The briefing room was uncomfortably cold. A single projector cast pale light across the satellite image of Port Korčula: a narrow harbour tucked into the Adriatic coast. Around the table sat Captain Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz—and me, the fresh recruit.
Price tapped the screen. "Tomorrow at 2 am, an unregistered freighter will arrive with small arms and explosives. Our objective is simple: intercept at sea, secure the cargo, and exfil before the coastal patrols realise what's happened. We avoid a firefight—no shots unless you have no choice."
He paused. Gaz studied the radar overlay. "There's a fast patrol boat that does routine sweeps between here and the port," Gaz said. "They circle roughly every twenty minutes."
"Which means timing is everything," Price agreed. "We'll run dark—no lights, no radios—until we're within ten nautical miles. Then we kill the engine, drift in silently and move over the side. Everyone swims low, face in the water, gear secured. Drysuits for warmth, buoyancy vests set to quick‑release, rucksacks clipped with fast‑release buckles. If your kit drags you under, ditch it and save your life."
Soap smirked. "Swimming in full kit. Charming."
"Training's done," Ghost said quietly. "You'll manage. Just remember your breaths."
I looked down at my kit laid out on the table: drysuit, buoyancy vest, combat uniform, plate carrier, rifle secured by quick‑detach sling, pack loaded with spare magazines, med‑kit, water, comms. I ran through every buckle and zipper in my mind.
Price met my eyes. "First time on a live insertion?"
"First time with the team, sir," I replied. Firmly. No hesitation.
He gave a curt nod. "Good. You'll fit in. Gear up at 1:30 am. Boat departs fifteen minutes later. Be ready."
—
1:30 am. RHIB, ten nautical miles offshore.
The deck beneath my boots was slick with morning dew. I climbed aboard, testing the balance of my kit as I pulled my drysuit over my trousers. Ghost joined me at the gunwale, dipping a gloved hand in the water, checking temperature.
Soap took his place at the console, flicking switches on the GPS unit. Gaz settled by the radar display, its soft green glow reflecting off his goggles. Price climbed into the driver's seat, fingers brushing the throttle.
I slipped into my buoyancy vest and adjusted the straps. My rifle felt heavy but secure across my chest. Every sensation was magnified: the engine's low thrum, the distant slap of waves, the chill creeping up my spine.
Price eased the throttle forward. The RHIB surged ahead, leaving a pale wake under the moonlight. No navigation lights—just the dark hull cutting through the black water.
We ran silent for five minutes, then Soap shut down the engine. The hum died away, leaving only the sound of water against the hull and our measured breathing.
Ghost crouched beside me. "In thirty seconds, we slip over. Keep your head low. Follow my lead."
I nodded, heart pounding.
Price checked his watch. "Three…two…one."
He gave a curt signal—and we slipped silently into the sea.