Both Mac and I slid our headsets on, exchanging a brief glance of anticipation before turning our attention to Scuzball, waiting for him to share whatever plan was brewing in his digital mind.
“Now that I have the fleet’s undivided attention, please focus on your tablet screens,” he commanded over the radio link. A new window popped up on the screen, revealing an animated video that began to play as Scuzball provided the commentary.
“The plan is as follows: Lyra will take the lead, followed by the RGNs, then the MCV, and finally the flat decks. The dragons will follow behind in our wake of destruction, watching our flank. Once Lyra begins to roll and everyone is in line, I will take control of the fleet’s acceleration and braking through the trucks’ adaptive cruise control system. All you need to do is steer and shift when I instruct you to,” he explained, the video illustrating how each truck would line up and connect seamlessly.
“Once the fleet is in formation, I’ll guide each truck into position so they’re all touching. This will prevent any sudden jolts or mishaps. Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing—I am an all-knowing A.I., after all,” he continued, his tone confident, almost cocky. The video showed how each truck would align, bumper to bumper, creating a solid wall of unstoppable force. A few chuckles echoed over the link before Stoneclaw’s voice cut through with a snarky jab.
“A bit full of yourself, aren’t you? You overly complicated Turing machine,” Stoneclaw retorted, his deep voice dripping with sarcasm.
I watched with amusement as Scuzball’s face soured briefly before he silenced Stoneclaw’s link, leaving the dragon likely fuming on the other end. The absurdity of a digital A.I. muting a dragon wasn’t lost on me, and I stifled a snort.
“Did he just mute a dragon?” Sasha’s voice broke through, tinged with shock.
“I believe he did,” Major Pixiewolf confirmed, her tone just as incredulous.
I tapped my screen to signal that I was ready, watching as the others did the same. One by one, each truck showed green. I eased my rig out of its spot, carefully maneuvering through the row of trucks until I rolled onto the on-ramp. As I shifted into the next gear and floored the accelerator, I felt the truck twist under the power, the front driver steer tire lifting off the ground momentarily.
Suddenly, the classic tune of "Convoy" blasted through my truck’s sound system, catching me off guard. I glanced at Mac, who looked just as surprised as I felt. Then, the first jolt hit as the truck behind me bumped into the FRS, and I gritted my teeth, slamming gears as the convoy picked up speed.
“Alright, who’s playing Convoy?” Azura’s voice crackled through the comms.
“I’ve set up a nice playlist for us while we deal with this blockade,” Scuzball announced with a hint of pride, just as another bump rocked the rig.
“Good choice, buddy,” I muttered, focusing on the speedometer as it climbed. We were pushing fifty miles per hour, but I wasn’t done shifting, and we still had a ways to go before the barricade. The adrenaline surged as I jammed into sixteenth gear, the engine roaring beneath me.
Screw sixty miles per hour—we were going to hit this blockade with everything we had. As the song reached its crescendo, we slammed into the burning M1085s at nearly a hundred miles per hour. The impact was brutal. My truck bucked violently as the heavy vehicles were launched like missiles, smashing into the bank of the bridge and its supporting pillars.
Debris flew in all directions, the chaos punctuated by the sight of my hood ornament shooting off like a projectile before it slammed into the windshield, bouncing off without leaving a mark before disappearing into the wreckage. Despite the violent collision, the convoy didn’t slow down—we were a relentless force.
“Hell yeah!” Mac shouted, her voice brimming with exhilaration as we plowed through the next barrier—a pile of cars that barely registered against our momentum. The next obstacle, a wall of concrete K-rails and an old school bus, stood no chance. I hit the bus dead center, splitting it in half as the pieces skidded in opposite directions, dragging the concrete barriers with them.
“Downshift to 14th gear now!” Scuzball’s voice barked through the headset, pulling me back to the task at hand.
Downshifting, I saw the off-ramp coming up fast. My truck screamed as I pushed it to twenty-five hundred RPMs, feeling the surge of power beneath me. The trucks’ brakes independently applied in sync, accommodating our turn and the impending impact. We slammed into the barricade blocking the off-ramp, and I jammed the accelerator down, grabbing 15th gear. We tore down the off-ramp like a freight train, as "Black Betty" by Spiderbait blared through the speakers, perfectly matching the adrenaline coursing through our veins.
