Chapter 13 - The Unfinished Road
Three weeks later, the air at Fort Campbell was crisp with the first hint of autumn.
The parade field was wide, green, and smelled of cut grass and diesel exhaust from the flight lines half a mile away. In the distance, the twin rotors of a CH-47 Chinook chopped through the grey sky, its rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* vibrating through the heels of my polished jump boots.
I stood in the formation of the 101st Airborne Division, my uniform immaculate, the brass on my lapels gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Beside the reviewing stand, sitting in the front row of the family section, was Hannah.
She wore a dark green dress she had bought in Clarksville two days ago. She looked healthy, her cheeks flushed with color, a small silver necklace I had bought her resting against her collarbone. Brooke Hayes sat beside her, holding a camera, her eyes bright with pride.
"Attention to orders!" the company commander’s voice bellowed across the field.
The entire formation snapped to attention, hundreds of boots striking the ground as one.
"The President of the United States, through the Secretary of the Army, has placed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and professional excellence of Rebecca Marie Cole. In view of these qualities, she is promoted to the rank of Staff Sergeant..."
Colonel Whitmore himself stepped onto the field, accompanied by Miller.
Miller stepped in front of me, his chest out, his eyes fierce with professional pride. He reached out and unpinned the Sergeant chevrons from the center of my chest, handing them to Whitmore.
Then, Miller pressed the new insignia—three chevrons over one rocker—into the velcro of my chest patch, slapping it down with enough force to knock the breath out of a lesser soldier.
"Congratulations, Staff Sergeant Cole," Miller said, his voice quiet, steady, and proud. "You earned every damn thread of it."
"Thank you, First Sergeant," I replied, bringing my hand up in a crisp, razor-sharp salute.
Whitmore returned the salute, then leaned in slightly before moving to the next soldier.
"Staff Sergeant," Whitmore whispered, his tone suddenly dropping into that low, serious frequency that made my neck prickle. "When this ceremony is over, meet me at the battalion headquarters. We need to talk."
I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon, not breaking military bearing. "Sir?"
"The Mercer network wasn't just shipping parts out of Redstone," Whitmore murmured as he stepped to the right. "We intercepted an encrypted manifest from a container ship docking in Savannah this morning. The secondary consignee isn't a domestic machine shop. It’s an overseas private military contractor based in Dubai. And the authorization code on the bill of lading was issued three days ago from an IP address registered to a residential compound outside Frankfurt."
My jaw tightened.
"Daniel Mercer is in federal custody, sir," I whispered.
"I know," Whitmore replied, his voice fading as he moved down the rank. "Which means Daniel wasn't the head of the snake. He was just the dog on the leash."
An hour later, the ceremony had ended.
Hannah was hugging my neck, laughing as Brooke snapped photo after photo against the backdrop of the division colors. The sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the clouds in brilliant shades of amber, violet, and blood-red.
"I’m so proud of you, Becca," Hannah said into my ear, her arms tight around my shoulders. "You did it. You really did it."
"We did it, Hannah," I told her, kissing her temple. "We’re going to be fine."
My phone buzzed in my cargo pocket.
I reached down and pulled it out, looking at the screen.
It was an unknown number, displaying an international country code from Germany: **+49 69...**
A single text message appeared on the screen:
*“You should have stayed in the kitchen, Staff Sergeant. The Mercers were only the beginning. See you in Europe.”*
I stared at the screen for five seconds.
The wind blew across the parade field, cold and sharp, carrying the distant smell of jet fuel and the low rumble of helicopter engines warming up on the tarmac.
Hannah pulled back, looking at my face, noticing the sudden stillness in my eyes. "Becca? What is it?"
I looked down at the new rocker on my chest, feeling the weight of the uniform, the weight of the four years that had forged me into something that couldn't be broken by lies, by family, or by cowards hiding behind encrypted servers.
May you like
I locked the screen, slid the phone back into my pocket, and smiled at my sister.
"Nothing, Hannah," I said, putting my arm around her shoulder and turning toward the battalion headquarters where Whitmore was waiting. "Just another mission."
