Chapter 1: Mess Hall Mischief

Winter, The Ghost Squad's temporary base somewhere in the Alps. It wasn't even chow time, but the mess tent glowed with a single bare bulb, pushing back the cold and the endless darkness outside. Inside, Anchor, Reaper, Castor, Nox, and I huddled around a scarred metal table, each lost in our own world.

Anchor poured steaming black coffee from a battered Army urn. "Who wants more rocket fuel?" he asked, always the caretaker.

Castor grinned. "Hit me, man. Make it strong."

Anchor snorted. "Grab your own mug." He wandered over, topping off my cup. "Here, Specter. Nothing warms you up like coffee and misery."

I nodded, cupping the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. The taste was all acid and bitterness—perfect for the kind of day it'd been.

Castor, never content to let anything slide, piped up: "Bro, you always spoil Specter. What about the rest of us? Or do you play favorites?"

Nobody answered. Not Reaper, head down and half asleep; not Nox, lost in his watch's endless ticking; not Anchor, staring into his cup. I just sipped, grateful for the distraction.

Castor shrugged, gulped his coffee, then yelped, "Damn, that's hot! Hey, Specter, wanna trade?"

Anchor rolled his eyes. "Can you stop being a clown for five seconds?"

Nox nudged Castor. "Let it go, man."

Castor threw up his hands, sighing theatrically. "Fine, fine. Just trying to liven up the mood before we all freeze to death."

Silence crept in again, broken only by the wind screaming outside. We'd all seen our share of blood now. Missions, body counts, the kind of things that made sleep a distant dream. The Army shrink and Colonel Greybell both checked in on us, but none of us were in the business of telling war stories to anyone who wasn't there. Fear? No. Restlessness? Maybe. But deep down, we all knew: peace was for civilians.

Reaper lay draped across the table, eyes shut, boots on the bench. Nox fiddled with his watch. Anchor sat bolt upright, the model soldier. I leaned back, mug cradled to my chest. Castor shifted in his seat, always in motion.

Finally, Castor couldn't stand it. "Boys, this place feels like a morgue."

No reply.

He tried again. "How about a song? A joke? Anybody wanna confess something before chow?"

Still nothing.

He muttered to himself, "I swear, you all want me to go crazy in silence."

Desperate, he pleaded, "Somebody say something, anything. Remind me I'm not dead already."

I caved. "Fine. Sing."

Castor snapped upright. "Hell yes! Reaper, gimme a beat."

Without opening his eyes, Reaper drummed a slow rhythm on the table. Castor jumped to his feet, mug in hand, and launched into his go-to parody—high falsetto, dancing eyebrows, every inch the barracks clown.

"You say we're brothers in arms, but why'd you leave me behind?" he wailed, mugging at Anchor, who pretended not to care. Even Nox cracked a rare smile.

Castor went for the kill, improvising, "Back in the day, Anchor, I really loved you… but now you've got stubble and drink all my coffee…"

Reaper thumped the table harder, joining the chorus. Everyone was grinning now, Anchor's cheeks going red.

"Is this supposed to be funny?" Anchor grumbled.

I chuckled. In our squad, roasting your buddy was the only real entertainment.

Suddenly, the tent flap cracked open. Two ridiculous figures appeared: Buzz and Bolt, dressed in matching neon-pink puffer jackets, mirrored aviators, and banana-yellow sneakers—like Miami tourists lost in a blizzard.

Buzz strutted in, playing it up. "Yo, what's up, gentlemen? Early dinner, or is this a welcome home party?"

We said nothing. Nox watched the table. Anchor studied his boots. I just sipped my coffee, barely hiding a grin.

Bolt, less confident, shuffled in behind. "Specter… where's Colonel Greybell? Is he in trouble or something?"

Still no answer. The silence grew so thick you could have cut it with a Ka-Bar. Buzz's cocky grin faded. Bolt's voice went soft. "No, for real—what happened? Why's everyone acting weird?"

Castor, always first to up the drama, seized his moment. He smacked the table, flopped forward, and burst into exaggerated, howling sobs. "You guys… you came back too late! Colonel's gone, man! You missed his last words—his last cup of coffee!"

Bolt's face went ashen. Buzz looked like someone had just kicked his puppy.

"You're messing with us, right? Castor—dude, stop. Where's the Colonel?" Buzz stammered.

But Castor sobbed louder, clutching Reaper's arm (who rolled his eyes but played along). "It's all my fault! I should've done more! We never found the body! All we have are his dog tags! I'm so sorry—"

Bolt dropped his pack, voice trembling. "No way, man. Tell me you're lying, Specter. Please."

I just drank my coffee, letting it play out.

Buzz looked at the rest of us, desperate for someone to break. "He's… really dead?"

Castor, on cue, threw himself into Buzz's arms. "He died a hero, bro! Not even a flag left behind…"

Bolt's jaw trembled. He knelt down next to Castor, eyes rimmed red. "Should've been faster, man…"

Anchor fought to keep from laughing. Nox hid a grin. Even Reaper, the squad hardass, nearly lost it.

Finally, Buzz snapped, grabbing Castor by the collar. "Cut it out! Where is he?"

Castor gave one last, epic wail and sagged against Buzz, the whole mess tent caught between laughter and embarrassment.

Right then, the tent flap crashed open. Colonel Greybell stormed in, alive and more pissed off than ever, a stack of op orders clutched in one fist.

He surveyed the chaos—grown men crying, others biting back laughter, the smell of burnt coffee and cold boots.

His voice froze the room. "Is this a goddamn soap opera or my briefing room?"

Buzz straightened, face going red. Bolt stared at his boots. Castor, caught mid-sob, sheepishly slipped back into his chair.

Greybell didn't crack a smile. "All of you—down. Three thousand push-ups, right now. Next time you want drama, I'll get you a Netflix deal."

Anchor started to explain, but Greybell cut him off. "Did I say you could stand, Sergeant? Three thousand for you too. And you—" he barked at Buzz and Bolt, "out of those clown suits in ten seconds, then three thousand each."

Nox and Reaper quietly joined in, solidarity unspoken. I slid off my bench, placed my mug on the floor, and got to work. My arms shook, chest burning—but there was no better way to clear the air.

At that moment, the base's brigadier general entered behind Greybell, stone-faced.

"Keep it professional, Colonel," he said quietly. "No rough stuff."

Greybell, cigarette between his teeth, barely glanced over. "With respect, sir, these men are blades. If I don't hammer them, they rust."

The general didn't argue. Greybell dumped the op orders on the table.

"Zero five hundred, Operation Frostmind briefing. Full kit, no mistakes. Welcome home, Ghosts."

Silence returned—just the sound of boots and bodies hitting canvas, the rattle of mugs, and the wind howling outside.

I finished my now-cold coffee, feeling oddly alive. Outside, the Alpine night was silver-bright with moon and snow. At dawn, we'd hunt.

And tonight, at least, we were still together.