Chapter 1: The Letter That Started the War

The letter from the White House arrived at dawn—sealed with the presidential crest and a threat sharp enough to cut through steel. General, you don’t want your loved one to suffer, do you?

That was the message, plain as day, burning into my hands.

President Carter didn’t bother with subtlety. He snatched Lillian Harper—my Lillian—and dangled her life in front of me, a leash for my loyalty.

My pulse hammered, hot with fear and fury. They thought they could own me, that I’d fold at the first sign of weakness. They had no idea who they were dealing with now.

As I sat alone in my field office—a battered prefab trailer rattling in the chill northern wind—I stared at the official seal stamped on that letter. The heater coughed in the corner, barely keeping the frost off the windows. My breath fogged as I read, every exhale a silent curse. Outside, I could hear the distant whine of Humvees returning from patrol, the low murmur of soldiers around a propane heater, and the faint call of an early morning crow. I gripped the letter tighter, feeling the paper crumple between my fingers. This was personal. This was war.

If life really followed the script, I’d be packing for a court-martial and a slow walk to the gallows. But this wasn’t fiction anymore.

Only then could the melodramatic, heart-wrenching love story really begin.

But the man in this uniform isn’t the same one Carter thinks he’s got on a string. I’m not here to play by their rules.

Before all this, I would’ve been dragged back to D.C. and made to kneel. Now? I’d rather burn the whole story down than let them write my ending.

I scoffed and tore the presidential order to shreds.

The sound of ripping paper was sharp, satisfying—one of those rare moments where anger feels righteous. I tossed the shredded letter into a battered metal trash can, the kind you’d find in a high school janitor’s closet, and watched the pieces flutter down like snowflakes. My heart hammered with rebellion. This was my story now, and no one—not Carter, not fate, not even the author—was going to script my ending.

"The President really doesn’t get it. He knows full well that Lillian is the woman I love, and he still dares to bring her into the West Wing."

I spat the words, pacing the creaking linoleum floor. Behind me, a faded Stars and Stripes drooped from the wall, stained by years of dust and war smoke. The bitterness on my tongue was familiar—the taste of betrayal, as American as apple pie and broken promises.

"Some snake in D.C. is whispering in the president’s ear. Fine. Get the men ready. Tanks, boots, the works—we’re cleaning house."

I slammed my fist down on the folding table, rattling a half-empty mug of stale gas station coffee. The men outside fell silent, heads snapping toward the tent. There was no going back now. It was time to bring the fight home.