His hand holding the tablet began to shake. "This can't be right," he whispered. "What?" Hendrickx demanded.
"What does it say?" Davidson looked up at Sarah. Really looked at her, seeing her completely differently now. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.
"I served with your father in Fallujah. Second battle, November 2004. Master Sergeant Richard Chen. He never told me." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Told you what?" Hayes stepped forward trying to see the screen. Davidson turned the tablet so they all could see. The classification header was bright red top secret SCI. Below it, a personnel file, and at the top in bold letters, Chen Sarah, Captain USMC, Force Recon.
The room seemed to tilt. "No," Hendrickx said flatly. "That's not possible." "Force Recon doesn't take," he caught himself. But the damage was done.
"Doesn't take women," Sarah asked quietly. "They do now. Have been for years. You'd know that if you kept up with Corps developments outside the SEAL community."
"Force Recon is one thing," Rodriguez said, his voice desperate. "Now that doesn't explain the skill level we saw. That was," "Keep reading," Davidson said, his face had gone gray. Kim pulled up the next section. Mission history, 73 successful operations, deployment dates spanning 12 years, locations that were still classified, a list of commendations that scrolled on for pages.
Navy Cross: four. Bronze Star: six. Purple Heart: seven, along with dozens of other medals and citations. And then at the bottom in stark text, status: KIA, presumed, Helmand Province, August 2019. "She's dead," Park said stupidly.
"The file says she's dead." "Presumed KIA, Sarah corrected. Means they didn't find a body. Means I was alone behind enemy lines for 47 days before I made it to friendly forces. Means the Corps declared me dead because statistically nobody survives that long in that terrain under those conditions."
Hayes had backed up against the wall. Her face ashen. "You're—you're actually" "Captain Sarah Chen." Davidson finished.
"Call sign." He looked at her. "The file won't load your call sign. That part's redacted."
"It would be," she said. "Call signs for certain operations stay classified." Hendrickx had gone very still. His earlier swagger had evaporated.
"Ghost unit," he whispered. "You're Ghost Unit." "I don't know what you're talking about, Admiral." "Don't." His voice was hollow.
"I've seen the briefings. There are only 23 Ghost Unit operators in the entire history of Marine Force Recon. There—you're—" He looked like he might be sick. Rodriguez had slumped against the wall. He'd physically assaulted a superior officer.
Not just any officer, a Ghost Unit operator. His career wasn't just over. He was looking at potential court-martial. Kim pulled up another section. "Sir, there's more."
"The reason she's here, working maintenance." He read aloud. "Status change. Voluntary retirement. Compassionate leave granted."