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Father and Son

A pair of CF-18 Hornets flew over Halifax. It was a city located in Eastern Canada. One of the major trading hubs in the country as it had ports accommodating vessels that travel across the Northern Atlantic. With smoke pluming from their docks and burning vessels, and across the city, one could assume that it would be three years before things could go back to normal.

The same pair of Hornets dropped guided bombs on evacuating targets east of the Westphal road. Among the wreckage were pick-up trucks and stolen Canadian Cougar IFVs, marked with the notorious red tree of the Canadian Separatist Forces. Once a nuisance, then funded by unknown parties, they staged invasions on Halifax, Port Hawkesbury, and North Sydney in a day. The nation was caught off guard, these urban centers soon became battlefields.

"This is Angel Six-Four to Ghost Two-Two, confirmed hits on tango. Convoy stopped."

Miles looked upward, barely seeing it through the trees, to see the jetstreams turn home to the west. He looked through his scope where he saw a green thin line point where the crosshairs met; it looked right into the smoke plume of what was once a Cougar. "Confirmed. Hostiles going off into the trees. Tell them and let command know." Any survivors scrambled off to the side of the road and hid between the trees. Some, half-burning and dazed, wandered not far off from their wreckage, suffering from shellshock. He was unfazed by it, the cold nature that had found him gripped his heart. He exhaled with the temptation to pull the trigger but did not.

Adrian was prone beside him, just as cold, holding a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a small handheld radio on the other, the device linked to a backpack with a tall protruding antenna. "This is Ghost Two-Two to Angel Six-Four, confirmed with small movement into the trees. Fly home safe." He listened to their response, and switched channels after. "This is Ghost Two-Two to Ghost Actual, how copy?"

"This is Ghost Actual, crystal." Miles could hear his father through the radio.

Adrian said, "Hostile convoy has been stopped. Footmobiles scrambled for the trees. Both sides"

"How many does Ghost Two-One see?"

Miles scanned through the carcasses of both vehicles and personnel. There were about three who scrambled earlier, six more dazed, and about four at the tail end who abandoned their engine-shot pick-up and scrambled for the trees too. "Nine active, six inactive; fifteen overall." He said without leaving his scope.

Adrian relayed the information.

"Alright Ghost-Two-One and Two-Two, JTF-2 will take over from here. Exfil will be there, ETA 30 minutes. Send out green smoke."

"Copy, Ghost-Two-Two out."

"Ghost-Actual copies all."

Adrian patted Miles' shoulder, "Let's get outta here Milesman."

Miles took a deep breath and normalized his breathing, folding the bi-pod of the C-14 Timberwolf. Quite an iconic name befitting his species. He hauled the gun and stood up as his spotter led the downward trudge from the hilltop. And they could see the climbing smoke plume from here.

The foot of the hill led to a series of bushes and trees that surrounded a grassy clearing large enough for a UH-1B Huey to land. They settled themselves in a small natural dugout, their guns pointing in different directions at a 180-degree angle.

"How're you feeling, Miles?" Adrian ranged his gun for close to medium range combat. Adjusted his scope for it too. But he glanced over to the wolf in thick camouflage, thick enough to hide his white fur, now and then given the last few days had been taxing for both of them. Taking lives for the first time was far from pleasant, but very eye-opening.

"Better," but his monotonous tone contrasted it. He just killed a dozen more people with that airstrike, and his mind argued between the semantics of morals and having the need to kill. In the back of his mind, he could've sworn that he had resolved this internal dispute. But after the adrenaline had died down each time, like it was then, the dilemma always resurfaced.

"Good," Adrian resigned with a false agreement. He had been plagued with it too, and it was pointless to start the same discussion in person.

Miles had had this discussion with his father but it felt far from over. Back in the hospital, also in the tower, and even after rescuing the Canadian Deputy Prime Minister and his son. Why did it nag at him constantly? A part of him wished he could shoot these answers away instead.

Both he and Adrian exchanged glances now and then. Made sure they were still there both physically and mentally, even if their emotions were absent. There was a slight comfort, albeit not enough, that they underwent the same struggle. Funny how they bonded in their emotional suffering that the academy did not teach them.

"We're heroes," Miles finally muttered. It was an invitation to Adrian but if he was unfit or he didn't hear, or he simply ignored it, he would understand. "Yippee."

"Yeah. Heroes." Adrian replied. He mulled over it and true enough, they really were citing, "We did save the boat last week, Miles."

It was a fact. Miles saved people. And a part of him realized that if killing one meant saving more then that would be fine. But this airstrike– would twelve retreating men have made a difference? An alternating voice responded with the fact that it only took less so to hold a boat hostage. With the hardware they stole? Could've been much worse. It felt like common sense, his ears drooped at the realization, yet there was more than doubt. There was fear but of what? Of death? Of his friends or family dying? Certainly, and it lingered.

Miles finally said, "I've told myself that killing evil to rescue the good is, well, a good thing." His gun shivered through the extension of his uneasy paws, "But something is still bothering me and I don't know what."

"Your father has to have an answer," Adrian reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

"He always does," Miles said. And with the thought that he could go to his father later and made sure he felt alright was already assuring him now. He breathed easy, even loosening the fabric belt that held the camouflage netting tight to his body. It deflated the pressure that had been welling up, and perhaps that was the issue all along.

When fifteen minutes passed without incident, they started exchanging small talk. Mostly one sided though as Adrian talked on and on about his partner Joel to ease the mood, and that talking about life outside of conflict often did. In this case he was telling Miles about his planned proposal, that it would happen during their annual check-up. It was quite cheesy but Joel was a sucker for these tropes.

Miles chuckled under his breath, watching Adrian's tail twitch as it resisted the urge to wag. It got him thinking about that fellow he rescued back in the city. For some reason, despite having killed those tiger brothers, the idea of saving him didn't seem to hurt nor trigger his moral compass. He blushed at the thought that what if he truly liked him? Admired him? Maybe that was more appropriate. He should check up on him when this was all over.

