An hour later, the Guardian team gathered in their temporary operations center, which was nothing more than a converted shipping container. The hum of the air conditioner rattled overhead, struggling against the rising heat. Tactical maps were posted on the walls, and the faint buzz of a generator mixed with radio chatter from the team as they practiced through the heat of the day.
Jug dropped into a folding chair and braced his forearms on his knees. The ever-present ring of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. “Six to eight months,” he muttered, swiping at his forehead. “That’s what they’re giving us to turn those guys into an actual fighting force.”
Talon leaned over the central table, his palmspressed flat to the cool metal surface. Six to eight months. His heartbeat still hadn’t settled from the exercise, each steady thump echoing in his ears. Time. Resources. Terrain. All stacked against them.
Failure wasn’t an option. Neither was letting down the people who hired them.
“Might as well be six to eight years,” Stryker muttered, checking the seals on his medical kit. The faint snap of Velcro and click of buckles punctuated his frustration. “Half of them don’t even know basic firearms movement. And don’t get me started on their equipment.”
Talon spread the tactical map across the makeshift briefing table, the surface still faintly warm from the relentless heat outside. The convoy route was marked in a bold red slash between Arjun Ridge Mine and Boka Airstrip. There were forty-seven kilometers of hostile territory where local militias had been increasingly active. The uranium coming out of Arjun Ridge was worth killing for, and everyone in the region knew it.
“The equipment issue isn’t going away,” Talon said, his finger tracing the route. His calloused fingertip caught on the edge of the laminated map. “Half their rifles are older than I am, and theircommunications gear belongs in a museum. But that’s a political problem, not a tactical one.”
“Speaking of political problems,” Dude said in their ears, “I intercepted some chatter yesterday. The Burundu Defense Ministry is under pressure to accelerate its timeline. They want the SRF operational in four months, not eight.”
Jug barked a humorless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Four months? To turn farmers and shopkeepers into convoy security? They might as well ask us to teach camels to fly.”
“What kind of pressure?” Talon asked, a low current of warning threading through his voice. His attention sharpened. Political interference this early was rarely a good sign.
“Unknown,” Dude replied. Talon could hear Dude’s fingers dancing over his keyboard. “But the frequency patterns suggest it’s coming from someone with significant influence. It could be government oversight or the mining consortium. Hell, it could be Washington, for all we know. I’ve up-channeled it to CCS for them to work.”
Hammer glanced up from the disassembled weapon on the table in front of him, his hands stilling. “What about specialized equipment? We keeptalking about training, but these guys need a proper kit if they’re going to have a chance.”
“I’ve got a requisition list longer than my arm,” Jug said. “Night vision, proper body armor, encrypted communications, vehicle upgrades. But every request goes through the Burundu Defense Ministry, and they’ve got about as much urgency as a sloth on quaaludes.”
Talon studied the map again, his gaze tracing the red line of the convoy route. Long stretches of open ground shimmered in his mind’s eye, punctuated by rocky outcroppings that provided perfect cover for ambush positions. The mining company had chosen the path for efficiency, not security, and changing it wasn’t an option.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We focus on what we can control. Jug, work with Captain Oumarou on basic formation discipline. Stryker, medical training is critical. If they can’t keep their wounded alive long enough for extraction, nothing else matters. Wolf, advanced reconnaissance, determination of blind spots, countermeasures, and early warning systems. Hammer, vehicle hardening, and defensive positions at Boka.”
“And you?” Jug asked.
“I’ll be working with their command element ontactical decision-making.” Talon’s voice was clipped, controlled. “Someone needs to teach them how to think three moves ahead instead of just reacting to contact.”
The air was heavy, the hum of electronics buzzing low in the background. Then a new sound broke through. The sharp buzz of an encrypted tablet.
Talon glanced at the screen, expecting another dry logistics update. Instead, the first line he read made his pulse jump, a hard thud against his ribs.
New personnel assignments, Shoemaker Mining Consortium.
His eyes skimmed the list of corporate liaisons, safety inspectors, and administrative staff being deployed to Arjun Ridge. Most were the usual suspects—middle management who’d stay inside the compound and complain about the heat.
Then his gaze caught on a name that pulled the air from his lungs.
Riley Shoemaker, ESG Compliance Officer and Corporate Liaison.
The tablet felt heavier in his hands, the weight disproportionate to the slim device. His grip tightened just enough for the edges to bite into his palm. Heat surged through his chest.
The air conditioner hummed on, weak and ineffective, but the heat pressing in on him had nothing to do with Burundu’s temperature.
“Boss?” Jug’s voice seemed to come from very far away, cutting through the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint buzz of the communications equipment. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Talon forced his expression back to neutral, years of training locking his features into place. His heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm. “Just reviewing incoming personnel assignments. A lot of people. The mining operation is growing.”
He set the tablet down with deliberate care, but the smooth, cool metal felt heavier than it should. His mind was already running scenarios, every one of them ending with Riley in the crosshairs of this place’s danger. “Looks like we’re getting some corporate oversight types at the mine site.”
“Great,” Stryker muttered from where he was organizing his med kit. The sharp snap of plastic echoed in the confined space. “More people to babysit.”
“They’ll be staying at Arjun Ridge,” Talon said, keeping his tone even, measured. “Our primary responsibility is making sure the SRF teams can protect the convoy route and Boka Airstrip. Themining site has its own security protocols and is the size of a small town.” The hired security around the site kept all unwanted people far away. However, Riley was coming into Burundu, her security was his responsibility, whether it was said or not.
