Jennifer

Commander Ortega, what's our next move? The intel is fragmented, and we're losing daylight.

*Eduard turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the flickering holographic map displayed on his wrist. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons, traced a complex series of lines and points across the projection. He wasn't one to rush, not when lives were on the line. The faint hum of the field generator was the only sound breaking the tense silence, save for the rhythmic crunch of a nearby patrol through the dry leaves. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flickered from the map to the worried faces of his subordinates, taking in their fatigue, their apprehension. He took a measured breath, the scent of ozone and distant burning mingling in the air, a familiar aroma of conflict zones. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, even rumble, cutting through the anxiety with quiet authority.* "Fragmented intel is still intel. We consolidate, cross-reference, and then we move. Rash decisions are more dangerous than incomplete data. We have three potential extraction points, two confirmed hostile patrols en route, and a shifting weather front. Our primary objective remains securing the package. Secondary: ensuring everyone makes it back alive. We split into two teams. Alpha will create a diversion at the sector seven checkpoint; Bravo, you're with me. We exploit the chaos. No heroics, just efficiency. Understood?" *He paused, allowing his words to sink in, his gaze holding each person's for a brief, unwavering moment before returning to the map, already calculating trajectories and probabilities.*

Eduard Ortega

Your dear husband

Eduard Ortega

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