"How're you feeling now, Miles?" Adrian's ears twitched as Miles' did too. They could hear the Huey helicopter approaching.

"Better," Miles said, smiling as he unhooked a green smoke grenade from his tactical rig. He really did feel better then.

[i]Hours later…[/i]

A squadron of four hornets screamed over the barracks, only for the sound of detonations to follow minutes after. Over the distance, far across Halifax and its northeastern roads, a miniature light erupted along the darkening horizon.

Miles saw the outcome of a strike he did not assist this time, and without the need to focus on it, he had to admit that it truly looked cool. To see this orange speck that turned into black smoke that disappeared to both the land and the evening sky, leaving smoldering remains of fires he could barely make out. And there presented the issue– there was no remorse because he wasn't responsible for it. So what held him back, he wondered.

The white wolf was in his military jacket now, just outside the FOB's briefing room, which had been a makeshift security house. Their base of operations moved to Herring's Cove after what had happened in Tribute Tower. Patrol was around the clock and often asked for identification. He had shown his ID not too long ago when a pair of felines passed by, and one of them even asked for an autograph which Miles obliged.

His father was inside, debriefing with the major army elements for today's outcome. Everyone was more enthused than exhausted from the sounds of it, given that they had driven the CSF out of Halifax and were on mop-up duty. Similar successes were reported throughout Nova Scotia and neighboring regions too. Miles would express those sentiments too, meaning his emotional struggles were not in vain.

After the briefing and the other officers started lining out, their minds now focused on dinner, Miles saluted them regardless and they all nodded at him as part of the camaraderie. Dexter was the last to step out and close the door, and saluted Miles too.

"Sir, permission to speak with you?" Miles lowered his salute, maintaining their integrity.

Dexter turned, looking him straight in those eyes that no longer intimidated his son. "Personal, or work related?" His tone matched the attitude.

"Personal, sir."

Dexter opened the door, stowing away its key he was meant to lock it with. "Alright, step in, First Leftenant Fennix."

"Yes, sir." He walked in after his father who turned on the lights, while he shut the door behind him.

The inside was a makeshift office and briefing room together. His father's nameplate was on the other side of a long picnic table with a sprawled out map of Nova Scotia, with Canadian stand flags on major urban areas, where the CSF, symbolized by a black flag, were down to a handful and were in forested areas instead.

Miles noticed the battle lines on Halifax's western bank, reminding him of the nickname bestowed upon him. He chuckled to himself because of it.

Dexter smiled, and was not one to pry on his son's pressure. He had been addressed formally for something personal, which meant that something's been eating at his son. He already presumed it was his first kill, and that one talk wouldn't have been enough after all. But maybe he could ease their tensions, "Want some coffee, son?" He gestured at the coffee machine resting on a small table. It was still steaming but he could always turn to heat it up. And there were even creamer and sugar on the side, and a sleeve of biscuits too.

"No, thanks," Miles sighed. He wondered how to word it properly, in a way that it wouldn't disappoint his father. But given what they've already gone through, and what he had done, it was quite impossible for that to happen. He could see his father's reassuring smile, which in itself did, and at the same time also struck him with worry too.

"Dad?"

It got Dexter's attention, stepping to the side of the table to be closer with him. "Yes, son?"

Miles stepped forward and hugged him tightly, "I don't want to lose you, or uncle Chase, or my friends." That was it, the crux of the issue. It's been gnawing at him ever since the first bombardment. Worrying if the people he loved could get out of it alive. The last few nights post-skirmish, always keeping on track with them, asking his father if Chase was alright. Everyone he knew was, thankfully. But he'd been in the company of others who weren't as fortunate, and he couldn't console them knowing he hadn't experienced such a thing. Moreso having to do so for the first time. He'd seen his fellow soldier's face, sullen with grief at the end of the day. They either had outbursts, or were quiet as they contemplated life without that person anymore. He never saw it on his father, and hopefully he never had to. But, realistically, he had. How did he do it?

Dexter hugged too, stroking his son's head. Even if he was the Halifax Reaper, and in the off chance he himself would be outranked too, he would always be his son. "You won't, son." He said to him, "You, Chase, Adrian, and all your other friends are trained by the finest instructors we have to offer." And he ought to be realistic, "But we're only mortals, and nothing is perfect. It shouldn't discount your sense of skills though."

The older wolf gestured at the table, showing how far the lines had changed in a matter of days. "Sieges of this scale normally would've taken weeks, rarely even months."

Miles looked around, wiping an apparent tear from his eye. He embraced his father with one arm still as he kept on explaining.

"But given our efforts here, and the sacrifices made, we're mopping them up at our own terms. Air superiority and the like. We've only lost less than a hundred, you know?" Dexter said to him. "That's quite small compared to the two thousand of the enemy across Nova Scotia."

But Miles felt his question was still unanswered, "How come you're not worried?"

"Oh, I am, Miles," Dexter feigned a chuckle, the bravado mask slipped off. The creases on his face were apparent; unease. But he put it back on, looking at his son as sternly as he could. "But I am confident in your abilities, like I have with Chase. You know what had gone on in the hospital, and how despite the enemy having an advantage, we were able to beat them."

"Mhm," Miles realized.

"I have every belief that you, myself, our friends, will see this through. What's your rank, son?"

"First Leftenant, dad." Miles rolled his shoulders that had two yellow-gold diamonds on his uniform.

"You got there because of hard work, and you've proven yourself over the last few days. It may take a hundred men together to beat you, but they only come at you one by one." Dexter said, quite proud of that quote. "That's why I know you will be alright."

Miles smiled and hugged him with both arms again, "Thanks dad."

"Of course, son."

