Operation: Last Dawn

Chapter One: Crash And Survive Part 1

Date: June 16, 2045

Time: 1800 Hours

Location: Unknown

A low groan tore from Garrett’s throat as consciousness dragged him back into the waking world. His skull throbbed with a blinding, rhythmic pulse. The air was thick and suffocating, choked with acrid black smoke, pulverized foliage, and the vaporous reek of ignited aviation fuel. Garrett blinked against the stinging haze, coughing hard as his vision slowly swam into focus.

Around him, the fuselage was torn open like a ruptured tin can. Broken wiring spat erratic blue sparks into the gloom, and the emerald wall of the jungle pressed in through the shattered bulkheads. Garrett rolled onto his hands and knees, pushing himself up from the damp, debris-strewn soil. “Doc!” Garrett shouted, his voice rough and rasping against the smoke. Nothing answered except the distant hiss of severed hydraulic lines. He staggered forward, bracing a hand against a warped structural rib. “Mateo! Darius! Rume!” Silence. Only the heavy, humid silence of the foreign canopy. “Noah!”

A strained, muffled sound of agony came from fifteen yards back toward the severed tail section. Garrett moved instantly, vaulting over shattered crates and torn aluminum framing until he found the source. Half-buried beneath a collapsed section of cargo plating lay Caleb Mercer. “Doc!” Garrett dropped to his knees in the mud beside him. Doc turned his head with excruciating slowness, his face coated in gray ash and streaks of sweat and blood. He blinked through blurred vision, grimacing in pain. “Cap... Ow. What the hell happened?”

“Easy, Doc. Don't try to twist around,” Garrett said, his hands immediately checking Mercer’s shoulders and neck for spinal trauma. “We got brought down. Four fighters intercepted us out of nowhere. God only knows whose colors they were flying.”

Doc exhaled a ragged breath and weakly reached to his tactical vest, unhooking his battered short-range comm unit. He held it out with a trembling hand. “Cap... I’ve been trying to scan the local band since I came to. I can’t pick up the other three’s transponders. Nothing on the short-range. Frequencies are dead.” Garrett took the radio, clipping it to his own harness. “Don’t worry about the comms right now. First thing is getting this scrap metal off you and getting you patched up.”

“Yeah... sounds like a plan,” Doc muttered, his breathing shallow.

Garrett shifted his stance, planting his boots firmly into the jungle floor and wedging his forearms under the crushed support beam. He set his jaw, drew a deep breath, and heaved upward with raw force. The metal groaned in protest, tearing free from the twisted flooring as Garrett hoisted it six inches off Doc’s pinned legs. “Move, Caleb! Crawl!” Doc gritted his teeth, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as he dragged his lower body out from beneath the wreckage.

Once clear, Garrett dropped the heavy beam with a dull, echoing thud. Breathing heavily, Doc pulled himself back and slumped against the mossy trunk of a fallen hardwood tree, clutching his side. He wiped a mixture of blood and soot from his brow, offering a faint, strained smirk.

“That was one hell of an in-flight service,” Doc rasped, leaning his head back against the bark. “God, if we ever make it home from this sandbox, I’m putting in for a beach vacation. Six straight months.”

Garrett pulled a compact field trauma kit from his vest and knelt beside him, ripping open a pressure bandage. “We’re all making it home, Caleb. When we get back to DC, I’m signing off on a full year of administrative leave for the whole damn team.” Doc gave a weak, breathless laugh that quickly turned into a violent, hacking cough. “Man... if Darius was here to hear you say that, he’d probably try to kiss you on the mouth.”

“Let’s keep that between us, then,” Garrett replied quietly.

He placed a firm, steadying hand on Doc’s shoulder before going to work. Garrett cut away the torn fabric of Doc’s combat trousers, assessing the deep lacerations and blunt-force trauma along his right calf and thigh. Moving quickly with practiced efficiency, he disinfected the wounds and wrapped the pressure dressing tightly around the torn muscle, securing it with medical tape. Garrett glanced toward the open canopy above, his jaw tight. “Let’s just hope the other three had a cleaner drop than we did.”

“Rume is about to get married. Mateo had the kid,” Doc said softly. “And Darius doesn’t know how to die.”

“Let’s count on that.” Garrett sealed the kit, slid it into his pouch, and extended a hand. “Come on. Up we go.”

Doc took Garrett’s forearm. Garrett pulled upward, taking the brunt of Doc’s weight as the medic rose onto his good leg. Doc swayed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped Garrett’s tactical vest, his face draining of color from the sharp spike of pain. Garrett steadied him, letting Doc drape an arm over his broad shoulders. He scanned the dense jungle line flanking the burning transport. The black plume rising into the sky was a beacon for miles.

“The fire’s going to draw attention fast,” Garrett said. “We can’t stay near the bird. We need to move off the crash vector right now. You good?” Doc swallowed hard, forcing his chin up despite the cold sweat on his forehead. “Never better.” Garrett let out a dry, quiet chuckle. “Kane’s smart mouth is definitely rubbing off on you.”

It took two agonizing hours of navigation through the dense, suffocating undergrowth to put sufficient distance between themselves and the burning carcass of the transport.

