Fordross Base

  Mission: Operation Prodigal

  04:05

  “Jesus—there isn’t a better way to wake me up?”

  The pain hit before I even finished the sentence.

  It wasn’t enough to break skin, but it was sharp—precise. A jolt straight through my side that ripped me out of sleep like someone had plugged my nerves into a live wire. My body reacted before my brain did; I lurched upright, breath tearing from my chest, heart slamming against my ribs as if it was trying to escape.

  September stood over me, wand angled downward, the sharpened end hovering just far enough away to make the message clear.

  Look alive.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Look at you now. Fully awake.”

  I pressed a hand to my side, wincing. “Why didn’t you wake me up like last time?” I hissed. “That was… nice.”

  “It didn’t make sense to gently wake someone just to watch a movie,” she replied flatly. “This matters. Move.”

  She turned before I could argue, already halfway toward the door.

  I sighed and swung my legs off the bunk. My muscles protested immediately—stiff, sore, still bruised from things I didn’t want to think about yet. The base air felt colder this early, heavier somehow. September gave me a firm pat between the shoulders as we stepped into the hallway, more grounding than comforting, and steered me toward the elevator like she was guiding a fragile asset instead of a person.

  We surfaced onto the first floor after nearly a full day underground.

  I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d seen anything resembling the outside world. No windows. No natural light. Just layers of concrete, fluorescent hums, and recycled air. It crept up on you—slowly eroding your sense of time until everything blurred together.

  I finally understood why people lost their minds underground.

  The house looked wrong in the early morning indigo lighting. Shadows pooled in corners that felt too deep. The silence carried weight, like the building itself was holding its breath. Even the furniture felt tense—edges sharper, angles more aggressive.

  Outside, a convoy waited at the curb.

  Four vehicles. All black. All armored. Windows tinted so dark they reflected nothing back at you.

  September pointed without hesitation. “Third vehicle. Center of the stack.”

  “Balanced coverage,” I muttered.

  She nodded. “Front and rear protection. Less exposure if something hits.”

  Agents moved around the convoy with clipped efficiency. Helmets were secured, vests tightened, radios tested. No one spoke unless they needed to. No wasted motion. No hesitation. This wasn’t a patrol—this was a transfer.

  A blond agent intercepted us, already extending equipment before I even stopped walking.

  “Radios,” he said. “Encrypted. Convoy net only.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He placed two compact units into my hands. “Primary channel stays open. If you need to reach Fordross Command directly, switch to frequency three-six-five. Only if you’re compromised. Command already has eyes on us.”

  I passed one radio to September.

  The rear door of the vehicle opened. We climbed in. It shut immediately behind us with a solid, final thud that made my chest tighten.

  The interior was quiet—but not peaceful.

  The kind of quiet that magnified every breath, every heartbeat. My pulse thumped loud enough that I wondered if anyone else could hear it. The air smelled faintly of metal and oil.

  I glanced at September.

  She met my eyes once, steady and calm. Not comforting—controlled. The kind of look that said panic wasn’t allowed here.

  The convoy rolled out.

  City streets swallowed us easily. Traffic masked our movement, lights blurring into streaks of amber and white as we merged into the early morning flow. Being in the city felt safer than the open wilderness ever could. Too many witnesses. Too many variables.

  The TSA wouldn’t strike here.

  Not openly.

  Up front, the agent in the passenger seat leaned into his radio.

  “Convoy Actual, this is Delta-One. Prodigal secure in Vehicle Three. Alpha and Bravo lead. Charlie and Echo trail. Request ETA to Site Foxtrot.”

  A moment of static, then a response crackled through.

  “Delta-One, Command. Site Foxtrot is green. Transport package inbound. Estimated linkup in ninety minutes. Stand by for final routing.”

  “Copy,” Delta-One replied.

  He turned slightly, just enough to check us through the rearview mirror.

  “Rules are simple,” he said. “You stay in the vehicle unless ordered out. If contact occurs, you stay low. September—your priority is Prodigal. No exceptions.”

  September answered immediately. “Understood.”

  The city thinned into highway. Highway into darkened slopes and distant mountain silhouettes. Civilization peeled away layer by layer, replaced by long stretches of road and looming shadows.

  The countryside felt exposed.

  “We’re close,” September said quietly. “Once we reach Site Foxtrot, we hold for twenty.”

  “I’m already sick of Maine,” she added under her breath.

  I huffed. “You’ve been here a lot.”

  “Exactly,” she muttered.

  The road curved, and the abandoned town emerged.

  Buildings loomed like carcasses—metal roofs rusted, paint flaking, windows dark and hollow. A perimeter fence wrapped the entire area like a warning label. This wasn’t abandoned by accident.

  This was retired.

  “Convoy Actual,” Delta-One said into his radio. “Approaching Site Foxtrot. Request gate access.”

  “Access granted. Proceed.”

  The gate slid open.

  Inside, the air felt stale—heavy. Like it remembered things.

  We stopped in an open square where dust spiraled lazily in the wind. A skeletal water tower leaned nearby, silhouetted against the dim sky.

  “All units,” Delta-One ordered, “establish positions. Vehicles as hard cover. Maintain dispersion.”

  The two lead vehicles advanced between buildings.

  A ripple of light shimmered.

  Then holographic barricades snapped into place—one sealing the corridor ahead, another locking behind us. The town transformed in seconds, invisible walls rising where none had existed before.

  “Delta-One to Command. On-site and holding. Awaiting transport.”

  “Command copies.”

  I leaned forward slightly. “Are we heading straight to YMPA after this?”

  Delta-One didn’t look back.

  “As long as you’re not at YMPA, this doesn’t cool down,” he said flatly. “This situation is already burned.”

  My stomach tightened.

  Suddenly, the driver stiffened.

  “Aircraft inbound,” he said.

  Two helicopters cut across the horizon.

  For a split second, relief surged through me so hard it almost hurt.

  This is it.

  “This is Delta-One to inbound escort. Visual acquired. Confirm identification.”

  Silence.

  Then a response came—wrong in tone, wrong in pacing.

  “Repeat your position.”

  Delta-One froze.

  “Escort, we are holding at Site Foxtrot. Grid follows—”

  “Say again distance.”

  My blood went cold.

  “Approximately fifteen miles north, altitude seven thousand—”

  The missile launched.

  No warning. No lock tone.

  Just fire.

  The explosion obliterated the building near Alpha and Charlie. Heat punched outward, the shockwave flattening sound into a roaring wall. Debris flew in every direction.

  A body—armor and all—was thrown through the air like scrap metal.

  “Contact!” someone screamed.

  “Drive!” Delta-One roared. “This is Delta-One, we are under attack! Alpha and Charlie are compromised. Hostile aircraft confirmed—TSA!”

  Gunfire erupted.

  Rounds slammed into the roof. Metal shrieked as bullets ricocheted.

  “Command, we are taking fire—request immediate QRF!”

  “QRF en route—ETA unknown!”

  The driver floored it.

  The gate loomed—

  Then fire erupted beside us.

  The vehicle lifted off the ground.

  Glass shattered, suspended in the air like glittering shrapnel as the world spun sideways. September threw an arm across me instinctively, bracing, shielding—

  And the last thing I heard before gravity reclaimed us was Delta-One shouting into the radio:

  “Prodigal vehicle hit—repeat, Prodigal vehicle hit—”

  Then everything went white.