Heat pressed down on the desert training complex like a physical weight. By early afternoon, the sky had bleached itself into a hard, colorless blue. The air shimmered above sand and concrete, bending distance and softening edges until the whole place felt unreal — like something built to be destroyed.
The mock town squatted in the sand ahead—sunbaked cinderblock, plywood, busted plaster painted the color of faraway places. A fake minaret. Arabic script stenciled onto walls by someone who had never needed to understand the words. The whole thing built to be broken again and again.
Staff Sergeant Tony Jimenez moved at the head of his patrol with the tight, measured gait of a man who understood the principle of training like you fight. Fifteen men followed him through the southern edge of the village—boots crunching softly over gravel and broken masonry, weapons carried with disciplined familiarity.
Tony glanced over the men as they paused behind the cover of a block wall. Martinez was sweating through his collar, straining to catch his breath. Despite being one of the shorter men in the unit, he had volunteered to carry the heavier M249 machine gun and the added weight was taking its toll on this exercise.
“Martinez, get some cold water down.” Tony directed.
Tony continued to survey the men. He noted Wolfe was massaging his right ankle with one of his gloved hands. Wolfe had recently twisted his ankle but was cleared to return this week.
“How’s that ankle, Wolfe?” Tony asked
“I’m good to go, Sarge!” Wolfe replied and instinctively stopped massaging.
“Make sure you get it looked at after the mission today.”
“Roger that, Sarge.” Wolfe nodded.
They wore dust-stained multicam uniforms darkened at the chest and shoulders with sweat. Plate carriers rode high and tight, weighed down with level four ballistic plates, fully loaded magazines, radios, hydration bladders, and mission-essential gear. Kevlar helmets sat low over goggles scratched from months of use. M4 carbines were held close to the body, muzzles steady, fingers straight along trigger guards unless needed.
The town itself was designed to look foreign without ever truly being so. Windows stared blankly from unfinished walls. Doorways opened into rooms stripped of anything human. Debris littered the alleyways: scrap metal, old tires and a burned-out Volkswagen shell resting on its frame like a carcass picked clean.
Dust hung low in the air, thick enough to soften sound and distance. Gusts of wind pushed it through the alleyways in uneven waves, forcing Tony to blink and subtly shift his head just to maintain visibility. Sweat soaked his shemagh and pooled beneath the seal of his Oakley ballistic goggles, testing his patience more than his endurance.
Tony motioned his men forward with two fingers and watched them flow into cover the way they’d been drilled to do until it lived in the spine. It was almost beautiful, in a grim kind of way—the poetry of trained violence. A line of men moving through ruin with the grace of dancers who happened to be wearing plate carriers and carrying rifles.
But Tony wasn’t admiring it. He was listening. And scanning.
Under the scrape of boots and the soft rasp of nylon against plate carriers, there was always a second layer of sound in places like this: the faint hum of generators, the distant pop of blank fire from other lanes, someone yelling an instruction outside the boundary. The presence of training never completely left. It clung to you like the dust.
And yet—
Something in the air felt wrong.
It wasn’t fear. Tony knew fear like he knew the sweet smell of gunpowder on a range. Fear was sharp. Fear was honest. What he felt now was… off. A misalignment. Like a song played half a beat too slow.
Tony slowed and raised a clenched fist.
The patrol stopped in unison and melted into cover.
Tony crouched behind a waist-high cinderblock wall, the concrete hot beneath his gloved palm. He scanned ahead—methodical, unhurried, eyes moving from rooftop to doorway to shadow. About a hundred meters down the alley, beyond a narrow courtyard opening, a thin strip of fluorescent orange plastic fluttered from a wooden stake driven into the dirt.
Boundary marker. The edge of the training compound.
His shoulders tried to drop before he caught himself. That orange strip was a neon promise: almost done. Almost out. Almost a shower and something cold and not sand in his mouth. His mind—traitorous, exhausted—served him the image of a beer with condensation rolling down the bottle, the kind of cold that made your hands ache.
He clenched his jaw and forced his focus back through his goggles.
Training never ended early. It ended when it ended.