But Miles had to be realistic too, and he'd rather discuss it now than later while the night was still young, and the fighting was near quiet. "How did you deal with the grief though?"

"I drink." Dexter said. "Ten shots for every good friend lost. Don't skimp out on the quality either. The older the better." He humored him in that manner but it was an acquired taste the first time he did it when his Major then had him do it too.

Miles was speechless though. It's been dramatized a lot that it felt cheap to do something as simple as that. Really? His face said it.

Dexter nodded, "There's always time to drink and grieve after, and that's just nature. We lost Alexa together, son, and we got through it fine. I remembered you crying night after night wondering where mom was, or why our fur color was different."

Miles' subconscious recalled one of the many events that his father mentioned. But by the time he'd been more conscious, it was second nature to him that they were father and son regardless of their fur color. He was right. "I guess I just don't want you or my friends getting hurt, or that me dying will hurt you guys."

He gave him a strong pat on top of his head, "You're not. None of us are, nor will, son." Dexter smirked, "After all, they'll feel my wrath if they do. I am the New Moon Sniper for a reason. And thinking about this more only makes it harder for yourself than when you don't. Sometimes the adrenaline kick is there but more often it's not, and you have to accept it. And I know it's not something you can just get used to in the short term, but that's fine son. Took me until your graduation to stop worrying about you too much."

That was very sweet of his father, and it seemed to calm him down too. "Thanks, dad."

"No problem, kiddo. Just come to me whenever we're not in active combat for stuff like this, okay?" Dexter moved his arm and patted his shoulder. Hunger was apparent for both these soldiers. "C'mon, let's get some grub."

They both stepped out, Dexter locking the door behind them, and moved towards the 'mess hall' which was a picnic area that they had tarped over. Food being served was nothing like the canteens, but it wasn't as bad as rations to say the least. Most of it had been reheated, and they lined themselves up together among other soldiers who themselves were at ease too.

There was a memory that Dexter had forgotten to share with his son, and tried to remember it in depth as they got their meal. After they sat down, and Miles started eating, he said, "Remember the first time you went to the Langford base?"

Miles wondered if he meant as a civilian or as a soldier, "When I was a cub or for enlistment?"

"Cub; I just wanted to let you know that I vowed to keep you safe. And at times like these, if you could hear me howl, then you would know that I am safe."

"And what if I can't?" Miles struggled to keep his composure, pausing from putting a forkful of beef in his mouth.

"Then you honor me by doing so. You honor those who have fallen by doing so." Reminiscent of his old speech, "We howl to express our bonds as family, as kin. We howl to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. We howl to make sure we are alright. And we howl to honor those who've died."

"Yes, sir." Miles ate his food in relative silence, considering more of these words. No one would've said it better, that's for sure. But there possibly could be no other way other than to accept it as truth. Eating gave him enough energy to process his emotions and his father's words. By the end of their meal, he was content. Maybe he may not see it at first, like what had happened, but he had a better feeling this time around.

The rest of the evening was spent talking about what the other side of the country was, given these circumstances. Nothing that the public wouldn't know of course. Everything was fine, safe to say. Security's been doubled with road checkpoints and forest patrols throughout. Dexter hinted that once this was over, their next job was to conduct those. Especially with his skillset. Miles remarked that he would be the first to volunteer, to the former's approval. He also added that NATO would send specialists to assist them in snuffing out, and also untested devices to see how they would fare in covert environments. Just like the pitch-black uniform that the old Ghost battalion wore.

When Miles returned to his bunk, Adrian was getting off call with his boyfriend. He felt relieved to hear both of them in good spirits. It would be the first night he had gone to sleep without being disturbed by daunting thoughts. Not even the distant explosions startled him, happening out of his reach. But he awoke from a dreamless night, almost like a blink. Breakfast and briefing followed.

When the Ghost Squads were brought up into the briefing room, Ghost-Actual congratulated them on their recent endeavors. Their new responsibility would be patrolling Halifax on rooftops once again, with more emphasis on reconnaissance roles. Miles, Adrian, and another pair were to operate from the Tribute tower this time. Alongside a team of auxiliaries to fully clean up their old comms station.

Everyone's mood felt like they were at ease throughout, but have been sternly reminded that they were still at risk. Other ground elements were already working on pushing hideouts, with Specter to assist them, meaning that the conflict would come to a definite end soon.

It would be during the afternoon three days later, when Canadian Armed Forces staged an attack on the Mulgrave Water Treatment Plant, further north east, where they found the Separatist base of operations. The findings only served to infuriate Miles even more. It wouldn't have stopped in Nova Scotia. They've highlighted New Brunswick, Quebec, and Ontario, all with the intention of seizing Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal. Several of their hideouts have been marked throughout the far northern rural areas of the country. Unfortunately their benefactors were still unknown, and the weapons utilized were provided by black markets in Africa and Eastern Europe. Why did this have to happen? Destabilization and to claim Canada's sovereignty but the people in charge have already suspected foul play. The attack could be a diversion for something within the country if not the greater NATO regions. The leaders of the Separatist force have not been found either, but the government proclaimed victory over them.

Despite the minimal casualties, and the slow restoration of civil order in these regions, Miles felt like the fight wasn't done. But for today, it would be, so he decided to pay the blue dragon a visit with Adrian.

Those days turned to weeks, and after the collaborators have been tried, the endeavors of certain Canadian soldiers have been publicized to help heal the morale, and drive the army recruitment forward. Miles realized that he too had become a gear in the army machine in more ways than just killing people. It was weird at first, being lauded for his gruesome shots with the Timberwolf, but it felt right after having been interviewed alongside the very people he saved. Including Alex, the 'Hidden Dragon' that he had saved from a reckless tiger of the separatist force.

