Chapter 3: The Order

Chapter 3: The Order

The question from the two-star General hung in the air of the stale office, heavy as armor plate. Who in the hell do you think you are?

Kade’s entire career had been about responding to questions under pressure. This was no different from a Ranger instructor screaming in his face or a platoon leader asking for a casualty estimate over a crackling radio. You shut down the noise, you focus on the facts, and you answer.

“General, I am Sergeant First Class Sullivan, the commodity manager for ground transportation assets for this command,” he said, his voice a paradigm of military calm. He double-clicked a file on his second monitor, the screen glowing with the dry, irrefutable data of the Army’s master inventory. “And I think I’m the non-commissioned officer who is preventing your command from filing a fraudulent equipment request that would be rejected by the system automatically, sir.”

There was a dangerous silence on the other end. Kade could picture the General’s office in the Pentagon: flags, polished wood, a man with stars on his collar turning a dangerous shade of red.

“Fraudulent? That’s a bold word, Sergeant.”

“It’s a factual one, General,” Kade pressed, his voice unwavering. He was deep in enemy territory now, but he was on solid ground. “The request cites a need for VIP transport in a high-threat environment. The unit is in California. The asset is the Rhino Runner, which is specifically designated as a theater-only combat vehicle. There is no policy, provision, or precedent that allows for its use stateside for a training event. Sir, I am looking at the live readiness report for all thirty-eight Rhinos in the inventory. Serial number Alpha-Charlie-seven-zero-niner is currently staged at Bagram Airfield. Serial number Alpha-Charlie-seven-one-two just completed a combat logistics patrol outside of Kandahar. I can go down the whole list. Which one would you like me to recall from the war, General?”

It was a kill shot, wrapped in the guise of a respectful question. He wasn’t arguing with the General; he was simply reading the Army’s own bible of logistics back to him. To continue to demand the vehicles now would be to admit ignorance or demand the impossible.

The General let out a long, slow breath that hissed over the phone line. It was the sound of a man who, despite his fury, had just been confronted with a reality he couldn't bully his way past.

“Your point is made, Sergeant,” the General said, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. “Carry on.”

The line went dead.

Kade slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle. The silence that followed was different. It was the quiet, profound satisfaction of a battle won against overwhelming odds. He had faced down a Captain, a Lieutenant Colonel, a full Colonel, and finally a Major General. And he had won. Not with rank, not with threats, but with the one thing this bureaucratic hellhole was supposed to run on: cold, hard facts.

A genuine, triumphant smile touched his lips. He leaned back in his squeaking chair, the tension draining from his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, he felt like himself again—competent, effective, a soldier doing his job right. Victory was sweet.

And entirely short-lived.

The door to Mike’s office slammed open, hitting the wall with a crack that made Kade jolt upright. Mike stood in the doorway, his face a blotchy, apoplectic purple. The usual sheen of sweat on his forehead was now a torrent, and his weak eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and rage.

“My office. Now,” he wheezed, jabbing a fat finger towards his den before turning and stomping back inside.

Kade’s brief moment of triumph evaporated, replaced by the familiar, bitter taste of dread. He stood, straightened his uniform, and walked the ten paces to his warden’s office. He felt like a soldier being summoned from the front lines to be court-martialed by the supply clerk.

He stepped inside. Mike was pacing behind his desk, a small, frantic circle of rage. The nameplate on his desk, ‘M. Henderson, Section Chief,’ was polished to a high shine, the only orderly object in the room.

“Close the door,” Mike snapped. Kade did so.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Mike spat the words out, leaning over his desk on his knuckles like an angry gorilla.

“I did my job, Mike,” Kade said, his voice level. The use of his first name was deliberate. All pretense of respect was gone. “I enforced Army policy on a request for a restricted asset.”

“You embarrassed me!” Mike roared, spittle flying from his lips. “A two-star General! A Major General called my section because one of my NCOs decided to play God! Do you have any idea the kind of email I just got?”

“I explained the logistical reality to him,” Kade said calmly. “The vehicles are in a combat zone. They are not available. It’s that simple. He understood.”

Mike threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t care if they’re on the damn moon! That’s not the point! The point is, you don’t say ‘no’ to people like that! You say ‘yes, sir, I’ll look into it.’ You forward it up the chain. You make it someone else’s problem! You make it someone else’s ‘no’!”

This was it. The core of Mike’s philosophy. Not mission accomplishment, not integrity, not support to the warfighter. Just blame-shifting. It was the religion of the incompetent, and Mike was its high priest.

“My job,” Kade said, his own voice hardening, the NCO in him taking over, “is to be a steward of Army resources. My job is to ensure the right equipment gets to the soldiers who are actually in the fight. Wasting a General’s time by forwarding an impossible request isn’t a job; it’s cowardice.”

Mike’s face went from purple to a ghostly white. He stopped pacing and walked around the desk until he was standing inches from Kade, his sour coffee breath washing over him. He was shorter than Kade, but he puffed his chest out, trying to project an authority he didn't possess.

“You want to know what your job is, Sergeant?” he whispered, his voice trembling with fury. “I’ll tell you what your job is.”

He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into Kade’s.

“It’s not your job to validate equipment. It’s not your job to question the mission. It’s not your job to tell a General what is and is not possible.”

He poked a finger into Kade’s chest, a stunning breach of protocol and respect.

“It’s your job to source it.”

He let the words hang in the air, a poison dart.

“When a request comes to your desk, from any unit, for any reason, you find it. You don’t ask why. You don’t care where it’s coming from or where it’s going. You just find a way to fill the order. You source it.”

He leaned back, a smug, ugly look of triumph on his face. He had found the perfect way to punish Kade, to strip him of the very competence and judgment he had just displayed.

“Do. You. Understand?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a career-altering ultimatum. An order. A direct, lawful, and catastrophically stupid order. To argue would be insubordination. To obey would be to violate every principle he held.

Kade stared back at the paunchy, sweating man in the ill-fitting polo shirt. The rage inside him was a white-hot nova, but his face was a mask of stone. He felt the tumblers of a lock clicking into place. Mike thought he was caging the wolf. He had no idea he’d just handed him the keys to the entire prison.

A slow, cold clarity washed over Kade. An order was an order.

“Hooah,” Kade said, the single word dripping with a perfect, chilling neutrality.

He turned without another word, walked out of the office, and closed the door softly behind him. He sat down at his desk, the hum of the HVAC unit filling the sudden silence.

It’s your job to source it.

The words echoed in his mind. Mike had meant them as a leash, a way to force him into mindless, paper-pushing obedience.

But Kade heard them for what they truly were.

Permission.

The trap wasn't for him. It was for Mike. And Kade Sullivan was going to build it, piece by perfect, malicious piece. The hunt had just begun.