The hum of cars began to fade—blending and twisting until it became the deep, distant thunder of transport aircraft engines. The war was coming for him again. It was three in the morning.
A massive aircraft had already left American soil and was soaring across continents toward the Middle East desert. Inside the dimly lit cabin, most soldiers were fast asleep—including Dan, who was snoring softly against his seat.
"♪ ta-naa, na-naa~" Brian hummed along to the song blasting through his headset, tapping his fingers on his knee while sitting beside Danny in the middle row. Every soldier wore a beige desert-pattern combat vest that matched the sand waiting for them below. They'd been in the air for over five hours, leaving home behind for a place that looked nothing like it. Suddenly, Sergeant Walsh stomped down the aisle, clapping his hands and shouting over the roaring engines.
"Private Party! Wake up, sunshine! The plane's landing soon, you lazy ass!" He gave Dan's shoulder a heavy smack.
Dan blinked, groaning as he stretched. "Yeah, si~ I'm up! Holy buena madre, my neck's killin' me."
"Move it! We're about to drop in, privates!" The sergeant barked, shaking a few helmets as he passed.
Brian just grinned and bobbed his head to the music. "♪ A freebird~" He glanced out the small oval window—the endless golden desert gleamed below beneath a cloudless sky. The aircraft slowly descended until its wheels slammed onto the sand-covered runway, skidding before coming to a halt. They'd arrived—the U.S. base in the middle of the Arabian wasteland.
The moment Brian stepped outside, the sun hit him like a hammer. It was far hotter than Arizona.
Simon, sitting near the back, shielded his eyes and stared out at the gigantic hangars and convoys of armored trucks hauling weapon crates across the airfield.
"Holy shit, this place is freakin' huge," Simon muttered. Brian, Dan, and about fifty soldiers shuffled down the ramp. Sergeant Walsh marched ahead, waving them toward a shaded assembly area.
"Company formation! Line it up!" he barked, voice echoing over the sand.
"Aye-aye!" Brian and Dan jogged into formation with the rest of their unit, shoulder to shoulder beneath the scorching heat. Wash yanked a few of them closer to make room for soldiers from other battalions pouring in. Hundreds—no, thousands—of troops gathered beneath the massive canopy.
"Yo, we expecting someone or what?" Dan whispered.
Brian shrugged. "Dunno, man. Maybe your dad?"
"Ha! If it's really my old man, I swear I'm kicking his ass off that podium," Dan shot back, cracking a grin. The chatter died instantly when a senior officer stepped onto the stage. Every soldier straightened up, boots clicking, eyes forward.
"At ease, men," the old man said with a proud grin. "Now tell me—does anyone recognize this fine, handsome son of a gun?"
A voice from the back shouted, "Lieutenant Colonel Dobbleman, sir!"
The officer squinted and pointed into the crowd. "Who said that?! You got the eyes of an eagle, soldier! Get your booty up here, genius!"
A nervous young man stepped out, stumbling forward until he stood at the front.
"Name?" Dobbleman asked, resting a hand on the kid's shoulder.
"P-Private Bill Fisher, s-sir."
The colonel raised a brow. "Damn, you're smelling fishy too, Fisher! And why are you stuttering', You high or just born that way?"
"N-no, sir! Never done drugs… only smoked a little, sir!" Fisher blurted.
The colonel burst out laughing. "Ha! You look like you sell the whole damn stuff! Someone get this kid a corner and a baggie, huh?" The whole platoon erupted with laughter. "Alright, son, back in line before I enlist your momma next," Dobbleman said, giving Fisher a friendly shove.
He turned back to the podium and activated the holographic projector. A grainy image flickered into view—a bald, dark-skinned man with burn scars stretching down the right side of his face, his right eye bulging grotesquely beneath a mess of wiry, gray-streaked beard.
"Listen up, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Operation Red Cyclone!" Dobbleman's voice boomed over the crowd. "This ugly bastard you're lookin' at is Karsarz Hamed—leader of the SIZ militia. He's building a goddamn weapon of mass destruction somewhere under this desert. Stronger than a nuke, and he's fuelin' it with our fucking oil!" He jabbed a finger toward the image.
"Two key targets: the ARCI Petrol Research Facility and the South Radio Tower. Your mission is to intercept before this psycho turns the desert into a crater. Their weapons might be obsolete, but their hearts? Maniac. They're willing to die for this bastard like he's God himself." The colonel's tone hardened. "But we're not here to capture Karsarz. We're here to end this motherfucker. So gear up, stay sharp, and remember—hell's already broken loose."
"And we're just the ones marching straight into it." Dan said,