Return with the News

The next morning, the sun was still low over the horizon, casting pale light across the refinery yard as diesel engines rumbled to life. The air smelled like fuel, dirt, and disinfectant. A single JLTV was parked near the eastern gate—cleaned, fueled, and checked twice over.

Captain Enrique Villamor adjusted the straps on his gear, his uniform still wrinkled from yesterday's chaos. He'd been given a fresh shirt and clean pants, but the boots were still his own—scuffed, worn, and dirt-caked. He stood near the vehicle's rear bumper, checking over the rifle slung at his side.

Phillip approached from the opposite end of the yard, tablet in one hand, a small data pouch in the other.

"Morning, Captain," he said.

Villamor looked up. "Morning."

"You're clear to go. One of our drivers is taking you halfway. You'll split off near the water tower and head in on foot. Safer that way—less noise."

Villamor nodded. "Makes sense."