The alarm pierced the darkness at 0400 hours, but Lieutenant Emma Kate Sterling was already awake. She had been staring at the ceiling of her quarters at Naval Base Coronado for the past 20 minutes, running through the day surveillance protocol in her mind. The small room was sparse, almost monastic.

 A single bed with military tight corners, a desk with a secure laptop, and on the wall, single photograph in a simple frame. Marcus Sterling, 22 years old forever. Army infantry, killed in action. Helman Province, Afghanistan, 2014. Emma sat up her feet touching the cold floor. 5’4 and 130 lb.

 She looked like someone you’d pass in a grocery store without a second glance. That was exactly the point. For the past 18 days, she had been invisible. A ghost moving through the Naval Special Warfare Center, observing, documenting, hunting. She pulled on running gear and laced her boots with practiced efficiency.

 Outside, the California darkness was beginning to fade to gray. The air smelled of salt and diesel fuel, the constant perfume of a naval base. Emma stepped out onto the path and began to run. Her route took her past the training grounds where young men were already gathering for morning physical training. They wore their SEAL trident with pride.

 These recent graduates of basic underwater demolition seal training. Buds survivors, hellweak veterans. They thought they were warriors now. Emma ran past them without acknowledgement. Her breathing steady and controlled. 50 lbs of weight in her rucks sack. The same load she’d carried through the mountains of Afghanistan.

 The same load she’d carried when she pulled a wounded teammate 3 miles to an extraction point with a bullet lodged in her own leg. None of the men running their morning drills knew who she was. They saw a small woman in plain PT gear. probably some admin worker trying to stay in shape.

 If they thought about her at all, it was with the casual dismissal that came naturally to men who had just survived the toughest training in the American military. That ignorance was her greatest weapon. 10 miles later, Emma returned to her quarters as the sun broke over the Pacific. She stripped off her sweat soaked shirt and stood before the small mirror. The scars told a story her cover identity could never reveal.

the puckered mark on her left shoulder where an enemy round had punched through muscle. The long surgical scar on her right thigh from the bullet she’d carried for three miles. And the tattoos carefully hidden beneath regulation sleeves and collars. A Navy Seal trident over her heart.

 Geographic coordinates on her inner left arm marking the spot where Marcus had died. And on her right rib cage, a series of small hash marks, 37 of them, one for each confirmed kill in six years of combat operations across four deployments. Emma opened the hidden compartment beneath her desk with a fingerprint scanner.

 Inside lay the truth of who she really was, a Navy cross in his presentation case, the citation still classified. A silver star from Helman Province. A purple heart with two oakleaf clusters. Commenation medals. she would never wear in public for operations the American people would never know about.

 She powered up her laptop and entered three separate passwords. The screen came to life with a familiar heading, Operation Silent Watch, Day 18 of 21. The secure video connection took 30 seconds to establish. When Commander Peterson’s face appeared on screen, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. At 53, Peterson was a career NCIS investigator who had seen every kind of betrayal the military could produce.

 But this case was keeping him up at night. Status report. Lieutenant Peterson said without preamble. Emma glanced at her notes. Narrowed to eight suspects, all recent Buds graduates awaiting team assignments. Primary subject is recruit Brett Hansen, 23 years old from Minnesota.

 He’s been making encrypted calls on a burner phone for the past 2 weeks. Always outside, always alone. Changes SIM cards every 3 days. You’re certain he’s the leak. 70%. I need confirmation of physical handoff to his contact based on his pattern. That should happen in the next 48 hours. Peterson rubbed his eyes. You have 3 days before these recruits deploy to operational teams.

 Once they’re embedded in SEAL team 3, we can’t touch them without compromising active missions. Get me evidence, Emma. Solid evidence. Understood, sir. And Lieutenant, you’re doing good work. I know this isn’t easy being undercover in your own community. Emma’s jaw tightened. It’s necessary, sir. Six of our people died because of leaked operational protocols.

 If Hansen is the source, he doesn’t deploy. He goes to Levvenworth. Peterson nodded. Three days, Emma. Make them count. The connection terminated. Emma sat back in her chair staring at the photograph of Marcus.

 He was grinning in the picture, wearing his Army combat uniform, looking every inch the warrior he’d believed himself to be. 22 years old and invincible, right up until the moment an improvised explosive device tore through his convoy on a road that should have been safe, a road the Taliban knew about because someone had sold them patrol route information. Emma had been 20 years old when Marcus died already deep into her own training pipeline.

 She’d taken emergency leave for the funeral, stood at attention while they handed their mother the folded flag, and listened to the chaplain talk about sacrifice and honor. 3 days later, she’d returned to training with a new clarity of purpose. She would find the people who sold secrets. She would stop the leaks.

 She would make sure no other young soldier died because someone chose money over loyalty. That was 10 years ago. Now at 29, Emma Sterling had become a weapon specifically designed to hunt traitors. The Navy Seal Trident on her chest wasn’t just decoration. It was earned through three years of training and six years of combat, four deployments, 37 enemy combatants killed in action. Operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Somalia that would remain classified for decades.

 And now the hardest mission of her career, going undercover among her own people, pretending to be weak when she was anything but. Emma showered and dressed in her cover costume. Khaki pants, a plain button-down shirt, comfortable shoes. She pulled her dark hair back into a simple ponytail, and put on minimal makeup.

 In the mirror, she looked like exactly what her cover identity claimed a civilian logistics coordinator contracted to review training protocols and supply chain efficiency. Boring, harmless, beneath notice, perfect. The morning shift at the administration building was mind-numbing by design. Emma sat at a desk processing actual logistics paperwork, maintaining her cover while her real attention focused on the security camera feeds displayed on a secondary monitor.

 She watched Brett Hansen move through the base, tracking his patterns, documenting his contacts. Hansen was careful she’d give him that. He never used his personal phone for anything suspicious. The burner device stayed powered off except for brief windows of communication. He varied his routines just enough to avoid establishing a predictable pattern.

 If Emma hadn’t been specifically looking for this behavior, she might have missed it entirely. But she had been looking. For 18 months, NCIS had been investigating a leak of classified SEAL training protocols. Someone was selling detailed information about tactics, equipment, and operational procedures to foreign intelligence services. The impact had been devastating.

 Six SEALs killed in operations where the enemy had been specifically prepared for American tactics. Millions of dollars in compromised equipment. Training programs that had to be completely redesigned. The investigation had narrowed to this base to this specific group of recent graduates.

 And Emma Sterling, with her unique combination of SEAL operational experience and counter intelligence training, had been the obvious choice to go undercover. She was hunting a traitor among warriors and she was close to finding him. At noon, Emma gathered her tablet and walked to the cafeteria. This was the critical surveillance window when the base population gathered for lunch and social patterns became visible.

 She purchased a simple meal and moved to her usual table in the corner, the one with clear sightelines to the area where Hansen and his companions typically ate. The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday chaos. Hundreds of service members filled the long tables, their conversations mixing with the clatter of trays and the institutional smell of mass-roduced food.

 Emma opened her tablet and appeared to review logistics spreadsheets while her actual attention focused on the reflection in the window beside her. Hansen sat with his group at a center table. 18 men, all recent BUDS graduates, all waiting for their team assignments. They were loud, energetic, still riding the high of having survived the toughest training the Navy could devise.

 Emma had watched them for 3 weeks now, documenting their behavior, identifying the group dynamics. The informal leader was recruit Dylan Tucker, 23 years old from Oklahoma. 6’2 and athletic with the easy confidence of a former high school quarterback who had never really failed at anything before Buddy Cheese.

 Tucker was charismatic in the way young alpha males often are drawing people into his orbit through sheer force of personality. He was also deeply insecure beneath the bravado. Emma had observed him enough to see the tells. The way he checked his phone obsessively for messages from his father, a former army officer who had set impossibly high standards.

 The way Tucker positioned himself physically to dominate every conversation. The way he needed constant validation from his peers. Hansen sat at Tucker’s right hand, part of the inner circle. He laughed at the jokes participated in the banner, played the role of loyal teammate. But Emma had noticed something the others missed. Every few meals, Hansen would excuse himself to use the restroom.

 He’d be gone for exactly 7 minutes, and when he returned, the burner phone in his pocket would have been powered on and then off again. Emma made notes on her tablet, maintaining her cover as a diligent worker while actually documenting every detail. She planted an audio surveillance device near the spot where Hansen typically made his calls. The recordings were encrypted and uploaded to a secure NCIS server automatically.

So far, Hansen had been frustratingly careful speaking encoded language that would mean nothing to a casual listener. But patterns emerged if you watched long enough. And Emma Sterling was patient. She was so focused on her surveillance that she almost missed the shift in atmosphere. The change was subtle at first.

 Tucker’s voice, usually loud and confident, had dropped to a more conspiratorial tone. His tablemates were leaning in their body language, shifting from casual lunch to coordinated planning, and they were all looking at her. Emma’s combat trained instincts analyzed the threat before her conscious mind fully processed it.

 18 men, non-combatant classification, but physically capable. Group mentality activated, feeding off shared energy. Leader asserting dominance, followers supporting through presence. Classic pack behavior. She had seen this before in hostile villages in Afghanistan. Different culture, same psychology.

 Young men pumped full of testosterone and a sense of invincibility, convincing themselves that intimidating someone smaller was somehow connected to proving their warrior credentials. They didn’t know they had just targeted one of the most dangerous people on this entire base. Emma continued taking notes on her tablet, but her peripheral vision tracked every movement at Tucker’s table.

