The Patch Called “Relentless”
The morning sun hadn’t yet burned away the dew when Captain Lana Ashford stepped into the mess hall at Fort Bragg. She moved with quiet precision—the kind of movement learned by people who understand that being noticed can sometimes get you killed.
Her ACU uniform was textbook perfect. To anyone watching, she was just another logistics officer grabbing breakfast before another long day of spreadsheets and supply chain reports.
But Staff Sergeant Caleb Drummond was watching.
He sat at a corner table with his drill instructors, a smirk already curling his lips. Six months running the recruit training program had made him the self-appointed king of this corner of the base. He liked reminding everyone of it.
Lana filled her tray—eggs, toast, black coffee—and turned to find a seat.
That’s when Drummond saw it.
On her right shoulder, a patch. Faded green fabric. Gray stitching worn nearly to dust. Beneath the frayed thread, a faint silhouette—a badger, barely visible—and one single word that had survived countless washings:
RELENTLESS.
“Hey, Captain!” Drummond called out, voice loud enough to hush every nearby conversation.
Laughter rippled nervously through the room.
Lana didn’t stop walking. Didn’t turn. Just moved calmly toward an empty table. Her tray never wavered.
Something in that calm made Drummond’s chest tighten. Made him feel small. So he stood.
“I asked you a question, ma’am,” he said, sarcasm dripping from the honorific. “Never seen that patch in any regulation manual. Where’d you get it? Costume shop?”
Lana set her tray down gently and took a slow breath before turning to face him.
“It’s just an old training patch, Sergeant,” she said evenly. “Nothing special.”
Drummond took three steps closer, now close enough to see the faint badger silhouette. He read the word aloud with a mocking grin.
“Relentless. Cute. What unit’s that? I’ve worked with Rangers, Airborne, even Delta guys. Never seen anything like it.”
He leaned in, finger hovering an inch from the fabric.
“Mind if I take a closer look?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said quietly.
But his finger brushed the patch anyway.
Syria — July 2019
The mess hall vanished.
The air turned thick with heat and dust. The abandoned warehouse was an oven, every breath dry and burning. The smell of cordite, diesel, and blood hung heavy.
Seven soldiers were scattered across the concrete floor.
Kowalski’s body lay under a field jacket, already gone. Chen, their heavy gunner, sat slumped against a barrel, one hand pressed to the hole in his side. Each breath was a wet gasp.
Martinez worked frantically beside him, whispering through tears. “Stay with me, Chen. We’re getting out.”
Outside, the engines of enemy trucks revved closer. Rifle bolts clattered. Arabic voices shouted orders.
The radio crackled.
“Honeybadger 6, this is command. You are not authorized for extraction. Political situation too sensitive. Evade and await further instruction.”
A monotone voice. Reading from a script. Thousands of miles away.
They were being abandoned.
Lana looked around at what was left of her team.
Martinez, still working through tears.
Reynolds, reloading with trembling hands.
Torres, staring at her with desperate hope.
Lana keyed her radio. Her voice turned to steel.
“Command, this is Honeybadger 6. Negative. We are walking out. All of us.”
She looked down at Kowalski’s body.
“Every single one. Clear a path or stay out of our way.”
She cut the channel.
“Reynolds, Patterson, Torres—you’re on point. Martinez, you and Chen, you move with me. And we carry Kowalski out. Nobody gets left behind.”
“Captain,” Martinez whispered. “They’ll kill us.”
“Not if we move fast,” Lana said. “Ninety seconds. We go.”
Back to Fort Bragg
The memory broke. The warehouse, the blood, the heat—all gone.
Lana blinked, and she was back in the mess hall. Drummond’s hand still rested on her sleeve.
But something in her eyes had changed.
The room was silent again, every soldier pretending not to stare.
Drummond pulled his hand back, forcing a laugh. “Relentless,” he said louder. “Real motivational poster stuff, Captain.”
A few weak chuckles followed.
Lana picked up her coffee, calm and silent.
Drummond circled her table. “Let me guess,” he said. “Army surplus store? Thought it looked cool? Thought it’d make people take you seriously?”
He leaned in closer, sneering. “Come on. Logistics officer? Desk job? Closest you’ve come to combat is a paper cut.”
The laughter this time was quieter—uneasy.
