THE COLONEL WHO ATE MASHED POTATOES AND TAUGHT A HARSH LESSON IN HUMILITY

The crimson numbers on the transmission console flashed furiously: 00:45... 00:44...

Colonel Thorne’s face twisted with desperate urgency as his fingers danced across the keyboard, trying to override the security protocols that Miller was actively disrupting from behind the supply crates. Up on the catwalks, the two unbadged snipers popped up again, attempting to lay down suppressive fire, but Master Sergeant Reynolds kept them pinned with relentless, highly accurate return shots.

"Almost... got it!" Miller strained, his boots braced against the heavy frame of the field generator.

In his hands, a heavy combat knife sliced through the thick rubberized fuel line feeding the portable power unit. A high-pressure spray of diesel fuel hissed into the air, splashing across the concrete floor, instantly followed by a violent sputtering cough from the generator's internal motor. The hum of the machine pitched downward, dying with a pathetic wheeze.

The massive transmission console flickered once, twice, and then went completely dark. The blinking red numbers vanished into absolute blackness.

Thorne slammed his fist down onto the dead screen, cursing loudly as the room’s ambient industrial lights dimmed down to low-power emergency reserves. "No! No, damn you!"

Vance walked forward slowly, her boots echoing in the quiet cavern. She stopped five paces away from him, her silver eagle insignia gleaming in the dim red light. She did not smile, nor did she gloat; her expression remained the embodiment of cold, immovable military justice.

"Your transmission failed, Colonel," Vance said quietly. "The operation is dead."

Thorne spun around, his face flushed with rage, his hand dipping instinctively toward the holster at his hip. "I built this command! You think some mid-level intelligence officer is going to destroy everything I've worked for?"

Before Thorne’s fingers could wrap around the grip of his pistol, Vance moved with blinding, unexpected speed. In one fluid motion, she stepped inside his guard, caught his wrist with a vice-like grip, and drove her palm upward into the base of his chin. Thorne stumbled backward, his breath catching in his throat as he collided heavily against the dead console, sliding down to sit flat on the concrete floor.

Reynolds rushed forward, kicking Thorne’s service pistol away across the slick floor before slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists with a sharp, echoing click.

Miller emerged from behind the supply crates, wiping a smudge of grease from his forehead, panting heavily but grinning with immense pride. "Generator’s dead, ma'am. Data drive is secure."

Vance looked down at Thorne as Reynolds hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.