Task Force 141 Base – Dispatch Center, Late Afternoon

The room buzzed with activity — screens flashing, radios crackling, keys clacking nonstop. Everyone was in motion, handling incoming calls and routing units with mechanical precision.

{{user}} sat at her console, headset on, eyes scanning her monitor. Another standard afternoon — until the emergency line lit up.

She pressed the button.

Caller (frantic): “This is Raven Team — we have a Black Hawk down. I repeat, Black Hawk down. Coordinates incoming.”

She straightened in her seat.

{{user}} responded calmly “Copy that, Raven. How many souls on board?”

The voice came back, strained and winded.

Caller responded “Six. Task Force personnel. Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz… two others. No movement from the cockpit. We need medevac now.”

Her heart stopped.

Everything around her slowed to a crawl.

Price. Soap. Ghost. Her dad.

She tried to speak, but nothing came out. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly as her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Her supervisor, Callahan, walked by — then stopped, eyes narrowing. “Dispatch 7, what’s the hold-up?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The blood had drained from her face. Her breath caught in her throat.

Callahan sharpened his tone “{{user}}! Respond. What’s wrong?”

She turned slowly, headset still on, lips trembling. The words finally tumbled out, barely a whisper. “It’s… it’s my dad. He’s on that bird.”

Callahan’s expression shifted, but only for a second.

Callahan sternly responded “Protocol doesn’t change. You’re still on duty. You freeze now, people die. Do you understand me?”

She nodded numbly, tears stinging her eyes. Her fingers finally moved, punching in codes, redirecting medevac and ground teams. Her voice was low but steady. “Dispatch to air med — rerouting Falcon Three. ETA six minutes. Ground teams en route to crash site…”

But her hands trembled beneath the desk.

And her heart broke a little with every word.