Chapter four

A brief welcoming ceremony and a round of congratulations quickly returned the operators to the steady rhythm of camp life. While some were assigned to detailed duties, the rest spent their days in continuous, grueling training to ensure they remained razor-sharp. Camp Omega wasn’t all work, though; it featured an indoor swimming pool, a tennis court, and a bowling alley for downtime. A mini movie theater was even in the process of being built, courtesy of a few persistent movie buffs in the ranks.

Still, discipline came first. Every morning began at 0500 sharp. The operators made their beds, showered, and snapped into uniform, ready for their daily ten-kilometer run. After another quick shower and breakfast in the mess hall by 0630, they reported directly to the War Room for the day’s operational briefings. If a crisis arose, the piercing wail of the camp’s alarm siren would summon them back to the War Room for immediate deployment updates.

For two months, life remained uneventful. Then, the siren’s warning blast echoed across the compound.

Within four minutes, the War Room was packed with all twenty-four operators, along with essential non-combatant personnel. Lieutenant General Andrew Hastings wasted no time, immediately briefing the group on the crisis. Washington had reported that a US-registered oil tanker, en route back from collecting its cargo, was passing through the Indian Ocean off the Horn of Africa when it was hijacked by a heavily armed band of pirates.

“The pirates are demanding twenty-five million American dollars for the release of the vessel,” Hastings announced, his voice tight. “Not only is this demand exorbitant, but it directly violates government policy. We do not negotiate with criminals, at home or abroad.”

Without hesitation, the leaders of the four squads agreed to recapture the vessel. They would dispense with the pirates by force—and by death, if necessary—knowing full well that peaceful negotiations were highly unlikely. This was precisely the type of volatile situation they were trained to handle. To ensure a swift and successful conclusion, all twenty-four operators were greenlit for deployment.

The mission was designated Operation HALO Ruse, encoded as OHALOR.

The first leg of their journey took them via a US Air Force transport jet to Tel Aviv, Israel, where a specialized covert aircraft was waiting to fly them toward the target. Everything was synchronized perfectly. Once in proximity to the hijacked vessel, The Oleander, the teams would execute a high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jump, aiming to land silently on the massive forward deck. The insertion was timed for midnight, a window when pirate security would be at its weakest. They were dealing with an ill-prepared, poorly trained group that would never expect a localized military intervention from the night sky.

The jump went exactly to plan. Moving like shadows, the four teams glided onto the deck and immediately began infiltrating the vessel to reconnoiter its layout, locate the ship’s thirty-six hostages, and map the pirates’ positions. Despite their lack of discipline, the twenty-two pirates were all armed with AK-47s, making them highly dangerous targets inside the tight corridors of the ship.

The squad leaders issued a clear directive: shoot to kill and take zero chances.

Moving in pairs, the operators maintained constant contact via encrypted, secure radio bands. Through efficient tactical sweeping, they soon established that the ship’s crew was locked in the main lounge, guarded by four pirates—two posted at each entrance. Sneaking up from the blind spots, operators drew their combat knives. Within seconds, the four guards were silently neutralized.

By then, comms crackled with updates confirming that ten other pirates scattered across the lower decks had met a similar fate. However, the pirate chief—who had identified himself as Mustafa during radio negotiations with Washington—was still unaccounted for.

Caleb, the Delta Team Leader, keyed his mic. “He’s likely up on the bridge, probably resting or asleep.”

Two operators were dispatched to clear the bridge. They found Mustafa in the control room, though he wasn’t sleeping; he was entirely distracted, playing a game on his cell phone. Because of the open distance required to cross to his position without giving away their presence, one of the operators fired a single, suppressed shot. Mustafa was dead before he hit the deck.

The muffled gunshot and the sudden loss of communication alerted the remaining pirates hidden throughout the vessel, but it was too late. They ran straight into the precise crossfire of Team DAZE, meeting the exact same fate as their companions.

The entire boarding and clearing operation had taken just seventy-five minutes.

Word of the successful rescue was immediately relayed to Washington. Within an hour, an extraction helicopter hoisted the operators from the tanker and flew them to a US military base in Lebanon, where a transport plane waited to bring them home.

Upon their arrival back at Camp Omega, Lieutenant General Hastings met them in the War Room. Smiling with grim pride at the zero-casualty report, he addressed the tired elite units. “In light of your success, you are all dismissed from camp for a four-day pass, through the weekend. Go visit your families, see your friends, or go anywhere you want to unwind. But hear this: everyone must be back in camp Sunday evening. On Monday morning, you report to the drill point in full kit, backpacks included, for a twenty-five-kilometer desert ruck.”

He snapped a sharp salute, which the room returned in unison.

