The line clicked twice before the secure proxy cleared the encryption handshake. "Master Chief Logan Vance?" The voice on the other end was Commander Paul Reynolds. We had pulled three tours together out of Dam Neck before Paul transferred to the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, trading salt water for desk reviews and court-martial dockets.

The sun was dipping below the rugged peaks of the Rockies when a dark federal staff car pulled up to the end of my driveway.

Commander Paul Reynolds stepped out alone this time, holding a thick manila envelope stamped with red military classification seals. He walked into the open garage, tossed the envelope onto my workbench next to a grease-stained rag, and leaned against the edge of the table.

"County cleanup is finished," Paul said, crossing his arms. "Vance is cooperating with federal prosecutors in exchange for a slight reduction in maximum sentencing. The stolen communications gear is back on base. And the local town council has formally requested a federal interim administrator to run civil services until special elections next spring."

"Good," I said, sliding the 10-millimeter socket into its proper slot in the drawer. "Sounds like the engine is finally running smooth again."

Paul looked down at the manila envelope, then back up at me, a slight, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"You know, Master Chief, when you took early retirement three years ago, the command thought you were actually ready to hang up your spurs and play domestic bliss in the mountains."

"I thought I was too, Paul," I admitted, wiping my hands on a shop towel. "Turns out rust builds up faster than you think when you leave machinery sitting out in the rain."

"Well," Paul said, tapping the manila folder with his index finger. "Good thing we have diagnostic tools that never expire. Headquarters called about two hours ago. There's a new logistics bottleneck down in the Southcom sector. Cartel-backed local militias interfering with federal supply lines. They need an independent senior consultant to go down there, audit the local infrastructure, and fix the alignment."

I looked down at the envelope. Inside lay new identification papers, secure satellite frequencies, and flight orders heading south within twenty-four hours.

I reached out, picked up the envelope, and slid it open.