Mac was jamming to the song, her head bobbing with the beat as we blew through the intersection and onto the on-ramp. A quick glance in my driver-side mirror showed the trail of devastation we had left in our wake—it was both chaotic and breathtaking. Pulling back onto the interstate, I floated through the next four gears, pushing my truck back up to eighty miles an hour.
“Holy Luna, Alpha! That was epic!” I heard Charlotte roar over the radio, her voice filled with exhilaration.
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Major Pixiewolf added, still sounding slightly shocked.
“How did the two of you hold up back there?” I asked, genuinely curious about their experience.
“We’re okay. I got to watch a big fluffy wolf bounce around in his chair,” she answered with a chuckle.
“I’m not that big!” Steve grumbled, clearly less amused by the situation.
“How’s everyone else holding up?” I asked, checking in on the rest of the team.
One by one, they responded, their voices tinged with excitement and adrenaline. Then, a chorus of cheers erupted, the thrill of our success surging through the convoy.
“Don’t count your ducks yet, guys. We’ve thoroughly pissed off a hornet’s nest,” Stoneclaw’s voice cut in, bringing a sobering note to the celebration.
“How bad?” I asked, my grip tightening on the wheel.
“I suggest you put the hammer down. There are at least fifteen heavily modified vehicles on our tail,” he replied, his tone serious.
I glanced at Mac, then immediately smashed the accelerator, pushing the truck to its limits.
“How long do you think the rigs can handle this speed on such rough roads?” I asked her, worry creeping into my voice.
“Not long. Maybe an hour, if we’re lucky,” she answered, a concerned look crossing her face.
“Stoneclaw, Mac doesn’t think the rigs can handle this speed for long. We need to come up with a plan,” I said into my mic, urgency lacing my words.
“Working on it,” he replied curtly.
Moments later, I saw two of the JLTVs speeding by on each side of the fleet, racing ahead. The passenger doors flung open, and two dragons climbed out, not bothering with their clothes as they jumped and shifted midair. A massive black dragon appeared, flanked by a smaller iridescent bluish dragon. Mac let out a surprised squeak as the two enormous creatures soared past us, their wings cutting through the air with powerful strokes.
I glanced in my mirror just in time to see a huge fireball erupt behind us. The group trailing us scattered in all directions, desperately trying to avoid the explosion and the searing flames. My mind raced as I quickly formulated a plan.
“Jake, Seth, Azura, Charlotte—pull ahead of me. RGNs, form two lines in each lane. We’re going to act as a rolling barricade,” I ordered, my voice steady despite the chaos.
“Roger!” Everyone responded in unison, their voices a mix of resolve and determination.
I eased off the accelerator, watching as the MCV and the flat deck team pulled ahead. Once they were in position, I and the rest of the trucks formed two solid lines.
“Alright, everyone spread out into a delta formation—just like Team Amethyst does in competition,” I instructed, keeping my tone commanding and clear.
In my mirror, I saw the RGNs executing the maneuver flawlessly. It didn’t take long before the rogue vehicles came roaring up on us, their engines growling menacingly. Several of them maneuvered into the middle of our formation, and that’s when I heard Abel’s ominous voice.
“What the hell… are we in the world of Mad Max?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.
“What?” I responded, needing clarification.
“These wannabe Mad Max assholes… Their vehicles are decked out like something straight out of the movies,” he explained.
At that moment, the sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the air.
“Holy fuck! They’re shooting at us!” Sasha yelled, panic edging her voice.
I glanced in my mirror, spotting four of the rogue vehicles closing in on different trucks within our formation.
“RGNs, merge in and crush them!” I ordered sharply over the radio.
In seconds, the trucks closed ranks around the oddball vehicles, trapping them with no escape. The grinding sound of metal on metal filled the air as the rogue vehicles were crushed.
“Pull away!” I barked into the radio as I slammed on the brakes of my rig. Smoke billowed from my tires, and Mac instinctively threw her hands forward, catching the dash just as the vehicles behind slammed into the back of the FRS. Catching 7th gear, I floored the accelerator, feeling the truck twist under the power I was demanding from it. The tires barked as they spun, and Mac was thrown back into her seat, gripping the armrest with white-knuckled intensity. I had moved to the rear of the fleet, and the RGNs reformed the delta, keeping the rogues at bay.