For most of the operators, the pass meant a long-awaited trip home. But for Charlotte, going home was impossible. Instead, she called Gina, a close friend from her hometown, who eagerly invited her over for the weekend.

“Gina, please do me a favor,” Charlotte added quietly over the line, her voice dropping. “Do not tell my family that I’m visiting. They made it completely clear the last time I saw them that I am persona non grata. To them, I don’t exist anymore.”

With the arrangements finalized, Charlotte caught a transport to San Diego.

The two friends spent the next couple of days catching up, shopping at the malls, and watching a movie on Friday night. By Saturday evening, they decided to go clubbing. The Red Dot Nightclub was packed to capacity, but they managed to secure a small, two-person table at the very back of the dance floor. A waitress brought over their order of two margaritas and a platter of finger food.

For the most part, Charlotte and Gina were content dancing together, politely declining the occasional advances from male patrons. However, Charlotte’s tactical instincts soon flared. She noticed a group of five young men watching them intently from across the room. They were well-dressed and carried the unmistakable, arrogant aura of playboys on the prowl. Gina had a regular boyfriend and was just out to have fun with her friend, and Charlotte had absolutely no interest in flirting.

Predictably, two of the men broke away from their group and swaggered over to their table, demanding a dance. Charlotte offered a firm shake of her head, signaling they weren’t interested.

The leader of the pack, clearly unaccustomed to hearing the word no, smirked and stepped closer. “We aren’t asking, beautiful. We’re demanding. Now respect the offer and get up.”

Charlotte looked him straight in the eyes, her expression completely unbothered. In an icy, calm voice, she said, “Back off, sonny boy. We don’t want any trouble.”

He was clever enough to realize “sonny boy” was an insult, but far too foolish to recognize the lethal promise in her gaze. He lunged across the table, intending to drag her out of her chair by the arm.

In a flash of pure muscle memory, Charlotte moved. She intercepted his hand, grabbed his right arm, and slammed her palm into his left shoulder, applying brutal pressure directly to a major nerve cluster. The young man collapsed toward the floor with a sharp scream of agony, unleashing a tirade of vulgar expletives.

When Charlotte released him, he stumbled back and frantically waved the rest of his gang over, thinking numbers would force her into submission.

Charlotte stood up smoothly, adjusting her jacket. “Gina, do me a favor and step to the side while I handle this.”

The five friends lunged at her simultaneously, relying entirely on brute strength. They had tragically overestimated themselves and completely miscalculated her capabilities, entirely unaware that the twenty-one-year-old standing before them was an expert in advanced close-quarters combat. To the absolute shock of the surrounding onlookers, the fight was over in less than thirty seconds. All five attackers were flat on their backs, groaning in pain, entirely neutralized.

Charlotte effortlessly hauled the leader back to his feet by his collar. Looking into her cold eyes, the alcohol vanished from his system, and his fuzzy brain finally realized this was no ordinary girl.

The club’s bouncers finally arrived, but they stopped short when they saw the situation was already entirely under control. Several patrons were openly smiling; the group had a notoriously bad reputation in the area.

As Charlotte straightened her chair and sat back down to take a sip of her drink, a stunned Gina finally found her voice. “Charlotte… what on earth was that? I knew you were strong-willed, but the ease with which you just demolished them… It’s amazing! Where did you learn to do that?”

Charlotte caught her friend’s eye, her tone matter-of-fact. “Gina, that was barely a fraction of my training. I’ve been taught a hundred different ways to kill a person with my bare hands. Honestly, they have no idea how close to death they just came, all because of stupid male pride.”

Sunday passed quietly, and by late afternoon, Charlotte was on a transport back to base.

By 2000 hours, every member of Team DAZE had returned to Camp Omega. They gathered in the mess hall for a late-night dinner, happily swapping stories about their brief taste of civilian life. Caleb, noticing that Charlotte had been unusually quiet throughout the meal, leaned across the table.

“Hey, Charlotte, why so quiet? Did something happen over the weekend?”

Before she could answer, Samuel—her closest friend on the squad—intervened. Knowing the brutal reality of her background, he spoke up gently but firmly. “Give her a minute, Caleb. She just needs some time and space right now.”

Charlotte looked around the table. Seeing the genuine concern and bewilderment on the faces of her teammates, she offered Samuel a grateful nod. “Thanks, Samuel. But I can handle it from here.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “It’s not some big, classified secret. It’s just my family. It was an incredibly toxic environment, and honestly, joining the military was my escape from my parents and my brother. When I made it into this unit, it didn’t just give me a purpose—it gave me a real home where I could actually be myself. It was also a way to prove them wrong after all the years of emotional stress they put me through. My parents absolutely despise the military. When I left, they told me I no longer existed to them. That’s why I stayed with my friend Gina in San Diego instead of going home.”

For a long moment, the mess hall went dead silent.