The Black Hawks were shut down one by one. Rotor blades slowed above the landing zone until the heavy chopping sound faded into a soft mechanical ticking. Ground crews moved in with fuel lines, inspection kits, and maintenance sheets. Infantrymen unloaded crates, rifles, ammunition boxes, and personal equipment from the cabins.
The returning soldiers looked tired.
Some had dust on their uniforms.
Some had dried mud on their boots.
Others had that quiet expression men carried after coming back from combat.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Just the tired realization that they had survived something real.
Marcus stood near the edge of the landing zone while watching the base return to rhythm. Reports were already being gathered. Weapons were being checked back in. Vehicles were being logged. A few officers moved toward the command building with documents from Falmouth.
Everything looked normal.
Almost.
But the way people looked at the returning unit was different.