 Three of the 18 looked uncomfortable with whatever was being discussed. Good. That meant they had functioning moral compasses. The others were nodding, smiling, working themselves up to something. Tucker stood up. The movement was casual, but Emma recognized it for what it was. A decision had been made.

 The Alpha had committed to action, and the pack would follow. Her mind raced through tactical options. She could leave now, avoid the confrontation entirely, but that would signal weakness, and weakness invited escalation. These men would interpret retreat as validation of their dominance. They’d continue the behavior, possibly targeting others. Alternatively, she could maintain her position and force them to make the approach, control the terrain, dictate the terms of engagement, and respond with precisely calibrated force if they cross the line. Emma made her decision.

She would stay. She would give them every opportunity to walk away. But if they put hands on her, she would demonstrate exactly why Master Chief Ray Sullivan had chosen this particular corner table where he could watch from the kitchen serving line without being obvious about it. Sullivan, 58 years old, 40 years of Navy service, and a veteran of every American conflict from Panama to Afghanistan.

 He’d earned his nickname Gunner during Desert Storm, serving as a door gunner on Navy helicopters during combat operations. The man had forgotten more about warfare than most people would ever learn, and he’d been watching Emma for 3 weeks with the careful attention of someone who recognized a predator pretending to be prey.

 Emma had noticed Sullivan surveillance almost immediately. He was good, better than most, but she’d been trained by the best in the intelligence community. She clocked him on day two and made a calculated decision to let him watch. Sullivan was old school Navy, the kind of senior enlisted man who had seen enough combat to respect capability over appearance.

 If this situation escalated, Sullivan would manage the aftermath. Emma just had to make sure the lesson was clear and the damage minimal. Tucker’s group began to move, not all at once, but in a casual drift that was nonetheless coordinated. Five men stood and began walking toward her table.

 then three more, then the rest like a wave gaining momentum. Emma counted exits while appearing to focus on her tablet. The main doors were at 10:00 20 m away. The kitchen entrance at 2:00 12 m. The rear emergency exit at 7:00 15 m through the serving area. Tucker’s group was positioning themselves to cut off all three routes. They were smarter than she’d given them credit for.

 18 men formed a loose semicircle around her table, close enough to create a sense of encroachment, but not so close as to constitute an immediate physical threat. Tucker positioned himself at the center, clearly establishing himself as the spokesman for whatever was about to happen. Emma finally looked up from her tablet.

 Her expression was neutral, professional, and completely unintimidated by the numerical disadvantage she faced. She’d been outnumbered before in villages where hostile fighters had surrounded her position. This was just another Tuesday evening, Tucker said, his voice carrying forced casualenness. Couldn’t help but notice you sitting here all by yourself. That doesn’t seem very friendly.

 Emma met his gaze directly. Years of combat had taught her that appearing weak or nervous in these situations only encouraged escalation. “Good evening,” she replied, her voice steady and clear. Tucker smiled, but there was no warmth in it. We’ve been wondering something. What exactly do you do here? Administrative work. That’s vague.

 Tucker sat down uninvited at her table, invading her space with deliberate casualness. What kind of administrative work? The kind that’s none of your concern, recruit. The slight emphasis on his rank was intentional. A reminder that despite his recent graduation from Bo De, he was still at the bottom of the military hierarchy. The flush that crept up Tucker’s neck told Emma the barb had landed.

 “See, that’s the thing,” Tucker continued, leaning forward. “We just finished the toughest training in the world. Hell week, 23 weeks of proving ourselves. And you?” He gestured at her tablet, at her civilian clothes, at everything about her that appeared soft and administrative. “What have you done?” Emma could have ended this conversation with a single sentence.

 She could have told them exactly what she’d done, shown them the classified credentials that would make them snap to attention and apologize profusely. But that would blow her cover, compromise the mission, and potentially let a traitor walk free. So instead, she said simply, “My job.” “Your job is watching us like we’re criminals,” Tucker shot back.

 The other 17 had drawn closer, tightening the circle, making notes, judging. “We’ve seen you these past 3 weeks. always sitting alone, always watching, always writing things down. Emma glanced around the semicircle of faces. Most were excited, feeding off Tucker’s energy and the thrill of confrontation. Three looked distinctly uncomfortable. One in particular, a massive man they called Moose Patterson, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

 “I suggest you return to your table,” Emma said calmly. “I suggest you explain why you’ve been watching us for 3 weeks,” Tucker replied. He stood up using his height advantage to loom over her. At 6’2, he towered over her 5’4 frame by 10 in and outweighed her by at least 60 lb. Emma remained seated, standing would signal that she felt threatened.

 Instead, she set down her tablet with careful precision and folded her hands on the table. Every movement was controlled, economical, revealing. Nothing of the combat calculations running through her mind. “You’re imagining things,” she said. “Bullshit.” Tucker’s voice was rising now, drawing attention from other tables.

 You sit here every day staring at us, judging us like you’re better than us. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to apologize for being antisocial and disrespectful to real warriors, or we’re going to continue this conversation until you understand how things work around here.

 There it was, the explicit threat, the line crossed from posturing to actual intimidation. Emma felt the familiar calm descend over her, the same mental state she entered when a mission shifted from potential conflict to actual combat. Her breathing remained steady. Her muscles stayed relaxed but ready.

 Her mind became crystal clear, processing threats and responses at a level that years of training had made automatic. She could disable Tucker in under 3 seconds, create an opening in their formation, and move toward an exit before most of them realized what had happened. But these weren’t enemy combatants.

 They were misguided kids making stupid decisions based on incomplete information and inflated egos. The real question was how much of a lesson they needed to learn. Tucker leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath smelled of coffee and the mint gum he’d been chewing. “Stand up,” he said quietly, but with an undercurrent of menace.

 “Stand up and apologize, or I’ll his hand moved toward her shoulder. Not a punch, not overt violence. Just to grab the kind of physical dominance display young men use when they want to assert control without technically starting a fight. Emma’s mind processed the movement in the fraction of a second it took Tucker’s hand to close half the distance to her shoulder. Legal threshold.

 Unwanted physical contact constituted assault under military law. Self-defense was authorized. Proportional force was acceptable. Target analysis. Male 6’2, 195 pounds, athletic, but trained in only basic hand-to-hand combat techniques. Recent Buds graduate. So, high pain tolerance, but limited actual fighting experience.

 Center of gravity, high weight distribution, forward, left foot planted, right foot at 45°. Her advantages, speed, technique, surprise, and six years of combat experience against his six months of training. Close quarters battle expertise from operations where failure meant death. Muscle memory so deeply ingrained that her body would respond faster than conscious thought. Decision tree neutralize the immediate threat. Make it educational rather than destructive.

Demonstrate capability without causing permanent injury. Send a message that would prevent future incidents. All of this analysis happened in 4/10en of a second. Tucker’s hand was 6 in from her shoulder when Emma moved. Her left hand shot up and intercepted his wrist with a a grip fingers wrapping around the joint with precise placement.

 She rotated counterclockwise using his own momentum against him, redirecting the energy of his grab into a control hold. Basic judo principle taught in every martial arts class, but executed with the kind of precision that came from applying it in actual combat, where mistakes got you killed. Tucker’s eyes widened in surprise.

 He tried to pull back, but Emma was already standing, stepping into him rather than away. Victims retreated. Fighters closed distance. At 4/10en of a second, Emma’s right palm struck Tucker’s solar plexus with approximately 40% of her maximum force.

 Enough to cause immediate diaphragm spasm, knocking the wind out of him, making it impossible to breathe or fight. Not enough to cause lasting damage. Tucker’s body doubled forward involuntarily, a purely physiological response to having his breathing mechanism temporarily disrupted. “Emma maintained her grip on his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back in a standing arm lock, applying pressure to his shoulder joint.

” “You wanted to know what I’ve proven,” Emma said calmly, her voice barely above conversational volume. Tucker tried to respond, but he was still fighting for breath. His face had gone red, his free hand clutching at his chest. Emma applied slightly more pressure to the arm lock.

 Not enough to dislocate the shoulder, but enough to make it very clear that she could. I’ve proven I can fast rope from a helicopter at night in a sandstorm and hit the ground running with a full combat load. She swept Tucker’s right leg with her left foot while controlling his descent with the arm lock.

 He went down hard but controlled his face, hitting the edge of the table with a solid thunk that would leave a bruise but no permanent damage. The entire sequence from the moment Tucker’s hand moved toward her shoulder to the moment his face hit the table had taken 2.3 seconds. Emma transitioned to a knee on Tucker’s spine, maintaining the arm lock while using her body weight to pin him in place.

 The position was a classic pain compliance hold used by military police and special operations forces worldwide. Any attempt to move would cause exponentially increasing pain in the shoulder joint. I’ve proven I can navigate 40 miles through enemy territory with no GPS and arrive on target within a two-minute window.

 Emma continued as if she were discussing routine paperwork rather than demonstrating combat techniques on a man who outweighed her by 60 lb. Tucker made a strangled sound and tried to move. Emma applied a fractional increase in pressure. He immediately stopped moving. I’ve proven I can eliminate threats at 800 meters in zero visibility conditions while my heart rate is over 160 beats per minute. The other 17 recruits stood frozen.

 Their brains were struggling to process what had just happened. Their leader, the alpha of their pack, the man who had led them through hell week, was face down on the cafeteria floor, completely controlled by a woman half his size, who had moved so fast most of them hadn’t even seen the technique. Three of them had taken involuntary steps backward.

 Eight stood with their mouths literally hanging open. Five were calculating whether they should intervene their hands, twitching toward fighting stances, then relaxing as they realized they had no idea how to handle someone with Emma’s demonstrated capabilities.

