My Cult-Leader Brother Called Me A Lowly Flu-Shot Nurse At Our Council Luncheon — Then A Two-Star General Saluted Me As Colonel
Inside the military command trailer, the hum of the electronics and the faint scent of sterile wipes filled the air. General Albright finally turned to me, her expression shifting from tactical urgency to a more measured gravity.
“Colonel Finch,” she began, her voice crisp. “It’s time for your full briefing on Emergency Order 77.”
I sat across from her, my hands resting on the worn map table. My mind was still reeling from Caleb’s latest gambit with my patents, but I forced myself to focus. This mission was paramount.
“A commercial orbital recovery vehicle designated ‘Orion-7’ crashed in a remote sector of Nevada,” Albright explained, tapping a stylus on a holographic display that shimmered above the table. A schematic of a sleek, black capsule appeared.
“Orion-7 was carrying experimental biopharmaceuticals—high-value, highly sensitive. But more critically, it was carrying a crew of three personnel.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Three people, trapped.
“The capsule suffered a catastrophic atmospheric re-entry failure,” she continued. “The crew survived the initial impact, but they are now in a zero-g pressurized environment, suffering from extreme trauma. They’re effectively in orbit on the ground.”
She looked at me, her gaze piercing. “You, Colonel, are the only surgeon in the Western Hemisphere trained to operate in zero-g pressurized environments outside of a space station. Your specialized orbital trauma unit is uniquely equipped for this kind of extraction and medical intervention.”
The reality of the mission solidified. It wasn’t just about recovering samples; it was about saving lives in conditions that few could even comprehend.
“Who owns Orion-7?” I asked. “And what kind of biopharmaceuticals?”
Albright paused, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “The capsule’s commercial owner is an anonymous corporate defense trust. Highly classified. The biopharmaceuticals are… proprietary. Black-budget. Critical for national security applications.”
“Syndicate tech,” I realized, the words slipping out before I could stop them. The pieces were starting to fit. A commercial orbital vehicle, black-budget, anonymous owners. This sounded exactly like the kind of operation Silas Drake would be involved in, laundering his funds through high-tech ventures.
Albright’s expression didn’t change, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She neither confirmed nor denied it.
“Your mission is to get to that capsule, extract the crew, and stabilize them,” she stated, ignoring my comment. “No matter what else is happening here. Their survival is contingent on your unique skills.”
The weight of the mission settled on me, pushing aside the immediate concerns of Caleb’s petty betrayals. Human lives were at stake. The fight with Caleb was a distraction, albeit a critical one, from the true purpose for which I had trained for a decade.
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