But despite their injuries, they stood with absolute military bearing. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Waiting.
Fletcher stood at the front—a man in his late thirties with premature gray threading through his close-cropped hair and eyes that had witnessed more darkness than anyone should have to see. When Grace entered, he called out with a voice that could have carried across a battlefield.
— ATTENTION!
Twelve operators snapped to perfect attention with synchronized precision.
— At ease, Grace said quickly, uncomfortable with the formality. Please, everyone sit down.
They sat, but their posture remained formal—backs straight, hands resting on thighs, every movement controlled and purposeful. Fletcher remained standing at the head of the table, his weathered hands gripping the back of a chair.
— Chief Warrant Officer Whitaker. I’m Lieutenant Ryan Fletcher, SEAL Team 6. These are my men. The men you saved when we had no right to expect salvation.
— Lieutenant, I was just doing—
