"-So on that day, no one from Task Force Orange's Gray Horse team was absent, Captain?"
"-Correct."
"-Can you confirm that 'Hassan' was present? According to your statement, he was one of the 'only two.'"
"-Confirmed."
"-Hold steady. The polygraph indicates you're telling the truth."
"-Fuck your polygraph."
—
December 25, 2035. Low altitude over the Strait of Hormuz.
Average temperature 7°C, humidity 78.3%.
Classic "War Pigs" rock blared through bone-conduction headsets as rows of nylon combat boots lined the cabin bathed in black and red light.
A few restless pairs tapped out the rhythm against the low thump of the bass guitar.
Aboard the armed helicopter skimming over the desert, the mood in Gray Horse was electric.
A seasoned veteran wiped down his Mk 18 carbine laid across his thighs with a white cloth—from the freshly oiled heavy barrel to the forward edge of the upper receiver. He flicked the alloy charging handle lightly, clearing the bright chrome chamber.
The cabin was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, woven straps and bulging nylon broadening every silhouette.
Beyond the main weapons hung like Christmas trees, each operator wore quad-tube panoramic night-vision goggles on their helmets and morale patches on their arms—skull-and-crossbones pirate flags or Arabic-script "Infidel."
"Hey, Captain!"
Across from him, the Middle Eastern translator shouted to John Hastings.
"What is it, Hassan?!"
You had to yell to cut through the rotor wash and engine roar; John hated it.
He twitched his stubble-covered mouth, looked up at the relatively new transfer, and paused his cleaning.
Hassan grinned, raised a hand, and pointed out the narrow window.
John turned, but saw nothing beyond the calm, dark coastline and the flat shadows swept by the wing-mounted pylons.
"Nothing there!"
Hassan nodded, smiling and waving it off.
"I thought you could see the reindeer too!"
John Hastings shook his head wordlessly and went back to tapping his Mk 18 URG-I on his lap with one finger as the helicopter bucked in turbulence.
"No, no—I only see Charlie's Angels flying escort outside the window!"
Logan, seated beside John, chimed in with his usual bullshit, drawing laughs from the team. Only Hassan didn't laugh.
"Who are Charlie's Angels?"
His earnest expression triggered another round of chuckles; even Captain John shook his head helplessly and cracked a grin.
Logan had his tactical gloves draped over one knee, pinching a nearly spent pencil. He scribbled in a palm-sized notebook while still managing to rib the guileless Hassan with another reference he wouldn't get.
"You think the 'angels' are on our side, eh?"
Hastings turned and asked, catching sight of the crooked lines in Logan's notebook—his will.
He clapped Logan on the shoulder, squeezed the back of his neck in friendly warning, regretting that he'd played along.
"Easy, kid. Stick to bad jokes."
Logan adjusted his helmet, scratched his thick brown beard to cover the awkwardness, and grumbled with a sheepish smile.
"Damn, Captain, give a guy some privacy!"
On the other side, the olive-skinned Hassan unfastened his helmet, pulled out a photo tucked inside the liner, and leaned forward to hand it to John.
"Speaking of angels… this is my little girl, sir."
John Hastings was stunned. He leaned in carefully, took the photo, and held it up to study it.
A five-year-old girl, face tilted up toward the lens, proudly showing off a crayon drawing of her family. Such a warm scene, he thought—warmth inside a box of killers.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner, Hassan?"
When he looked up again, a thin film of moisture glazed John's eyes; his voice trembled slightly.
He passed the photo to the man beside him. Seven gloved hands carefully relayed it around the cabin amid rising laughter.
"She definitely won't grow up to be the blonde one, but damn, Hassan—you lucky bastard!"
Even the usually sharp-tongued Logan was saying nice things, nodding approvingly and flashing yellowed teeth.
"Don't get too jealous, Logan!"
Hassan's voice carried bright and slightly out of place through the deep vibration of the airframe.
"Alright, boys—Hassan's a father!"
John Hastings suddenly boomed, scanning his fully kitted subordinates.
"In the coming fight, I want every one of you watching his six—no tears from a wounded dad for that little girl to see. Clear?"
"Clear!"
The entire team answered in unison, raising right fists and pounding their chests twice.
The harsh green neon lit every hardened face, the Mk 18 carbines and MPXs slung across black nylon plate carriers, and the XM250 belt-fed across one man's lap—its linked ammunition gleaming with a restrained, tea-colored oil sheen under the lights.
The photo made its way back to Hassan. Morale soared.
John watched him tuck it under the strap of his shemagh-wrapped helmet and pull it back on.
He raised his own fist and thumped his chest, then added—misreading John's intent—a little uncomfortably:
"I can fight just like the rest of them. I went through the full training pipeline, Captain!"
John Hastings frowned, met his eyes, and corrected him firmly.
"Listen up, Hassan. You're no longer fighting for the team or the mission. You're fighting for your family."
Hassan fell silent, staring at the man in front of him. John continued:
"Leave the dangerous work to us. When this is over, take your retirement pay and go home to her."
"…But Captain, I can protect myself. I can handle every part of the mission!"
Logan snapped his notebook shut one-handed and spoke up.
