Chapter 15: Retaking Command

I didn't stop Anchor. First, I'd handed command to him. Second, I wasn't stable. Third, everyone clearly preferred Anchor's defensive tactics—no one wanted to take unnecessary risks.

You might ask, how could Ghost Squad be afraid of taking risks? Truth is, we're all soldiers, but we're still human. No one likes being backed into a corner.

And then, why are there so many heroes willing to sacrifice everything for their country? Aren't they human too? Sure, they're heroes, but in Ghost Squad, that kind of self-sacrifice was never promoted. Greybell made it a rule: fight if you can win, run if you can't. He drilled that into us—don't go looking to die a hero for someone else's applause.

Bolt once asked Greybell, "Why, sir? My old commander always told us to be ready to die for the mission. Why not here?"

Greybell just scoffed. "Because you're Ghost Squad. Each of you is a national treasure—a blade and shield hidden in shadow. There's nothing more valuable than your lives."

Anchor quickly set up the defenses—sniper positions, fallback routes, outer and inner sentries.

I looked it over, feeling a surge of frustration.

When everyone else moved off, I pulled Anchor aside. "Why do I only see defense here? Where's the counterattack?"

He looked confused. "We just need to hold the line."

"Right, but after holding, what about pushing back? Charging? With this setup, how do we launch a counter or a quick assault?" I pressed.

"I… I didn't plan for that. Just tried to make the defense solid." For once, Anchor seemed rattled.

Anchor was steady, almost never lost his cool. Maybe I was being too harsh.

But right then, I wasn't thinking about anyone else's feelings—just said, "You're wasting elite soldiers on logistics!"

Anchor stared at me, embarrassed.

The silence only made me angrier.

"Did you ever think about what Ghost Squad is, what it's for? Have you? As a commander, if you don't know your team's role, how do you use them well?"

Anchor looked lost. I rarely yelled at him—he hardly ever gave me a reason. Really, he hadn't even made a mistake this time; I just wasn't mature enough to see it.

After a few seconds, I calmed down. Checked my watch—past 2:00 p.m.

"Get everyone back. I'm assigning new orders," I said quietly.

"Yes, sir." Anchor ran off.

I strapped on my helmet, thick bandage over my left eye, right eye scanning the distance. Thinking.

All that wasted time—my fault. If I hadn't lost my nerve, if I'd seized the initiative sooner, maybe things would have been different.

People always keep going, even when they know it's not working. "I've come this far, might as well see it through. Next time, I'll do better."

It's like missing the bus and waiting for a taxi, but the taxi never comes. You keep waiting—then decide to walk home. You've walked most of the way when finally a cab shows up, but you're so close, do you bother?

Most of us forget the real goal—getting home fast.

Maybe that explains why I took back command.

Everyone gathered. I looked at them and said, "Honor lies ahead. Blood and sand flow behind us. When we turn desert to crimson, when we turn darkness to light, Ghost Squad's name is a weapon in itself—our honor is already worn on our backs."

They just looked at me, puzzled.

"We don't wait for honor to come to us. We chase it, we hunt it, we grab it on the road defending our country."

"Today, we're nobodies—tomorrow, the world will know our names."

I thought I'd delivered a rousing speech.

The response wasn't what I expected.

"Bro, the world knowing us? That's never gonna happen. We'll always be ghosts. Let me write you a script next time—you can stick to the lines and maybe get 'em fired up," Buzz grinned.

"Bro, you okay?" Castor exaggerated, looking to Anchor for answers.

Bolt stared at me, lost.

Reaper's face was pure disdain.

Nox smiled faintly; Anchor looked worried.

I realized I was no good at these "grand speeches."

"Let's get to work," I muttered.

"Now you're talking," Buzz said, slapping his thigh.

Anchor and Bolt visibly relaxed.

"Form up, single file—move out, head for the river."

"Yes, sir!"

We set off, running again. The European stayed in the back—he couldn't understand us, but he was smart enough to keep quiet. We all knew what we were there to do.

Ten minutes later, we reached the river. Along the way, dog corpses were everywhere. The closer we got, the darker it got—by the time we hit the bank, it was like night.

I called the European over. "Where's Extremis likely holed up?"

He was sincere—showed me the whole map. "This river's their lifeline. They're upstream, here," he said, pointing.

I studied the map, thinking through all the options.

I gathered the team. "Anchor, Nox—prep the gear raft, load up all critical equipment and weapons."

"Bolt, you and Buzz scout ahead upriver—wait for us up front."

"Everyone else, waterproof everything—two minutes, we're in the water."

The squad sprang into motion.

I rewrapped all my wounds with waterproof bandages—shoulder, chest, waist, now my eye too.

Then we entered the water. Nox took the rear, towing the camouflaged gear raft with a rope around his waist.

Reaper, the European, and I took the south bank. Anchor, Nox, Castor stuck to the north, hugging the shore, moving quickly underwater, one hand on the bank, the other pulling forward.

During each breath, I scanned ahead—no telling how far Buzz and Bolt had gotten.

The current wasn't gentle, but with one hand on the bank, swimming upstream was manageable.

Why did I order everyone to swim?

Wouldn't walking along the shore have been easier and faster?

Simple—my gut, or maybe certainty, told me the enemy was already moving, coming down from upstream, fast.

Maybe you ask, is your instinct really that good?

Most times, yes.

We swam for over two hours—Castor and Nox took turns pulling the gear raft.

I flipped open my watch: 5:17 a.m., blue digits glowing.

No enemy yet.

A few times, Anchor swam over from the north, "talked, checked in"—he still didn't fully trust me.

I didn't blame him. Snow walked along the riverbank, talking to me, sometimes making me freeze up or stutter every time she spoke.

"Someone's coming!"

Snow squatted on the bank, voice urgent.

I grabbed Reaper's leg, then swam to Anchor, signaling him to halt.

We six lay silent in the water.

A minute later, a current swirled—the scouts returned, Buzz and Bolt.

I tapped Bolt's shoulder, sent him north to Anchor.

Buzz told me, "Two hundred yards ahead—twenty, maybe thirty men, on the south bank."

I signaled him up front, hugging the bank, ready to dive. Bolt took the north side.

I just hoped they wouldn't spot us—if they did, things would get ugly fast. I knew they'd have point men, maybe in the water, maybe on land. No idea if they'd already spotted Buzz and Bolt.

It was all down to the skill and instincts of both sides' scouts.

I had faith in Buzz and Bolt—especially Bolt.