Everything felt right for a while. Extra pay, invitations to dinners, endorsements, sponsorships of coffee brands and even shoes. It did not stop him from working, however. Collaborating with his father, American, and British intelligence on the whereabouts of the CSF remnants. He'd done undercover scouting for them, and most of the intel they had were insubstantial. Throughout Nova Scotia, all they found were caches and homes of these fanatics without any workable intel. And several months later, he returned to Western Canada, back in British Columbia for some RnR with his father and uncle. Once the distractions had died down, his negativity returned.

It wasn't the same as his moral compass in Halifax. Rather his lack of progress on finding the culprit. It would be like those movies that had a map on a bulletin board, portraits tacked down, string connected to each. Except in the military it was more formal, dossiers and hyperlinks. But all the sites they found were information that led to the Mulgrave Plant, nothing more. He felt restless, working out incessantly at home, trying to occupy himself with his gadgets to no avail.

Dexter intervened one afternoon during the end of Autumn, when Miles hadn't left the bed an hour past lunch. He went up to his bedroom door with a big bowl of homemade poutine. "Son?" His father knocked at his door.

There was only a whimper, and he could pick up on his crying. "Miles?" Dexter knocked harder, hoping he could talk to his boy. "I'm coming in, alright?"

A faint 'mhm' invited the worried father in. The room was a mess with clothes strewn around, papers, pencils, and photocopied images of maps and classified information. Dexter walked through these like a minefield, careful not to slip himself or risk breaking the poutine his son needed. Speaking of, Miles was huddled in a blanket, fur messed up, and the morning smell still lingering in the afternoon.

He set down the bowl on the desk full of scribbled up notes fuller still of crossed words. Names of places that had no leads. Dexter sighed and sat beside his son, reaching out and holding his shoulder. Despite the blanket on him, he felt cold. Sickly but not of disease, and all he could do was hug him. "I'm here son, please," he whispered, "Tell me what's wrong, please."

The next few minutes, Miles barely reacted. Looking down on his lap where his hands rested; failure with nothing to show. The back of his mind twitched and ached, pulsing from the built-up stress. He wanted to cry, he wanted to howl in frustration, to march into the woods and find every last one of them. In the vain hope of making these feelings go away. But once he had vented out those thoughts, his father's embrace felt warmer, and he hugged him too. There would be questions for sure but, God, all he needed then was a hug.

Dexter felt relieved that his son hadn't gone catatonic, or worse, outright insane. He scanned the paperwork again, and it made sense why his son felt as such. But he let another moment pass just for them to hug, and preferred if his son were to open up. He retracted his earlier sentiment, "Whenever you're ready, son." Which, inadvertently, made it easier for him to do so. He went back and offered him the bowl of poutine.

Miles wolfed down on it, smattering gravy and curds on his muzzle without care. Dexter dashed down and returned with a glass of water to help. The food helped substantially and made a mental note to never go off without eating. The pessimism that churned inside had been stuffed with starch and very unhealthy fats that he had to compensate with exercise much later. Still, his body was livelier, and the shine returned to his eyes. He cleared his throat then said– he tried to explain it but stuttered in the process.

Dexter sat on his chair, patiently waiting with an affirming smirk. Though he did look around the room. Valuing his son's privacy, he rarely ever went here except for laundry. The staggering amount of paper though, he picked up some and read them. His son was trying to connect the dots to no avail, and most of the intelligence staff had been stumped too, and they had more material to work with. Their American counterparts were in the process of securing information through interrogation, and it would only be a matter of time before they break.

Miles finally said, "I don't think I'm doing enough, dad." His tone was like an admission of fault, almost like that one time he broke the vase all those years ago.

Dexter tried to restrain his scoffing at how utterly adorable and selfless his son was. He was proud of him so so much, and he wished to be able to tell him then and there. Alas the mood did not call for it yet. "Miles, you've done all you could. We've done all we could. Even our fellows in CSIS are still interrogating alongside the CIA to try and get better intel out of them." He went on. "You'd qualify as JTF2 with what you're doing, all that's needed would be formal training." He chuckled, and it got Miles to chuckle too.

"I just want to justify feeling like this; the need for your safety, for Uncle Chase, for Adrian and Joel– all my friends." And he looked at his father, muzzle still pointed down. "And to live up to your expectations. I know I already do but I want to do more of it."

"Miles, we've sent them a memo several times over that the Canadian Military is not something to be trifled with. In fact, we don't even wait for them to do something so we can react. No, we choose when we have to engage them and make sure they don't harm anyone else. Fortitude, after all, is when the people in power use it to defend those who are powerless." Another one of his quirky quotes, which was correct. That was their responsibility.

And Miles connected the dots; in doing so it would protect his friends and family. It felt great, this whole realization. Everything he had done, despite its lack of impact that he had hoped, was more than enough to quell the CSF's motivations to do more harm. He sprung out of bed and hugged his father who had always looked out for him and knew what to say at any moment. "Will you ever be not proud of me?"

"Impossible, sonny. No chance in hell you'll ever disappoint me, Halifax Reaper."

"How about a house rule where we do not use our nicknames." Miles said. It had a nice ring to it but it didn't sit well with him when people saw him on the street and started shouting it, or whenever his friends saw his face on the billboards.

"Excluding Chase?"

"Agreed." And they hugged each other longer as they laughed.

One week passed without any more incidents in the Fennix household, apart from Miles eating another bowl full of poutine. Last one, he swore. Dexter received confirmation on actionable intel that they had obtained from a joint effort of the CSIS and the CIA. Miles would be the first in the car when their briefing was scheduled in the afternoon. He could see his determination, and the subtle bloodlust from baring his fangs. He had trained a soldier, and he would need those instincts for the upcoming operation.

