Call sign DEATH

The early morning fog clung to the base like a shroud, hiding the truths that moved quietly beneath the surface. Inside the administrative building, under fluorescent lights that hummed like anxious thoughts, John Wayne stood at attention in front of General Marcus Bennett's office door.

He was young. Far too young for this.

But fate hadn't asked for his permission.

The secretary nodded and opened the door. "He's ready for you."

John stepped in. The familiar scent of cigar smoke and leather-bound files filled the room. General Bennett sat behind a desk of polished wood, dressed in full uniform, silver stars gleaming against the olive drab fabric.

The general looked up, eyes sharp. "Wayne."

"Sir," John said with a salute.

"At ease. You've made your selections?"

"Yes, sir." John placed the typed paper on the desk. "These are the four I'm requesting."

Bennett raised an eyebrow as he scanned the names: Captain John Price, Sergeant Johnny MacTavish, Operative Simon Riley, Civilian Specialist Nikolai.

"You know you're requesting the most dangerous group of bastards in the war, right?" the general asked without lifting his eyes.

John's voice didn't waver. "Yes, sir."

Bennett finally looked up, watching him. Measuring him.

"You've only had a year of active deployment," he said. "Three years in training, barely got your boots bloody. Most commanders wouldn't be trusted to lead a supply squad, let alone this."

John met the scrutiny head-on. "With all due respect, sir, I didn't ask for this promotion. But if you're trusting me to lead, then I need the right men. I don't want symbols. I want survivors."

The general leaned back, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "Bold. Arrogant, maybe. But honest."

He reached for the secure line, picked up the receiver, and began a short, clipped conversation with another officer — the handler of Task Force 141. There were few words. Names confirmed. Orders exchanged. At the end, the general gave a final nod and hung up.

"They'll be reassigned. Report to Barracks 17 at 0800 tomorrow. Anything else?"

John shook his head. "No, sir."

"Good," Bennett said. But then, as if reconsidering, he opened a drawer and pulled out a matte black folder with TOP SECRET stamped in crimson on the cover.

He placed it on the desk, fingers tapping the cover once.

"This is for your eyes only."

John stepped forward and picked it up. He flipped it open.

The first page had one word, typed in bold:

DEATH

He stared at it for a moment. Then turned the page.

It was a list — operations, infiltration details, high-value targets, black sites. None of them had backup listed. Every mission was marked: NO SUPPORT – EXECUTE AND EXFILTRATE.

His brow furrowed. "Sir, why no backup? These are high-risk missions."

Bennett exhaled, stood up, and moved around the desk to stand next to him.

"Because this unit is unofficial," the general said. "You and your squad are not listed in any files beyond this room. As far as the rest of the world is concerned — your team doesn't exist."

John glanced down again at the operation codenames: Silent March, Crimson Echo, Black Rapture.

All brutal. All buried.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because some enemies are buried too deep," Bennett said quietly. "Because some threats can't be fought in daylight. This is war beneath the surface. Only you, I, and the President know about this unit. You operate in shadows. You strike hard, fast, without echo. Your squad is to become a ghost story — the kind enemies fear but no one can prove exists."

John understood.

He didn't like it, but he understood.

He nodded, closed the folder, and saluted once more.

"Then I'll make sure Death walks in silence."

Bennett gave a grim nod. "Dismissed."

The Next Morning – 0759 Hours

Barracks 17 was a nondescript building near the edge of the base. Its location alone told the incoming soldiers that something was off. John waited outside the reinforced door, his face unreadable under the shadow of his beret. He wore black fatigues now, gear customized — no insignia, no country.

Just like the unit they were about to become.

Then he heard footsteps. Four figures approached from the corridor. All veterans. All killers.

Captain Price led the group, rugged and calm as always, scanning the area with eyes that had seen too much.

Behind him, Soap walked with that swagger in his step, the kind of confidence you can't fake.

Ghost came in silence, his skull mask unmoving, unreadable. Not even a breath to betray emotion.

And finally Nikolai, dressed plain but sharp-eyed — the kind of man who always knew a way out.

"Well, would you look at that," Soap said with a grin. "Didn't think they'd gather the whole circus."

Nikolai chuckled. "Whatever this is, it's not standard issue."

"Inside," John said without emotion, stepping aside and keying the retinal scanner.

The door hissed open.

Inside was a blacked-out room with screens mounted to the walls, a central steel table, and standing beside it — General Marcus Bennett.

The four men exchanged glances. None of them said a word as they entered.

Once the door sealed behind them, the general spoke.

"You've been reassigned," he said without preamble. "Your records have been sealed. Your previous commands wiped. From this moment forward, you answer to a different chain of command. Me — and him."

He nodded to John.

There was a brief silence.

Price narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me… this boy's our new CO?"

Bennett didn't blink. "Yes."

Soap raised an eyebrow, half-chuckling. "Hold on — him?"

Ghost finally tilted his head. "He's the Reaper."

That made the room go still.

"You've heard of Black Hollow?" Bennett continued. "The ambush? Rear unit wiped out. Enemy squad slaughtered. One survivor. Over a dozen kills. No firearms used."

Price straightened slightly. "We thought that was a story."

"It's not," Bennett said. "It's John Wayne. Codename Reaper. He's the reason this squad exists."

Soap whistled low. "Bloody hell. Thought that was just a bedtime tale for recruits."

Nikolai looked at John for the first time with something close to curiosity. "Almost eighteen, yes?"

John nodded. "Next month."

There was a pause. Then Price finally spoke.

"Age doesn't matter," he said slowly. "Not in war. Just skill."

He turned fully toward John. "So what's our name?"

John opened the folder in his hands and placed it on the table.

"DEATH," he said. "That's our unit name. That's what they've branded us."

"Subtle," Soap muttered.

Bennett pointed at the folder. "Every mission inside there is unsanctioned. Off the books. You succeed, no one knows. You fail, no one comes. No medals. No parades. You're ghosts with knives."

Ghost simply nodded.

"Your roles remain close to what they were," John said, stepping forward with quiet confidence. "Price — tactical lead. Soap — breacher and assault. Nikolai — transport, infiltration. Ghost — recon and overwatch."

"And you?" Price asked, still skeptical but professional.

"I lead," John said. "I don't pretend to know more than you. But I see things. Patterns. Paths others don't. You'll see it when we're out there."

Soap stared at him a long moment, then gave a lopsided grin. "Hell, I like him already."

Price finally nodded. "Then we'll follow. For now."

Nikolai clapped his hands together once. "Then let Death go to work."

Bennett gave one final glance around the room.

"What you know in here, what you do — stays locked behind your eyes. Speak of it, and you compromise not just yourselves, but your squad, and this war effort. Understood?"

They all nodded.

"Then go. You've got 48 hours. After that… your first operation begins."

The door unlocked with a final click.

And as they stepped out one by one, Price paused beside John.

"You've got fire in your eyes, kid," he said. "Just don't let it burn out too fast."

John watched them leave — four legends of war now under his command.

And for the first time, the weight of what he carried pressed fully on his shoulders.

He exhaled.

Death had a face now.

And it wore his.