A shadow appeared to his immediate right.
For half a second Tony’s muscles tightened, then he recognized the shape and quietly let out a breath.
Staff Sergeant Alex “Hutch” Hutchinson was already settled into cover with practiced ease, rifle angled forward, eyes working the alley ahead as if he’d been there all along. Hutch was all clean lines and quiet confidence—a professional soldier who didn’t waste movement or words. Where some men burned energy trying to look dangerous, Hutch simply was.
“What do you see?” Tony asked quietly.
“Empty,” Hutch replied after a moment. “Which makes me suspicious.”
Tony nodded. “Same.”
They’d been paired long enough to share instincts without needing to explain them. Hutch wasn’t a talker in the field. He didn’t joke. He didn’t posture. When he spoke, it was because there was something worth saying—and usually something worth listening to.
Anyone watching them operate could see the difference immediately. Hutch was the better soldier in pure execution. He moved faster, shot cleaner, and reacted with a precision that bordered on instinct. In a fight, there was no one Tony trusted more to be exactly where he needed to be, doing exactly the right thing.
Tony, however, carried something less visible but no less essential. He understood people. He understood timing. He had an intuitive sense for when to press and when to pause, how to communicate intent without clutter, how to issue orders that were clear, economical, and calm—even under pressure. Where Hutch mastered the how of soldiering, Tony excelled at the why, translating chaos into simple, executable direction.
Though they were the same rank, this small disparity was the reason Tony had been given command of the elite unit over his fellow Staff Sergeant. Despite this, there was no rivalry between them. No resentment. Hutch respected Tony’s judgment as deeply as Tony respected Hutch’s abilities. Together, they formed the backbone of the unit—competence and leadership reinforcing one another rather than competing for dominance.
Tony leaned slightly to improve his angle. The alley ahead was littered with debris and plenty of cover, before it narrowed into the courtyard entrance, partially blocked by a sagging wooden gate hanging loose on a single hinge. Even from this distance, Tony could see that the wooden gate had once been painted a powder blue color. Though now it was more dirt and crumbling wood. The surrounding wall stood five feet high, topped with uneven stones set into mortar.
“I’d put money on that courtyard to the north being our objective,” Tony whispered as he pointed a gloved finger toward the bluish wooden gate.
Hutch nodded without looking at him. “And I’d put money on Mitchell setting conditions to test patience instead of tactics.”
Tony allowed himself a faint smile. Lieutenant Mitchell had a reputation for turning straightforward exercises into endurance tests, especially for leaders, right before a weekend. Tony and Hutch had learned to plan for it.
“Let’s split,” Tony said. “Simultaneous approach. Move cautiously. We’ll take primary, Bravo will support.”
Hutch nodded once.
Tony issued a sharp signal with his hand, and the patrol divided smoothly into two elements. Tony led Alpha team along the west side of the alley, while Hutch took Bravo along the east. Standard spacing. Both elements moving north along the alley in unison. Communication was hand signals and body language. Weapons stayed up. No one rushed.
They advanced with deliberate control, each man moving with quiet confidence earned through repetition and trust. The unit flowed through rubble and shadow as if following an invisible script—cover, movement, cover—every step reinforcing Tony’s confidence in his men.
They were fifty meters from the derelict powder blue wooden gate ahead, marking the entrance to the courtyard.
As the teams continued north, they approached two small, nondescript, single story commercial buildings on the west. Both appeared vacant and had no windows facing the alley. A small, two-story building sat ahead to the east, behind a crumbling block wall. A couple of second story windows overlooked the alley directly in front of them.
The teams continued forward, mindful of the threat posed by the second story windows.
Thirty meters from the blue wooden gate now. Tony’s rifle remained fixed on the gate as he and his team approached from the west side of the street.
A small, white plastic bag skittered across the alley, catching on the broken gate. For a second, every rifle shifted toward it.
Nothing.
And then the gunfire erupted from the two-story building to the east.
“Contact right,” Hutch reported calmly as he moved into cover.
