They pressed on, every movement calculated, every shadow suspicious. The silence of the night weighed on them like a physical force, pressing cold and unyielding against their lungs. he led at the front, eyes scanning the darkness, mind calculating—but somewhere amidst the calculation and alertness, Ava's picture occupied his mind, blanking it for a brief moment.
He spotted a faint glimmer ahead, off the patrol route—a movement that could have been nothing. Or it could have been the patrol they were searching for. Without calling for a halt, he signalled the squad to advance.
"Keep tight, eyes sharp," he whispered, and his squad obeyed. They followed his lead without question.
A sudden flash, the whine of a suppressed rifle, and the night exploded into chaos. enemy sprang to life from the desert sand—figures moving with lethal precision. The patrol was not abandoned; it had been trapped. And he has led his own squad directly into the ambush.
"Contact front! Take cover!" he barked, but the words barely carried over the shouts and gunfire.
Bullets tore through the underbrush, some finding their marks in Armor, others grazing. The squad scattered instinctively, each man trying to find the protection of the desert terrain.
Henry froze for a split second, eyes wide, heart hammering. His mind raced, calculating exits, suppressive fire, casualty estimates—every second mattered, but he had misjudged, misread, and now they were pinned.
"Return fire! Overwatch on my signal!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly.
They obeyed, but the enemy was prepared. Traps, snipers, and hidden positions turned the desert into a death maze. A flash grenade went off to the right, blinding momentarily, disorienting. One of his men, shouted as he fell, clutching his leg. Another fired blindly, shouting curses.
He felt the weight of responsibility crushing him. Every command he gave carried the possibility of death. He realized the truth too late: the brief second, his mind was blanked by his past life, has cost them the element of safety.
"Fall back! Fall back!" he ordered.
But even the tactical retreat was a nightmare. The desert offers no cover, and every shadow under the pale moonlight was a potential enemy. One by one, his men were hit. He saw one of his squad members go down, and for a second, he felt frozen—powerless.
"Move! Move!" he screams, dragging a wounded comrade to a shallow depression in the terrain. His hands were slick with sweat and blood.
Time slowed, every second stretching longer than the last. The radio, once their lifeline, was dead—interference from the firefight and the terrain made communication impossible. Henry realized that not only had they failed to rescue the missing patrol, but now, they themselves were at the mercy of whoever had set this trap.
He tried to refocus, forcing himself to think clearly. Suppressive fire, bounding movements, keeping the men alive. But he could feel the panic in his squad mirroring his own. He was trained to command under fire, to be steady, but the chaos and disoriented squad member scattered around had shattered the calm he relied upon.
Hours—or what felt like hours—passed in this hell of darkness and fire. Eventually, the firefight waned, but the cost was devastating. Half his squad was down, the rest battered and breathing heavily, hands shaking, eyes wide with fear. The desert was littered with spent shells, spilled blood, and the echoes of screams that would haunt them forever.
He drops to his knees, chest heaving. He felt the weight of every decision, every misstep, every reckless choice he had made. One of the soldier groans beside him, while another one sat frozen against the rock, dazed.
"Is everyone… alive?" he whispers hoarsely.
A few nods, while some did not. The reality hit him like a punch to the gut: they had survived, but the mission has failed. The patrol they were meant to save was gone. Deep down in his heart he knew their failure was due to him- him taking few leisure second to remember his past, when every second mattered and that few second proved to be fatal.
He radios finally, voice low, shaky and hesitant:
"This is Sergeant… mission failed. Partial casualties. Extraction requested. Repeat, extraction requested."
Static filled the channel before a voice finally came through, calm but firm.
"Copy, Sergeant. Hold position. Evac on route. Maintain security."
He glances at his remaining squad members. The trust they had once shown him now felt heavier than ever. He had led them, and his error had cost lives. The weight of leadership, of command, had never felt so raw, so brutal.
They huddled together in the pale moonlight, shadows stretching long over the bloodied ground. Every man silently counted the cost: a lesson learned too late, the reality of war burned into their skin.
When the extraction finally arrived, a helicopter cutting through the night with searchlights sweeping the forest, he stays at the back, ensuring his remaining men were loaded first. He stepped last onto the skids, the rotor wash throwing dust and debris into the night.
As the helicopter lifted off, he looks down at the darkened desert. The mission had failed. Lives had been lost. And he knew, deep in his bones, that no amount of regret would ever undo what his recklessness had wrought.
The radio crackles again, this time a distant, formal voice reporting the aftermath:
"Sergeant, debrief upon return. Casualties documented. Failure acknowledged."
He sat silently, head lowered, the weight of command pressing down. The night that had begun with quiet tension and readiness had ended in chaos and loss. And he, the sergeant, bore it all—his recklessness etched forever into the lives of those who had trusted him.
His heart was filled with the guilt of him costing the lives of those patrol and some of his own squad member but yet again the day when Ava ghosted him keeps coming to his mind, giving him the mix emotion.