 Moose Patterson, the gentle giant who had never wanted to be part of this confrontation, looked relieved that it was over. Emma scanned all 17 faces, reading their body language, assessing threat levels, calculating her response. If they decided to rush her, if they came all at once, she’d have to disable Tucker’s shoulder to free Eraser. Her hands, grab the fork on her tray as an improvised weapon position.

 Tucker’s body as a barrier and engage the nearest threats while moving toward an exit. She could do it. She trained for exactly these kinds of scenarios. Multiple opponents confined space improvised weapons, but it would cause real injuries. And these were still her fellow service members, not enemy combatants.

 Fortunately, none of them moved. “What have you proven, recruit?” Emma said, looking down at Tucker, “That you can gang up on someone eating dinner.” She released the arm lock and stood up smoothly, taking two steps back to give Tucker space to recover.

 The movement was controlled and deliberate, demonstrating that she was ending the confrontation by choice rather than necessity. Tucker scrambled to his feet, one hand rubbing his arm, the other touching his lip where it had split against the table edge. Blood trickled down his chin. His face was flushed with a mixture of pain, embarrassment, and the residual adrenaline of someone who had just learned a very hard lesson about making assumptions. The cafeteria had gone quiet.

 Not completely silent, but noticeably quieter as people at nearby tables realized something significant had just happened. Conversation stopped mid-sentence. Heads turned toward Emma’s corner and from the kitchen serving line, Master Chief Ray Sullivan emerged with the measured stride of someone who had seen enough military drama to recognize when the situational reports would be required. Sullivan was 58 years old, but he moved like a man a decade younger.

 40 years in the Navy had left him with scars, a slight limp from a bullet wound in Helman Province. and the kind of situational awareness that came from surviving combat in Panama, the Gulf War, Somalia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. His weathered face gave away nothing as he approached, but his eyes were sharp and assessing.

 “Everything all right over here?” Sullivan asked his tone, carrying the kind of authority that demanded honest answers rather than creative explanations. Tucker looked around desperately for support from his companions, but found that most of them were suddenly very interested in their shoes.

 Standing up to a small woman had seemed like a group activity, but explaining the aftermath to a senior non-commissioned officer was clearly a solo responsibility. Yes, Master Chief Tucker managed his voice still rough from having the wind knocked out of him, just a misunderstanding. Sullivan studied the faces around him with the practiced eye of someone who had dealt with young warriors for four decades. The mixture of embarrassment, confusion, and residual shock was easy to read.

 But he also noticed something else. The way they were all very carefully not looking at the woman who stood calmly beside her table. Her posture relaxed but balanced her breathing normal, her eyes alert. Sullivan had been watching this woman for 3 weeks. He’d notice things. The way she moved with economy and precision. The way she observed everything while appearing to notice nothing.

 The way she ran 10 miles every morning with a 50 lb ruck and never looked winded. the way she positioned herself with her back to walls and clear sight lines to exits. “He’d seen enough operators in his 40 years to recognize another one, even when they were pretending to be something else.” “A misunderstanding,” Sullivan repeated slowly. He looked at Emma.

 “And you, ma’am, how do you see the situation?” Emma met his gaze directly. For a moment, she considered her options. Press charges and the investigation would reveal her true identity. blow her cover, lose 18 days of surveillance work, and potentially let a traitor escape justice. Let it go and maintain her operational security.

 Just a misunderstanding, Master Chief, Emma said. No harm done. Sullivan’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t believe her, but he was also old enough and experienced enough to recognize when someone was operating under constraints he didn’t fully understand. “Very well,” he said. He turned to Tucker. Get yourself to medical sun.

 That lip needs attention. The rest of you back to your tables. The group dispersed like roaches exposed to light, suddenly finding urgent reasons to be anywhere else. Tucker stood there for another few seconds, his hands still on his bleeding lip, his eyes filled with a complicated mixture of humiliation and dawning realization.

 “Move along, recruit,” Sullivan said not unkindly. Tucker moved along. Sullivan waited until the 18 had scattered to various corners of the cafeteria before turning back to Emma. “Ma’am, might I have a word?” “Privately?” Emma nodded. They walked together toward a quiet corner near the kitchen entrance, far enough from other tables that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Sullivan spoke quietly.

That was textbook restraint technique, military police standard, but executed faster and cleaner than I’ve seen outside of special operations. Emma said nothing. You want to tell me who you really are? Logistics coordinator,” Emma replied evenly. “Bullshit,” Sullivan said, but without heat. “I’ve been doing this for 40 years, ma’am. I know an operator when I see one.

” Emma studied him carefully. Sullivan’s service record was a matter of official record. 40 years of honorable service, multiple combat deployments, decorations for Valor in Panama, Desert Storm Somalia, and two tours in Iraq. He’d been wounded in action three times and kept coming back. Men like Sullivan were the backbone of the Navy, the institutional memory that kept young warriors alive.

 And men like Sullivan could be trusted if the cause was right. Some training, Emma admitted carefully. Sullivan almost smiled. Some training, right? He glanced back toward where Tucker and his friends had scattered. For what it’s worth, they had it coming. And you showed admirable restraint. Could have hurt him a lot worse.

 wasn’t trying to hurt him, Master Chief. Just educating him. Now, Sullivan did smile. Well, he got educated. He paused, then added quietly, “Whoever you really are, ma’am, you’re okay in my book. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” Emma nodded her thanks.

 Sullivan walked away, leaving her alone in the corner of the cafeteria. The adrenaline was fading now, replaced by the familiar postcombat assessment. Emma’s hands weren’t shaking. Her breathing was normal, her heartbeat already returning to baseline. Good, professional. The response of someone who had been in enough real fights that a cafeteria confrontation barely registered as a threat.

 But there would be consequences. There always were. Emma returned to her quarters and immediately opened her secure laptop. The incident would be spreading through the base social networks within minutes. Someone had probably recorded it on their phone.

 By tomorrow morning, everyone at Coronado would know that a civilian logistics coordinator had put a Buds graduate on the floor in under 3 seconds. Her cover was compromised. The secure connection to Commander Peterson took longer than usual to establish. When his face appeared on screen, Emma could see the tension in his jaw.

 “I’ve already received three calls about an incident in the base cafeteria,” Peterson said without preamble. “Please tell me that wasn’t you.” “It was me, sir. situation forced my hand. Recruit Dylan Tucker and 17 others cornered me. Tucker made physical contact without consent. I responded with minimum necessary force. Peterson closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Emma, your entire mission depended on being invisible. I know, sir.

 And now you’re viral on base social media. Half a dozen phones recorded the whole thing. You’ve got SEALs calling their friends saying some mystery woman just demonstrated advanced hand-to-hand techniques in the middle of lunch. I understand, sir. The mission is compromised. The mission is over, Peterson corrected. We’re pulling you out. Xfill at 0800 tomorrow.

 We’ll assign someone else to continue the investigation. Emma felt something cold settle in her chest. Sir, I’m 24 hours from confirmation. Hansen is meeting his contact tomorrow night. I’ve tracked his pattern for 3 weeks. If you bring in someone new, we lose all that groundwork. Your cover is blown, Lieutenant. The moment you demonstrated those techniques, every operator on this base started asking questions.

 By tomorrow, someone’s going to connect the dots. You think Hansen won’t hear about it? He’s going to know something’s wrong. Give me 24 hours, Emma said. I can finish this. That’s not a request I can grant. Then consider it a statement of intent, sir, with respect, Peterson’s expression hardened. That would constitute disobeying a direct order, Lieutenant Sterling. Yes, sir, it would.

There was a long silence on the call. Peterson looked at something offscreen, probably Emma’s service record. Four deployments, 37 confirmed kills, a Navy cross that was still classified. He was weighing her operational value against her potential for insubordination. Finally, he sighed.

 If you do this, if you disobey this order and continue the operation, you’re on your own. No backup, no support, no legal protection if things go sideways. And if you fail, there will be consequences. Career-ending consequences. Understood, sir. Then, as of this moment, this conversation never happened.

 You are officially ordered to Xfill at a 800 hours. What you do after that is on you. Yes, sir. The connection terminated. Emma sat in the darkness of her quarters, looking at the photograph of Marcus, 22 years old and smiling, believing he was invincible right up until the moment the IED tore through his convoy.

 Someone had sold the patrol route information that put him on that road at that time. Someone had traded American lives for money. And now, 10 years later, Emma was 24 hours away from catching another trader doing exactly the same thing. She couldn’t walk away. Not when she was this close. Emma opened her tactical kit and began preparing for tomorrow.

 If she was going to disobey orders and operate without authorization, she needed to be ready for anything. She checked her Sig Sauer P226, loaded fresh magazines, tested her button camera, and audio recorder. Everything had to work perfectly. At midnight, there was a soft knock on her door. Emma tensed hand moving toward her weapon, then relaxed when she heard the voice. “Ma’am, it’s Master Chief Sullivan. Need to talk to you.

” Emma opened the door. Sullivan stood in the hallway in civilian clothes, his weathered face serious. “Master Chief, this isn’t a good time.” “It never is,” Sullivan said. “May I come in?” Emma hesitated, then stepped aside. Sullivan entered his eyes immediately, cataloging the sparse room, the tactical gear on the desk, the secure laptop still open and displaying encrypted files. You’re not logistics, Sullivan said flatly.

 No, your military special operations. Yes. And you’re working something, an investigation. Emma said nothing. Sullivan crossed his arms. Here’s what I know. For 3 weeks, you’ve been watching a specific group of recruits. Today that group decided to confront you and you put their leader on the floor using techniques that aren’t taught in basic training. Now you’re packing tactical gear at midnight.

