The admiral asked her kill count as a joke. What she replied shocked the entire Navy. The briefing room aboard the USS Sentinel was packed tight, buzzing with the low hum of officers and analysts preparing for the annual joint forces evaluation. Everyone there had years of experience. Everyone except the quiet woman standing near the back, hands behind her, eyes scanning the room like she’d already memorized every exit.

She wore no rank on her collar, no unit patch, nothing except a small black bracelet on her wrist. Nobody knew who she was. They only knew she’d arrived. With level six clearance and a sealed folder that not even the exo dared to touch. Admiral Rowan, a legend in the Navy, noticed her silence and smirked. He always broke tension with humor.

 You, he pointed toward her casually, the newcomer. Haven’t seen you before. You look pretty calm for someone in a room full of brass. The officers chuckled, eager for a distraction. The woman didn’t flinch. Rowan leaned back, folding his arms. So, tell me, what’s your kill count? 510? You look like you’ve at least punched somebody.

 The room laughed until they saw her expression hadn’t changed at all. She stepped forward slowly, her voice quiet but razor sharp. Sir, with respect. My official number is classified, but since you asked as a joke, she paused. The unofficial count is 193 confirmed, 312 total. The room went dead silent like the air had been sucked out.

 Several officers straightened in their seats. The admiral blinked, the smile melting from his face. 300. And what unit did you say you were with? He asked suddenly serious. She placed the sealed folder in front of him. I didn’t say, sir, but it’s inside. Rowan broke the government seal and opened the file, his jaw locked, his face stiffened.

 The officers closest to him strained to see, but he shut the folder instantly. He cleared his throat, voice suddenly. Everyone out now. Chairs scraped, boots rushed. Within seconds, the room was empty except for him and the mysterious woman. He looked at her with something he hadn’t felt in years. Fear. Operative Ghost Valkyrie.

 I thought you weren’t real. I’m real enough, she replied. And I’m here because your Pacific Fleet simulation has a flaw. A flaw that will cost thousands of lives if you don’t fix it. He swallowed hard. The simulations were designed by our top strategists. She shook her head. Strategy is theory. I’m bringing you experience.

 She tapped the folder. Page three. The mission you thought failed in 2021. It didn’t fail. I completed it alone. That’s why I’m standing here. The admiral opened the page and froze again. His pupils narrowed as he saw photos, timestamps, and black inked signatures he knew belong to the highest levels of command. “Why wasn’t I informed?” “You weren’t cleared,” she said simply.

 “He sat down slowly, hands trembling slightly.” “Then why reveal yourself now?” “You weren’t cleared,” she said simply. He sat down slowly, hands trembling slightly. “Then why reveal yourself now?” She stepped closer, planting both hands on the table. “Because your fleet is about to walk into an ambush. You’ll lose three destroyers, one carrier, and 947 personnel.” Rowan stared.

 “That’s not possible.” “It is,” she said. “Unless you let me lead the operation.” The admiral took a deep breath, long, heavy, defeated. He closed the folder with respect, not authority. Agent, commander, whatever they call you out there. The Navy is yours for the next 48 hours. Tell me what you need. She finally cracked a faint smile.

 Good, because the enemy already knows you’re coming. Rowan frowned. How? She turned toward the exit, her words sending chills across his spine. Because they’ve been hunting me for 3 years, and now they think you’re protecting me. She opened the door. the hallway lights casting a white glow around her. Let’s hope she said they’re wrong.