Chapter 3 — Strickland’s Directive

Colonel Strickland

The air in the MOCC was oppressive, as if the desert heat had seeped into every crevice despite the hum of air conditioning. Colonel Henry Strickland stood on the elevated central platform, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the hive of activity below. The rhythmic clatter of keyboards and clipped voices of officers interwove with the faint hiss of the air conditioning, creating a symphony of order and vigilance. Boots struck the polished floor with measured precision as soldiers moved purposefully between desks, their postures stiffened under the weight of an unspoken tension.

Strickland’s gaze shifted to Lieutenant Emma Hayes through the glass wall of the adjacent briefing room. She stood with her head bent over a supply report, her brow furrowed in focused concentration. Hayes was the epitome of precision: her uniform immaculate, her dark eyes unwavering as they absorbed the data in front of her. She was everything Strickland respected in a soldier—disciplined, methodical, and unrelenting in her pursuit of excellence. And yet, as his fingers tightened behind his back, he couldn’t help but wonder if her rigidity might one day trap her, as his own had once done.

His attention moved to Captain Daniel Rhodes, who strode into the MOCC with an air of unhurried confidence. Rhodes’ sleeves were rolled up just enough to suggest rebellion without actual defiance, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to Hayes’s formality. Strickland’s jaw tightened. Rhodes had a kind of easy charisma that could rally a team in chaos and bend rules without ever fully breaking them. It made him adaptable—a strength in the field—but here, in the rigid machinery of the base’s operations, it was a potential crack in the foundation.

The two officers exchanged a brief, charged moment. Hayes stiffened at Rhodes’s casual greeting, her professionalism bristling against his easy familiarity. Rhodes’s grin was fleeting, but Strickland noticed the way his gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Hayes’s expression remained impassive, but she adjusted her collar with the faintest brush of her fingers—a gesture Strickland recognized as a grounding habit.

“Colonel,” an aide interrupted, snapping a precise salute. “Lieutenant Hayes and Captain Rhodes are ready for your briefing.”

Strickland acknowledged the aide with a curt nod and moved toward the glass doors of the briefing room. His sharp footsteps echoed briefly before the door hissed shut behind him, sealing out the din of the MOCC. Hayes and Rhodes stood at attention, their forms starkly outlined under the harsh overhead lights. Hayes’s symmetrical features were a mask of discipline; Rhodes’s rugged face, though composed, carried a faint edge of tension. Strickland allowed the silence to settle, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room.

“At ease,” he said, his voice clipped and deliberate. He took his place at the head of the table, leaning slightly forward as his hands rested on the cool metal surface. His gaze flicked between the two officers, lingering just long enough to ensure their full attention.

“This base,” he began, his tone measured but unyielding, “operates on precision. Every supply, every movement, every decision fits into a larger system. When that system falters, so does everything that depends on it. And lives are at stake.”

Hayes’s posture remained rigid, her gaze locked on Strickland with unflinching focus. Rhodes leaned back slightly, arms loosely crossed, but his piercing blue eyes never wavered, revealing an attentiveness beneath his relaxed exterior.

“We’re facing a logistical crisis,” Strickland continued, his voice lowering slightly, each word weighted. “Delays in the supply chain aren’t just inefficiencies—they disrupt operations and create vulnerabilities. And now there are whispers of sabotage.”

Hayes’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, her fingers tightening on the spine of the supply report she held. Rhodes straightened in his seat, the ease in his posture replaced by a quiet intensity.

Strickland’s gaze hardened. “I’m assigning the two of you to work together on this matter. Hayes, your logistical expertise speaks for itself. Rhodes, your field experience gives you insight into how these delays are impacting operations. I expect results—swiftly and cleanly.”

“Yes, sir,” Hayes replied crisply, her voice steady, though her grip on the report remained firm.

Rhodes tilted his head slightly, the faintest glimmer of curiosity sharpening his expression. “Colonel, if I may—is there any confirmation of sabotage, or are we still working off speculation?”

Strickland’s jaw tightened, and his words came sharp and direct. “Restore the supply chain, Captain. Speculation isn’t action. If you uncover evidence of foul play, you report it immediately. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Rhodes said evenly, though there was a subtle edge of calculation in his tone, as though filing the information away for later.

Strickland straightened, his hands returning to their habitual clasp behind his back. His gaze turned steely, fixing on both officers. “One more thing,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, clipped warning. “This assignment demands absolute professionalism. I don’t need to remind you of the fraternization policies in place.”

Hayes’s posture remained unchanged, though Strickland caught the faintest flush of color on her cheeks. Rhodes’s jaw tightened slightly, his expression unreadable, but he met Strickland’s gaze without flinching.

“Dismissed,” Strickland said after a beat of silence.

The two officers moved to leave, their strides purposeful but contrasting—hers brisk and precise, his measured and deliberate. Strickland watched as they exited the MOCC, their figures framed briefly in the glass doorway before disappearing into the corridor beyond. He noted the tension humming between them like a taut wire, a connection both dangerous and potentially vital. As they passed out of view, Rhodes leaned slightly toward Hayes, saying something low enough that Strickland couldn’t hear. Hayes responded with a brief, neutral nod, but her hand brushed her collar again, a fleeting gesture that spoke volumes to Strickland’s practiced eye.

Alone in the briefing room, Strickland exhaled a slow, controlled breath. His eyes moved to his desk, where his black leather-bound journal lay waiting. He crossed the room and picked it up, the worn edges familiar under his fingers. Flipping to a marked page, he scanned an entry written years ago.

*“Discipline is the foundation of survival. But discipline without humanity is a hollow structure, destined to collapse under its own weight.”*

The words hit harder now than they had when he’d first written them. His thumb traced the creased ribbon as he closed the journal with a muted thud. The past had taught him that cracks in the system often started as hairline fractures—dismissed, ignored, or underestimated until they widened into catastrophic failures. He had vowed never to make the same mistake again.

His thoughts returned to Hayes and Rhodes. Hayes, brilliant and unyielding, was a pillar of precision but risked isolating herself in her rigidity. Rhodes, charismatic and instinctive, could bridge gaps and inspire, but his unpredictability posed its own dangers. Strickland had paired them not as a gamble, but as a necessary balance—two opposing forces whose combined strengths might hold the base together.

And yet, the unease gnawed at him. The faint, fragile cracks were already forming, barely visible but undeniable. The question remained whether they would reinforce the foundation—or bring it all down.

Strickland placed the journal back on his desk, his reflection visible in the glassy surface of the MOCC beyond. Turning away, he straightened his posture, his steps measured and deliberate as he walked back toward the platform. The base’s survival depended on precision, but perhaps, for once, precision alone wouldn’t be enough.