 He paused. You’re hunting someone. Emma made a decision. Sullivan was too smart and too experienced to deceive with halftruths. And more importantly, she might need his help in the next 24 hours. I’m Navy Seal attached to NCIS, she said quietly. There’s a leak. Someone’s been selling classified training protocols to foreign intelligence. Six of our people are dead because of it.

 Sullivan’s expression darkened. And you think it’s one of those 18 kids from today. One of them. Yes. Which one? Can’t tell you. Operational security? Sullivan nodded slowly. What do you need? Tonight’s incident. It needs to be buried. No official reports, no investigations, just forgotten.

 You want me to make an assault on an officer disappear? I want you to protect a mission that could save American lives. Sullivan was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You have a brother, Marine,” I saw the photo on your desk. Emma tensed. “You’ve been in my quarters.” “I check out anyone who moves like you do,” Sullivan said without apology.

 “Your brother? He died because of a leak.” Emma’s jaw tightened. “Helman Province, 2014. patrol route was sold to the Taliban. IED took out his convoy. Sullivan’s expression softened slightly. Then you’ve got 24 hours, Lieutenant. I’ll handle the recruits. You handle your mission. Thank you, Master Chief. Sullivan turned to leave, then paused at the door. One more thing.

 When this is over, when you catch whoever’s responsible, make sure they understand what they cost us. Not just the six who died. Not just your brother. All of it. Make them understand. I will, Emma promised. After Sullivan left, Emma lay on her bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. 24 hours.

 One day to finish what she’d started, catch a traitor, and deliver justice for Marcus and all the others who had died because someone decided to sell secrets. She thought about Tucker and his 17 companions. They’d learned a lesson today about making assumptions. But the real lesson was still ahead. The lesson about what it really meant to be a warrior, what it really cost.

 What happened when you failed to protect the people who trusted you? Tomorrow, someone else would learn that lesson the hard way. Emma closed her eyes and began the pre-mission ritual she’d followed for 6 years. Deep breathing to slow her heart rate. Mental rehearsal of every step of tomorrow’s operation.

 Visualization of success, but also preparation for every possible way things could go wrong. She thought of Marcus one more time. pictured his smile, his cocky confidence, his absolute certainty that he would come home from Afghanistan. She thought about the moment she’d learned he was dead, the way the world had seemed to stop and then restart without him in it.

 Tomorrow, she whispered to the darkness, “Tomorrow I finish this.” Outside the California night was quiet except for the distant sound of the Pacific. Somewhere on this base, a traitor was sleeping soundly, convinced he’d never be caught. Convinced that his clever precautions and careful trade craft would keep him safe. He had no idea that Emma Sterling was coming for him.

 And when she came, there would be no mercy, no second chances. Just Justice delivered with the same cold precision she’d shown on four deployments and 37 combat engagements. The hunt would end tomorrow. One way or another, the leak would be stopped.

 The sun rose over naval base Coronado at 0547 hours, painting the Pacific in shades of red and gold that old sailors claimed meant storms were coming. Emma Sterling had been awake for 3 hours, sitting motionless in her quarters, running through every possible scenario for the next 18 hours. By 0800, she was supposed to be a exfiltrated pulled from the mission.

 She’d spent 18 days building. Commander Peterson had given her a direct order, and she had acknowledged that order with full knowledge that she intended to disobey it. Career-ending consequences, Peterson had said, “Court marshall, dishonorable discharge, prison time at Fort Levvenworth, if things went badly enough.

” Emma looked at the photograph of Marcus and felt no hesitation at all. At 0800 precisely, Master Chief Sullivan conducted morning formation with the 18 recruits who had been involved in yesterday’s cafeteria incident. Emma watched from her quarters via the security camera feed she’d quietly hacked 3 days into her surveillance operation.

 Sullivan stood before the young men with the bearing of someone who had earned his authority through four decades of service and combat in five different wars. The recruits stood at attention, shoulders back, eyes forward. But Emma could read the tension in their bodies. They knew something was coming. Tucker’s lip was swollen, his right eye showing the beginning of a spectacular bruise from where his face had connected with the table edge.

Several of his companions kept glancing at him nervously. Sullivan spoke without raising his voice, but every word carried across the training yard. Yesterday, 18 of you made a decision. You decided to confront a civilian contractor who was eating her lunch and minding her own business. You surrounded her. You intimidated her.

 And one of you put hands on her without consent. The recruits remained at attention, but Emma saw several of them swallow hard. That civilian contractor, Sullivan continued, declined to press charges. She could have had every single one of you brought up on assault charges. Could have ended your careers before they even started.

But she showed you mercy you didn’t deserve. Tucker’s face flushed darker. Here’s what’s going to happen. Sullivan said, “There will be no official report of yesterday’s incident. No charges, no investigation, no permanent record, but make no mistake, this doesn’t mean you got away with anything.

 It means someone decided you were worth saving from your own stupidity.” Sullivan began to pace slowly in front of them. Some of you are wondering who she really was. That woman who put Recruit Tuckers on the floor in two seconds. You’re wondering how someone that small moved that fast. How she knew techniques that aren’t taught in basic training.

 He stopped pacing and faced them directly. Here’s what you need to understand. This base houses personnel from a lot of different units. Some of those units do work that doesn’t get discussed in general conversation. Some of the people who do that work don’t advertise their capabilities or their backgrounds.

 Emma watched Tucker’s expression shift from embarrassment to dawning comprehension. He was beginning to understand just how badly he’d miscalculated. “When you see someone keeping to themselves,” Sullivan continued. “Someone eating alone and minding their own business. There might be very good reasons for that behavior.

 professional reasons, operational reasons, reasons that have nothing to do with being antisocial, and everything to do with maintaining appropriate security protocols. Sullivan, let that sink in for a moment. You are dismissed. Return to your duties.

 And if I hear about any retaliation, any attempts to continue the situation, any gossip or speculation about yesterday’s events, there will be consequences that make yesterday look like a pleasant conversation. Are we clear? Yes, Master Chief. 18 voices responded in unison. Dismissed. The formation broke up. Emma watched Tucker walk away slowly, his shoulder slumped, one hand unconsciously rubbing his right arm where she’d applied the arm lock.

 His companions gave him space, uncertain how to process what had just happened to their informal leader. Emma’s phone buzzed with an encrypted message from Sullivan. Situation contained good hunting. She texted back a simple acknowledgement, then powered down the security camera feed. It was time to focus entirely on Brett Hansen.

 For 3 weeks, Emma had documented Hansen’s patterns with the meticulous attention to detail that came from 6 years of intelligence work. The young man from Minnesota was careful she’d give him that. He varied his routines just enough to avoid establishing a predictable pattern. He used burner phones with rotating SIM cards.

 He made his calls in different locations, never the same place twice in a row, but patterns emerged if you watched long enough, and Emma had been watching very carefully. Hansen made contact with his handler every 3 days. The calls happened between 1,800 and 2100 hours, always when he could be alone, always in a location with good visibility to spot anyone approaching.

 He’d made seven calls in the past 3 weeks. Today was day 21. If the pattern held, he would make contact again tonight, and this time, Emma would be ready to follow him. The day passed with agonizing slowness. Emma maintained her cover as a logistics coordinator, processing paperwork in her office, while her real attention focused on tracking Hansen’s movements through the base.

 He attended a training session in the morning, ate lunch with Tucker’s group in the cafeteria. We spent the afternoon in the equipment maintenance bay, checking his gear. Normal behavior, nothing suspicious. Exactly what you’d expect from a SEAL candidate waiting for his team assignment. But at 1732 hours, Hansen’s behavior shifted.

 Emma watched through security cameras as he returned to his quarters and emerged 17 minutes later wearing civilian clothes. He walked to the parking lot, got into his personal vehicle, and drove off base. Emma was already moving. She positioned her motorcycle two blocks from the base entrance, a nondescript Honda that could blend into San Diego traffic without drawing attention.

 She was wearing civilian clothes, a dark wig that changed her appearance enough to defeat casual recognition and sunglasses despite the fading daylight. The hunt was on. Hansen drove carefully, observing all traffic laws, checking his mirrors regularly. Emma followed from a distance, using other vehicles as cover, occasionally letting him get far enough ahead that he disappeared from view before catching up at the next traffic light.

 Basic counter surveillance procedure, the kind of thing they taught in intelligence training. Hansen wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not yet. Just a young man driving through San Diego in the evening. But Emma knew better. The burner phone in Hansen’s pocket had been powered on 12 minutes ago. She detected the signal briefly before he’d powered it down again. just long enough to check for messages. Someone had contacted him.

Someone had set up tonight’s meeting. Hansen drove for 23 minutes, heading away from the tourist areas of San Diego toward the industrial district near the harbor. Emma’s pulse remained steady, her breathing controlled. She’d done this before in much more hostile environments, tailing targets through the streets of Baghdad and Kandahar, where a single mistake could mean an IED or an ambush.

 San Diego was downright peaceful by comparison. Hansen pulled into a public parking lot near a row of storage facilities. Emma drove past, circling the block before parking three streets over. She dismounted from her motorcycle, pulled off the wig, and became just another civilian walking through an industrial area at dusk.

 The storage facility was called Secure Space, one of those anonymous rental places where people kept belongings they didn’t have room for at home. Hansen walked through the main gate using a key card heading toward the interior rows of units. Emma couldn’t follow him directly without being spotted.