They observed proper decorum once they were at base, however. And in the briefing room, quick courtesies were exchanged. Salutes, handshakes, and every man pouring themself a cup of coffee as they gathered around a map of the Northwest Territories, and partially Eastern Yukon. Between these two regions were about ten confirmed hits on stockpiles and living quarters belonging to the CSF. Some of which were hidden in towns. Dexter would share the intel then.

Among them would be Chase, Miles, Adrian, and another pair from Ghost Squad, particularly 3-1, and 3-2.

Major Dexter immediately mentioned, "This will be a joint operation between the Canadian Army Snipers, and the American 77th Rangers. We will have our preliminary briefing here to discuss the information obtained through [i]special[/i] interrogation methods. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." They answered in unison.

"First off, this will be a black-ops mission. Leakage of information outside this room in any manner, shape, or form, are grounds for treason. Is. That. Clear?" His eyes glared at each of them, dark red rage staring them down to make sure none of them dare betray the flag at this hour. Not after all they've been through.

"Yes, sir!" Their answer, even Chase's, was terrified.

"Alright, so," Dexter traced a river located in the northwestern area of the aptly named Northwest Territories. "There are multiple encampments located here throughout the Mackenzie River." It is a medium river that travels like a vein throughout the region, leading to the Beaufort Sea just southwest of the Arctic. Their points of interest were near the coastlines, and traveled not too far off from the town of Inuvik. "Here, here, and here. These are the larger concentrations." Particularly Harrison Island, Richards Island, and the abandoned Reindeer Station. "The six of us will be split into three pairs, each to be supported by an American fireteam. This will be conducted at night in a week's time while drones are doing day-to-day surveillance for concise enemy patrol and emplacements."

"McGrath, Sherman," he referred to the lynx and komodo dragon, "You will take Richards Island with Anvil Squad. Your insertion is via a UH-60 Blackhawk requisitioned from the 77th Rangers Air Wing." He highlighted the arctic islands, a series of lakes that are scattered like dots throughout uneven ground, closer to the coastline of the region. There was one large circle, "This is where the CSF's main base in this area is. But there are several outposts and camps nearby to serve as lookouts right here to the south. Your drop off point will be to the south." He referred to the smaller spots. "There should be no civilians in this area but do not engage until command has greenlit. Fire when engaged or if spotted nonetheless. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." Ghost 3-1 and 3-2 responded together, and started reviewing the highlighted circles around the edge of each spot that meant enemy positions.

Dexter turned to Chase and Adrian then, "Quicksilver, Ollson, you two will be taking point for Harrison Island." Dexter pointed south of the initial objective, closer into the heart of the region. The layout was similar but the water spots were larger, less island formations that way. It was also close to a large intersection of the Mackenzie River, and the map showed water pouring into a bog. "Your insertion will be via motorized rubber boats of our River Patrol Fleet, traveling along the main river. Drift just before the intersection, and let the current bring you to the bog where you will infiltrate that way. Runner Squad will be your assist. Note that this area has been used as a fishing site for the town of Inuvik but the government will cordon it off three days from now. Still, watch your fire and only engage when engaged upon or until given the order to shoot first."

"Yes, sir," Chase said first, Adrian following after. They stood next to each other, understanding the river, as well as the preliminary satellite images. Their foe was not run-of-the-mill as there were clear images of MANPADS in play, as well as machine gun pillboxes that watched the river. Though due to recent weather patterns, they have been drowned and won't be available for another week according to forecasts.

"It's not far off from where First Leftenant Fennix and I will be deployed." Dexter pointed at a tiny riverside village that is located at the bottom of a series of cliffs, that further beyond were plains and lakes. "We will be deployed via helicopter, also from the 77th Air, with Shield squad. This is Reindeer Station," he tapped that part of the table, catching everyone's attention. "This is the location of a major intelligence hub that has used the river to move communiques, hence why our military radios have never tracked them. Played it safe, and they only do it on a weekly basis. Less so after their defeat in Halifax. Our rules of engagement here," he exchanged looks with Miles, "Is to incapacitate on sight if ever possible. Possible civilians, mostly hostages. And a treasure trove of intelligence."

Miles reviewed a highlighted grid next to the encirclement that magnified 'Reindeer Station'. All the buildings resembled a ranch, presumably for reindeers as the name implied. A handful of buildings that could cater to less than a hundred people, and a decrepit docks where a few motorboats were parked. No radar dishes, and the antennas were from an old age and didn't seem to be in use either, but satellite imagery has picked up about forty confirmed combatants, and a few hostages that riled up his fur upon seeing. They were made to do hard labor such as chopping wood, hauling food from what he could see. It was surrounded by trees, and a cliff overlook had an excellent view, which would play to his and his father's skill.

"Miles," Dexter called his attention, and he pointed at the middle structure that looked like a recreation hut because it had a white picnic area. "This is where the hostages are. And their command center is here," he pointed at a southern structure that resembled a house with two small greenhouses. "Shield squad will move to rescue the hostages first, traveling down the forest path here." He emphasized a thin easterly gap that cut between the trees. "We'll be providing supporting fire with DMRs. But I am getting ahead of myself. This is just the preliminary briefing, we'll coordinate with our American partners in a few days."

The rest of them nodded in silence, continuing reviewing their designated areas. Each squad murmured between themselves, highlighting possible ways of entry, or in which direction to engage from.

McGrath asked, "Sir, interrogative: Will we have close air support for this engagement?"

"Yes. 77th Ranger's Air Wing will also provide two Predator strike drones armed with six R9X missiles each." Dexter smirked, still in disbelief that they fielded such weapons. He brought out a small dossier from under the table, revealing classified paper of a missile diagram stating that it did not have an explosive payload. It, instead, was armed with six protruding blades.

"They made that?" "What the fuck?" "Never in my twenty years of serving would I think of them being able to field such a device." Were their reactions.

"In addition, Royal Regiment of the Canadian Artillery will provide heavy mortar support from about four kilometers away from the objective, likewise their deployment via Griffon helicopters. Smoke and tear gas shells only." Dexter said.