A sudden thud hit the truck, and I caught a glimpse of a serpentine tail flashing in front of me. A massive fireball erupted behind the FRS, and I noticed Stoneclaw perched atop it, his eyes ablaze with determination. The blue dragon swooped in, unleashing a stream of ice that slammed into one of the rogue vehicles, sending it spiraling into another before both crashed into the median.
Another fireball shot from Stoneclaw’s maw, crashing into a modified, lifted pickup truck, sending it airborne in a fiery explosion. Gunfire erupted from the two JLTVs behind me, peppering a couple more of the rogue vehicles. It was clear—if we were going to keep facing rogue packs like this, we needed better defenses.
“Who are these people?” I demanded over the radio, trying to make sense of the chaos.
“My best guess is they’re remnants—people who chose not to move to the safer side of the country or a band of outlaws wanting nothing to do with society,” Major Pixiewolf replied, her tone laced with frustration.
“Why didn’t anyone brief us on this possibility?” I pressed, the anger rising in my voice.
“It was considered a possibility, but no one has monitored beyond the wall, and it hasn’t been a priority for the military,” she admitted.
“Then why didn’t the unit that came through here report this?” I asked, incredulous.
“They never sent a report,” she answered, just as a motorcycle came screaming past the passenger side of my truck.
Without hesitation, Mac grabbed her rifle, rolled down the window, and leaned out to take aim. The rifle boomed, and the rider slumped over, sending the bike skidding across the roadway and right into my path. The truck bucked as I hit the bike, and a spray of blood splashed up, smearing across my windshield and Mac. She recoiled, a disgusted look crossing her face as she wiped the blood off. The truck bounced again as Stoneclaw leapt off the FRS, soaring toward a much larger vehicle.
With a powerful flap of his wings, Stoneclaw grabbed the massive vehicle—a cabover, now that I could see it clearly—and lifted it off the ground, flipping it onto its side with ease. He released it and ascended skyward just as another fireball exploded, obliterating the truck in a blaze of destruction.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“Major Pixiewolf, send the report now,” I ordered, the urgency clear in my voice.
“Yes, Alpha,” she replied promptly. “Sending it up now.”
Another jolt shook the truck, and I glanced in my mirror to see the blue dragon, Icetail, now perched on the FRS. He craned his neck down to my cab, his deep, booming voice resonating through the air.
“The rogues are backing off, Alpha Acosta,” he announced, his large cobalt eye focusing on me. I rolled down my window to respond.
“Icetail?” I confirmed.
“That is correct,” he replied, his tone more relaxed. “That was a good move with the rigs, by the way.”
“Thanks. We needed to stop them from getting in front of us,” I said, the tension in my voice easing.
“Smart move. You’d make a good commander,” he praised before lifting his head back up.
I turned to Mac, who was grinning from ear to ear, her eyes alight with admiration.
“What?” I asked, furrowing my eyebrows at her.
“He’s right,” she said, her voice full of genuine respect.
I rolled my eyes playfully and refocused on the road ahead.
“Jake, how’s your team holding up?” I asked, needing to ensure everyone was okay.
“We’re doing okay. We’re about two miles ahead of you,” he replied, his voice steady.
“Good. The rogues have backed off,” I stated, glancing in my mirror.
I let out a sigh of relief and ordered the RGNs to push forward. As we picked up speed, I hung back slightly to assess the damage done to the fleet’s rigs. The tractors themselves seemed to have held up well, just a few scratches here and there. But the trailers—those had taken a beating. A couple of the JLTVs were seriously damaged, and the frame rails of the trailers were bent beyond recognition. Cain’s tarps were ripped open, exposing crates that had been smashed beyond repair. This was bad. The cargo had been damaged in transit. Steve was going to be livid—he absolutely despised load claims.
We continued down I-80 for the next hour, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. The rhythmic hum of the engine was broken when Jake’s voice crackled over the radio.
"Alpha, I think you need to get up here. I see something in the distance," he announced, his tone tense.
"10-4, on my way," I replied, my curiosity piqued.
The RGN team slowed down, allowing me to pass. I wasn’t pushing my truck as hard as before; over the past hour, a nasty shake had developed in the steering wheel. Mac had noticed it too, and we both agreed to slow down. We didn’t want to risk further damage, especially now that we were out of immediate danger. I’d have to inspect the rig once we reached our destination.
