My Boss Forced Me To Approve Defective Armor For Frontline Soldiers—When His Enforcer Grabbed Me In The Base Washhouse, I Put Him On The Floor And Uncovered His Darkest Secret
The sky over Da Nang Base opened up, unleashing a torrent of rain just as the night generators sputtered and died. The roar of the downpour swallowed the last gasp of machinery, plunging the entire area into a disorienting, absolute darkness.
I pulled the canvas fatigue hood tighter around my face. The heavy rain plastered the fabric to my skin, mixing with sweat. My feet, clad in worn combat boots, moved silently over the slick concrete, barely making a sound.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum in the overwhelming quiet. The base, usually a vibrant hum of activity, was now a ghost town. The emergency lights were slow to kick in, casting only weak, intermittent pools of orange light that seemed to make the darkness deeper.
I walked past armed guards, their silhouettes barely visible in the downpour. They were focused outwards, on the perimeter fence, their flashlights sweeping the empty fields beyond. My drab canvas clothing, indistinguishable from a hundred other maintenance workers or exhausted grunts returning from a late detail, made me invisible. They didn’t even glance my way. They certainly didn’t recognize the “treasonous spy” Finch had plastered on every bulletin board.
The rain beat down, washing away the dust, the noise, and for a moment, the overwhelming tension. It felt almost cleansing, a prelude to something inevitable.
I reached Finch’s executive bunker, a squat, reinforced concrete structure. The heavy steel door was closed, but not locked. During blackouts, it was standard procedure for the outer door to be unsecured, allowing critical personnel to access emergency equipment. Only the inner sanctum, Finch’s personal office, would be secured.
I pushed the door open, slipping inside. The sound of the rain outside was muffled, replaced by the damp, stale air of the bunker. A faint, flickering glow emanated from the end of the corridor.
My boots made no sound on the concrete floor as I moved towards the light. I could hear the faint scratch of a pen, the rustle of paper. He was there. Just as Ward’s log had predicted.
I reached the inner door, slightly ajar. Through the crack, I saw him. Garrison Finch, or rather, Gerald Albright, sat alone at his imposing mahogany desk. A single kerosene lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, illuminating his face in an eerie, shifting glow.
He was oblivious, engrossed in a stack of ledgers, his red signature pen moving across the page. He was counting his money, finalizing his deals, while the base outside plunged into darkness and the truth waited at his door.
I pushed the door open fully, taking a silent step inside. The heavy oak swung inwards without a sound, a phantom entry. Finch didn’t even look up. He was alone, isolated by his greed and shielded by the darkness. And I was here.
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