Captain Irina Volkov had learned that the Arctic rewarded precision and punished noise.
At Forward Operating Base Northwind, buried deep inside the polar ice shelf, she worked alone at a metal table under harsh white light. Her gloved hands moved steadily as she repaired a high-frequency transceiver, soldering microscopic connections while the wind outside screamed like an animal trying to tear the station apart. Her breath was slow, controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary words.
Irina was not infantry. She was a technical intelligence officer—trained in signals interception, network warfare, and survival in environments where mistakes meant death. She had earned her rank the hard way, through missions no one talked about and conditions few could endure. At Northwind, she was the backbone of communications, though few bothered to notice.
That changed the morning the transport aircraft arrived.
The new infantry detachment entered the base loud, confident, and visibly unimpressed. Leading them were Specialists Brent Kade and Lucas Morren, both highly decorated, both convinced that Arctic warfare was just another test of toughness. They eyed Irina’s workstation with open skepticism.
“Didn’t expect the tech officer to look so… quiet,” Kade said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Irina didn’t respond. She finished the repair, powered the unit, and logged the signal calibration.
Later that evening, in the common area, Kade escalated it.
“So you’re in charge of radios and computers?” he asked, smirking. “Must be nice staying warm while the rest of us freeze outside.”
Irina stood. In one smooth motion, she closed the distance, redirected his wrist, and pinned him against the table without striking him once. Her voice was calm.
“Mocking authority is easy,” she said. “Surviving incompetence is harder.”
She released him immediately. The room went silent.
The next morning, Colonel Matthew Harlan, base commander, gathered the unit for a briefing. A remote listening post—Station Echo-9, located deep in the Tartarus Mountains—had gone dark. The station contained sensitive signal intercept hardware. Recovery was mandatory.
Irina was assigned as mission commander.
Kade and Morren exchanged looks of disbelief.
A tech officer leading infantry through the Arctic?
The team departed within the hour. The trek was brutal—ten hours on foot through rising winds and dropping visibility. When Irina warned against deviating from the planned route, Kade insisted on a shortcut. He was confident. Loud. Wrong.
The terrain funneled them into a narrow ravine as weather worsened. Exhaustion set in. Morale dropped. Navigation failed.
Irina said nothing—until she had to.
She halted the column, assumed command fully, and ordered a retreat to higher ground. Her authority was no longer questioned. It was necessary.
As night fell and the storm intensified, visibility dropped to near zero. The temperature plummeted. And somewhere ahead, unseen in the fog, a rifle bolt clicked into place.
Irina raised her fist.
“Contact,” she whispered.
And the Arctic listened.
Was this mission already compromised—and would Irina’s discipline be enough to keep them alive when bullets followed the storm?
