PART 2
The mission had been sold as routine.
Routine reconnaissance sweep.
Routine border corridor check.
Routine seventy-two-hour movement through southern Arizona.
Routine was Webb’s favorite word.
Any time a man with polished boots says “routine” three times in one briefing, start checking the exits.
That morning, I had asked two questions.
The operations room smelled like stale coffee and printer toner.
Twelve men sat around a screen, pretending not to be irritated that the only woman in the room could read a map better than they could.
I pointed at the eastern sector.
“Signal relay coverage doesn’t match the updated infrastructure report,” I said.
Webb didn’t look up.
“Confirmed operational.”
“By who?”
That got his eyes on me.
A few soldiers shifted in their chairs.
Sergeant Dale Hurley stared into his coffee like guilt had climbed inside it.
Webb tapped his pen once.
“Move on, Staff Sergeant.”
So I did.
“The extraction window is too narrow. If anything goes wrong after hour forty-eight, we’re stranded.”
Webb smiled.
“The timeline is what it is.”
By the second night, I knew my GPS was lying.
The tracker showed normal function.
Little green pulse.
Clean signal.
Friendly lie.
Then my radio was isolated from the command net.
Not broken.
Isolated.
Someone had cut me out without telling me I was cut out.
At 0930, Webb ordered movement.
Forty minutes later, the convoy drifted north of the planned route.
Not enough for an idiot to catch.
Enough for me.
Then Webb ordered a water-and-equipment halt.
I stepped out.
Every vehicle crew was already inside.
Engines idling.
Hands on wheels.
Nobody stretching.
Nobody checking tires.
Just waiting.
May you like
That was when Webb looked at me like a landlord changing the locks.
I knew.
