(3) Peter Smith

"You promised me this would be your last operation"

"And it is"

"Come back safe dear… or I'll kick your fuckin arse"

*****

"I will"

He paused for a moment, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the pendant. Inside, her face smiled back at him—her eyes warm, her expression soft, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded him now. With a quiet sigh, he snapped the pendant shut and tucked it back beneath his plate carrier, the cold metal resting against his chest, close to his heart. 

His hands moved with practiced precision as he checked his magazine, the weight of the gun familiar in his grip. He half-cocked the weapon, the faint click confirming a round was chambered. Satisfied, he secured his gas mask, the straps tight against his face, and clipped it to his Kevlar helmet. The fit was snug, almost suffocating, and as he took a deep breath, the sound of his own breathing filled his ears—harsh, labored, filtered through the mask's constricting apparatus. Each inhale was a struggle, the filters resisting the flow of air.

Outside, the Chinook shuddered faintly, its massive frame trembling as it battled the storm raging beyond its walls. The noise was constant—a symphony of creaks, groans, and the relentless drumming of rain against the hull. To most, it might have been unsettling, but to him, it was a strange kind of comfort. Every rattle, every bang, every leak was a sign that the bird was still flying, still fighting. Silence in a helicopter was the real danger. Silence meant something was wrong. 

He leaned back, his head resting against the cold metal of the cabin wall, and closed his eyes.

A sudden, piercing beep—like a horn—sliced through the cacophony of the storm and the thrumming rotors. The lights inside the Chinook flickered, then flooded the cabin with an ominous red glow, casting everything in a harsh, urgent hue. He was on his feet in an instant, his body moving before his mind could fully process the shift. The training kicked in, automatic and unyielding.

He grabbed the handle of the side door, his gloved fingers tightening around the cold metal as he yanked it open. Wind and rain pelting against his exposed skin, With a sharp, practiced motion, he swung his boot forward and kicked the coiled bundle of rope off the side of the Chinook. It unraveled as it fell, snaking through the air before disappearing into the stormy void below. The rope snapped taut, anchored securely to the helicopter, its end now dangling into the chaos of the night

Leaning into the gale, he shouted over the deafening noise, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"ALRIGHT LAD, REMEMBER SECURE THE GAS AND CHECK YOUR FIRE!"

The rest of the team rose in unison, their movements sharp and deliberate, each man a mirror image of the next, adorned in the same heavy kit, their faces obscured by the grim visage of gas masks. They stood poised, a silent brotherhood bound by purpose and the weight of the mission. The red light bathed them in its eerie glow, casting long shadows that danced with the Chinook's tremors. 

He was the first to move, gripping the thick, coarse rope with both hands as he stepped out into the void. The moment his boots left the helicopter's floor, the storm seized him with a vengeance. Sharp, howling winds whipped around him, yanking his body like a ragdoll as he descended. The world outside was chaos incarnate—rain lashed horizontally, the sky a dark churning abyss, and the steel platform below bucked and swayed violently under the assault of the waves. It was a living, breathing beast, and he was dangling right above its jaws.

His boots hit the steel floor with a metallic clang, the impact reverberating through his legs. He steadied himself, fighting to keep his balance as the platform lurched beneath him. Instinctively, he raised his weapon, scanning the darkness ahead, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. The storm screamed in his ears, but his focus was razor-sharp. He was the anchor now, the first point of contact, and it was his job to cover the others as they followed.

One by one, the rest of the team began their descent, their silhouettes dark against the red-lit chaos of the Chinook's interior. He watched them, his eyes darting between their movements and the shadows beyond, every sense heightened. The wind continued to thrash, the waves roared below, and the steel beneath his feet groaned in protest. 

The storm roared, its fury unrelenting. A brutal gust of wind screamed across the deck, and the Chinook above wobbled violently, its rotors struggling to maintain control, the boat too had been hit by significantly vengeful wave that made the boat lerch to the side.

