My Cult-Leader Brother Called Me A Lowly Flu-Shot Nurse At Our Council Luncheon — Then A Two-Star General Saluted Me As Colonel
I reached the enclave’s perimeter staging area, the desert wind already whipping dust around my combat boots. The sun beat down on the corrugated metal roof of the supply depot, where my specialized surgical flight cases were stored.
A heavy, reinforced vault door stood locked.
Security Chief Elijah Kincaid stood guard in front of it, his posture rigid. He shifted his weight, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Caleb’s orders, Colonel,” he said, his voice tight. “An administrative freeze. He said your defense allotment account is on hold.”
A freeze. My blood ran cold.
“Which account, Elijah?” I asked, my voice calm despite the surge of adrenaline.
“The local one,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “The one for operational expenses within the enclave. He froze a transfer of one hundred eighty thousand dollars this morning.”
My federal defense allotment account. Caleb had gone for the jugular, thinking he could starve out my mission.
“And my equipment?” I asked, my gaze sweeping the heavy door. Inside that vault were specialized orbital trauma equipment worth six hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Essential for the mission.
Elijah swallowed hard. “It’s all in there, Colonel. Under a lien Caleb filed an hour ago. He said it was enclave property.”
His eyes darted to a small, laminated sign taped to the vault door. It detailed an “Emergency Administrative Hold” and referenced an obscure clause in the Sanctum’s bylaws.
This wasn’t just spite. This was an active attempt to disable my mission.
I pulled a small, government-issued card from my flight suit pocket. It held a holographic federal seal and my direct override credentials.
“Elijah,” I said, holding out the card. “This is a federal mandate. I require immediate access to all equipment related to Emergency Order 77. The Sanctum’s bylaws do not supersede federal law.”
His eyes flickered from the card to the locked vault, then back to my face. The weight of the choice was clear on his features. Caleb’s loyalty versus a direct federal order.
A bead of sweat tracked down his temple, even in the shade of the depot.
“You have a choice to make,” I told him, keeping my voice level. “But that door is opening, with or without your cooperation.”
He clenched his jaw, his hand going to the sidearm at his hip, but not drawing it. The silence stretched between us, thick with the unasked question of who truly held authority here.
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