Dewy's Nightmare

Chapter Two: Meeting the Veterans

The oppressive silence of the pre-dawn hours was a battlefield in itself. Captain Dewey, a storm of motion and grit, felt its weight settle into her bones. The last twelve hours had been a relentless grind—a whirlwind of clearing enemy outposts, extracting stranded refugees, and corralling the stragglers of her 6th Division who had gotten separated during the raid. The “War Hounds,” as they were unofficially known, were a unit built on speed and precision, but even hounds get tired.

She stood in the hangar, the smell of burnt cordite and engine oil a familiar perfume. Her men and women, drained to the marrow, were collapsing onto cots or huddling around steaming mugs of coffee. Her second-in-command, a grizzled veteran named Sergeant Major Kane, approached, his face a roadmap of hard-fought battles. " Captain," he said, the word a simple, respectful acknowledgement of her rank. "We're all accounted for. The refugees have been secured in the East sector. We'll have a full report ready for you by the time you're back."

Dewey nodded, her eyes closed for a brief, precious moment. "Good, Sarge. Secure the perimeter and get everyone some rest. And make sure the comms are checked. The last thing we need is a repeat of yesterday's blackout."

"On it, Captain," he replied, a hint of concern in his voice. "You look like you've been run through a meat grinder yourself, ma'am. You sure you're up for this?"

She forced a tired smile. "I've got an audience with the brass. I have to look the part, even if I feel like I'm held together with duct tape and caffeine."

Kane offered a rare, genuine grin. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Captain."

Even in the relative quiet of their base, the exhaustion of the last mission clung to Captain Dewy like a second skin. She dragged herself to the lavatory, splashing cold water on her face and staring at her reflection—a woman etched with the lines of too many battles.

She chose her best uniform, the one without a single scorch mark, and pulled a detailed map from her desk. She traced a path to the central base—a series of hidden routes and narrow alleyways, each one a silent promise to avoid the enemy sentinels that prowled the main roads.

As she reached the hatch, a small hand gripped hers. It was Oma, her nine-year-old sister, her eyes wide and pleading. "I’m coming with you," she stated, her voice full of a child's unwavering resolve.

A flicker of warmth softened Dewy's weary face. She knelt, embracing her sister. "Not today, little hero," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "This mission is too dangerous. I need you to stay and protect mama."

Oma's lower lip quivered. "But I want to protect you! And help you fight the bad guys!" she retorted, a tiny tremor in her voice.

A genuine laugh, the first in what felt like weeks, bubbled up from Dewy’s throat. She pulled back slightly and gazed at her sister. "Of course you are, O," she replied, her eyes glistening. "You’re Captain Oma the iron fist, after all." She reached unto her shelf, and pulled out a battered metallic helmet—a relic from her own childhood, complete with a massive visor and faded star stickers. She carefully placed it on Oma’s head, where it swallowed her face in a comical way.

"You're in charge of the base now,boss," she whispered, handing Oma a baseball bat. "Show those bad guys who’s in control. I won't be long, and I’ll be sure to get those treats I promised."

As she headed for the hatch, she paused, turning to one of her trusted scouts. "They're your priority," she commanded, her voice low and serious. "Keep them safe, and don't let her get into trouble of any sort."

"Copy ,Captain," the scout said, with a sharp salute. Dewy gave a final nod, her gaze lingering on her sister for a moment longer before she hurried to the surface, her heart a little heavier, but her resolve strengthened.

The hangar doors groaned open, revealing a slick, matte-black vehicle that looked more like a rejected prototype from a sci-fi film than a military asset. Dewey stared at it with a mixture of confusion and disgust. It was a sleek, two-seater sports car—a blatant mockery of the heavy-duty "Inevitable," her usual armored transport.

"Where's the Inevitable, Joseph?" Dewey demanded, her voice a low growl. "I arranged for a transport, not a mid-life crisis on wheels."