 The rope, now slick with rain and seawater, swung wildly, dangling precariously over the churning black abyss below. His eyes locked onto the last man still descending, the figure clinging to the rope as it swayed like a pendulum in the storm's grip. 

The pilot fought to stabilize the bird, the engines whining in protest as the Chinook shifted again. The rope jerked sharply, swinging back toward the ship. The man was close—so close—just an arm's length from the steel deck. But the force of the wind and the sudden movement of the helicopter was too much. In a heart-stopping instant, the man lost his grip, his body slamming hard against the edge of the guard rail, before gravity took hold. 

Time seemed to slow. 

He moved without thinking, lunging forward with a speed born of desperation. His gloved hand shot out, fingers closing around the man's wrist just as he began to fall. The weight yanked him forward, his boots skidding across the wet steel, but he held firm, gritting his teeth against the strain. For a terrifying moment, they were both suspended on the edge, the black water churning hungrily below. 

The rest of the team was there in an instant, hands grabbing at the man's gear, his arms, anything they could reach. Together, they hauled him back onto the deck, the man collapsing in a heap, gasping for breath beneath his mask. The storm continued to rage around them, indifferent to their struggle, but for now, they were safe. 

He knelt beside the man, his own chest heaving, and gave a quick, firm pat on his shoulder. No words were needed. The look he gave to peter, even if he couldn't see his eyes, was one of thankfulness 

He got up and they continued to move 

The mission wasn't over. Not yet.

His gaze snapped to the other side of the cargo ship, where the faint silhouette of a second Chinook was disappearing into the storm-laden sky. The second team had been dropped off, their mission mirroring his own. He watched for a moment, the chopper's lights fading into the sheets of rain, and felt a knot tighten in his chest.

He hoped they hadn't faced the same chaos his team had just endured. The wind, the waves, the precarious descent—it was a miracle they'd all made it onto the deck in one piece. 

"ALRIGHT LET'S MOVE TEAM 2 IS SECURING THIS FLOOR WE NEED TO MOVE UP AND SECURE THE CONTROL ROOM" 

They moved swiftly and silently, a well-oiled machine cutting through the labyrinth of the cargo ship's corridors. The storm's fury was muffled here, reduced to a distant growl, but the ship itself seemed alive—creaking and groaning as it battled the waves. The control room was one of their objectives, the heart of the vessel, and so far, they'd encountered no resistance. It was almost too easy, and that made him uneasy. 

When they reached the heavy metal door, the team halted, falling into position with practiced precision. The breacher stepped forward, his movements calm and deliberate. He carried the weight of responsibility in his hands—a breaching charge, compact but powerful, designed to blow the door without collapsing the entire structure around them. 

The team pressed themselves against the walls on either side of the door, weapons raised.

He gave the breacher a nod, a silent signal to proceed. The man worked quickly, attaching the charge to the door's hinges with steady hands, his focus absolute. The faint *click* of the device arming was barely audible over the ship's groans, but it was enough to set everyone's nerves on edge. 

"Fire in the hole," the breacher muttered, his voice low but clear. 

The team braced themselves, turning their heads away from the door as the charge detonated with a sharp, concussive *bang*. The door blew inward, a cloud of smoke and debris filling the air. Before the dust could settle, they were moving again, pouring into the room with weapons raised, scanning for threats. 

The control room was dimly lit, the glow of monitors casting an eerie light across the space. Consoles and panels lined the walls, their screens flickering with data and radar blips. But it wasn't empty. 

Figures scrambled in the chaos, shouting in a language he didn't need to understand to recognize as panic. Resistance had finally arrived. 

"flash!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise as the first shots rang out. The mission had just gotten a lot more complicated.

The second the breaching charge erupted, the flashbang followed, its blinding light and deafening roar filling the control room before the enemy even had a chance to shoot any more.

The room was a haze of smoke and flickering light, the air thick with the acrid smell of burnt powder. 

The team moved, gliding in with lethal precision. They split seamlessly, one group peeling to the left, the other to the right, their movements fluid and synchronized. Every step was deliberate, every corner cleared with methodical efficiency. 