 Instead, she circled around to the back of the facility where a chainlink fence separated the storage units from an empty lot. She found a dark corner, pulled a small set of bolt cutters from her jacket, and carefully cut an opening in the fence just large enough to slip through. Security cameras covered the main pathways, but Emma had studied the facility’s layout earlier using satellite imagery.

 There were blind spots between the storage units, shadows where the cameras couldn’t see. She moved through them like a ghost, using the skills that had kept her alive through four combat deployments. Hansen was three rows over, standing outside unit 237.

 He checked his phone again, the blue light of the screen illuminating his face in the growing darkness. He looked nervous, glancing around repeatedly, one hand drumming against his thigh. Emma positioned herself in the shadows between two units with a direct line of sight to Hansen’s location. She activated the button camera hidden in her jacket in the audio recorder disguised as a pendant around her neck.

 Everything from this point forward would be documented, encrypted, and uploaded to secure NCIS servers in real time. At 1847 hours, a second vehicle entered the storage facility. A black SUV with diplomatic plates. Emma zoomed in with the telephoto lens built into her camera and captured the license number. The SUV parked two units down from Hansen’s position.

 A man emerged from the driver’s side. He was approximately 45 years old, dressed in an expensive suit that looked out of place in a storage facility. Slavic features, dark hair going gray at the temples, the confident bearing of someone accustomed to operating in hostile territory.

 Emma snapped multiple photographs, then ran the facial recognition software on her phone. The results came back in 11 seconds. Victor Sakalov, Russian GRU military intelligence officer, known operative with a history of recruiting American military personnel as intelligence sources. Persona nonrada in three European countries, currently operating under diplomatic cover at the Russian consulate in San Francisco.

 Emma felt a cold fury settle over her. This wasn’t just a leak. This was active espionage by Russian intelligence using an American SEAL candidate to steal classified training protocols. Hansen approached Soolov nervously. The Russians smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. He gestured toward unit 237 and Hansen unlocked it with shaking hands.

 Emma couldn’t get closer without risking detection. But the directional microphone in her audio recorder was militaryra designed to pick up conversations at 50 m, even in noisy environments. The storage facility, it was quiet, except for distant traffic. Every word between Hansen and Sakalof came through crystal clear.

 “You’re late,” Sakalof said in lightly accented English. “Had to be careful,” Hansen replied. “There was an incident at the base yesterday. Everyone’s on edge. What kind of incident? Uh, Hansen hesitated. Some woman in the cafeteria. She put one of our guys on the floor.

 People are saying she might be military, maybe special operations. Emma saw Soalov’s expressions sharpened with interest. Describe her. Small, maybe 5’4, dark hair. She’s been around the base for a few weeks doing some kind of administrative work. But the way she moved yesterday, it wasn’t normal. It was professional. Sov was quiet for a long moment.

 Has she shown any interest in you specifically? No, she mostly keeps to herself. Just sits in the cafeteria taking notes on her tablet. Taking notes on what? I don’t know, logistics stuff. Maybe that’s what her job is supposed to be. Emma watched Soolov process this information. He was good she’d give him that. His face gave away nothing, but she could see the calculations happening behind his eyes.

 Was the woman at the base a threat to his operation? Should he abort the meeting? Continue as planned. After a moment, Salof seemed to decide the risk was acceptable. Show me what you brought. Hansen pulled a manila envelope from inside his jacket. Everything you asked for. Sealed Team 3 operational protocols, communication procedures, equipment specifications, training schedules for the next 6 months. So took the envelope and thumbmed through the contents.

 Emma’s camera captured every page, every document, building the evidence that would send Hansen to prison for the rest of his life. This is good, Soolov said. Very good. Your country’s taxpayers spent millions developing these procedures. My government appreciates your willingness to share them. The casual tone made Emma’s hands clench into fists.

 Soof was talking about treason the way someone might discuss sharing recipes. You said this would be the last one, Hansen said. His voice was pleading now, desperate. “You said after this, we’re done. You’d leave my family alone.” Soof smiled that cold smile again. “Plans change, Brett. We’re going to need one more delivery.” “I can’t. I’m deploying in 2 days.

 I’ll be with an operational team. I won’t have access to this kind of information anymore. Then you’ll find a way to get access or your sister in Minneapolis will have a very unfortunate accident. Hansen’s face went pale. You said if I cooperated, you’d leave her alone. I said a lot of things. Here’s what matters now. You deploy with Seal Team 3.

 You establish yourself as a trusted member of the team. And in 6 months, you provide me with operational intelligence, deployment locations, mission parameters, target identification protocols. That’s real time operational information, Hansen whispered. People could die. People die in war all the time,” Soolov said dismissibly. “The only question is whether your sister is one of them.” Emma had heard enough.

 She had Hansen on recording, accepting money for classified information. She had Sakalov on recording, threatening an American citizen, and soliciting military intelligence. She had photographs, audio, video, and enough evidence to dismantle this entire operation. But she also had a choice to make. Option one was to call it in now.

 contact NCIS, get backup, arrest Hansen on the spot. But Sakalov had diplomatic immunity. He’d be expelled from the country, but he’d face no real consequences. The Russian intelligence network would simply assign a new handler, recruit a new source, and continue the operation.

 Option two was to let Hansen leave, follow him back to base, and arrest him there on federal property where there was no question of jurisdiction. But that gave Hansen time to destroy evidence, contact Soolov with a warning, or simply run. Option three was more complicated and infinitely more risky.

 Confront Hansen here force a confession that included details about the entire Russian operation and gather enough evidence to not just stop this leak, but to expose the network Solov operated. Emma made her decision in the span of three heartbeats. Soolov handed Hansen a briefcase. $200,000 is agreed. Spend it carefully. Large deposits attract attention. Hansen took the briefcase with hands that shook.

 This is the last time. After I deploy, you’re on your own. We’ll see. So said he walked back to his SUV, started the engine, and drove away without looking back. Hansen stood alone in front of unit 237, clutching the briefcase, his face a mask of misery. He opened the storage unit and disappeared inside.

 Emma moved quickly now. She couldn’t touch without creating an international incident. But Hansen was a different story. She circled around through the blind spots between storage units approaching 237 from an angle the security cameras wouldn’t cover.

 Hansen was inside the unit packing the briefcase into a larger duffel bag along with what looked like other documents and equipment. He was so focused on his task that he didn’t hear Emma approach until she was standing in the doorway. Hello, Brett,” Emma said quietly. Hansen spun around his face, going from pale to white in an instant. “What? Who are you?” “Someone who’s been watching you for 3 weeks?” Emma stepped into the storage unit, her right hand resting casually near the concealed Sig Sauer at her hip.

 Someone who just recorded your entire conversation with Victor Soalof. Hansen’s eyes darted toward the opening behind Emma, being calculating whether he could make it past her. Emma saw the thought forming and shook her head slightly. Don’t, she said. You’re a BUDS graduate.

 You’re physically fit and well trained, but I’m a Navy Seal with 6 years of combat experience and 37 confirmed kills. If you run, I will catch you. If you fight, you will lose. Your only smart option is to cooperate. You’re seal. Hansen’s voice cracked. I thought you were just admin. That’s what you were supposed to think. Lieutenant Emma Kate Sterling, Naval Special Warfare, currently attached to NCIS for counter intelligence operations.

 Emma held up her phone showing the button camera feed that had recorded everything. I have you on video receiving classified documents. I have you on audio accepting payment from a Russian intelligence officer. I have enough evidence to send you to Fort Levvenworth for the rest of your natural life. Hansen’s leg seemed to give out.

 He sat down heavily on the duffel bag, his head in his hands. They threatened my sister. They said they’d kill her if I didn’t cooperate. When did it start? 6 months ago during Bud’s training. I was in San Diego on weekend liberty. Met a girl at a bar. She was beautiful, friendly, seemed really interested in me. Hansen laughed bitterly.

 Of course, she was a Russian intelligence officer. They set me up, got me drunk, got me in bed, took pictures, said they’d send the photos to my command, get me kicked out of training for fraternization with a foreign national. So, you started passing information. At first, it was just small stuff. Training schedules, equipment lists, nothing that seemed important.

 Hansen looked up at Emma with desperate eyes. I didn’t think it would hurt anyone. I swear I never thought it would lead to people dying. Emma felt no sympathy. She’d heard variations of this story before. The rationalization, the slow slide from small compromises to outright treason. Six SEALs died in the past 18 months because of leaked training protocols. The Taliban knew our tactics.

They knew our procedures. They set ambushes specifically designed to counter seal operations. Hansen’s face crumpled. I didn’t know. So never told me what they were using the information for. He just kept asking for more. Kept threatening my sister. Your sister was never in danger, Emma said coldly. That’s basic trade craft. Make the asset believe their family is at risk. Keep them compliant through fear.

 But Russian intelligence doesn’t waste resources killing the siblings of low-level sources. It’s much easier to just find a new source. You mean Hansen looked like he might be sick? You sold your country’s secrets for nothing. You betrayed your teammates for a threat that was never real. And now you’re going to help me make sure Salov and his entire network face consequences.

How? Emma pulled a set of flex cuffs from her jacket pocket. First, you’re going to let me secure you. Then you’re going to tell me everything. Every contact, every meeting, every piece of information you passed, every other person Sov might have recruited all of it.

 Hansen didn’t resist as Emma secured his wrists behind his back. He was crying now, the reality of his situation, finally breaking through whatever rationalizations had kept him functional for the past 6 months. “What happens to me?” he asked. “That depends on how cooperative you are.

