The border was three hundred miles behind me, but the dust of the Zagros mountains still coated the back of my throat. Or maybe that was just the taste of dying.
I didn’t look like Colonel Elizabeth Moore, holder of the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star. I looked like something the desert had chewed up and spat out because I tasted too bitter. I was walking along Highway 90, the heat radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves that distorted the horizon. It was 104 degrees in the shade, and there was no shade.Cars whizzed by. Civilians in air-conditioned bubbles. A pickup truck slowed down, the driver rolling down the window to spit tobacco juice near my boots.“Get a job, junkie!” he yelled, accelerating away in a cloud of exhaust.
I didn’t flinch. Loud noises usually triggered the panic—the flashbacks to the metal door slamming shut—but right now, I was too focused on the gate.
Fort Ramsay.
The sign ahead loomed like the pearly gates of heaven: FORT RAMSAY – HOME OF THE 1ST ARMORED DIVISION. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Three years.
One thousand and forty-two days.
That was how long it had been since I drove out of this gate in a staff car, crisp and clean, heading for a deployment that was supposed to last six months.
I checked the perimeter. The fences had been upgraded. Razor wire topped with motion sensors. The cameras were the new Raytheon models—pan-tilt-zoom with thermal imaging. I knew them. I had signed the purchase order for them.
I knew that Camera 4-B, located near the drainage culvert on the west side, had a firmware glitch. It rebooted every day at 11:15 AM due to overheating. It went blind for exactly forty-five seconds.
I checked the sun. High noon.
I waited.
I watched the camera LED flicker from green to amber.
Now.
I slid into the ditch. The water was stagnant, smelling of oil and rot. I crawled on my belly, dragging my bad leg, sliding under the gap in the chain-link where the ground had eroded. The mud coated my fresh burns, stinging like acid.
I squeezed through.
I stood up on the other side.
I was inside.
CHAPTER 2: THE SACRED GRASS
The base was a city unto itself. I kept to the shadows of the motor pool hangars, avoiding the MP patrols. My objective was the White House—Command Headquarters. General Hale would be there. He was the only one who could stop the madness in my head. He was the only father figure I had left.
But to get to Headquarters, I had to cross the Drill Field.
It opened up before me like a green ocean—acres of immaculately manicured grass, surrounded by a black asphalt track. In the center stood the flagpole, the Stars and Stripes popping loudly in the hot wind.
Company Delta was in formation.
I froze behind a generator stack, watching them.
Fifty recruits. They were beautiful. That was the only word for it. They were clean. Their skin was unblemished. Their uniforms were pressed so sharp you could cut your finger on the creases. They moved in perfect unison.
Left, right, left, right.
The sound of fifty boots hitting the pavement was a heartbeat.
And there was the shark.
Drill Sergeant Miller.
I remembered him. I had reviewed his NCOER (Non-Commissioned Officer Evaluation Report) years ago. He was a hard charger. High standards. Zero tolerance. He paced the line like a caged predator, his campaign hat pulled low, screaming corrections that I couldn’t quite hear over the rushing blood in my ears.
I had to cross.
I stepped out from behind the generator.
The distance to the other side was two hundred meters. It felt like two hundred miles.
I started to walk.
My gait was uneven. Limp. Drag. Step.
I tried to straighten my spine. You are a Colonel, I told myself. Shoulders back. Chin up.
But my body betrayed me. I was shaking from hypoglycemia.
I was halfway along the track when the shouting stopped.
The silence was sudden.
I looked up.
Drill Sergeant Miller had stopped pacing. He was staring at me.
Fifty pairs of eyes followed his gaze.
“HALT!”
The command hit me physically. I stopped.
Miller turned his body fully toward me. He looked at the recruits, then pointed a knife-hand at me.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field. “What in the hell is that?”
He started marching toward me. Fast. Aggressive.
I stood my ground, though every instinct screamed RUN. HIDE. COVER.
He stopped two feet away. He towered over me. He smelled of starch, peppermint, and aggressive masculinity.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” Miller asked, his voice dripping with mock politeness that barely concealed his rage. “The soup kitchen is in town. This is a federal military installation.”
I licked my cracked lips.
“I am… reporting,” I rasped. My voice was broken. The vocal cords were scarred from screaming.
Miller blinked. He leaned in closer, invading my personal space.
“Reporting? You? Look at yourself.”
He gestured to my ragged uniform.
“You look like a walking disease. And what are you wearing? Is that OCP? Is that the uniform of the United States Army?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“WRONG!” Miller screamed right in my face. Spittle hit my cheek. “That is a costume! You have no rank. No unit. No name. You are wearing a halloween costume you pulled out of a dumpster!”
He turned to the recruits, using me as a teaching moment.
“Privates! Look here! This is what we call ‘Stolen Valor.’ This is a civilian, a vagrant, who thinks she can put on our skin and steal our glory! She thinks she is one of us!”
“No,” I said, a little louder. “I am a soldier.”
Miller spun back to me, his face red.
“You are a disgrace! You are disrespecting every man and woman who died for that flag! You want to play soldier? Fine. Let’s see your ID. Let’s see your dog tags.”
“I don’t… have them,” I said. They took them. They melted them down in front of me.
“Of course you don’t,” Miller sneered. “Because you’re a liar. Now, take it off.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“I said, STRIP!” Miller roared. “Take off that blouse! You are not authorized to wear it. If you don’t take it off right now, I will have the MPs tackle you and rip it off. Do you want to go to jail, lady?”
“Take it off!” A recruit shouted from the formation. “Show some respect!”
The shame washed over me. Not for me, but for them. They didn’t know. How could they know?
But I was too tired to fight.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
My hands shook violently as I reached for the zipper. The metal tab was hot from the sun.
I pulled it down.
I shrugged the heavy, dirty jacket off my shoulders. It fell to the ground in a heap.
I stood there in the harsh sunlight.
I was wearing a grey undershirt that was barely holding together. The back of it had been torn away during a particularly brutal interrogation session six months ago and never replaced. The fabric hung in tatters around my waist.
“Turn around,” Miller ordered. “Let’s make sure you aren’t hiding any contraband.”
I turned my back to him. I turned my back to the recruits.
The reaction was instantaneous.
It wasn’t a gasp. It was a recoil.
I heard someone retch.
My back was not skin. It was a history of violence.
Three thick, ropy scars—keloids the size of garden hoses—ran diagonally from my left shoulder blade to my right hip. They were purple, shiny, and tight. The brands of The Syndicate.
Surrounding them were the cigarette burns. Dozens of them. Constellations of pain.
And the knife marks.
And the places where the electricity had arced.
“Jesus Christ,” Miller whispered. The aggression fell out of his voice, replaced by horrified revulsion.
“Is that enough proof, Sergeant?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “Or do you want to see my teeth?”
CHAPTER 3: THE REUNION
Before Miller could answer, the sound of a vehicle tearing across the grass broke the spell.
A black tactical SUV.
It didn’t stick to the road. It jumped the curb, tires chewing up the sacred grass, and screeched to a halt ten yards away.
The door flew open.
General Thomas Hale stepped out.
He was older than I remembered. His hair was completely white now. He was wearing his dress greens, likely returning from a function.
He froze.
He saw the formation. He saw Miller standing there with his mouth open. And he saw the scarecrow standing half-naked in the center.