Resistance was minimal, disoriented figures stumbling blindly, their weapons raised but their aim useless. The team didn't hesitate. Two shots—always two—rang out for each target, the suppressed cracks of gunfire barely audible over the ringing left by the flashbangs. The shots were deliberate, clinical, each one finding its mark with cold accuracy. 

A body dropped. Then another. The room was being cleared, methodically and without mercy.

He moved with them, his weapon steady, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of a counterattack. Empty, the control room was theirs now, the heart of the ship seized in a matter of seconds. 

"Clear left," one voice called out, calm and measured. 

"Clear right," another responded, just as steady. 

He nodded pressing the comms he had with him

"This is tango-1 control room is clear, engines cut"

The radio crackled to life, the voice of the second team's leader cutting through the static. "This is Alpha-3. One injured. Top deck is secure. Meet at the entrance to the lower deck."

No order needed to be given. The men knew what to do. Two stayed behind on the bridge, their weapons trained on the door, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. The rest of the team moved out, their boots echoing against the metal floor as they made their way toward the rendezvous point.

The radio crackled to life, the voice of Alpha-3 cutting through the static. "This is Alpha-3. One injured. Top deck is secure. Meet at the entrance to the lower deck." The message was clear, no embellishments, no hesitation. Just the facts. 

No order needed to be given. The team moved as one, their instincts honed by countless missions and unspoken trust. Two men stayed behind on the bridge, their weapons trained on the door, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. The rest filed out, their boots clanging against the metal floor as they made their way toward the rendezvous point. 

The storm was still raging, the rain coming down in sheets, soaking through their gear and turning the deck into a slick, treacherous surface. It didn't take long to reach the entrance to the lower deck, where the other team was already waiting. The scene that greeted them was grim. 

One man was slumped against the bulkhead, his face pale beneath his gas mask, his teeth clenched against the pain. His leg was a mess—blood seeped through the fabric of his pants, the dark red mixing with the rainwater that pooled around him. Another member of the team knelt beside him, applying pressure to the wound with one hand while gripping his weapon with the other. The rain diluted the blood, washing it away in faint pink streams, but it couldn't wash away the reality of the injury. 

He moved quickly, crouching beside the wounded man. "How bad?" he asked, his voice steady but urgent. 

"Through and through," the man holding the wound replied, his tone clipped. "He's stable for now, but he needs evac." 

He nodded, his mind already racing through the options. They were deep in the belly of the ship, and the storm outside wasn't going to make extraction easy. But they couldn't leave him behind. They never left anyone behind. 

"Castle, we've got a man down. Prep for evac as soon as we secure the lower deck," he said into the radio, his voice firm. 

The response came back almost immediately. "Copy that. We'll be ready." 

He turned to the rest of the team, his eyes hard. "We move fast. Get him to the extraction point as soon as the lower deck is clear. No delays." 

The men nodded. The injured man groaned as they helped him to his feet, his weight supported between two of his comrades as they stayed to watch over him. The rain continued to fall, the storm showing no signs of relenting, but they pressed on. 

The transition was jarring. One moment, they were battling the storm's fury on the open deck—wind howling, rain lashing, the ship groaning under the weight of the waves. The next, they were inside, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind them, cutting off the chaos like a switch had been flipped. 

The lower deck was a world apart. The air was thick and stale, carrying the faint tang of oil and rust. The corridors were narrow, lined with pipes and conduits that snaked along the walls and ceiling, their surfaces dull under the flickering glow of overhead lights. The floor was solid beneath their boots, no longer slick with rain, but the silence was almost worse than the storm's roar. It was oppressive, heavy with the weight of the unknown. 

They moved cautiously, their weapons raised, their eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, a maze of metal and dim light. The only sounds were the faint hum of the ship's idle engines and the occasional creak of the hull as it battled the waves above. 

It felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. 