 If you give me everything, if you help us roll up Soalof’s entire operation, then maybe the prosecutor will show some leniency. You’ll still go to prison probably for 10 to 15 years, but you might see daylight again before you’re elderly. And if I don’t cooperate, life in Levvenworth, solitary confinement for your own protection because the general population doesn’t like traders very much.

 You’ll die in a cell and your sister will spend the rest of her life knowing what you did. Hansen nodded slowly. I’ll cooperate. I’ll tell you everything. Emma pulled out her phone and called Commander Peterson. The connection took longer than usual to establish, probably because Peterson was debating whether to even answer the call from the subordinate who had directly disobeyed his order to exfiltrate.

 When Peterson’s face appeared on the screen, he looked like he’d aged 5 years in the past 12 hours. Lieutenant Sterling, I gave you an order. Yes, sir. And I disobeyed that order. I’ll accept whatever consequences you deem appropriate, but first I need an extraction team at my location. I have the leak in custody, plus evidence of Russian intelligence operations and enough testimony to dismantle their entire network in the San Diego area.

 Peterson’s expression shifted from anger to sharp attention. You have Hansen in flex cuffs, sir. He’s cooperating. I also have his Russian handler on video and audio enough to expel him from the country and declare him persona nongrada. But we need to move fast. Sov left the meeting 20 minutes ago. If he suspects anything, he’ll run for the consulate.

 Peterson was already typing on his keyboard, issuing orders to people offcreen. Hold your position. Extraction team on route ETA 30 minutes. Do not let Hansen out of your sight. Understood, sir. and Lieutenant, we will be having a conversation about your decision to disobey a direct order. Yes, sir. Looking forward to it. The connection terminated.

 Emma looked at Hansen, who was sitting with his head bowed, tears dripping onto the concrete floor of the storage unit. Tell me about the other recruits, Emma said. Did Sakalof approach anyone else from your class? Hansen shook his head. Not that I know of. He said I was special, that I had the access he needed. What about Tucker and his friends? The ones who confronted me yesterday in the cafeteria. They don’t know anything. Dylan’s just an insecure kid trying to prove he’s tough.

 The rest of them follow his lead. They’re not traitors, just stupid. Emma almost smiled at that assessment. Stupid is fixable. Treason isn’t. They sat in silence for the next 28 minutes. Emma heard the vehicles before she saw them. The distinctive sound of multiple SUVs converging on the storage facility.

 She stepped to the doorway of unit 237 and saw Commander Peterson emerge from the lead vehicle, followed by a full NCIS tactical team. Peterson approached the storage unit with the measured stride of someone who had done this many times before. He looked at Hansen in flex cuffs, then at Emma, standing calm and professional in her civilian clothes. “Lieutenant Sterling,” Peterson said formally. “You have secured the suspect.” “Yes, sir.

Recruit Brett Hansen detained on suspicion of espionage, unauthorized disclosure of classified information, and violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 106A. He has indicated willingness to cooperate fully with the investigation.

 Peterson nodded to two NCIS agents who moved forward to take custody of Hansen. As they led him away, Peterson turned his attention fully to Emma. You disobeyed a direct order. Yes, sir. You operated without authorization. Yes, sir. You risked international incident, compromised operational security, and potentially endangered yourself and others by going solo against a Russian intelligence operation. Yes, sir. Peterson was quiet for a long moment, his face unreadable.

Then, so quietly that only Emma could hear, he said, “And you just closed an 18-month investigation, secured enough evidence to expel a hostile intelligence officer, and saved god knows how many American lives.” He paused. Officially, I’m recommending disciplinary action. Unofficially hell of a job, Lieutenant.

Emma felt something unclench in her chest. Thank you, sir. Don’t thank me yet. We still have to deal with the fallout from your cover being blown. Every SEAL on Coronado is asking questions about the mystery woman who put Tucker on the floor. How long do you think before someone connects that woman to a SEAL lieutenant who supposedly doesn’t exist? With respect, sir, I may have a solution to that problem.

Peterson raised an eyebrow. I’m listening. Master Chief Sullivan is retiring in 6 months. The command is looking for a new head instructor for the Budits program. Someone who can handle the new requirements for integrated training now that the program is officially open to women. You want to come out of the shadows.

 I want to stop hiding what I am, sir. I’ve been operating in classified programs for 6 years. Maybe it’s time the next generation of SEALs sees that capability comes in all sizes and genders. Peterson considered this. It would solve the cover problem. Turn your blown identity into an asset rather than a liability. And frankly, we could use someone with your experience training the next generation. He nodded slowly.

 I’ll make some calls. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Thank you, sir. In the meantime, you’re officially on administrative leave pending resolution of the disciplinary proceedings from your decision to disobey orders. Use the time to get some rest. You’ve earned it. Emma watched as the NCIS team finished processing the scene, cataloging evidence, and securing a Hansen for transport back to federal custody. The operation was over. The leak was stopped. Justice would be served.

 But as Emma rode her motorcycle back toward the base through the dark San Diego streets, she thought about Tucker and his 17 friends. They’d learned a lesson yesterday about making assumptions about judging people by their appearance. But they’d only learned it because Emma had been forced to break her cover and demonstrate capabilities she’d spent 3 weeks hiding. Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

 Maybe the best way to protect the next generation wasn’t to operate in shadows, but to stand in the light and show them what was possible. Emma returned to her quarters at 2347 hours. She was exhausted, running on adrenaline and coffee, but she had one more thing to do before she could rest. She opened her secure laptop and composed an email to Master Chief Sullivan. The message was brief. Mission accomplished.

 Leak identified and secured. Thank you for your assistance. would like to discuss something with you tomorrow if you have time. She hit send, then finally allowed herself to look at the photograph of Marcus, 22 years old and forever smiling, never knowing that 10 years after his death, his sister would catch the kind of traitor who had gotten him killed. Got one for you, little brother, Emma whispered.

 Not the one who killed you, but someone just like him. Someone who thought his own problems mattered more than the lives he was sworn to protect. She thought about Hansen crying in the storage unit, claiming he had never meant to hurt anyone. The road to treason was always paved with good intentions and weak character.

 Emma changed into PT gear and tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. She kept replaying the operation, analyzing every decision, questioning whether she could have done something differently. Finally, at 0400, she gave up and went for a run. The base was quiet in the pre-dawn darkness. Emma ran her usual 10-mi rope with the 50 lb ruck her breathing steady and controlled.

 She passed the training grounds where she’d first watched Tucker and his companions three weeks ago, convinced of their own invincibility. Tomorrow she would learn her fate. Whether Peterson could arrange for her to transfer to a training position or whether she’d face court marshal for disobeying orders, whether her career would continue or end in disgrace.

 But as the sun rose over the Pacific and Emma completed her final mile, she felt a certainty settle over her that had nothing to do with what Peterson decided. She had done the right thing. She had caught a traitor. She had protected the warriors who would come after her. And if the cost was her career, then so be it. Some things were worth the sacrifice. Emma returned to her quarters and found a message waiting from Sullivan. My office 0900 hours.

Bring coffee. She smiled. Whatever came next, at least she wasn’t facing it alone. Master Chief Ray Sullivan’s office was exactly what Emma expected from a man with 40 years of Navy service. The walls were covered with photographs spanning four decades of warfare. Panama in 1989. Young sailors barely out of their teens preparing to jump from helicopters. Desert Storm in 1991.

 A company of SEALs posed in front of their vehicles somewhere in the Kuwaiti Desert. Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan. the visual history of America’s conflicts since the Cold War ended. Emma’s eyes lingered on one photograph in particular. Sullivan and another SEAL both younger, both grinning with the cocky confidence of men who believed they were invincible.

 She didn’t need to ask. The missing man’s absence in later photographs told the story clearly enough. Sullivan noticed her attention, but said nothing about it. Instead, he gestured to a chair and poured coffee from a battered thermos into two mugs. Sit. Tell me how it went down.

 Emma spent the next 20 minutes giving him the full debrief. Hansen’s meeting with Soalov, the recorded evidence, the arrest Peterson’s response. Sullivan listened without interruption, his weathered face giving away nothing until she finished. Russian military intelligence, Sullivan said finally. That’s bigger than just one kid making bad choices.

 That’s an active espionage operation targeting our training programs. Yes, Master Chief. NCIS believes there may be other sources. Hansen is cooperating, giving us everything he knows about Sakalov’s network. Sullivan nodded slowly. And you did this solo after being ordered to exfiltrate. Yes, Master Chief. That took guts. Stupid careerending guts, but guts nonetheless.

 Sullivan handed her one of the mugs. Peterson’s going to have to discipline you. He doesn’t have a choice. You disobeyed a direct order. I know, but he’s also going to make sure the discipline is minimal because what you did catching that traitor, that’s worth more than following procedure. Sullivan leaned back in his chair. I’ve already talked to him off the record.

Told him I’d requested you specifically for a training position I have opening up. Emma felt something shift in her chest. The head instructor position. That’s right. I’m retiring in March. Navy wants someone to replace me who understands modern warfare, who can handle integrated training with female candidates, and who has actual operational experience to draw from. Sullivan smiled slightly.

 You’re overqualified, frankly, but you’re also the best choice I can think of. Master Chief, I’m counterintelligence. I hunt spies. I’m not a teacher. You’re a warrior who has survived four combat deployments and came home with all your teammates alive. That makes you exactly the kind of teacher these kids need. Sullivan’s expression became serious.

 I’ve been doing this for 15 years, Emma. Training the next generation. The hardest part isn’t teaching them to shoot or swim or fight. It’s teaching them humility. Teaching them that being tough doesn’t mean being cruel. That real strength includes knowing when not to fight.

