Before this starts understand this is an AU world.
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Two days have passed since the "disappearance" of Guss's squad. For the world itself it was quiet, yet in those 2 days major undercurrents have gone underway.
People from different fronts understood one thing with the absence of Guss it wasn't 'If' anymore but 'When'.
And with that preparation was underway.
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Somewhere over the Atlantic, a transport jet flew under the cover of the night. Even with high level tech, people would be hard pressed trying to spot this plane.
There were no markings or over dramatic noise coming from the plane. Only a low hum that can be felt throughout your whole body.
Thirty men. Split across different flights, different routes, and all had different cover stories. But for this one bird in particular, carried eight individual souls. Souls that many would have a hard time not knowing of in a different timeline.
And even then if these guys show up that means this is serious.
Nobody's in uniform.
One of the first things someone would notice.
Most wearing civilian clothing, worn jackets, boots, one guy even wearing a ski mask with a hoodie pulled low as if he was trying to hide in the shadows. Another chewing gum with audible clicks. It would be hard pressed to think they belong to anything official. Without a trained eye that is. One thing is common between them, their eyes are similar. Like they have all experienced the same bad days.
The jet was quiet.
A quiet that makes people nervous to be the first one to speak.
Across from the cargo netting, a man finally exhales sharp through his nose. "This is stupid."
No one asks him to elaborate.
He does anyway. "Off-the-books raid? No intel worth a damn? We're basically flying blind into a hornet's nest because command can't get its story straight."
A beat.
"Yeah," someone mutters from the corner. "Sounds about right."
That gets a few almost-laughs. The kind that die halfway out.
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Elsewhere, another plane, flashes of lightning streaming through the plane's windows, casting shadows that can make someone give a double take on if they saw correctly or not.
Two men sat side by side without looking at each other.
"Thought you were done," one says eventually
"I was," the other replies.
With that a short silence.
"So what changed?"
The answer takes a second, giving a brief moment of wondering if it will ever come.
"The same as you. Rover".
Nothing else was needed to be said.
Because at the end of it that was enough.
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Back on the first aircraft, a metal latch clicks open.
Even with the plane's noise in the background the door was loud enough to turn heads. Revealing someone hard to forget.
Captain John Price, older now, beard threaded with more gray compared to his prime days. He takes a seat before leaning forward slightly, pulling a worn folder from the canvas bag at his feet.
It doesn't look anything special.
Which sparks more curiosity otherwise.
He flips it open like he's done hundreds of times before, though this time the feeling is different than previous times. More serious than ever before.
"Figured," Price says, voice low and rough around the edges, "some of you might want to remember who we're flying for."
No one interrupts.
He slides a photo out first passing it across to everyone one by one.
Guss, younger with a delta patch on his shoulder. No Marine insignia yet. Just him, background slightly blurred out with a big focus on his profile.
"Guss Rover," Price continues, tapping the file lightly. "Before he decided to vanish and play soldier somewhere else."
A faint smirk tugs at someone's mouth. Probably remembering time spent with him from a past memory.
Price gives a quick glance around before continuing.
"He wasn't just good," Price adds. "He was irritatingly good."
A couple nods follow proving what he said to be accurate.
Price flips a page.
"Operation Black Dune. '48. Whole unit pinned outside Basra. Communications gone, air support delayed. Rover disobeyed a direct order," he pauses, glances up briefly "shocking, I know, and went back in alone."
Sitting across from Price is another memorable figure. One that was lost far too early.
John MacTavish aka "Soap" scoffs quietly. "Sounds like him."
"He didn't just go back," Price says. "He dragged three of you out. With one of you already bleeding out."
Eyes shift while someone stares harder at the floor.
Price doesn't name names.
Doesn't need to.
Another page.
"Extraction point Delta-9, northern corridor. Ambush setup, a perfect one at that. Should've wiped the entire convoy."
He taps the folder again, lighter this time.
"Rover spotted it, not through some fancy tech, or through intel. But because he 'Felt something off' that they were able to get out alive".
A few heads tilt at that.
"Felt something wrong?" someone mutters.
Price shrugs, just slightly. "His words, not mine."
A pause.
"He rerouted the convoy, thirty seconds later that road lit up like a goddamn sun."
Silence.
Maybe confusion, or some form of respect?
Because now people are doing the math.
Thirty seconds.
That's all it ever takes, isn't it? (Cough Cough..)
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The plane shifts slightly. Turbulence, maybe.
Price turns another page.
"After that, things start to change."
His tone dips.
"File says 'voluntary transfer.' Says he wanted a 'simpler assignment.' Joined the Marines as a specialist trying for a fresh start."
A dry chuckle escapes from someone with a mask covering his whole face other than his eyes. "Yeah. Sure. Like we don't know what he is really like."
Price doesn't disagree.
"Unofficially?" he continues, eyes scanning the page like he's seeing it again for the first time, "something went sideways, The mission is classified above my clearance, which is the concerning part."
"He walked away from Delta, just like that. no fight or noise that we know of. Almost like he decided he was done. Which is disappointing since he was one of the best of the best"
A pause.
"Didn't stop him from being the same man, though."
Price closes the folder halfway, thumb resting between pages.
"Every single one of you on this flight," he says, voice quieter now, "you've got a line in this file, somewhere. Something he did that kept you breathing."
No one argues.
Because it's true.
And that's the problem.
From the back, a familiar voice, Gary "Roach" Sanderson cuts through.
"So what, you think he's still out there?"
It's not hopeful. Not really, more worry than anything.
Price doesn't answer right away.
He looks down at the folder, then out toward nothing.
"I think," he says slowly, "if there's even a sliver of a chance..."
He stops.
Shakes his head once, like he's annoyed at himself.
"we don't leave him behind. Dead or otherwise."
Not regulation language.
Not even close.
But nobody calls him on it.
Another man leans forward, elbows on knees. "And if he's already gone?"
That question hangs longer than liked.
Price finally looks up.
This time, there's no hesitation.
"Then we make damn sure whoever did it regrets waking up that morning."
Simple. Final.
No speeches, God sure knows these men don't need it.
Just that.
The engines keep humming.
The sky outside as calm as it was since they first took off.
Yet for what its worth, Something far out into the sky where sandy dunes flow like sound through water.
Something is waiting, ready for whatever is to come.
Even if those they wait for are 30 hungry "ghosts".
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That's it for this chapter hope you enjoyed.
I'm thinking of sending one more out today so stay tuned.