He moved as one of the two spearheads advancing down the corridor, a narrow passage that stretched endlessly into shadow. The walls pressed in on either side, cold and unyielding, as they edged forward with deliberate caution. Every step was measured, every breath controlled, their bodies hugging the walls to avoid the deadly exposure of the fatal funnel. The air was thick with tension, each heartbeat echoing louder than the last, as if the corridor itself were alive, waiting to swallow them whole.

"CONTACT"

The sound reached him first—a sharp, unmistakable crack—before the sensation followed, a searing intrusion that ripped through his body. Being shot was a feeling he knew too well, though familiarity didn't make it any less agonizing. His body jerked backward, slamming into the man behind him with the force of the impact. The air fled his lungs in a ragged gasp, leaving him momentarily weightless, suspended in the chaos. 

As he crumpled, his vision swam, but he forced his head up, blinking through the haze. Across the corridor, the other column of men had already reacted, their rifles barking in unison, muzzle flashes lighting the dim space like strobes. Even his own comrades were firing now, the deafening roar of gunfire swallowing all other sound. Bullet casings rained down around him, clattering against the floor like metallic hail, as he struggled to push himself up, his arms trembling, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gulps. The world was a blur of noise and motion

"GRENADE!!"

"GRENADE!" 

The shout cut through the din, sharp and urgent, a word that pierced the fog of his pain. His head snapped toward the sound, and there it was—a small, unassuming orb, bouncing and clattering against the floor with a metallic *ping, ping, ping*. It rolled to a stop just close enough for him to make out the foreign script etched into its surface. His stomach dropped. 

There was no time to run, no time to think. Instinct took over. He didn't scramble to his feet; he knew he'd never make it far enough. Instead, he hurled himself sideways with every ounce of strength he had left, his body twisting in midair as he flung himself away from the deadly radius. The world seemed to slow—the air thick, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears. He hit the ground hard, his shoulder slamming into the unforgiving floor, and curled in on himself, bracing for the inevitable. 

The explosion came a heartbeat later, a deafening roar that swallowed everything light, sound, thought. The force of it rattled his bones. Shards of metal ricocheted off the walls, the floor, the ceiling, slicing through the hallway like a storm of deadly hail. He pressed himself tighter against the ground and for a moment, there was nothing but chaos and the acrid sting of smoke.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gunfire resumed, snapping him back into the grim rhythm of battle. His ears still rang from the explosion, but the sharp, staccato bursts of rifle fire cut through the haze, grounding him in the moment. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, his body protesting every movement. He stayed low, pressing himself against the side of the hallway, using the wall as both shield and guide. 

The weight of his rifle felt familiar in his hands as he raised it, returning fire in measured bursts. Each shot reverberated through him, the recoil a steady reminder of the stakes. He moved cautiously, inching forward in small, calculated increments, always seeking the next piece of cover—a shattered crate, a dented metal beam, Every step was a gamble.

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of gunpowder, and the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before him. But he kept moving, kept firing, his focus narrowing to the next cover, the next target, the next breath. Survival wasn't about grand gestures; it was about these small, relentless acts of defiance. And so he pressed on, one step at a time, into the chaos.

And so, both sides edged closer, the gap between them narrowing with each tense, deliberate step. The gunfire had ceased, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence that seemed to amplify every breath, every rustle of gear, every faint creak of boots on the broken floor. He stayed low, his body pressed flat against the ground, minimizing his outline, his rifle steady in his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, but his breathing was controlled, his focus razor-sharp.

Across the corridor, the enemy came into view—shadows shifting, figures darting behind cover. His scope moved methodically, scanning for any sign of movement, any mistake. Then he saw it: a sliver of a leg, barely visible, peeking out from behind a crumbling barrier. It was enough. He adjusted his aim, his finger hovering over the trigger for a fraction of a second before he took the shot.

The crack of the rifle was deafening in the stillness. The reaction was instant—a guttural wail of pain, sharp and raw, followed by a flurry of movement. One of the enemy fighters, driven by panic or instinct, stumbled into full view, clutching at his wounded leg. It was a fatal mistake. The man's comrades shouted, their voices frantic, but it was too late. The corridor, once a tense standoff, erupted into chaos once more as the fragile silence shattered.