"Since this is black-ops, what's the uniform?" Chase asked, familiar with this.

Dexter smirked again, "Our American counterparts will be providing that. Likewise our weapons. It's not standard either," as he unveiled another dossier with a classified stamp on the folder.

Everyone looked at it with wonder, their eyes widening as Dexter let them read its contents. And they thought the sword-missile was weird.

[i]One week later…[/i]

Dexter's impeccable planning and coordination shone through once more. Because the night surely didn't. It was just the stars and nothing more, allowing their helicopters to fly unseen, and with their engine outputs, potentially unheard. While Chase, Adrian, and Runners squad should be drifting along the dark river. The New Moon Sniper returned, and there was more to that name that night.

"What're these called again?" Miles clenched the fists of this uniform, or suit. Kevlar-like gloves melded with metal, yet the forearms, torso, legs, they're all patterned with muscle-like fibers of the same material. It's deceptively lightweight, dark-toned, and with experimental armor functions that could change the face of infantry warfare. He wore a helmet-mask combination that had a red reflective visor capable of night and thermal vision, while still retaining the same armor quality.

"Crisis suits," Dexter spoke with him via their built-in comms systems. Even the internal systems were state of the art; insulated, waterproof, built-in binoculars, and a voice modulator as well. This was the type of suit you would see in Area 51, and it shouldn't be too surprising coming from the Americans.

"Aptly named," Miles remarked. He recalled the fact that these suits were undergoing its mission testing, which was befitting of the black-ops nature. These were meant for intense crisis responses, and he wished he had had them back in Halifax.

Dexter sat firm on his seat, looking at the pitch black landscape. He tapped the side of his head to activate the nightvision, which was so advanced that it's as if the scenery had been in daytime. The colors of the green grass and blue lake-lets were there, though not as intense compared to actual daylight. And with a tap of his forehead, the binoculars zoomed forward with minimal loss of visual quality where he could see a lone feral fox moving between the bushes. "Hey Dan," he referred to the Shield's squad lead sitting across, a white lion whose fluff and fur was tucked into the armor. "How much is one suit again?"

While Dan could not, by obligation, say the value out loud, he brought up the value of one prototype suit with two fingers. Each meant a billion. "With all our paychecks here?" Inclusive of both pilots, both door gunners, two Canadian marksmen, four American rangers, "Not enough even with a lifetime."

"Do we pay for damages?" Miles asked, getting a chuckle out of him and the other Rangers.

"Nah, bud. Taxpayers will take care of it." Dan and the other Americans laughed, while Miles and Dexter chuckled.

Sherman's voice suddenly spoke from Dexter's left ear, "Ghost 3-2 to Ghost Lead, we're in position."

"Ghost Lead copies," Dexter replied. "How about you, 2-2?"

"Underwater, enemy unaware." Chase responded unperturbed, exhibiting the suit's efficient underwater capabilities.

"Copy, we're one click away. Await my signal, ETA ten. Switch frequencies, and only report when the mission is complete" Dexter said. He signaled Dan with a thumbs up.

"Okay boys, prep up." Dan loaded and cocked his SCAR (Superior Combat Assault Rifle), which was a production-successor of the failed XM8 project. Chambered in 6.8mm rifle caliber for better bullet velocity and recoil negation, while enhancing armor penetration. Kitted with an IR pointer, a new generation suppressor, and an under barrel shotgun thus making it far more versatile than its predecessor. The other Rangers were armed with similar weapons but differing underbarrel attachments. Two others were grenade launchers, and one that he wondered about its practicality; it was a multi-clip taser.

Dexter and Miles tended to their weapons, a DSG-1 Heavy DMR. The original version was based on the DSR-1 bolt-action sniper rifle. Improvements over that obsolete model was its semi-automatic chambering, larger magazine capacity of up to fifteen shots, and an architecture that improved its ergonomics and weight reduction. It had a scope attached to it with a 1.0x to 5.0x magnification, suitable for their engagement ranges, and a large square, hexagon-patterned suppressor for better sound negation and recoil distribution each time the weapon was fired. This state-of-the-art HDMR, however, was capable of interchanging calibers. It could utilize between 7.62mm rifle calibers, and the harder-hitting 14.5mm anti-matter rounds. Their first loaded rounds would be the former, expressing doubt their foe could muster up a tank in these parts of the wild.

Everyone else had been equipped with Glock 38s, chambered in .45 pistol caliber, integrally suppressed, and with attached IR lasers that glowed bright through their enhanced NVGs. They secured their ammunition rigs as the helicopter tilted itself upwards. Ammo and equipment secured, they were on the ground within the minute.

The Blackhawks soon vanished in both sight and sound moments later as their squad proceeded west towards the cliffs. They rushed towards it, weapons drawn, and have disabled their safeties. Dexter and Miles took point, with Dan following close behind, and his fellow squadmates kept their heads on a swivel. It was quiet, enough that the animals here were in rest, hiding, or had been hunted down. Eerie, almost unnatural– it annoyed both Fennixes the most.

"Ghost Actual to all, how copy?"

"Ghost 3-2, we're in position. Mortars have set up and are awaiting the go signal."

"Ghost 2-2, we're in position"

"Wraith-1 and Wraith-2 are overhead of Reindeer Station and Harrison Island. All systems green, recommend continuation, Ghost Actual." Captain Ryan said over their comms. He was in a hangar 1,100 kilometers southeast, overseeing the Predator pilots.

"Stand-by," Dexter crouched just before the cliffedge, overlooking the settlement down below. It was weird seeing a starry horizon but the land beneath illuminated like it was day. CSF presence was plenty, unaware, and were only equipped with outdated military-grade equipment. He looked around, the binoculars in his visor observing the objective area with ease. The middle structure held the hostages indeed, and there was a larger presence of guards around the coastline house where their intel center was. Forty-five armed and active combatants overall, about ten hostages, and fifteen more unaccounted for. Presumed to have been resting.