At another table, Lieutenant Morrison looked up, uncomfortable. Everyone knew Drummond’s reputation. He had friends in high places. Crossing him could end your career.
“‘Task Force Relentless,’ huh?” Drummond made air quotes. “If that was real, I’d have heard about it. I’ve worked with real operators—Marsoc, Rangers, CAG. None of them mentioned a secret badger club.”
He laughed, sharp and ugly. “Six months in Kuwait, air-conditioned office, and now you wear that like you’re some war hero.”
Lana set her coffee down carefully.
“Sergeant Drummond,” she said. “Return to your table.”
“You know what we call that?” he shot back. “Stolen valor. Federal offense, Captain.”
He grabbed her sleeve near the patch.
Lana’s hand shot up, locking around his wrist—quick, controlled, immovable. The pressure points were perfect.
“Remove your hand,” she said softly.
The strength in her grip wasn’t from the gym. It was from combat. Real combat.
Drummond’s confidence faltered for the first time. “Or what? You’ll file a complaint?”
The mess hall door opened.
Master Sergeant Davis stepped in—thirty years in uniform, multiple combat deployments. He took one look at the scene and barked, “Drummond. Outside. Now.”
Drummond released her sleeve. She released his wrist.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Lana said quietly. “It is.”
Davis held Drummond’s gaze, then turned to Lana. “Captain.” A nod—subtle, respectful—and he followed the sergeant out.
Three Hours Later
Drummond stood before General Hayward, chin high, report in hand.
“Stolen valor, ma’am. Unauthorized insignia,” he said, proud of himself.
But the general wasn’t alone.
A man in his sixties stood beside her desk. Civilian clothes. Weathered face. And on his jacket, that same faded badger patch.
Drummond’s stomach dropped.
“Sergeant,” Hayward said, “this is James Reynolds, retired Master Sergeant, former Task Force Relentless.”
Reynolds’ eyes were sharp and tired—the kind that had seen too much.
“Task Force Relentless,” the general continued, “was a classified counterterrorism unit. Syria and Iraq, 2017 to 2021. Eighty-three percent casualties.”
She paused.
“Captain Ashford was the team leader. July 2019, her unit was ambushed twelve miles behind enemy lines. Command denied extraction. She refused the order. Seventy-two hours of continuous combat. She brought her people home—alive and dead.”
The general stepped closer.
“You mocked her, grabbed her, accused her of stolen valor.”
Reynolds spoke softly. “That patch—you earn it if you survived. Only four of us did.”
Drummond’s face went pale.
“You will apologize tomorrow at 0800,” Hayward said. “Then report for six weeks of leadership retraining. Consider yourself lucky, Sergeant. Mr. Reynolds suggested worse.”
The Next Morning
Drummond knocked on Lana’s office door.
“Come in,” she said without looking up.
He entered, spine rigid. “Captain Ashford… I came to apologize. I was wrong. Completely wrong.”
Lana set down her pen. Her voice was steady. “Apology accepted, Sergeant.”
He hesitated. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
Silence.
“Because the people I served with can’t defend themselves anymore,” she said finally. “Kowalski. Park. Fiser. They’re gone. I wear this for them.”
She stood, meeting his eyes.
“You’re a good instructor, Drummond. Your recruits respect you. Teach them what matters. Strength isn’t about who you humiliate. It’s about who you save.”
He nodded, throat tight.
As he turned to leave, she added, “And Sergeant—Master Sergeant Davis, the one who pulled you out yesterday? He served with Reynolds in Afghanistan. He recognized the patch immediately. He was protecting you.”
Drummond left changed.
Six Months Later
Lieutenant Morrison entered the mess hall one morning and stopped cold.
At the corner table sat Captain Lana Ashford, James Reynolds, and a woman in her forties with a prosthetic leg—the last surviving members of Task Force Relentless.
They met once a year. Same day. Same table. The anniversary of the day they walked out of that Syrian warehouse.
No one disturbed them. No one joked. Everyone on base knew now.
Lana raised her coffee cup. The others followed.
No words. Just a silent toast—to Kowalski, to Park, to Fiser, to every name that would never be carved on any wall.
Morrison turned away, his throat tightening.
Because some patches aren’t worn for glory.
They’re worn for the ones who never made it home.
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