"He's looking out for you, Hassan. Don't brush it off."
The white-bearded veteran beside Hassan slung an arm around his back, gave his helmet a friendly pat, and said:
"That's the nature of Gray Horse work. No one will ever know our deeds or sacrifices until our names are carved on a headstone… You can't be both a good father and a fully committed operator."
Captain John Hastings nodded in agreement and issued the final word.
"You stay on my six o'clock, Corporal. No arguments."
Logan watched the translator who'd been with the team three years, idly flipping pages in his notebook, feeling uneasy.
"Clear!"
Hassan ground his molars, gripped the folding foregrip of his MP7 so hard the checkering left three red lines across his palm.
Captain John pulled back his nylon sleeve, glanced at the matte-black quartz watch hugging his pulse, and said:
"We can't carry baggage into a mission. To survive on the knife's edge, we leave everything but the moment behind."
Seeing the time, he rapped the bulkhead and shouted:
"All hands—check weapons and ammunition!"
Operators racked bolts to confirm chambered rounds, pulled on tight tactical gloves, opened Velcro pouches on their plate carriers to verify magazines, then slapped them home.
They adjusted shoulder straps, confirmed radios were clipped, reached back to cinch harnesses, or bent to double-knot high-top boots.
The Black support gunner flipped up the feed cover on his XM250, then snapped it down. The Colombian designated marksman re-zeroed her M110A1 CSASS, brought it to shoulder, and dry-fired to feel the trigger.
Assaultman Logan propped his SIG MPX MOD II to the side and loaded his short-barreled breaching shotgun.
Captain John drew his Staccato XC from the quick-draw thigh holster, racked the slide to check the chamber, disengaged the safety, and holstered it cleanly.
"Five mikes to target area!"
The aircrew killed the music and called back.
Wind noise through the bulkhead grew sharper and more chaotic. John Hastings gripped his carrier straps and roared to the team:
"Copy—five minutes to the zone!"
Hard plates dug into thighs, elastic knee-pad straps itched behind knees.
Carbon-fiber helmets with padded liners, quad NODs flipped down and confirmed functional, tactical comms switched to noise-filter mode, rifles in hand.
Adrenaline spiked, hearts hammered, breathing quickened.
"Deck clear!"
Repeated three times over internal comms by the fast-rope master.
Engine noise downshifted from roar to steady chop as the stealth helicopter slowed, flared, and hovered steady in the downdraft.
Through windows now lit by faint external light, the team could see rolling heat waves pouring from engine exhausts.
The pilot, helmeted, one hand on the bulkhead, stood sideways in the aisle.
The entire team rose, performed final gear checks, secured all loose items.
Atop the low-observable helo, rotor blades sliced cold, damp air with a shrill whine. The pilot flashed a thumbs-up rearward, radar glow painting his visor green.
"Go!"
After the fast-rope master checked lines, he extended an arm, made a fist, and pumped his thumb upward rapidly.
"—Ready!"
"—Set!"
The team shouted in unison, turning toward the thick sliding door as it opened onto two brightly lit oil platforms rising from heaving black water, the void below swallowing the cabin floor.
Operators queued up, each tapping the shoulder of the man ahead.
"Door side!"
Lead man Logan stepped to the bone-chilling edge, fighting excitement and shivers.
He squatted slowly, turned inward, sleeves flapping wildly in rotor wash.
"In position!"
He shouted hoarsely to the rope master, locked his knees, loosened his guide hand, and slid.
"Go!"
Each operator followed at five-second intervals, fast-roping down, braking with boot soles. They landed in the crude-scented sea wind against the rope bag buffer, one by one.
Point men knelt or stood scanning the maze of piping. Recon men released folding quadcopters from packs under cover to scout ahead.
Once the last man touched down safely in the gale and formed up.
Captain John Hastings killed his wrist display, stood, keyed the radio with a reverse press, tilted his head slightly, and said in a low growl:
"Mission brief: infiltrate north side of abandoned oil platform, corporate PMC-controlled zone. Rapid clear and destroy, locate strategic bioweapon transferred here—"
"Item is small, requires insulated case. All eyes on corners, stay alert for enemy QRF."
As he finished, the helo banked away, dropping ropes into the sea.
In the darkened LZ, silently, four clusters of dim red glow appeared. They bobbed faintly as the team advanced, trailing ghostly streaks.
To their left, pale LED panels outlined fragments of their silhouettes.
Rifles held low-ready, holographic reticles dancing with breathing shoulders. Turning to pie corners, swinging alloy handguards, worn rail edges flashing sharp silver.
"Move."
The entire team switched to blue-tinted night vision, safeties off, IR lasers on, crisscrossing beams sweeping ahead.
Boots stepped forward in staggered diamond formations toward the facility entrance.
Thick clouds lowered salty rain that beaded on shoulders, gathered between Velcro morale patches into reflective drops.
It ran down matte suppressors, growing heavier until rain drowned their footfalls.
In the cold monochrome of NVGs, the oil platform's tangled piping wrapped it like a primed demolition charge.
Only a surgical strike could sever its deadly link to the world, Captain John Hastings thought.
This is why we train.
This is why Gray Horse exists.
Finger on the trigger, brothers at your back.