As I inched past the flat decks and pulled alongside Jake, I saw what had caught his attention. Parked on the shoulder ahead was a group of dark green and desert tan trucks, military by the look of them. They were eerily still, like ghosts from a battle long past. I exchanged a confused glance with Mac before speaking into my mic.
“Major Pixiewolf, what unit was supposed to go ahead of us?” I asked, a sense of dread creeping into my voice.
“It’s the 833rd Engineering Company, 734th Regional Support Group, Iowa National Guard, based out of Ottumwa, Iowa. Why?” she responded.
“I think we found them,” I said flatly, the weight of the situation sinking in.
We brought the fleet to a halt, and I instructed my team to stay in their trucks. Major Pixiewolf, Stoneclaw, and I approached the scene to assess the situation. As we walked closer, the extent of the destruction became horrifyingly clear. The trucks looked as though they’d been through a war zone—bullet holes peppered their sides, and massive gouges and scratches marred the metal. Blood splattered across shattered windows, telling a grim tale of violence. I spotted the unit's designation, "833 EN CO," painted on one of the bumpers.
“Major, this was the unit that was sent ahead of us,” I pointed out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I see it… this doesn’t look good,” she replied, her tone reflecting the gravity of the situation.
I adjusted my rifle, scanning the area for any signs of the unit. The trucks had been abandoned, and a deep sense of foreboding settled in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I caught their scent on the wind—faint, but unmistakable. I turned east, toward the opposite side of the highway.
“Stoneclaw, they’re that way,” I announced, pointing toward the scent.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of skepticism.
“Positive,” I affirmed, my senses sharpened by the urgency of the situation.
“Should we go find them?” Major Pixiewolf asked, concern lacing her words.
“Hold on. Let me have Raptor fly over and see what he finds,” Stoneclaw replied, already keying his radio.
Moments later, a smaller silver dragon soared overhead, its sleek, agile form cutting through the evening sky. Unlike Stoneclaw’s massive presence, Raptor was nimble and quick, his wings covered in silver feathers that gleamed in the fading light as he silently glided south.
“What should we do while he’s searching for the unit?” I asked, trying to stay focused.
“I think you and Major Pixiewolf should head back to the MCV and report in. If the unit didn’t make it to the I-76 corridor, our mission has failed by default,” Stoneclaw replied coldly, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut.
My heart sank. Failure wasn’t something I was accustomed to—especially not when it came to delivering a load. On top of that, we had significant cargo damage, which meant a costly load claim. I felt the weight of the situation bearing down on me as I turned to walk back to my truck.
As I approached, I finally took in the full extent of the damage. My front grill was mangled, the bumper twisted and bent beyond recognition. One headlight was completely gone, with only frayed wires dangling where it used to be, while the other was crushed and pushed backward. Deep gashes marred the hood and fenders, the beautiful black paint now a testament to the violence we’d endured.
I let out a heavy sigh, knowing this was going to be an expensive repair. Walking around to the driver’s side, the reason for the shaking steering wheel became clear—my driver-side steer tire was shredded, with the run-flat showing through the frayed metal bands. At some point, the mangled bumper had ripped the tire apart. I had done a number on my beautiful truck, and the reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks.
I looked up through the windshield and saw Mac watching me. I waved for her to come out and take a look at the damage. Without hesitation, she climbed out and joined me. When she saw the state of the truck, her expression mirrored mine—disappointment and heartbreak rather than the anger I’d expected. She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I know it looks bad, but we can fix it,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet reassurance.
I reached up, squeezing her hand in return, and looked at her. “Do you think you can fix the tire and pull the bumper out, so it doesn’t damage the new one?” I asked, my voice tinged with hope.
“Honey, I’ve got everything we need to get you new headlights, a new bumper, and a new tire,” she said with a chuckle, her confidence easing some of my tension.
“That’s a relief. I haven’t even looked at the FRS’s trailer yet,” I admitted, feeling a bit more at ease.
“Better late than never. Let’s go have a look,” she suggested.