Time seemed to crawl as Tony moved into cover and assessed the situation. Multiple enemies were firing at the teams from two elevated windows approximately thirty meters to the east. All of the men had found cover and were returning fire with short, controlled bursts, just as they had trained.
Tony glanced at Hutch, who had settled on one knee and began firing controlled bursts from his M4. Even with paint rounds, Hutch fired like he meant it. His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed and he leaned into the bursts expecting a full recoil. Train like you fight.
In the middle of this slow-motion fire fight, Tony remembered Hutch was the man who had watched Tony’s world collapse two years earlier and had refused to let Tony collapse with it.
In the middle of the simulated firefight, memory intruded without permission.
Two years ago. Long Beach Police Department. A phone call that split his life clean down the middle.
Metal. Glass. Broken bodies on the highway.
Michael standing in their living room at nineteen, fists clenched like he could hold the world together by force.
Grief wasn’t something you carried. It drowned you.
Hutch had been there. Not with speeches. Just presence. A hand on his shoulder. Silence that didn’t demand answers. Tony owed Hutch more than he could ever repay.
Now Hutch was in the dust, in the simulated firefight, teeth bared with effort.
Sim rounds snapped against the walls, scattering dust and paint. The sound was sharp enough to raise heart rates without triggering panic. Tony surveyed the scene, rifle steady, mind already mapping angles and distances.
Hutch returned fire in precise, controlled bursts. His men followed suit, coordinating movement and fire with professional efficiency. Hutch wasn’t flashy—he didn’t need to be. His effectiveness showed in how quickly the situation stabilized.
Enemy gunfire had come from the second floor of the small two-story structure roughly twenty meters off Hutch’s right flank. The position was elevated but exposed.
Tony assessed the enemy’s fire pattern. Aggressive enough to feel real. Disorganized enough to exploit.
“Alpha, suppress,” Tony ordered. He kept his rifle and eye trained on the weathered gate ahead, weary of a possible distraction. “Bravo, MOVE!!”
His men responded instantly. Alpha team attacked the windows with coordinated fire, pinning the enemy and allowing Bravo to bound towards the rear entrance of the building.
Tony watched it unfold with quiet satisfaction. The cohesion was there. The discipline. The trust. The execution.
Hutch’s Bravo team made a clean entry into the building, clearing room by room, while Alpha moved to support. The engagement lasted less than five minutes.
A whistle cut through the air.
“END EXERCISE!”
Weapons lowered. Goggles pushed up. Tension drained from shoulders. Quiet laughter followed, along with handshakes, knuckles, and firm pats on the back.
Hutch walked over, unclipping his helmet, and extended a gloved hand. “Clean run,” he said. “Your call to hold earlier kept us from rushing it.”
Tony took the handshake. “You and your boys handled the ambush well.”
“Always do,” Hutch replied evenly—not arrogance, just fact.
The instructors emerged from cover, nodding approval. Lieutenant Mitchell approached, hands on his hips, eyes sharp but satisfied.
“Solid leadership, Staff Sergeant Jimenez,” Mitchell said. “Good control under pressure.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tony replied.
Mitchell hesitated, then added, lower, “There’s some unrest building overseas. Uprising reports out of China. Nothing concrete yet, but we’re likely to receive orders within the week.”
Tony nodded, filing it away. He briefly considered this might cancel his plans to go home with Hutch to visit Michael.
Mitchell glanced between Tony and Hutch. “That said, your leave is still approved. Both of you. Go get some rest. Spend time with family. We’ll see you back in a week.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Tony asked. “Even with-“
“You’ve earned it.” Lieutenant Mitchell acknowledged.
“Yes, sir,” they answered together.
As the unit moved back toward the staging area, Tony finally allowed himself to relax. The operation had gone exactly as intended. No surprises. No mistakes. Their unit was elite and they were the best.
By tomorrow morning, he and Hutch would be driving his Jeep Wrangler 6 hours to Long Beach, California—away from dust and concrete.
Back to Michael. Back to family.
The thought warmed him.
Behind them, somewhere far beyond the desert horizon, something had already begun.
And Tony had no idea he would be driving toward it.