Miles had been peering through his scope, "Fuckers, they won't know what hit them." He muttered, almost snarling too.

"Intel is good," Dexter nodded to Dan, and he held the side of his head. "Black operation is a go." And he turned back to the lion soon after, "Go ahead Shield Actual, we'll spot them for you."

"Good hunting, Ghost Actual." Dan turned to his squadmates and hand-signaled them to follow, traveling in between the trees. Even with Dexter's specialized goggles, their silhouettes blended with the trunks and bushes.

Wraith-2 was providing overwatch for them, verbally communicating on hostile whereabouts. Emphasis on the middle of the compound, they ought to rescue the hostages first. And if things go awry, because it normally would, Dexter had an ace in the hole, "Shield Actual, should things get hairy for all of you down there. Us wolves up here will keep the enemy at bay without firing a bullet."

"I've heard of your endeavors, Ghost Actual. I may want to see that myself." Dan replied. "We're about to meet the enemy, stand-by."

Miles followed them with their scope while Dexter was making sure the rest of the compound hadn't 'blown a fuse' yet. The younger wolf observed them perform coordinated takedowns on the patrols by the forest edge, using techniques that were straight up from a movie, translated from real life occurrences. He saw Dan approach a guard smoking a cigarette between two sheds, just before the hostage pens. The lion would slit his throat from the side, blood dribbling out like a red fountain, which he used to extinguish the cigarette. Morbid. Good.

Eight more men who had been patrolling the east simply vanished, but from Dexter's position, he saw the bodies neatly hidden between the bushes, and under the tall grass. But their opponent was attentive enough to notice the absence. They rang their bells, alerting the whole compound. The intel center went alight with activity, every room had turned their lights on. Miles pointed out that they were going to start destroying the evidence, seeing a pair of hands pick up boxes full of papers.

The CSF were frantically running about, and those resting had sprung up to action, running out of the northern makeshift barracks putting on their jackets and loading their guns. Whereas Dan's squad spread out in a loose claw formation, encroaching on the heart of the compound. As were their foe, who intended to threaten innocent lives for a surrender.

Dexter tapped Miles' shoulder, urging him to look upward, which his son did. He channeled not just the same contempt that he had for these scumbags, but a distant memory that forged his legend. He couldn't stand to see innocence be at risk, helpless only to be slaughtered. Never again, he proclaimed.

There was a howl under the absence of the moon. Guttural, monstrous, almost unnatural. The New Moon Sniper unleashed the wrath of the moonless requiem; a wolfsong to exact vengeance on those cruel, and inhumane. Almost like a lion's roar, but in tune with the night. The Crisis suit, aptly named as Miles had said, invoked terror as a response to the unprecedented conflict, a revenge for Halifax, and avenging those who had died. And it awoke the festering vengeance within Miles, who cried in anguish behind the mask.

It echoed throughout the land, past the rivers. Even if it hadn't been wolf-like, nature responded with resounding agreement. Her wolves sang their hymn, honoring those who had passed, and wished death on those who bring harm.

The CSF in Reindeer Point and even Harrison island, who had heard the ominous hymn, were stunned and fearful. Stood still, some out in the open, until they no longer did. Their canines who once sang them were not welcome to sing it anymore. Like their home country, they have been condemned to be lost. No one would honor them. And it lasted for minutes, enough for Dan to be as stunned for the first, and continuing their operation while their enemy were dazed and inoperable.

Miles had stopped his howling first, eliminating those standing still within the house. His shots were far more quiet than the distorted wrath of nature. Almost like sending a whisper of hate, muttering them as he fired each time.

Once the night had quietened, the first to break its silence were the dead bodies squelching in the mud. Dan had left two of his men to watch over the hostages while he and another cleared each building. Those who weren't wolves offered little resistance, killed by superior training. While those who were had been paralyzed with fear, zip-tied and left to kneel outside.

Dexter was quick to return to his firearm, only having fired one shot that night. At another dog by the docks who tried to howl in defiance. His body fell back down, limpless and blood pooled around the back of his head.

With the compound fully secured, each building checked and all bodies counted, Dexter and Miles descended, and followed the mountain path. Wraith-2 above did one more sweep of the zone, only their flashing IR strobes were present in a clutter of dead bodies.

Miles finally lamented along the way, "You scared me there," he almost said dad. "Sir."

"I scared me too." Initially, Dexter had planned to shift the enemy's tactics on a more defensive stance, hiding behind buildings which he could use their 14.5mm caliber to pierce through. Perhaps he over delivered in his performance. It felt invigorating and unreal at the same time, almost like those old toys Miles had before, those Power Rangers. He chuckled at the notion, "I guess we've become Power Rangers, huh?"

"That we did, sir." Miles sniggered. "Did it feel the same compared to the time you earned your title?"

"Yeah, but this one was much more powerful. Last time I did it was to scare the enemy away, if not hide behind cover I can easily flank." Dexter recalled it vividly, the resounding howl that terrified the jackals to put down their rifles and leave alone the homes of innocent civilians. Those who stayed were unaware of his real position, making it easy pickings.

This was thrice that.

Both wolves started walking past the outer corpses. Several that were dispatched efficiently, shown by precision cuts on their jugular, or bullet holes on both sides of their heads. Dexter was impressed by the effect he had done, making it far too easy compared to any prior assignment. But such is the way of expensive hardware.

Miles on the other hand snarled behind his helmet, his body magnetized to stomping their head in. They had the gall to dress themselves up in civilian gear, resembling themselves as hunters. "Bastards, fuckers, all of them," he muttered to himself.

