Who came up with the brilliant idea to invite an elementary school to the base? The PR was all fired up. “Let the kids see the gear! Inspire the next generation!” Community outreach, attempt to humanize the military. Show that the good guys are just everyday folks. Well, this was just regular operatives sweating bullets, praying none of the brats managed to launch a missile.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose, a tic that was becoming increasingly common these days. Kids. Everywhere. Tiny, sticky-fingered, wide-eyed moppets thrilled by the prospect of touching things they definitely shouldn’t be touching. Surrounded by multimillion dollar hardware. A low, guttural whump-whump-whump vibrated through the ground as a Chinook lumbered overhead, kicking up a cloud of dust that sent the aforementioned tiny humans into fits of giggles and delighted screams. John suppressed a groan. He loved kids, really. But contained disarray, that he could handle. This? This was something else entirely. The whole scene screamed liability lawsuit waiting to happen.

Beside him, Ghost scanned the scene, trying to keep track of the miniature marauders. One was attempting to scale the tire of a JLTV; another was pulling on the antennas on Roach’s helmet. A third was examining a discarded MRE wrapper with the intensity of an archeologist unearthing a priceless artifact.

Then he saw little Timmy. A pint-sized menace, maybe seven or eight years old, and apparently a reincarnated Mario Andretti, perched precariously in the driver’s seat of a Humvee, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. He was making the burrr-burrr-vroom noises of an F1 racer, completely oblivious to the potential consequences of, say, accidentally hitting the ignition.

Gaz, the ever-reliable babysitter, was in the passenger seat, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Meanwhile, Soap in the back was egging on the hyperactive third-grader and putting on a full-blown performance of a terrified passenger in a high-speed chase clinging for dear life.