Joseph, the head of the division's engineering unit, beamed with a mechanic's pride. He was a man of wires and circuits, not mud and blood, and his face was smeared with grease. "Sorry for the inconvenience, Captain. The Inevitable couldn't pull through today. She's in the shop, undergoing some major upgrades to her fusion core. But you'll love this girl. I call her the 'Roadrunner'." He patted the car's carbon-fiber chassis. "She's a bulletproof V46 turbo engine, two-seater, with 3D maneuver and full-spectrum stealth capabilities. It's got maglev propulsion, anti EMR mechanism, inbuilt artillery system, and a 360-degree satellite view. My team and I designed it for deep-cover ops. Perfect for a stealth journey."

Dewey circled the vehicle skeptically, her combat boots crunching on the hangar floor. "That's all talk, Joe. I'll reserve judgment until it gets me there and back in one piece, hope it plays my favorite channel ."

She inspected her gear one last time—the weight of her sidearm, the familiar cold of the blade on her vest, the secured data drives containing the last forty-eight hours of intel. "Alright, Joe. Let's roll, time for test-running." She slid into the cockpit, its controls a dizzying array of unfamiliar switches and displays.

"Yes, ma'am! Engines alive in three… two… one… and roll!" Joseph declared with the enthusiasm of a kid launching a rocket.

The car didn't so much move as it vanished. A blinding blur of blue, a silent streak of impossibility, and the hangar doors were a memory. Dewey let out a wild whoop of delight, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. This wasn't a car; it was a ghost with an engine.

The Roadrunner reached the Central Command Base in what felt like minutes. As Dewey dismounted, she stretched her back with a groan that echoed the fatigue in her bones. "The Roadrunner for sure is a monster, Joe," she said, a wide grin breaking through her grimace. "I'm keeping this beast. The Inevitable can wait for now. Stay here, I'll be back."

With that, she headed toward the imposing entrance of the bunker. A series of metallic doors rolled open and closed behind her as she passed through multiple security checkpoints. Her biometric data was scanned, her gear x-rayed, and her cloak of stealth technology was deactivated as she stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

Her heart pounded like a drum cadence on the eve of battle. She wasn't sure if it was excitement, dread, or just the accumulated stress of the past week. "Keep it together, Dewey," she whispered to herself. "They're just old geezers anyway."

She touched the cold steel of the door handle. It clicked open with a soft hiss, and a wave of cool air, smelling of stale coffee and polished metal, washed over her.

"Afternoon, gentlemen. Forgive my late entrance," Dewey announced, stepping inside. Her eyes swept across the room, which was adorned with military banners and flags representing various allied divisions. The room itself was a monument to the war—maps spread across a massive conference table, holographic displays showing troop movements, and the quiet hum of sophisticated machinery.

But the "Veterans" were not what she expected. The term evoked images of gray-haired, stern-faced men, but the four figures seated at the table were surprisingly young and vibrant. Only one man, a stoic-looking figure with a neatly trimmed gray beard, appeared to be of an advanced age.

"Have a seat, Captain, and welcome," said a young soldier with a warm smile. His uniform was adorned with an impressive collection of stars and symbols, his youthful face belying his rank. "Major Obi informed us of his absence and that you would be standing in on behalf of the 1st Division."

Once settled, the young soldier rose and spoke with a formal authority that commanded respect. "Captain Dewey of the 6th, welcome to the Rebel Opposition Army. Seated amongst you ,are the Veterans, the heads of The Black Tide that spearheads this movement. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Law, leader of the 3rd Division, the 'Shadow Hawks,' and chairman of this committee."

He gestured to the others. "That's Major General Zach, head of the 2nd Division, the 'Night Terrors.'" Zach tipped his hat in a silent salute. "This is General Usman, head of the 4th Division, the 'Iron Fists,' and the sharpest shooter you'll ever meet." Usman gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. "And this," Daniel said, turning to his right, "is Field Marshall Josephine, head of the 5th Division, the 'Steel Foxes,' and our chief provost."

Josephine, a formidable woman with a stern gaze, gave a crisp salute. "Now, with that, let the meeting commence."

Daniel sat back down, taking a slow sip of water and adjusting his glasses. The weight of the moment was palpable. This was no ordinary meeting; this was the high command, the strategic core of the resistance.