The figures on the other side broke like shadows fleeing the dawn. In an instant, they were gone, vanishing into the labyrinth of the corridor before he or his team could close the distance. Their retreat was swift, almost frantic, a stark contrast to the slow, methodical advance his own side had maintained. The sudden absence of targets left the hallway eerily empty, save for the lingering haze of smoke and the faint echoes of their footsteps fading into the distance.

He stayed low, his rifle still trained forward, his eyes scanning for any sign of an ambush or a trick. But the enemy was gone, their presence reduced to the faint scuff marks on the floor and the faint, metallic tang of blood in the air. Slowly, he signaled to his team, a silent gesture that spoke volumes: *Hold. Watch. Wait.*

They pushed on, the silence a bit of safety. Each step was deliberate, as they moved through the dimly lit corridors. The only sounds were the faint creak of their gear and the occasional scuff of boots against the metal floor. It was a silence that felt alive, charged with anticipation, as though the ship itself was holding its breath.

Then, the last door slid open, and the vastness of the cargo ship's main hold unfolded before them. The room was immense, a cavernous space filled with towering stacks of cargo containers that formed a labyrinthine maze. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming, the shadows stretching high into the ceiling, where faint, flickering lights cast an uneven glow. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of oil and rust, and the silence seemed even deeper, as though the hold had swallowed all sound.

Without a word, the team split into pairs, moving with practiced precision. Each duo disappeared into the maze of cargo boxes, their footsteps echoing faintly before being absorbed by the sheer size of the space. He moved with his partner, their movements synchronized, their eyes scanning every shadow, every gap between the containers. The hold was a perfect place for an ambush, and they all knew it.

The labyrinth seemed endless, the narrow pathways between the containers twisting and turning in unpredictable ways. Every corner felt like a potential threat, every shadow a hiding place

He froze, his hand snapping up in a silent signal to his partner. The sound of boots hitting the metal floor echoed faintly through the labyrinth of cargo containers—quick, urgent, and unmistakably not their own. He pressed himself against the side of a crate, his breath held, his rifle poised. His partner mirrored him, their eyes locked on the narrow gap between the stacks.

Then, they appeared—two figures, moving fast, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light. Not his men. Their gear, their movements, the way they carried themselves—it all screamed *enemy*. He didn't hesitate. His rifle came up, the scope aligning with his eye in a single, fluid motion. Two shots rang out, precise and deliberate. The first man dropped instantly, his body crumpling mid-stride. The second stumbled, skidding forward from the momentum before collapsing in a heap, his weapon clattering to the floor.

The silence returned, heavier now, as the echoes of the gunfire faded. He stayed low, his eyes scanning for more movement, his finger still resting on the trigger. A few seconds later, another pair emerged from the same corridor the enemy had come from. This time, it was his men—familiar faces, their movements cautious but confident. They paused, glancing at the two bodies on the floor, then gave a quick nod in his direction, acknowledging the kill before moving on, deeper into the maze.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. The hold was vast, and the enemy was scattered, but they were making progress. He signaled to his partner, and together they moved forward again, stepping over the fallen men and into the shadows of the cargo maze. The hunt wasn't over. Not yet.

"Tango-1 this is echo-5 we found the package in an open container"

"this is Tango-1 to all, clear the room, Echo-5 hold that position with echo-6"

Clearing the area took a grueling few minutes, each second stretching into an eternity as the team moved with precision, securing every corner, every shadow. Men held their positions, rifles trained on potential choke points, their eyes scanning for any sign of movement. The tension was palpable, a silent hum in the air, as they worked to ensure the space was safe.

Peter moved toward the center of the hold, where two of his men stood beside an open container. The sight of it sent a chill down his spine. The container was filled with barrels, their metallic surfaces dull under the flickering overhead lights. The men stepped aside as he approached.