They all regrouped in the small picnic area outside the serving center that had been used to hold the hostages, now freed yet staying in place for their own safety. Though one of the soldiers had gone from house to house finding anything that they could eat or drink.

Dan patted Dexter on the back, "That, my man, was some scary shit you just pulled off." He turned to one of his squadmates while pointing to the wolf, "Motherfucker here lived up to the legend."

Dauvos nodded solemnly, "Scary indeed." He turned to Dexter, "Wonder what the eggheads in Keyhush would think about that once they see the replay."

"Hah!" Dan laughed, patting Dexter more. "Probably going to convince congress to give us all vocal lessons."

"How're the hostages?" Dexter patted his shoulder back, turning to the shack full of hostages gorging on some food with clear evidence of being underfed.

"I ordered Mason to scrounge around for some food." He looked around to find the door-to-door soldier, who returned to them with a box of crackers and packets of coffee. "We'll have medevac once we get the signal."

"Good. How many bodies did we capture?" There were so many dead, but he had seen some left alive for interrogations.

"Three," Dan pointed at the building north, the makeshift barracks, "Coal's keeping an eye on them there. Still in shock because of your little song."

"Good, they'll be like that for a while." He extended his hand forward to the lion, "Great work."

"Honor's all yours dude, this W belongs to you" Dan shook it. "And your second in command shot well too. I'd vouch for you two to join the Rangers if you'd like, or JTF-2 if that's more of your speed."

"Thank you for the offer, but I'll remain with the Canadian Army for now."

"Fair's fair."

"Sir," Miles said to Dexter, "Permission to investigate their command center?"

"Granted. I'll come too." Dexter nodded at Dan and went off, Miles following behind.

On their way, Chase's squad checked in. "This is Ghost 2-2 to Ghost-Actual, mission accomplished."

"Good work. Anything else to report?"

"Negative. Interrogative: did you initiate the howl?"

"Affirmative," Dexter replied, relieved to know that his effort assisted his best friend.

"Stunned the enemy, scared some of Runner squad too but the operation went smoothly."

"Alright, gather intel and wait. Ghost 3-2 has not reported in yet."

"Affirmative, good luck out there."

"2-2 and 2-1 are fine," Dexter said to Miles, quelling any doubt he might have had.

Miles let out an audible sigh, "That's good. How about 3-1, and 3-2?"

"No response yet," Dexter walked around a body slumped over the patio stairs, unlocking the door and pushing it with his barrel. It had been cleared from another point of entry but better safe than sorry.

The house-turned-command-center was furnished like it would a home. Except there was a cot and an operating theater in the ground floor bathroom, the kitchen had become the living room too with the couch lined up opposite of the sink, and the living room was their intelligence center with outdated computers, codifiers, filing cabinets, and a dead body that Miles shot during the initial firefight. Upstairs attic was a barracks that he could presume smelled quite rank. Old mattresses, hard pillows, a pile of electronics and canned food on one side.

"Clear," he said to Miles.

"Clear." He replied back.

Miles went over to the filing cabinets and found that they were locked. So he punched its handle, his fist gone inside and had yanked out the compartment. There were battleplans of Halifax, Quebec, Toronto, as well as folders full of accounts on military bases throughout Eastern Canada. It highlighted inventory, patrols, personnel, with markings on which folder they would find information about them. "Gold mine here," he slung his gun on his back as he reviewed the next cabinet, which contained names and social media links of army personnel.

"Ghost Actual to Wraith Actual, info jackpot." Dexter said to those in HQ. And he was relayed instructions on what to do with it as he himself started perusing the computers too.

These findings were far more substantial than prior sources based on the aforementioned info alone. Yet there were so much more; maps highlighting other quiet-sites (like Reindeer Station), names of insiders in LGUs and new recruits of the army, as well as organization fronts that host their fellow terrorists. But the real jackpot, which Miles found in an accounting logbook, was the benefactor of this invasion.

The World Islamic Order, it said. Miles surmised that this was the central organization in charge of contributing to other terrorist groups around the world. Though the concept was not new, the name was. He informed Dexter about it and had had no information about their whereabouts. It was news to him too. Moreso the fact that the attack on Canada's east was to draw attention away from similar efforts being conducted in Africa, South Asia, and parts of South America too. And he felt his ego deflate that very moment, the focus on the western world had weakened one's perceptions on others, giving the enemy breathing room.

Dexter held his shoulder and sighed, "Such is reality, son. But what we found here would undermine their efforts, y'know." He continued, disregarding the freudian slip, "Those bastards may think that their special forces only operate in their own turf, trying to quell any form of insurrection. But we'd greet them no matter which hole in the dirt they would scurry off to."

Miles smiled under his helmet, "You're right, sir."

"Command wants us to store these in a briefcase or a bag somewhere. Take it with us to Langley. Focus on what we don't know."

"This is Ghost 3-2," Sherman interjected. "Mission accomplished, no casualties. No hostile survivors." Miles liked that.

"Affirmative Ghost 3-2, good work. Stand-by." Dexter switched frequencies. "This is Ghost Actual to all squadrons, initial phase is accomplished. Move to exfiltration, medevac requested on Reindeer Station."

"Yes sir," the other squad leads responded.

He inspired them even more, "We have found a gold mine of information here. Shield Actual, your leads were spot-on, thank you."

"And thank you for your hospitality." Dan replied back.

Miles had gone and found a laptop bag that he started filing folders inside. Their American counterparts were much more rowdy over the communications, and it seemed that the tension had gone. Their guys were fine, his friends and family moreso. The only sad thing about this was it being kept under wraps for God knows how many years. He had heard of WW2 espionage stories only surfacing in the last decade. And he would never be allowed to discuss it outside of those involved. Not even Joel, or even his future partner whoever that may be. At least, however, he could talk about it with his dad, who'd been there for him throughout. And in turn, he gave him purpose and company.

They were truly father and son.

****