Chapter 6
The freezing water of Cedar Creek rushed around Miller’s waist, sending shockwaves of ice through his core. The current was surprisingly strong, tugging at the heavy rucksack on his back and threatening to sweep his legs out from under him. He planted his combat boots firmly into the muddy riverbed, using his rifle as a makeshift balancing pole while he kept a tight grip on Davies’s webbing.
Davies was still hyperventilating, his eyes wide and white in the dim ambient light filtering through the canopy. "I can't do this," Davies gasped, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as the water lapped against his chest. "My legs... I can't feel my legs."
"You can and you will," Elena said, her voice cutting through the rush of the water with absolute authority. She stepped into the deeper channel beside them, throwing her weight against the current to create a human breakwater. "Miller, grab his other arm. Do not let him drift."
Working in unison, Miller and Elena hoisted Davies forward, dragging him through the final yards of the freezing creek until their boots finally hit solid gravel on the opposite bank. They collapsed in a heap of dripping camouflage and heavy gear, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath in the frigid night air.
Around them, the rest of the squad emerged from the water like emerging ghosts, shivering violently but holding their positions. No one spoke. The unwritten rule of the night maneuver was absolute silence, broken only by the sound of dripping water and ragged breathing.
From the shadows of a large oak tree several yards away, a figure stepped forward. It was Drill Sergeant Vance, his night-vision goggles resting on his forehead. He looked down at the shivering group, his face a hard mask in the moonlight.
"You're slow," Vance said quietly, though there was no real venom in his tone—only a clinical assessment. "And you're loud. In a real theater, the patrol on the other side of this ridge would have heard you splashing around like a bunch of children in a public fountain." He paused, letting the criticism sink in before adding, "But you crossed. You didn't leave anyone behind in the water. Mount up. Extraction is another mile."
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Miller pushed himself back to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. The wet fabric of his uniform felt like a lead sheet wrapped around his limbs, but the paralyzing cold had begun to fade into a dull, manageable numbness. He looked over at Elena, who was already adjusting her rucksack straps without a word of complaint.
As they resumed the march through the dense underbrush, Miller felt a subtle shift inside himself. The fear that had paralyzed him at the start of the night had transformed into something dense and resilient—an internal anchor that refused to be dragged away by the current.