Without a word, Peter pulled a knife from his belt, the blade catching the light as he stepped closer to the nearest barrel. He worked carefully, the tip of the knife sliding under the lid, prying it open with a soft, metallic creak. Inside, rows of glass vials glinted faintly, each one filled with a viscous, yellow-green liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The sight of it made his stomach turn. 

This was it—the whole reason they were here. The reason they'd fought their way through the ship. The reason they were all wearing masks. 

He stepped back, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the contents. The liquid was volatile, toxic, and undoubtedly deadly. One wrong move, one broken vial, and the entire hold could become a death trap. He glanced at the two men beside him, their eyes meeting his through the tinted lenses of their masks.

"Secure it," Peter said, his voice low but firm. "And call it in. We've got what we came for." 

The men nodded one already radioing castle in

But before Peter could fully process the weight of their discovery, a sharp shout cut through the air. One of his men, positioned ahead, was barking orders, his voice tense and urgent. 

"Get down! Now!" the man yelled, followed by a single, clipped word that sent a jolt of adrenaline through Peter's veins: 

"Vest."

Peter moved instantly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. He sprinted toward the commotion, his rifle at the ready. As he rounded a stack of cargo containers, he saw his team—rifles trained on a single figure, a man crouched on the ground, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. But something was off. The man's eyes were wild, desperate, and his movements were too jerky, too deliberate. 

Then Peter saw it. The bulky vest strapped to the man's chest, the wires snaking across it, the faint glint of a detonator clutched in his hand. The man wasn't surrendering—he was waiting. 

"Bounce!" Peter shouted, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. "I'll handle this. Go!" 

His team didn't hesitate. They moved fast, retreating toward the exits with practiced efficiency. Peter stayed, his eyes locked on the man. The moment the team was clear, the man's demeanor shifted. His desperation turned to fury, and he lunged forward, charging straight at Peter with a guttural scream. 

Peter didn't flinch. He raised his rifle, took aim, and fired a single shot. The bullet struck true, hitting the man square in the forehead. His body crumpled mid-step, collapsing to the floor in a heap. But Peter was already moving, sprinting away as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. 

The explosion came seconds later, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the ship. The force of it sent a shockwave rippling through the hold, knocking Peter off his feet and slamming him into the wall. The air was filled with the sound of twisting metal, the groan of the ship's structure giving way. Smoke and debris filled the corridor as alarms blared, their shrill wails echoing through the chaos. 

Peter scrambled to his feet, his ears ringing, his vision blurred. He could feel the ship listing, the floor tilting beneath him as water began to pour in through the gaps in the hull. The ship was sinking, and fast. 

He ran, his boots slipping on the wet floor, his lungs burning as he pushed himself to move faster. Around him, the ship groaned and shuddered, the sound of rushing water growing louder with every passing second. He didn't stop, didn't look back. There was no time. 

The radio at his side crackled to life, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of urgency. 

"Team two, clear!" 

"On the Chinook, moving out!" 

"Peter, where are you? We're lifting off!" 

He tried to respond, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of water rushing around him. The ship was tilting violently now, the floor beneath him slanting at a steep angle. He scrambled to keep his footing, but the torrent was too powerful. A sudden surge of water swept him off his feet, pulling him into a churning, icy flood. 

Peter gasped, the cold knocking the air from his lungs as he was dragged under. His hands flailed, grasping for anything solid. His fingers brushed against metal—a doorframe—and he clung to it with every ounce of strength he had left. The water surged around him, pulling at his legs, his gear, threatening to rip him away. He fought to keep his head above the surface, coughing and sputtering as the flood engulfed him. 

The ship groaned ominously, the sound of metal buckling and tearing filling the air. Water poured in from every direction, rising rapidly. Peter's arms burned from the strain of holding on, his fingers slipping against the slick metal. He could hear the distant whir of the Chinook's rotors, the sound growing fainter as the ship continued to sink. 

"Peter! Peter, do you copy?!" The radio crackled again, the voice barely audible over the chaos. 