 Emma thought about Tucker and his 17 friends cornering her in the cafeteria because they thought she was weak. They learned that lesson the hard way. They learned it exactly the way it needed to be learned. Sullivan paused. Those boys are going to deploy soon. They’re going to face real enemies in real combat. And now when they’re standing in some village in the Middle East, they’ll remember.

 They’ll remember that appearances can be deceiving. And that awareness might just keep them alive. Emma sipped her coffee, waiting for Sullivan to reach his point. “So, here’s what I’m proposing,” Sullivan continued. “We stop hiding.

 We acknowledge that you’re a Navy Seal, that you’ve been operating in classified programs, and that you’re now transitioning to a training role. We make your identity official. Let the next BD’s class know from day one that their head instructor is a combat veteran who’s earned her place.” That would make me a target for harassment, for skepticism, for every insecure person who thinks women don’t belong in special operations.

 Yes, Sullivan agreed it would. But you’ve already proven you can handle that. And more importantly, you’d be making it easier for the women who come after you. Right now, female SEAL candidates face doubt at every turn. But if they can look at their head instructor and see someone who’s already done what they’re trying to do, that changes everything.

Emma thought about this. For 6 years, she’d operated in shadows. Her identity classified her accomplishments known only to a handful of people. The idea of stepping into the light felt foreign and uncomfortable. But Sullivan was right. The next generation needed to see what was possible. When would this happen? Embi asked.

 New Buds class starts in 6 months. Class 350. We’re expecting 180 candidates. 12 of them are women, which is the highest number we’ve ever had in a single class. Sullivan’s eyes were sharp in assessing. Those 12 are going to face hell. They need someone who can stand in front of them and say, “I did this and so can you.

” Emma felt the weight of responsibility settling onto her shoulders. I need to think about it. Fair enough, but think fast. Peterson needs an answer by the end of the week. The next two days passed in a blur of official debriefings, written statements, and meetings with Navy lawyers who were trying to determine exactly how much trouble she was in for disobeying orders.

 Commander Peterson made it clear that there would be consequences. A formal letter of reprimand in her service record, forfeite of two weeks pay, and a stern lecture about the chain of command that he delivered with enough volume that everyone in the NCIS office could hear it. But when the office door closed and it was just the two of them, Peterson’s demeanor changed. “You did good work, Emma,” he said quietly.

 “Hansen is giving us everything. We’ve already identified three other potential sources in Sokov’s network. The State Department is preparing to expel him from the country, and the intelligence you gathered is going to help us identify Russian operations at bases across the entire West Coast.

” “What about Hansen? What’s he facing?” Peterson’s expression darkened. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. He pulled a folder from his desk. Brett Hansen was found dead in his cell this morning. Apparent suicide. He used a bed sheet. Emma felt the words hit her like a physical blow. Suicide dies.

 The investigation is ongoing, but it appears he hung himself sometime between 0200 and 0400 hours. The guard checked on him at 200 and he was sleeping. By 0400 he was dead. Peterson rubbed his eyes. We had him in protective custody. We thought he was safe. Sov, Emma said flatly. This is a message. We don’t know that Hansen was facing 15 to 20 years.

 He was cooperating, yes, but he also knew his life was over. His family would find out. His sister would know what he’d done. The guilt might have been too much. Emma stood and walked to the window looking out at the San Diego skyline. She thought about Hansen in that storage unit crying, claiming he’d never meant to hurt anyone.

 Weak character and poor judgment, but still a human being, still someone’s son and brother. Or, Emma said quietly, Russian intelligence has people inside our system, people who can get to a prisoner in protective custody, people who wanted to make sure Hansen never testified. Peterson was silent for a long moment. That’s the other theory we’re investigating.

 If you’re right, if Solov’s network is that extensive, then we have a much bigger problem than one dead trader. The three other sources you identified, are they secure? We’re moving on them today. Simultaneous arrests at three different bases. If there’s going to be any more cleanup, we’re not giving them the chance. Emma turned back from the window. I want to be there when you take them down.

 You’re on administrative leave, Lieutenant Commander. Then temporarily unle. I started this investigation. I want to see it through. Peterson studied her for a moment and then nodded. I’ll make it happen. But Emma, after this is done, you need to seriously consider Sullivan’s offer. You’ve been hunting traitors for long enough. Maybe it’s time to build something instead of just tearing down what’s broken.

 3 hours later, Emma stood in the observation room at Naval Base Pointloma, watching through one-way glass as NCIS agents arrested Petty Officer Secondass Michael Vaughn. He was 26 years old, a communication specialist who’d been selling encrypted channel information to a contact in the Russian consulate. Unlike Hansen, Vaughn, didn’t cry or claim he’d been threatened. He sat calmly in the interrogation room and said five words, “I want a lawyer now.

” Smart, Peterson said beside her. He knows the game. This one won’t roll over as easily as Hansen did. But you have him on evidence. Solid enough. Bank deposits, recorded phone calls. Hansen gave us dates and locations of meetings. We’ll make it stick. Emma watched Vaughn’s face through the glass. He looked bored, almost contemptuous. This wasn’t a weak kid who’d been compromised by a honey trap.

 This was someone who’d made a calculated decision to betray his country for money. How much did he get paid? Mm asked. 400,000 over 18 months. More than twice what Hansen received. Peterson crossed his arms. The other two arrests went down clean. All three are in custody. Salov’s network in San Diego is finished.

 And so himself, the State Department declared him persona nongrada this morning. He has 72 hours to leave the country. His diplomatic credentials have been revoked. If he’s still on American soil after Thursday, he’ll be arrested. Emma felt a small measure of satisfaction. It wasn’t everything she’d hoped for, but it was something.

 What about the 18 recruits Tucker and his friends? Have they been cleared? Completely. None of them had any contact with Soalof or his network. They were just kids making stupid decisions, not traitors. Peterson paused. Speaking of Tucker, he submitted a request yesterday. He wants to recycle through Buds training. Start from the beginning. Emma turned to look at Peterson directly. Why? Huah.

 His written statement says, and I quote, I graduated Buds with physical capability, but without the mental maturity required to be a SEAL. I request the opportunity to complete the program again with the proper mindset and respect for what it means to earn the Trident. Peterson almost smiled.

 Sullivan thinks you made an impression on him. I put him on the floor in two seconds. I humiliated him in front of his friends. You showed him what real capability looks like. You taught him that confidence without competence is just arrogance. Some people never learned that lesson.

 Tucker learned it the hard way and now he wants to do it right. Peterson closed the folder he’d been holding. Which brings me back to Sullivan’s offer. What’s your answer? Emma looked back through the glass at Vaughn, sitting calm and unrepentant in the interrogation room. She thought about Hansen dead in a cell, whether by his own hand or someone else’s.

 She thought about the six seals who’d died because of leaked intelligence and Marcus killed because someone sold patrol roads to the Taliban. She’d spent six years hunting traitors and stopping leaks. She’d caught some of them. But there would always be more. More weak people making bad choices. More calculated betrayals. More warriors dying because someone chose money over honor. Maybe Peterson was right.

 Maybe it was time to build something instead of just tearing things down. I’ll do it, Emma said. I’ll take the instructor position. Peterson extended his hand. Then congratulations, Lieutenant Commander Sterling. Emma shook his hand, feeling the weight of the decision settle over her. When do I start? Officially 6 months.

 Class 350 begins in September. But Sullivan wants you shadowing him starting next week. Learning the curriculum, meeting the staff, understanding how the program works. Peterson’s expression became serious. And Emma, there’s one more thing. The promotion board met yesterday.

 You’re being promoted to lieutenant commander effective immediately because I disobeyed orders and caught a spy. because you showed initiative operational excellence and the kind of judgment that makes good leaders. The letter of reprimand will be in your file, but so will a Navy commendation medal for your work on this investigation.

 The Navy takes care of people who get results even when they break the rules to do it. The next 6 months passed in a way that was both familiar and strange. Emma shadowed Sullivan through every aspect of Bud US training, learning, not just what to teach, but how to teach it. She studied curriculum that had been refined over decades.

 She observed how Sullivan handled candidates who were struggling, how he identified the ones who had the mental toughness to continue versus those who were just physically capable. And she prepared herself mentally for what it would mean to be visible. The announcement of her appointment made waves through the special operations community.

 Some of the response was positive. Operators who had worked with her spoke up in support girl. Others were skeptical or openly hostile, questioning whether a woman could effectively train men to become SEALs. Emma ignored both the praise and the criticism. She had a job to do and she would do it to the best of her ability. In late September, class 350 assembled at Naval Amphibious Base Coronado for the first day of Bud Deles training. 180 candidates, 12 of them women.

 Among the male candidates was Dylan Tucker, 24 years old, starting the program over from the beginning. Emma stood on the training platform overlooking the assembled candidate Sullivan beside her. This was his last class before retirement. The morning sun was bright and promising a brutal day ahead.

 Sullivan stepped forward to address the class. Good morning candidates. I am Master Chief Petty Officer Ray Sullivan. For the next 23 weeks, I will be your head instructor. This is my final class. After 40 years of service, I’m retiring. But before I go, I’m going to make damn sure every one of you understands what it takes to earn a seal trident. The candidate stood at attention rigid with anticipation and fear.

 To my left is Lieutenant Commander Emma Sterling. In 6 months, she will replace me as your head instructor. But starting today, she is my assistant instructor, and you will show her the same respect you show me.” Emma saw it immediately. The subtle shift in some candidates postures, the sideways glances.

