It was suicide. A textbook impossibility. You don’t assault into an ambush, especially not when you’re outnumbered eight to one.
But Arthur saw the one thing the enemy didn’t expect: a sliver of a ravine, a tiny crease in the earth, not visible from the ridgeline. It was a one-in-a-million chance. It was their only chance.
«Sir, that’s insane,» another voice crackled over the radio.
«Move,» Arthur commanded, the single word carrying the weight of absolute authority. He squeezed Miller’s shoulder—the same place Matthews was touching him now, in a way. «Stay with me, son. We’re getting you home.»
He saw the hope flicker in the young man’s eyes, the trust placed in him: the leader, the Actual, the one who carried the burden for them all.
The ballroom snapped back into focus. The sounds, the smells, the faces. Colonel Matthews’ hand was still on his shoulder, his face a mask of smug impatience.
But something had changed. Arthur’s eyes were different. The quiet patience was gone, replaced by an intensity that was ancient and terrifying. It was the look of a man who had made life-and-death decisions in a heartbeat, who had stared into the abyss and made it blink.
Matthews felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. He instinctively pulled his hand back as if he’d touched a live wire. The old man hadn’t moved a muscle, yet the entire dynamic in the room had shifted.
The smirks on the faces of the junior officers faltered. They saw it too, that flicker of something primal in the old veteran’s gaze.
Trying to regain his footing, to reassert the dominance that was slipping from his grasp, Matthews fell back on his authority. He puffed out his chest, his voice louder than necessary. «I asked you a question, old man, and I’m done playing games. What was your rank? What was your unit? I want to know who I’m throwing out of my event.»
Arthur Vance looked Colonel Matthews dead in the eye. The sounds of the party seemed to fade into a dull roar, the entire universe narrowing to the space between them.
When he spoke, his voice was low, but every single person in the vicinity heard it as clearly as a gunshot in a library. «You asked my rank,» he said slowly, deliberately. «The records are sealed.»
«You asked my unit.» He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. «They called us… Delta Force Actual.»
The words hung in the air. Delta Force. It was a name spoken with reverence and awe in military circles; a name synonymous with legend, with shadows, with the impossible.
But the last word, «Actual,» didn’t immediately register with Matthews. To him, it sounded like senile rambling, a confused add-on from a man who’d seen too many action movies. A relieved smirk crept back onto the Colonel’s face.
«Delta Force, right. And I’m John Wayne,» he scoffed, turning to his audience of junior officers. «You hear that, gentlemen? We’ve got a real-life hero in our midst. This old-timer here thinks he was in Delta Force.»
He turned back to Arthur, his tone dripping with saccharine mockery. «You’ve been watching too many movies, pops. Now, for the last time…» He never finished the sentence.
A voice, deep and resonant with command, cut through the room like a sword. «Colonel Matthews!»
Every head turned. Standing at the edge of the crowd was a man who needed no introduction: General Harding, the Commandant of the Marine Corps himself. A living four-star legend, his chest a solid block of brightly colored ribbons that told the story of a lifetime of service and combat.
His face, normally set in a stern but approachable expression, was a thundercloud. He began to walk forward, and the crowd of officers parted before him like the Red Sea. He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes were fixed on one person: the old man in the worn suit.
Colonel Matthews snapped to attention, his back ramrod straight, a knot of dread forming in his stomach. «General. Sir. An unexpected honor.»
General Harding completely ignored him. He walked right past the Colonel until he was standing directly in front of Arthur Vance’s chair. The room had fallen utterly silent. You could hear the ice shifting in glasses from across the hall.
Then, the unthinkable happened. General Harding, the highest-ranking officer in the entire United States Marine Corps, brought his heels together with an audible click. He raised his hand in a salute so sharp, so precise, so filled with profound respect that it seemed to vibrate with energy.
He held it there, his gaze locked on the old man. «Mr. Vance.» The General’s voice boomed in the stillness. «Sir. I had no idea you would be here. It is an absolute honor.»
Colonel Matthews looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. His face, normally ruddy with confidence, had turned a pasty, sickly white. His mouth hung open slightly. «General… Sir…» he stammered, his voice a weak croak. «You… you know this man?»
Finally, General Harding broke his salute and turned to face his subordinate. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glacial fury that made Matthews physically recoil.
«Know him?» The General’s voice was dangerously low. «Colonel, you are standing in the presence of a living monument. This is Arthur Vance. Are you telling me you don’t know that name?»
«N-no, sir,» Matthews whispered, the truth a damning admission.
The General took a step closer, his shadow falling over the trembling colonel. «Then allow me to educate you. In the late 1970s, when our nation realized it needed men who could do the impossible, they went looking for a certain kind of soldier. Not the loudest, not the strongest, but the smartest, the calmest, the most unbreakable.»
«They found this man,» he gestured toward Arthur. «He wasn’t just one of the first operators selected for the unit you so casually named. He was a plank owner, a founding father. He helped write the doctrine. He designed the training. He created the very template for the modern special operator.»
«The term he used, ‘Actual,’ is not some movie nonsense, Colonel. It is the radio prosign for the unit commander. He wasn’t just in Delta. For a time, he was Delta.»
A collective gasp went through the room. The junior officers who had been snickering moments before now looked horrified, their faces flushed with shame.
General Harding wasn’t finished. His voice rose, filled with a righteous anger that resonated in every corner of the ballroom. «The missions this man led are the things of whispered legend. They are sealed in vaults under classifications you will never hold. He has rescued hostages, dismantled terror networks, and projected American power into the darkest corners of the world, all without any expectation of fame or recognition.»
«The men he trained, the sons he mentored, went on to become the sergeants major and commanders of JSOC for the next 30 years. He doesn’t wear a uniform, Colonel, because the one he truly earned is stitched into the very fabric of this nation’s secret history.»
The General’s gaze bored into Matthews, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. «And you… you, in your perfect uniform, at your perfect party, you asked him his rank? His rank is ‘founder.’ His unit is ‘history.’ You judged him by his age and his suit, and in doing so, you have dishonored yourself and every Marine in this room.»