The desert wind reeked of gunpowder and blood. It carried the last echoes of gunfire across the dunes as Sergeant Paragrin Deipola’s squad fought for their lives.
Two men down. Ammunition running dry. Enemy units tightening their noose with machine-like precision.

In the chaos, a woman sat half-shrouded in dust and smoke, tapping rapidly on her tablet. Intelligence Analyst Thessaly Cunningham—Washington’s quiet observer. For three weeks, Deipola had told her the same thing: “Stay out of the way.”

Now, the extraction helicopter appeared at last through the haze—but it didn’t land near the pinned-down squad. It flared and settled directly in front of her.
Four heavily armed operators jumped out, weapons sweeping in a practiced arc, gesturing only to Thessaly.

Deipola froze mid-command, a realization cutting through him sharper than the bullets overhead.

Three Weeks Earlier — Forward Operating Base Vanguard

Sergeant Paragrin Deipola, age thirty-eight, led Alpha Squad with the kind of iron discipline that left no room for questions. His face was leathered by sun and combat, carved into a permanent scowl that said he trusted grit over theory, bullets over words.

Inside the tactical briefing tent, the air hummed with the buzz of generators and tension.
Lieutenant Lysander Figanbomb hunched over satellite images; Corporal Aean Gellerson fine-tuned comms frequencies. Specialist Caspian Egleston prepped demolition charges while Private Kieran Babitzky sorted medical supplies in perfect silence.

Then she entered—Thessaly Cunningham, tablet in hand, standard fatigues, no unit patches, no swagger. Thirty-one, analytical eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, moving like she didn’t belong.

“Our Pentagon observer joins us,” Figanbomb muttered dryly.
Deipola didn’t even look up. “Find a corner, Cunningham. Don’t interfere with the soldiers.”

For three weeks she did exactly that—quietly watching, quietly absorbing. They thought she was a bureaucrat tagging along to “collect data.” None of them bothered to learn her background. None suspected she’d already seen more black ops files than all of them combined.

The Mission

“Alpha will approach from the southwest ridge at 0200,” Deipola briefed. “Establish overwatch, document personnel, exfil before dawn.”

Thessaly studied the thermal overlays on her tablet. “Sergeant, imaging shows rotating patrols on that ridge. Eastern approach offers better concealment.”

Deipola turned, ice in his stare. “Analysts don’t plan operations, Cunningham. They stay behind desks.”

Egleston snorted. “Bringing a librarian to a gunfight,” he muttered, earning a few quiet laughs.

Six hours later, they moved across the jagged terrain. To Deipola’s quiet irritation, Cunningham kept pace easily—silent, focused, efficient.

By 0310, they reached the observation ridge. Deipola raised his night vision binoculars—and froze.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered. The compound below was alive with activity—floodlights, moving vehicles, soldiers on alert.
Then the first alarms screamed.

They knew.

“Fall back!” he barked. “Secondary position, now!”

Gunfire erupted. Bullets kicked up the sand around them. They moved fast, but not fast enough.
By the time they reached the ruins of an abandoned village, Babitzky was hit through the thigh, Egleston grazed across the shoulder.

“Comms status?” Deipola shouted.

“Still jammed, Sergeant!” Gellerson yelled back. “Unknown interference pattern!”

Thessaly crouched beside Babitzky, applying pressure to the wound while her other hand danced over her tablet. Lines of code flickered. “What are you doing?” Deipola barked. “Stop playing with your toy and keep him alive!”

She said nothing. Her fingers worked with frightening calm.

A moment later, she pocketed a tiny metallic chip—the core of a hidden transmitter she’d just disabled.

Then her voice cut through the gunfire. Calm. Measured. Different.

“Sergeant—enemy reinforcements inbound from the north. Estimated twenty minutes to full encirclement.”

Deipola turned. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I’m monitoring their radio chatter. Standard analytical procedure.”

He stared at her for a long second, then looked away. “Fine. Everyone—defensive positions. Conserve ammo.”

The Last Stand

The sky dimmed into a bruised purple dusk. Tracer rounds lit the sand like falling stars.
“Last magazine!” Figanbomb called out.
Deipola clenched his jaw. This was it.

Then—the sound they’d been dying to hear. Rotor blades. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a helicopter cutting through the chaos.

“Extraction’s here!” Gellerson shouted.

But Deipola squinted. “That’s not our corridor.” The aircraft came in from the north—over hostile lines—without drawing a single shot.
And then it descended—not to Alpha Squad—but directly to where Thessaly was positioned.

“Cunningham! Get back inside!” Deipola yelled.

She didn’t move. Instead, she stood—calmly, deliberately—and reached to her boot. From it, she drew a small comms device and flashed coded light signals toward the helicopter.

The four operators disembarked like a shadow tide. Their lead made a sharp hand signal—directly to her.

“What the hell—” Deipola started, but his words died as he watched her transform.

Her posture shifted. Her face hardened. The quiet analyst was gone. In her place stood someone trained, lethal, and absolutely in command. She took the weapon the operator handed her, chambered it, and spoke into her comms with cold precision.

“Keystone is secured. Package Angel confirmed.”

The words echoed across every channel.

Then the sky lit up.

An RPG arced toward the helicopter—Thessaly turned, raised her rifle, and with one clean shot detonated it midair. The explosion rolled across the valley like thunder.

“Fall back to the bird!” she commanded. The tone left no room for argument.

Deipola hesitated, stunned. “Who the hell are you?”

No answer. Only movement—precise, professional, lethal.

She covered the squad’s retreat herself, cutting down hostiles with impossible accuracy. When Egleston fell again, she sprinted out under fire, dragging him back to safety with the strength of someone who’d done it a hundred times.

“Where’s Figanbomb?” she yelled.

“Still inside—pinned down!” Gellerson shouted.

Thessaly locked eyes with the lead operator. No words. Just a nod.

They moved—two blurs in motion—and moments later emerged with Figanbomb slung between them.

“Go! Go! Go!”

The helicopter lifted, rotors whipping sand and light into a storm as its gunner laid down suppressive fire.

Inside, Deipola finally caught her eye. “Who are you?” he asked again, breathless.

Before Thessaly could answer, the bearded operator spoke for her.

“This is Commander Thessaly Cunningham, Naval Intelligence—Phoenix Program.
Your mission was cover for her infiltration.”

Silence filled the cabin.

“Commander?” Figanbomb echoed in disbelief.

Thessaly didn’t look up. Her eyes were on the terminal, data streaming fast. “The intel I gathered confirms an imminent attack on U.S. soil. We had to make it believable. Even to you.”

Deipola swallowed hard. “So the mockery… the orders…”

“My cover,” she said simply. “The people we’re hunting have eyes everywhere. Your disdain was my best protection.”

For a long moment, only the sound of the helicopter filled the space. Then Deipola straightened, shoulders square, voice low with respect.

“It was an honor, Commander Cunningham.”

Thessaly finally looked up, returning his salute with sharp precision.
“The honor was mine, Sergeant Deipola. Your team performed exactly as required.”

She glanced out the open hatch, the desert wind whipping her hair as the fires below flickered like dying stars.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “the most valuable people… are the ones everyone overlooks.”