By 2000 hours, the jungle canopy had swallowed th

e last traces of daylight, plunging the terrain into pitch-black shadow punctuated only by the relentless drone of nocturnal insects and the distant drip of moisture through the leaves. Garrett found a defensible hollow tucked beneath a high limestone outcrop, shielded by the sprawling roots of an ancient cedar. He eased Doc down onto a dry bed of moss and dead foliage, keeping his friend’s injured leg extended. Garrett knelt beside him, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “How are you holding up, Doc?” Doc let out a ragged exhalation, resting his head back against the stone. “Hurts like hell. But I’ll manage. What about you, Cap?”

“Took a hit to the chest when the fuselage buckled. Probably a cracked rib,” Garrett replied, his voice low and level. “Nothing I can’t handle. Get some sleep, Caleb. I’ve got first watch.” Doc swallowed hard, offering a faint nod of gratitude before closing his eyes. Within moments, the exhaustion took over, and his breathing settled into a heavy, measured rhythm.

Garrett shifted his back against the limestone wall, his assault rifle resting across his knees. He unclipped a compact, matte-black military audio recorder from his tactical harness, shielded the indicator light with his thumb, and pressed the record button. A faint beep sounded. Garrett brought the device close to his lips, his voice barely louder than a whisper, clipped, steady, and devoid of tremor.

“This is Captain Garrett Folger. The date is June 16, 2045. Time: 2000 hours. Location: unknown coordinates, South American sector.

Approximately twenty-four hours ago, my unit was tasked with a classified directive: infiltrate the region, identify the origin of a weaponized synthetic compound, stop its distribution, and secure a viable cure.

Just over eight hours ago, our unmarked transport was intercepted and destroyed by four unidentified fighter aircraft. We lost two good men in the cockpit—Pilot John Adams and Co-Pilot Kevin Williams. To the families of both men: they held the line until the end, and we owe them our lives.

Before impact, four members of my team executed an emergency jump. At this time, only First Sergeant Caleb ‘Doc’ Mercer and myself are accounted for at the crash site. Operatives Mateo Voss, Darius Kane, Rune Delgado, and specialist Noah Vance are missing in action. Comms remain non-functional.

Injury status: Mercer suffered blunt-force crush trauma and deep lacerations to his lower extremities caused by collapsed fuselage framework. The wound is dressed and stabilized, but mobility is severely restricted. Self: blunt-force chest trauma, suspected cracked ribs. Combat effective.

We have moved off the crash vector to evade potential hostiles tracking the wreckage. Will attempt to establish contact with the missing elements at first light.

This is Captain Garrett Folger, signing off.”

Date: June 17, 2045

Time: 0600 Hours

Location: Unknown

Garrett had intended to maintain the watch straight through until dawn, but exhaustion, shock, and the dull, throbbing ache of his cracked ribs had finally overwhelmed him in the darkest hours of the morning. He woke to sharp slivers of golden sunlight piercing the dense canopy above, burning right into his eyes. He squinted, groaning softly as he shifted his weight against the damp earth. “Ugh. Morning sun and no damn coffee.”

From a few feet away, propped securely against the limestone wall with his service weapon resting across his lap, Doc let out a raspy, dry chuckle. “Cap is always moody without his coffee. Sorry to disappoint, sir. Room service is lacking today.”

Garrett blinked rapidly, the haze of sleep clearing as he checked his tactical watch. His brow furrowed. “s**t. Did I fall asleep?”

“You did, Cap,” Doc said gently, his voice rough but steady. “Just about two hours ago. I woke up, saw you out on your feet, and took over watch. You were running on fumes.”

Garrett shook his head, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Damn it, Caleb. I’m sorry. You’re the one with crushed tissue and stitches in your leg. You needed the rest more than I did.”

“Garrett, I know you,” Doc replied, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “Stop worrying about me. I’m managing just fine. Starving, yeah, but fine.”

“Same here,” Garrett muttered, exhaling a long breath. “Let me see if I can scout the immediate perimeter. Find some clean water and forage whatever’s safe.”

Garrett pushed himself up from the mossy ground. A sharp, familiar stitch of pain flared across his ribs, but he kept his expression neutral, brushing the damp soil and dead foliage from his tactical pants. He double-checked Doc’s sidearm, placed a full canteen within his friend’s reach, and chambered a round into his rifle. “Keep your head down,” Garrett instructed quietly. “I won’t go far.”

“Copy that, Cap.”

Garrett slipped out from beneath the shelter of the limestone outcrop and stepped into the suffocating humidity of the jungle. The morning mist hung thick between the ancient trunks, clinging to the emerald foliage like wet gauze. He moved with measured, tactical precision, his boots finding purchase on the slick, root-tangled floor. Yet with every cautious step, the suffocating weight of their situation pressed harder against his chest. The crash. The pilots dead in the burning cockpit. Mateo, Darius, and the enigmatic Vance scattered across an uncharted grid with no transponder signals. An entire continent teetering on the edge of an engineered bio-weapon crisis, and he was currently reduced to scrounging for rations in an unmarked jungle.

He paused beside a massive trunk, listening intently to the distant chatter of canopy birds while regulating his breathing against the ache in his side. The quiet discipline of stalking through the wilderness—the careful placement of his feet, the testing of the wind, the absolute silence required to survive—suddenly pulled his mind away from the South American heat, dragging him across nearly three decades to a biting, frost-covered mountain ridge.