Chapter 4 - The Audit Begins

The demolition grinder at Range Seven was a four-acre expanse of broken crushed granite, rusted shipping containers, and saltwater-soaked timber, situated on the extreme western tip of the peninsula. The wind coming off the Pacific was relentless, carrying a bitter, damp chill that cut straight through the three layers of high-performance gear Ethan was wearing.
It was 0245.
The sodium-vapor work lights high above the range cast long, yellow, sickly shadows across the gravel.
Ethan stood beside his locker bench in the range staging shed, his fingers numb as he checked the seals on his body armor. His ceramic plates were heavy—Level IV standalone armor, twelve pounds front and back. His primary weapon, a suppressed short-barrel rifle, lay on the steel table beside him, its bolt locked open, clean and dry.
Daniel Price was sitting on a wooden ammo crate twenty feet away, methodically taping the loose straps of his rucksack. Daniel hadn't spoken to Ethan since they left the auditorium fourteen hours ago. When Ethan had tried to hold a team coordination meeting in the barracks that evening, Daniel had simply walked out of the room, leaving Ethan alone with Marcus and Mason.
Marcus was currently vomiting behind the latrine partition. The sound of his dry heaves was audible over the steady roar of the surf against the sea wall.
"Get him out here," Ethan said, his voice raw. He hadn't slept a single minute. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the silver hair, the worn green windbreaker, and the three silver stars sitting on the dark wood of the podium.
Mason Grant stepped out of the latrine, wiping his mouth with the back of his tactical glove. He looked hollowed out, his skin gray beneath the yellow lights.
"He can’t keep water down, Ethan," Mason whispered. "He’s been shaking since midnight."
"Tell him to take an anti-emetic and get his plates on," Ethan snarled, his voice rising in panic. "If we look like a disorganized rabble when she walks out here, we’re done! Do you understand me? My father called Keller last night."
Daniel stopped taping his pack. He slowly looked up.
"Your father called Keller?" Daniel asked, his voice dead.
Ethan felt a surge of desperate vindication. "Yes. He told Keller that an unannounced, non-standard evaluation violates the operational prep cycle. He’s filing an inquiry with the Inspector General’s office this morning. All we have to do is show competence. We run the lanes, we hit our targets, we execute standard operating procedures, and this whole thing gets kicked up to an administrative review. She can’t kill a career if there’s no operational failure on the record."
Daniel stood up. He walked over to Ethan until he was inches away, his eyes blazing with a fury Ethan had never seen in him.
"You idiot," Daniel whispered. "You complete, arrogant idiot."
Ethan stepped back, shocked. "Watch your mouth, Price—"
"Your father called the base commander?" Daniel hissed, his fists clenching at his sides. "Against Sarah Vance? Do you know who Vance was before she went to the Pentagon, Ethan? She was the primary operations officer for the entire interdiction cadre in the Balkans. When your father was sitting behind a mahogany desk at the Bureau of Personnel pushing fitness reports, Vance was pulling four-man teams out of burning compounds in the middle of hostile territory."
Daniel poked Ethan hard in the center of his ceramic chest plate.
"Your father just put a target on our backs the size of an aircraft carrier," Daniel said. "If Keller was nervous yesterday, he’s terrified today. Nobody can protect you from her. Nobody. And now she knows you went crying to your daddy twelve hours after you kicked her lunch."
The outer door of the staging shed slammed back against the corrugated metal wall.
Senior Chief Hale walked in.
He was wearing full foul-weather gear, a heavy black Gore-Tex parka, and carried an iron clipboard. Behind him were six instructors from the advanced tactical training unit—men with blank, weathered faces who looked like they hadn't slept in ten years.
"On the line," Hale barked.
Ethan scrambled to grab his rifle, sling it over his shoulder, and pick up his ninety-pound rucksack. Marcus stumbled out of the latrine, his helmet lopsided, his hands fumbling with his chin strap.
They lined up on the yellow marker painted on the concrete apron: Cole, Price, Grant, Reed.
Hale walked down the line, stopping in front of each man. He didn't check their rifles. He didn't check their ammunition. He checked their eyes.
When he reached Marcus, who was visibly trembling, Hale’s jaw tightened. "Reed."
"Yes, Senior Chief," Marcus croaked.
"If you drop your weapon today, leave it on the deck. Don't bend over to pick it up. Just keep running until you hit the highway."
"Understood, Senior Chief."
Hale moved to Ethan.
He looked at Ethan’s rifle. It was immaculate—the finish dark and oiled, the accessories mounted with mathematical precision.
"You look pretty, Lieutenant," Hale said.
Ethan kept his eyes straight ahead. "Ready to train, Senior Chief."
"This isn't training, Cole," Hale said quietly. "This is an autopsy."
Hale stepped back toward the door and snapped to attention.
Vice Admiral Sarah Vance walked into the shed.
She was dressed in a dark tactical windbreaker, clean trousers, and high-traction assault boots. She wore no helmet, no body armor, and carried no weapon. In her hand was a single, green stopwatch.
She didn't look at Hale. She didn't look at the instructors.
She walked straight to the edge of the crushed granite range, looked out into the pitch-black darkness where the wind was whipping the fog into swirling, ghostly shapes, and pressed the button on her watch.
"Lane One," she said. "Live fire. Full breaching protocol. Simulated non-permissive container terminal. You have seven minutes to clear three levels, secure the manifest, and extract the high-value material."
Ethan stepped forward. "Admiral, standard doctrine for a four-man element on a three-level facility requires a support detachment for perimeter security—"
Vance didn't turn around.
"Six minutes and forty-five seconds," she said.
Ethan swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his throat. He turned to his men. "Trident! On me! Weapons hot! Move!"
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They broke from the concrete apron, their heavy boots crunching violently into the crushed granite, plunging into the dark, wet teeth of the range.
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