Chapter 5: The Call from Fort Hood

Chapter 5: The Call from Fort Hood

A month crawled by, each day a carbon copy of the last. The initial, electric thrill of setting the trap had slowly faded, buried under the relentless avalanche of daily tasks. The Army’s logistical machine never slept, and Kade was one of the poor bastards tasked with shoveling coal into its furnace. He’d sourced emergency repair parts for a Stryker brigade in Germany, untangled a nightmarish property book for an entire division, and fielded a hundred panicked calls from lieutenants who couldn’t figure out how to order printer paper.

The beige cubicle, the humming HVAC, the burnt coffee—they reasserted their dominance. The memory of the helicopter request began to feel distant, like a fever dream. Bureaucracy, he was learning, was a powerful anesthetic. It had a way of dulling sharp edges, of making even the most audacious plans seem foolish and unlikely. He’d even begun to wonder if his meticulously crafted bomb had been a dud, lost and forgotten in the endless labyrinth of paperwork that existed between commands. Perhaps some sharp-eyed clerk somewhere had seen the absurdity and quietly deleted the request, saving Mike from his own incompetence.

The thought was a depressing one. Kade found himself staring out the window at the bland, uninspiring expanse of the base, the warrior inside him feeling more dormant than ever. He was becoming what he despised: a cog.

That was when the phone rang.

The caller ID displayed a Fort Hood exchange. Kade’s heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. He let it ring twice, composing himself, forcing the bland mask of the bureaucrat back over his face. He picked up the receiver.

“G4 Equipment, Sergeant Sullivan.”

The voice on the other end was young, stressed, and profoundly confused. “Yeah, uh… is this Sergeant Sullivan? The guy who handles aviation requests?”

“I handle all equipment requests, Sergeant. What can I do for you?” Kade said, his voice a smooth, neutral monotone. He was already typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard, pulling up ‘Project Retribution.’

“This is Sergeant Miller, Platoon Sergeant, Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion down at Fort Hood,” the man said, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard. “I have a… situation here. A very large, very loud situation.”

“Go on,” Kade prompted, feigning mild interest while his pulse hammered a triumphant rhythm against his eardrums.

“I’m standing on my platoon’s designated training field,” the Sergeant said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I’m looking at four helicopters.”

Kade paused, letting the silence stretch. “Okay…”

“No, man, you don’t get it. I’m looking at two Blackhawks and two Chinooks. They’re just… sitting here. Spooling down. The pilots are looking at me like I’m supposed to tell them what to do. My First Sergeant is on his way down here, and he looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. What the hell am I supposed to do with four helicopters?!”

It was a cry of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. Kade had to physically bite his tongue to keep from laughing. This was better than he could have ever imagined.

He clicked his mouse, bringing the file to the front of his screen. “Let’s see here, Sergeant Miller. Are you referring to request number 8-1-Echo-Dash-4-7?”

“I don’t know, man! I’m looking at serial numbers and rotor blades! The paperwork the pilots gave me just says it’s for my platoon!”

“Well, I’m looking at a validated requirement right here,” Kade said, his voice dripping with faux helpfulness. He could hear the frantic shouting of other soldiers in the background of the call. “It’s a priority request for aviation support for FRIES training. Two UH-60s, two CH-47s. Looks like your order came through perfectly.”

“Perfectly?!” the Sergeant shrieked. “Sir, with all due respect, we have our own damn aviation brigade on post! We get helicopter support by walking across the street and talking to the schedulers! We put this request in six months ago as a placeholder on a wish list! We never thought… I mean, who in their right mind would approve this?!”

Kade zoomed in on the scanned signature at the bottom of the request form. The familiar, illegible scrawl of a man who couldn’t be bothered to read what he was signing. It was a thing of beauty.

“Well, Sergeant, I can’t speak to that,” Kade said smoothly. “All I can tell you is that I have a request that was approved and signed by my section chief, Mr. Henderson. It’s a lawful order from my perspective. My job isn’t to validate the request; my job is to source it. And it appears the assets have been successfully sourced.” He leaned back, savoring the perfect echo of Mike’s own words.

There was a long, agonized groan from the other end of the line. “Oh, God. So they’re mine? For a week?”

“According to the paperwork, they are,” Kade confirmed cheerfully. “The flight crews have their per diem and lodging vouchers. The fuel budget has been allocated. I’d advise you to make good use of them, Sergeant. That’s a lot of taxpayer money sitting there on your field.”

“Use them? I don’t even have the ropes! They’re on backorder!”

Kade made a thoughtful, sympathetic sound. “That’s unfortunate. Well, if there’s nothing else, I have other requests to process. You have a good day now, Sergeant.”

He hung up the phone before the man could reply, cutting off a final, desperate plea. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He felt the blood humming in his veins, the thrill of a successful operation. The bomb had not been a dud. It had detonated with spectacular, glorious precision.

The quiet satisfaction lasted for exactly fifteen seconds.

A sharp, electronic screech cut through the office hum. It was the intercom, a device Mike used so he wouldn’t have to expend the energy to walk out of his office.

“SULLIVAN!”

The voice was not the usual wheezing complaint. It was a raw, primal scream of pure panic.

“MY OFFICE! NOW!”

Kade’s grin vanished, replaced by a mask of cold, calm readiness. This was it. The second phase of the operation. He had sprung the trap. Now he had to face the wounded animal.

He stood up, slowly and deliberately. He smoothed the front of his uniform blouse, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Every eye in the normally silent section was on him. They had all heard the scream. They could all sense the storm that was about to break.

He took a steadying breath, the scent of burnt coffee and recycled air filling his lungs. As he began the short walk toward Mike’s closed door, he knew he wasn’t just walking into an office.

He was walking into the kill zone. And for the first time in a long time, he felt right at home.