Together, we walked to the back of the FRS to assess the damage. To our surprise, the trailer had fared much better than my truck. Some of the frame rails were bent and scratched, both white mud flaps were gone, and two taillights were crushed—that was the extent of it. The container on the back had a huge dent, and I was pretty sure the contents inside were a mess, but that was a problem for later.
“At least the FRS lived through the chaos,” she said, her tone cool and composed.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’s a disaster in there,” I sighed, already dreading the cleanup.
“Possibly… I’m more worried about the parts. They’re probably scattered everywhere in the containers,” she grumbled, her frustration seeping through.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, feeling the weight of my decisions.
“It’s fine, I’ll get them reorganized,” she reassured me, her tone softening.
“Since it was my plan, I’ll help you,” I offered, my voice filled with solemn determination.
“Sounds good to me,” she replied with a smile that warmed the moment.
“Come on, let’s go to the MCV and talk to Steve and Major Pixiewolf,” I said quietly.
As we made our way to the MCV, a few team members approached, curious about what was happening. I told them to stand by, explaining that we were checking in with HQ because the unit we were supposed to support hadn’t made it to their objective.
When we entered the MCV, I found Steve looking rather sick while Major Pixiewolf wore a disgruntled expression. Concerned, I gave them both a questioning look, arching an eyebrow. Then, I noticed the upper left monitor where my uncle sat in his home office. Behind him, I could make out a portrait of Star sitting in the old captain’s chair of the SAF Autumn, engrossed in a book. Beside him stood President Clark, his expression serious and somber.
Over the past few years, Clark had begun to grey at the temples, and his beard was now salt-and-peppered. He looked as if he’d aged ten years in a fraction of the time. His eyes were hard, focused on the camera on his end. The sight of him at the Zaraki mansion took me by surprise.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, the tension in the MCV thick enough that you could cut it with a knife.
“We’ve been reassigned…” Major Pixiewolf whispered back, her tone edged with frustration.
“Reassigned?” I repeated, my eyebrow arching higher in disbelief.
“Yes…” she confirmed, her voice flat.
“But we’re civilian contractors, not military personnel,” I replied quietly, the confusion clear in my voice.
“Technically, the others in the pack are… You aren’t,” she said, her words hanging heavily in the air.
I turned my gaze to my uncle on the monitor, seeking answers. “What is the major talking about?” I asked, my voice steady but laced with growing unease.
“Lyra, the President is recalling you to active service,” my uncle said calmly, though his words sent a shock through me.
“How? I haven’t been an active member of the service in over four years!” I exclaimed, the disbelief hitting me like a physical blow.
“Because I need this mission completed, Alpha Acosta,” the President interjected, his voice commanding and firm.
“You sent a National Guard unit to do this mission. Did you not expect them to get their asses handed to them?” I demanded, my frustration bubbling to the surface.
“We didn’t have an active-duty unit on hand that we could spare for this mission. It was supposed to be a fairly simple task. We didn’t realize that the unit—or your team—would encounter a rogue element capable of causing this much damage and chaos,” the President replied, his tone a mix of regret and determination.
“Damnit, Andrew! My team is made up of civilians, not soldiers!” I roared, my frustration boiling over.
“As their alpha, they will be what you need them to be,” he retorted, his tone cold and unyielding.
I threw my arms up in exasperation, a growl escaping my throat. “Are you saying we’re being drafted?” I demanded, disbelief tinging my voice.
“Yes,” he answered bluntly. “Seventy-five percent of all North American wolf packs are now currently serving the Free States of America as military units.”
“My team has limited training, Andrew! We aren’t prepared to fight a war!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the confined space.
“Then train them,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
I opened my mouth to protest but stuttered, the words failing me. I was a new alpha, a truck driver, and an employee of SkyTeam. I was no longer a service member of the FS Military. Once, I had served under Star and Cayro in an administrative role as a 1st Lieutenant. I had some combat experience, but I’d spent most of my time handling paperwork once things calmed down. Now, I was expected to lead my team into a war.
“What about the dragons?” I asked, grasping for any alternative. “They have more experience and training. Why not send them forward instead?”
“They have been reassigned to you directly. Use them to help train your pack,” the President said, his words landing with the weight of a hammer.
I blinked several times, trying to process the severity of what he’d just said. The dragons fell under my pack now? How was that even possible? Stoneclaw and Pixiewolf were majors, and I was merely a 1st Lieutenant—if I was even recalled to active duty.
