Page 124 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL
Maybe we have, in a way.
Every drill, every simulation, every late-night planning session—it was all preparation for this moment. We just didn't know it.
The truck roars to life beneath us, Knox taking corners with controlled aggression as we tear out of The Forge's compound. I tick through equipment checks automatically: weapons, comms, medical supplies. Everything we might need. Everything we can't afford to forget.
"This is Alpha," I say into my comm unit, using our old callsigns. "Status report."
"This is team Fish and Ships," Caleb's voice crackles back, deliberately obnoxious. "We're oscar mike to waypoint charlie, over."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. Even now, with everything on the line, he can't help himself. "Fish and Ships? That's a mouthful. Choose one."
"Fine, this is team Fish," he amends, and I hear Eli's indignant voice in the background:"What the—we're fishes now?"
The familiar banter settles something in my chest—not completely, but enough to breathe properly again.
These men, my family... they're not just backup. They're my anchor to sanity when the world tries to drag me under.
"This is team Fish," Caleb continues, voice sobering slightly. "I know we can get her out of there, Logan. I know we will."
"I know," I reply softly, and I'm surprised to realize I mean it.
The tower appears through the trees ahead of us—a stark silhouette against the morning sky.
Knox kills the engine while we're still under cover, letting momentum carry us to a silent halt behind a dense stand of pines.
"Time check," I whisper, though I already know the answer.
Asa's voice is grim. "Thirty-eight minutes, twenty-four seconds."
I check my weapon one final time, muscles coiled tight with anticipation and something darker. Something that tastes like memory and smoke and sand.
"Ready?" Knox asks quietly.
I nod once, sharp and certain.
Because this isn't Echo-13.
This isn't me trying to save everyone alone.
This is family coming for their own.
And Granger?
He has no idea what that means.
40
LOGAN
Thirty-eight minutes and counting.
The firewatch tower looms ahead, a rust-scarred skeleton against slate-gray clouds. My breath fogs in quick bursts as I check my gear one last time, hands moving with the precision that comes from decades of muscle memory.
Asa's voice crackles in my ear, barely above a whisper: "Cameras spotted. North face, east corner, southwest approach. All angles covered."
"Confirmed," Knox adds. "Motion sensors too. Military grade."
I scan the terrain, letting my eyes adjust to the pre-dawn shadows. The forest floor is a maze of snow and shadow, each drift potentially hiding a pressure plate or tripwire.
