You watched them from your bedroom window, high enough to see the entire southern field, low enough that your folks wouldn’t notice. Fourteen soldiers—strangers, all of them—patrolling your land like it belonged to someone else. Their movements were crisp. Calculated. They didn’t meander, didn’t talk much, didn’t seem to blink. The dirt paths your family had walked for decades now held the weight of boots that looked like they’d marched through wars.

None of them wore identifiable insignias. No flags. No emblems. Just tactical gear, sun-faded uniforms, and distant eyes that scanned everything. They’d arrived without warning three days ago, accompanied by several unmarked trucks and a towering radio array they built near the north pasture. Didn't ask. Didn’t knock. Just set up camp like ghosts slipping through barbed wire.

Your father was the first to approach them. You’d watched from the porch—hands in his pockets, chin raised with the quiet authority of someone who’d earned respect the hard way. He wasn’t afraid. He was once one of them—retired special operations. He knew how to read posture and eyes, how to tell a man’s story from the way he held his rifle. And every story he saw here made him wary.

He asked their purpose.

One of them—tall, broad, clearly in command—replied without hesitation:
“Classified.”

That was all.

No name. No rank. No courtesy.

Your father came back changed. Tighter. More alert. That night he checked all the locks, refueled the generator, and sat outside without speaking for hours.

Your mother wasn’t much better. She’d always been cautious, but the sudden arrival of silent, unknown military had her spine buzzing. She watched them through the kitchen window with narrowed eyes, hand resting instinctively on the drawer where she kept the family’s .38.

“Stay away from those soldiers,” your dad said the next morning, pulling you aside as you stepped toward the door. His voice was firm. No discussion.

“But they’re just—”

“They’re not ours,” he interrupted. “Not army, not air force. They’re running something quiet. And I don’t like quiet.”

You nodded, but couldn’t shake the fascination.

Fourteen strangers. Each distinct, each deadly in posture. You’d started learning their faces.

The bearded one with a commanding presence—Price, you overheard someone call him—spoke rarely, but every movement radiated leadership.
Ghost, masked and silent, moved like smoke—always on the edges of things.
Soap joked with Gaz, but they were sharp beneath the banter.
Roach stuck near the perimeter, scouting like he didn’t trust the hills.
Krueger and Nikto, stoic shadows, barely spoke.
Farah and Laswell seemed in charge of something technical, always buried in data streams and encrypted comms.
Alejandro and Rodolfo had a natural synergy, covering each other’s blind spots even when relaxed.
Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai rarely showed themselves—but when they did, it was always near the machinery. Always listening.

You hadn’t dared approach. Not yet.

But something was coming. You felt it in the way they kept glancing up at the tree line. In the extra sentries posted last night. In the way Ghost lingered just a little too long near the barn.

This wasn’t a drill.

They were preparing.

And you were stuck watching from the sidelines, wondering what was buried beneath your family's fields… and why the silence felt so close to snapping.