He couldn't answer. He could barely breathe. The water was up to his chest now, the current relentless. He knew he couldn't hold on much longer. With a final, desperate effort, he pulled himself up, trying to find higher ground, but the ship was going down fast. 

And then, with a deafening groan, the ship lurched, and the door he was clinging to tore free. Peter was swept into the torrent, the world spinning around him as the water swallowed him whole. The last thing he saw was the dim glow of the emergency lights fading into the depths, and the last thing he heard was the distant, fading roar of the Chinook taking off without him. 

Darkness closed in, and the cold took him.

Just as the darkness threatened to consume him, a sudden, brilliant blue light pierced the void. It surrounded him, pulsating with an otherworldly glow, and in an instant, the water around him was pushed back as if repelled by an invisible force. Peter gasped, his lungs filling with air instead of water, as the torrent that had engulfed him moments ago now swirled in a strange, unnatural pattern. It defied the laws of physics, forming a swirling vortex that encircled him but left him untouched, dry, and suspended in a pocket of air.

The tingling started faintly at first, a subtle buzz that crept up his arms and legs, like static electricity brushing against his skin. But it grew stronger, sharper, until it felt as though his entire body was alive with currents of energy. His hair stood on end, and his muscles twitched involuntarily as the sensation intensified. It wasn't painful, but it was overwhelming, a strange, alien feeling that seemed to penetrate deep into his bones.

Peter tried to move, to understand what was happening, but his body felt heavy, almost paralyzed, as if the energy itself was holding him in place. The blue light grew brighter, illuminating the sinking ship around him in an eerie, ethereal glow. The water continued to churn violently outside the bubble of air, but inside, everything was still, silent, and charged with an inexplicable power.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light flared once more, blinding him, and the tingling sensation peaked, surging through him like a shockwave. His vision went white, his mind spinning, and then—nothing. 

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in the ship anymore. The water was gone. The light was gone. And he was no longer alone.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the kind of stillness that felt unnatural after the chaos of the sinking ship. Peter blinked, his vision adjusting to the soft, dappled light filtering through the trees. His body still hummed with the residual energy of whatever had just happened, his muscles tense and his senses on high alert.

And then he saw them.

Four others stood in a loose circle, their weapons trained on each other. Each of them wore military gear, similar to his own, but none of it matched. Different patches, different camo patterns, different equipment. He recognized the symbols on their uniforms, even if he didn't know the faces. 

JTF2. BOPE. GROM. SASR

They looked as confused as he felt, their eyes darting between each other and the unfamiliar surroundings. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent standoff where no one dared to make the first move.

The GROM operator stood out immediately. Not just because of the Polish insignia on his gear, but because of the dog at his side—a sleek, well-trained, Belgian malinois, its teeth bared in a low, rumbling growl. The dog's eyes were locked on the others, its body coiled and ready to spring. It didn't trust anyone here, and neither did its handler.

He slowly raised his hands, his rifle slung across his back, trying to appear non-threatening. "Easy," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We're not each other's problem here."

The Grom operator looked at him "Who are you?" he demanded, his accent thick but his tone sharp. "Where the hell are we?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, his eyes scanning the group. "But I was just on a sinking ship. One second I'm underwater, the next… this." He gestured to the forest around them. "You all just… appear out of nowhere too?"

The others exchanged wary glances, their weapons still raised but their stances softening slightly. The JTF2 operator, a man with a steely gaze, nodded slowly. "Same here. I was in a firefight. Then… this."

The others spoke too each recounting some kind of near death experience before being zapped

"We're all professionals. We've trained for the unexpected. So let's act like it. Lower your weapons, and we'll figure this out together. Agreed?"

His calm authority and logical reasoning cut through the confusion. One by one, the operators cautiously lower their weapons, though their eyes remain alert, scanning their surroundings and each other. 

"Good. Now, let's start with introductions. Names, units, and whatever intel you've got. We'll work this out like we've been trained to."