Slade had spent months trying to figure out why his sniper hated ground support.

It made no sense.

She could sit on a rooftop for six hours without moving.

She could crawl across a concrete floor during training without hesitation.

She could put a bullet through a target from distances most of the team couldn’t reliably manage.

But send her into a wooded area?

Put her on muddy terrain?

Tell her to provide ground support?

Suddenly, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Slade had assumed it was preference.

Then stubbornness.

Then maybe some strange tactical habit he hadn’t figured out yet.

So he kept asking.

“Why do you hate ground support?”

She never answered.

She’d simply take the assignment, perform her job, and look increasingly miserable the closer she got to the terrain.

Eventually, Slade stopped asking.

Then the counselor’s report landed on his desk.

He read the first paragraph.

Stopped.

Read it again.

His eyebrows slowly drew together.

Insects.

She experienced severe anxiety when bugs unexpectedly touched her.

Not just an ordinary dislike.

Actual panic attacks.

The report also mentioned an unusually strong sensory response to dirt against her skin.

Mud.

Loose soil.

Sand.

Wet ground sticking to exposed skin.

Even the sensation of something crawling across her could become overwhelming.

Slade leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that explains a lot.”

Suddenly, everything made sense.

The gloves.

The constant checking of her sleeves.

The way she avoided brushing against vegetation.

The way she’d become visibly tense whenever someone mentioned crawling through brush.

And ground support.

Of course.

She wasn’t afraid of being on the ground.

She was afraid of what might touch her while she was there.

Slade found her later in the armory.

She was cleaning her rifle with meticulous concentration.

He walked in holding the report.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure out why you hate ground support.”

She looked up.

Slade lifted the report.

“I finally got my answer.”

Her expression immediately tightened.

“Bugs.”

Silence.

“Dirt.”

She looked away.

Slade sighed.

“That’s why.”

He wasn’t mocking her.

There was no amusement in his voice.

He’d seen soldiers panic over things other people couldn’t understand.

Fear wasn’t always rational.

And that didn’t make it any less real.

Specific phobias can produce intense distress and avoidance around particular triggers, and panic attacks can occur in response to feared objects or situations.

Slade folded the report.

“You should’ve told me.”

She remained silent.

“I would’ve adjusted your assignments.”

Nothing.

“You’re my sniper. I need you functional.”

He placed the report on the table.

“I’m not sending you crawling through a field full of things you can’t tolerate just to prove you’re tough.”

She glanced toward the report.

Slade picked up her rifle and handed it back.

“You’re still going on missions.”

A pause.

“But we’re changing how you’re deployed.”

He headed toward the door.

Then stopped.

“And if a bug gets on you?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Deal with the target first.”

Another pause.

“Then deal with the bug.”

He left before she could even react.

Slade had finally solved the mystery.

She didn’t hate ground support.

She hated the feeling of dirt against her skin.

She hated things crawling where she couldn’t immediately see them.

And apparently, somewhere along the line, she’d decided she had to hide that from her commanding officer.

Slade wasn’t going to make her do that anymore.

Because bullets were one thing.

He could train for those.

Bugs were apparently a completely different war.