing our attention and resources away from the actual targets.”

Surprise flickered across his face. “Impressive analysis,” he acknowledged, “but incomplete. The explosives are a diversion, too.”

“Meant to create chaos and confusion while you target something else entirely,” I finished. “Something at Fleet Week valuable enough to risk operating on US soil.”

“You always were the best of them, Damascus. Too bad you’re still too late.” His hand moved with snake-like speed toward a device on his belt.

I fired twice. Disciplined, center-mass shots. He staggered backward, collapsing against the culvert wall. But his hand had already activated the device.

“Dead man’s switch,” he gasped, a grim smile spreading across his face. “Secondary protocol initiated. You can’t stop it now.”

I secured his weapon. “What’s the target, Varys? What’s the real objective?” I demanded, applying pressure to his wounds.

He coughed, blood speckling his lips. “The future of warfare isn’t about casualties, Commander. It’s about information. The Naval Command server—accessing the classified weapons development database. All that next-generation research now being transmitted to our benefactors.”

The pieces clicked into place with jarring clarity. Biological threat and explosive diversions—all an elaborate mask for a cyber infiltration of the Naval Command’s secure servers.

“Webb!” I spoke into my comm. “Priority override. Naval Command network is compromised. Cyber attack in progress. Shut it down now.”

I turned back to Varys, but his eyes had already glazed over. The architect of so much death, now dead in a drainage ditch on American soil. I closed his eyes before retrieving the satellite phone and making my way back toward the operation zone.

 

Part 6: The Restoration

 

The scene was one of controlled precision. The convoy secured. Hazmat teams processing the inert payload. “He claims it initiated a cyber attack on the Naval Command servers,” I reported to Collins.

Moments later, Collins confirmed: “They’ve detected unauthorized access attempts across multiple secure systems. Emergency protocols initiated, networks isolated.”

The threat was dismantled systematically. Cyber security teams contained the network intrusion. Explosive ordnance disposal units secured the three small, diversionary devices.

By mid-morning, Admiral Blackwood arrived. “Damascus delivered,” he observed.

“The mission delivered, sir,” I corrected. “The team executed perfectly.”

“Your full rank and security clearance have been permanently restored. The President has been briefed on today’s operation.” The Admiral studied me. “Your team officially reconstituted under your command. Unless you’d prefer a different assignment.”

“My place is with my team, Admiral,” I replied without hesitation.

Later that afternoon, I returned briefly to Naval Base Pacifica. As my vehicle passed through the main entrance, I noticed Gate 4 in the distance.

“Hard to believe that was just yesterday,” Webb remarked, following my gaze to the checkpoint.

“Perspective matters, Lieutenant,” I replied. “After 72 hours in a Syrian cave waiting for extraction with two wounded teammates and limited supplies, sixteen hours at a checkpoint on American soil is manageable.”

Commander Huxley waited outside the command center. “Commander Casis,” he acknowledged. “I’ve been briefed on the operation’s success. Congratulations.”

He hesitated before continuing. “I understand your assignment here was temporary from the beginning. Still, I want to extend an official apology for how that cover was enhanced by certain personnel, myself included.”

“The most effective covers are the ones people believe, Commander,” I replied evenly. “Everyone performed their roles as expected.” It was a diplomatic response, allowing him his dignity.

As Huxley departed, Master Chief Reeves approached. “Your team is waiting in the command center. Intelligence from the warehouse is still coming in.”

“He was always methodical,” I noted.

“Patient,” Reeves observed. “A quality you share, though to a better purpose.”

Before entering, I found the maintenance worker, Eldridge, waiting near the motor pool. He stood straighter when he noticed my approach, his posture shifting from civilian contractor to military veteran.

“Commander,” he greeted me with a respectful nod. “Heard you had quite a morning. Among certain circles.”

“You were the extraction pilot,” I realized, studying him with new recognition. “The one who came back for us despite the ground fire.”

“Couldn’t leave you behind.” He looked down at his prosthetic leg. “Got hit on the second approach. Still managed to get you all out. Worth it. Your team stopped Varys’s first bioweapon. Saved thousands of lives.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, battered metal object—a checkpoint token.

“From Damascus,” he explained, offering it to me. “Found it in the helicopter after the extraction. Thought you might want it back.”

I accepted the token, its weight familiar in my palm. “Thank you.”

“Some gates are worth guarding no matter the cost,” Eldridge said, his eyes meeting mine with shared understanding. “You stood yours. I stood mine.”

I closed my fingers around the checkpoint token before continuing to the command center.

The next morning, as my helicopter lifted off from Naval Base Pacifica, I could see the full expanse of the facility below. And at Gate 4, a solitary figure rendered a perfect salute as we passed overhead.

“Damascus rises again,” Nazari said with quiet satisfaction.

I glanced at the battered checkpoint token in my palm. “Damascus was just a location, Amir, a place where we held the line.” I closed my fingers around the token, feeling its weight and the history it carried. “Now we find the next line that needs holding, and we guard it, no matter the cost.”