 She was small, and to many of these young people who had spent years preparing physically for this program, she looked like someone who didn’t belong. Sullivan saw it, too. Some of you are wondering what qualifies Lieutenant Commander Sterling to train Navy Seals. Let me tell you, she is a graduate of Bud’s class 312.

 She has completed four combat deployments to Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Somalia. She holds a Navy cross, a silver star, and two Purple Hearts. All of her decorations remain classified because the operations she conducted remain classified. The skeptical expressions began to change to uncertainty. Sullivan wasn’t finished.

 Lieutenant Commander Sterling has been in combat situations where she faced enemies who wanted to kill her, and she came home alive while they did not. She has successfully completed missions that I am not authorized to discuss. And six months ago, she single-handedly identified and apprehended a Russian intelligence operative who had been stealing classified information from this base. Now, Emma had their complete attention.

 I tell you this not so you’ll go easy on her, not so you’ll treat her differently, but so you’ll understand some of the things important from the very beginning. Being a SEAL is not about your size. It’s not about your gender. It’s about your shill, your determination, and your refusal to quit when everything in you wants to stop. Lieutenant Commander Sterling embodies those qualities. Learn from her example.

Sullivan stepped back and gestured for Emma to come forward. This was it. The moment she stepped into the light, Emma moved to the front of the platform and looked out at the assembled candidates. She saw the 12 women scattered throughout the formation standing a little stray at her.

 She saw Priman in the back row, his expression serious and focused. My name is Emma Sterling, she said, her voice carrying clearly. I am here to train warriors who will deploy to combat zones and face enemies who want to kill them. That is my only mission. Over the next 23 weeks, many of you will quit. That’s not failure. That’s acknowledgment that this path isn’t for you.

 But for those who remain, you will earn the right to wear the seal trident and join a tradition of excellence that has protected this nation for generations. She paused, making eye contact with several of the female candidates. Some of you face additional challenges. You will be judged more harshly. Your mistakes will be magnified.

 The only way through it is to be so undeniably competent that doubt becomes impossible. That’s the standard I held myself to. That’s the standard I expect from you. The first weeks of training were brutal. Candidates discovered that no amount of preparation could fully ready them for the physical hell abs.

 Emma ran every evolution beside them, demonstrating technique correcting form, never asking them to do anything she couldn’t do herself. And slowly the skepticism faded. Three weeks into training, Tucker approached her during a break. His lip had long since healed, but Emma could still see the faint scar where it had split against the table edge. Ma’am, permission to speak.

 Make it quick, Tucker. I wanted to thank you for what happened in the cafeteria. I’ve thought about it every day since. You could have ended my career, but instead, you taught me the most important lesson I’ve ever learned. Emma studied him. Which lesson was that? That being a warrior isn’t about being the biggest or the toughest.

 It’s about being the most competent, the most disciplined, the most willing to do what’s necessary when it matters. Tucker met her gaze directly. I was a boy playing at being a soldier. You showed me what a real warrior looks like. I’m here to become that. Then get back to your squad, Tucker. And prove it through your actions, not your words. Yes, ma’am. Hell Week came in week four. 5 and a half days of continuous training with minimal sleep.

 Emma ran every evolution alongside the candidates. When they were doing surf torture, she was in the cold Pacific beside them. When they were carrying telephone poles until their shoulders burned, she was under the log with them. By the end of Hellweek, 68 candidates remained. Seven of the original 12 women.

 Tucker was still there looking like a walking corpse, but still refusing to quit. Emma gathered them on the beach. Congratulations. You’ve survived hell week. You’ve proven you have the mental toughness to continue. But understand this. Understand hell week was just the beginning. The next 18 weeks will test you in different ways. Some of you will still quit.

 But for those who make it through, you will join a tradition that includes some of the finest warriors in American history. She walked along the line of exhausted candidates. And when you deploy, when you face real enemies, you’ll be ready because we will have taught you everything we know about staying alive and completing the mission.

 The remaining weeks passed in a blur of evolutions and tests. By the end of week 23, 51 candidates remained, five of them women. The graduation ceremony was held on a bright March morning. Emma stood on the platform beside Sullivan, watching as the 51 new seals received their trident. Sullivan personally pinned the trident on Tucker’s uniform, and Emma saw the difference in him.

 The arrogance was gone, replaced by quiet confidence. After the ceremony, Tucker approached Emma one final time. Lieutenant Commander Sterling, I ship out to Seal Team 3 next month. I want you to know that I’ll carry what you taught me for the rest of my career. Good luck, Tucker. Stay alive out there. I will, ma’am, because I learned from the best.

 Three months after graduation, Sullivan officially retired. The ceremony was attended by hundreds of SEALs he’d trained over 15 years. Emma stood in the front row wearing her dress uniform with the Navy Cross and Silver Star, visible for the first time in public. At the reception afterwards, Sullivan pulled her aside.

 You’re going to do great things as head instructor, Emma. I have no doubt about that. I learned from the best Master Chief. You were already great when I met you. I just helped you see that teaching is another form of service. Sullivan handed her a small box. I want you to have this. Emma opened it. Inside was a sealed trident worn and weathered. Master Chief, I can’t. It was Tommy’s, my swim buddy.

 The one who died in Helmond. Sullivan’s voice was steady but quiet. He would have wanted someone like you to have it. Someone who understands what it means to serve, to sacrifice, to protect the ones who come after us. Emma felt tears threatened for the first time in years. Thank you, Master Chief. I’ll honor his memory. I know you will.

 6 months after Sullivan’s retirement, Emma stood on the training platform overlooking class 351. 190 candidates, 15 women. She was no longer the assistant instructor shadowing someone else. She was the head instructor fully in command. “Good morning, candidates,” she said, her voice carrying authority earned through blood and sacrifice.

 I am Lieutenant Commander Emma Sterling, your head instructor. For the next 23 weeks, I will push you beyond any limits you thought you had. Some of you will quit. Most of you will quit. But those who remain will earn the right to call themselves Navy Seals. She paused, looking out at the sea of young faces. I don’t care how big you are or what you look like.

 I care whether you can complete the mission. That’s the only standard that matters. As the first evolution began, Emma thought about Marcus, about the long road from his death to this moment, about Hansen and Soalof and all the betrayals she’d uncovered, about Tucker and the 18 recruits who’d learned that appearances could be deceiving.

 She thought about the warriors she would train the lives they would save, the missions they would complete. This was her purpose now, not hunting traitors in shadows, but standing in the light and showing the next generation what was possible. training warriors who would go forward at better prepared, better trained, better equipped to face whatever came next. Emma Sterling was a warrior and warriors never stopped serving.

 That evening after the first training day was complete, Emma drove to Fort Rose Cran’s National Cemetery overlooking the Pacific. She made her way through rows of white headstones until she reached the one she was looking for. Marcus Sterling, Army Infantry, born 1992, died 2014. Emma knelt beside the grave and pulled out the trident Sullivan had given her. “Tommy’s trident.” She placed it gently against the headstone alongside her own Navy cross medal.

 “I’m doing it, Marcus,” she said quietly. Training the next generation, making sure they come home when you couldn’t. “I caught the spy who was selling secrets like the ones that got you killed. And I’m going to spend the rest of my career making sure no one else dies because someone chose money over honor.

 The Pacific wind blew across the cemetery carrying the scent of salt. Impossibility. Class 350 graduated last month. 51 new SEALs. Five of them women. They’re deploying to the same places we fought, but they’re better prepared than we were. I made sure of it. Emma stood looking out at the ocean. Class 351 started today. 15 women this time, more every class.

 You’d be proud, little brother. The military is changing, getting better, and I’m part of that change now. She touched the headstone one last time. I have to go. Another class to train, more warriors to prepare. But I’ll come back. I always do. As Emma walked back toward her car, she passed a family visiting a grave nearby.

 A young boy, maybe 8 years old, looked at her uniform and the medals on her chest. “Are you a soldier?” he asked. Emma smiled. “I’m a Navy Seal.” The boy’s eyes went wide. “Like a special forces. That’s so cool. I want to be like you when I grow up.” His mother looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s very excited about the military.” “Don’t apologize,” Emma said.

She knelt down to the boy’s level. “You want to know the secret to being a SEAL?” The boy nodded eagerly. It’s not about being the biggest or the strongest. It’s about never giving up. When things get hard, when you want to quit, you keep going anyway. That’s what makes a warrior.

 I can do that, the boy said seriously. I believe you can. Emma stood and nodded to the mother. Take care of him. The next generation is going to need people like him. As Emma drove back toward Coronado, she thought about that boy, about Tucker in class 350 and class 341, about all the young people who would come after them learning to be warriors in a world that would always need protection.

 She thought about Marcus and Tommy and the six seals who died because of leaked intelligence. She thought about Hansen dead in his cell and Salov expelled, but probably already recruiting new sources somewhere else. The war against betrayal would never end. But neither would the training of new warriors to fight it. Emma Sterling had found her purpose.

 Not in shadows hunting traitors, but in sunlight training protectors. Not in destruction, but in creation. Not in revenge, but in preparation. She was a warrior. She was an instructor. She was a guardian of the tradition that had shaped her and would shape countless others. And that was enough. That was every everything.

 The next morning, Emma stood on the training platform as class 351 assembled for their second day of training. She saw determination in their faces. Fear, hope, the same emotions she had felt 15 years ago when she’d started her own journey. Let’s go, she called out. Time to earn it. And as 190 voices responded, “Hooya!” in unison, Emma Sterling smiled. The mission continued.

The warriors were being forged and she would be there every step of the way making sure they were ready for whatever came next. Because that’s what warriors did. They served, they trained, they protected, and they never ever quit.