“How the hell is that supposed to work? If I’m recalled to service, that makes me a lieutenant. They outrank me,” I stated bluntly, trying to make sense of the madness.
“Actually, last year, I signed an executive order that any pack conscripted into service would have their alpha equivalent to the rank of O-6,” the President replied calmly.
My jaw dropped. I was a colonel now—the same rank as Star? This was unbelievable. I turned to my uncle, silently pleading for him to intervene.
“Uncle, can’t you do something about this?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.
“It’s out of my control, Lyra. If I override him, then I’m going against what this country stands for. You were there during the Second Twilight battle. You saw the evil that was controlling the U.S. before it fell. I will not allow that to happen again,” he said, his voice filled with a deep, unwavering resolve.
“But…” I began, but before I could continue, the door to the MCV opened. Stoneclaw and a man dressed in digital forest camo walked in. The man looked rough—dried blood and mud covered parts of his uniform. He had a captain’s rank pinned to his chest and on his patrol cap. His name, Bresden, was emblazoned across his left breast. One look at him, and I knew he was human.
“Sorry for taking so long, Raptor found what’s left of the unit,” Stoneclaw said, his voice gruff and heavy with the weight of his words.
No one spoke as we looked at them, our expressions a mixture of worry and apprehension.
“What’s wrong?” Stoneclaw asked, his tone shifting as he picked up on the tension in the room.
Mac and I stepped aside, revealing the monitor where the President and my uncle were still visible. Stoneclaw’s eyes widened as he met my gaze.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, a hint of alarm in his voice.
“We’ve been… reassigned,” I said, my voice carrying the weight of the world.
“So, the mission is scrapped?” he asked, his tone laced with uncertainty.
“No, you’re now reassigned to the 781st Transportation Pack under the 102nd Airborne Division,” the President declared, his words final and unyielding.
I closed my eyes in defeat, slumping my shoulders. That meant I was now under Cayro Zaraki’s division, in charge of a sister unit to Star’s. The realization was staggering.
“But, Sir?” Stoneclaw began, clearly about to protest.
“Those are my orders, Major Stoneclaw. You and your group are officially reassigned to this pack permanently,” the President interrupted, his tone brooking no further discussion.
Stoneclaw clamped his mouth shut, his gaze dropping to the floor before he looked back at me. His voice was dead when he spoke again. “Understood, Sir.”
Turning to the captain, I spoke, needing to understand what had happened. “Captain, tell us what occurred on your way to your objective,” I demanded, my voice firm despite the turmoil inside me.
“We were ambushed by a group that calls themselves the Western Hell Hounds. When we rolled into York, Nebraska, they hit the convoy with overwhelming force. We weren’t prepared for an all-out attack from a force that strong. They managed to destroy a third of our convoy and killed almost half of my unit,” he reported, his voice carrying the weight of his loss.
“How many soldiers do you have left?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside.
“Roughly thirty,” the captain replied.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. They originally had nearly sixty members in their unit before the attack. The loss was staggering.
“How many of those left are injured?” I queried, already dreading the answer.
“Twelve,” he said flatly, the weight of the situation evident in his tone.
That meant they were severely compromised, no longer able to complete their mission effectively. I clenched my jaw, weighing our options before turning to the monitor where the President and my uncle still watched.
“How soon can we get an emergency airlift to evacuate the injured?” I asked, directing my question to the President.
“I’ll see what I can do, Alpha Acosta, but I need you and your team to reach the objective and secure the I-76 corridor as soon as possible. This is nonnegotiable. We’ll send the evac to that location,” the President declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.
“Fine… I’ll get it done,” I growled, the frustration clear in my voice. The call ended abruptly, leaving the MCV in tense silence. I looked around at the faces in the room—each one reflecting the gravity of the situation.
“Stoneclaw, you and your team escort the 833rd back to this location. Mac, start going through the 833rd’s trucks and see what you can do to get them running. Steve, Pixiewolf, gather the pack and assign them tasks where they can be most effective. We need to get this shit show moving before we find ourselves in an even worse situation,” I ordered, my voice firm and resolute.
Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and strode out of the MCV, heading straight for my truck. There was a phone call I needed to make, and the only way I could do that was through Scuzball.