Part I 

The naval base at Port Sterling had a way of swallowing sound. Even at mid-day—when shift changes brought a flood of sailors, when metal doors hissed open and shut, when the hum of generators bled through the walls—the place never felt loud. Everything was muted, smoothed out by steel bulkheads, white linoleum, and the rigid discipline that governed every inch of the facility.

Down one of those long, sterile corridors—one leading to the Command Information Center—an aging man pushed a mop in steady semicircles. The rhythmic whisper of wet fibers against polished flooring echoed faintly, the only gentle sound in a place built for warfare.

Stanley Morton, seventy-eight years old by the most recent birthday card his daughter had mailed him, didn’t pay attention to the foot traffic rushing behind him. He didn’t look up when officers passed. He barely registered the young sailors swaggering down the hall like colts who hadn’t yet figured out the strength of their own legs.

At his age, you learned to choose your battles—and most weren’t worth the energy.

The corridor was unusually busy, shift change approaching. A few junior sailors walked past without noticing him. A pair of chiefs nodded politely. An ensign offered a tired smile. Stanley returned none of it. He simply worked, careful and deliberate, moving the mop head to carve a glistening crescent through an otherwise spotless floor.

He liked the repetition. Repetition was quiet. Predictable. Safe.

Then—

“Hey, Pop. You got a second?”

The voice cut through the muted hum like a thrown rock cracking glass. Sharp. Young. Full of casual arrogance, the kind that blossomed only in people who’d never been punched hard enough by life to lose it.

Stanley didn’t look up.

He finished his stroke, pivoted the mop, and drew the next one across the tiles.

A boot suddenly planted itself in his path.

Polished black, spit-shined to a mirror finish. Young sailor smell: cologne with a hint of insecurity.

Petty Officer Cade Jennings leaned forward with a smirk plastered across his face. He was flanked by two buddies—both leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, wearing the bored superiority of men who hadn’t yet learned that arrogance was a luxury the world didn’t let you keep for long.

“I’m talking to you, old-timer,” Jennings said, snapping his fingers once for effect.

The mop head came to a perfect stop exactly one inch before touching the toe of the boot.

Stanley lifted his gaze slowly.

His eyes were pale blue, washed out like sky seen through an old window—calm, steady, and giving away absolutely nothing.

Jennings’s grin widened as if he had scored a point.

“We were just talking about call signs,” he said loudly, making sure everyone in earshot heard. “You know—cool names they give you in the fleet. I’m ‘Viper.’” He jabbed a thumb toward his buddy. “This here is ‘Hammer.’ Real menacing stuff.”

The two friends snickered.

Jennings tilted his head. “So what about you? What was yours? Mop-One? Squeegee-Six?”

More snickering.

Sailors nearby paused. A few exchanged looks—some amused, others uneasy.

Stanley stared at the boot. Then at the young sailor’s face. His silence wasn’t tense. It wasn’t angry. It didn’t even feel defensive.

It was simply… quiet.

A type of quiet Jennings had never encountered—and had no idea how to interpret.

“Nothing to say?” Jennings prodded. “Cat got your tongue?”

Stanley looked down again and adjusted his grip on the mop handle.

His calmness was like a mirror Jennings didn’t want to look into. It felt like an insult—but one delivered without malice, without words. Just a gentle refusal to play the game.

And it hit Jennings harder than any comeback would have.

“You know,” Jennings said louder, chest puffing up as more sailors drifted into the corridor’s periphery, “in my Navy, we answer questions when we’re asked.”

His buddies grinned, sensing entertainment.

Jennings turned, gesturing at the corridor around them. “This is a secure area, Pops. CIC access leads right through here. I think we need to know exactly who’s walking around our house.”

He placed extra weight on the word our.

“Let me see your clearance.”

The shift in tone was subtle—but everyone felt it. This was no longer teasing. Jennings was now invoking authority, however illegitimate, to corner the old man.

Stanley sighed softly. Barely audible.

It wasn’t the sigh of someone intimidated. It was the sigh of a man who had hoped for a quiet afternoon and was disappointed by life yet again.

He leaned the mop carefully against the wall. Movements slow, deliberate, steady—like everything else he did.

His hand went to his back pocket, retrieving a worn trifold leather wallet. The stitching was frayed. The leather cracked from decades of wear. He pulled out a laminated ID card and held it out.

Jennings didn’t take it.

Instead, he leaned forward, squinting dramatically as if reading something difficult.

“Stanley Morton, contractor, custodial services.” Jennings let the words linger, dripping with mock triumph. “See? Just the janitor.”

Before Stanley could retract the ID, Jennings snatched it from his hand.

His buddies shifted uncomfortably. One nudged him under his breath.

“Cade… leave it. Seriously.”

But Jennings ignored him. He was too deep into it. Too invested in winning whatever imaginary battle he had created.

He noticed something else—a tiny metal pin on Stanley’s collar. Tarnished. Almost unrecognizable. A small dragon, wings curled.

Jennings flicked it with his finger.

“And what’s this? Something your grandkids got you from a vending machine?”

The moment the fingernail touched the pin, something subtle shifted behind Stanley’s eyes.

Like a ripple disturbing still water.

Only for a heartbeat.

But it was there.

A deep green strobe. Rotor blades thundering overhead. Mud. Smoke. Screams. A radio static-crackled voice:

“Dragon Six, this is Eagle Two—WE ARE DOWN—”

Then the hallway came back into focus.

Jennings and his buddies hadn’t noticed the flicker. But one person had.

A chief petty officer near the back—Chief Miller—felt something cold crawl along his spine.

He couldn’t name it.

But he sensed danger.

Meanwhile, Jennings was doubling down.

“What’s wrong, old man?” he asked with a mocking tilt of the head. “You stupid or deaf?”

He shoved the ID into Stanley’s chest.

The crowd shifted uneasily.

Jennings didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

He grabbed Stanley’s arm—too roughly, too confidently—and tried pulling him forward.

“We’re going to see the Master-at-Arms. We’ll get you a psych eval while we’re at it. See if you even know who you are.”

His buddies paled.

“Oh, hell no,” one whispered.

“You crossed a line,” the other muttered.

But Jennings wasn’t listening. He felt eyes on him—an audience—and mistook their discomfort for anticipation. He thought they wanted him to finish what he’d started. He thought this was leadership, authority, dominance.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

Right as he added, “Let’s go, Pops. Don’t make this harder—”

A sound interrupted him.

A sound completely out of place in a climate-controlled Navy corridor.

A sound that instantly commanded attention.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

Sharp. Rhythmic. Heavy.

Bootsteps.

Many bootsteps.

Marching in perfect unison.

Every head turned.

At the far end of the hallway, the glass doors leading to the east entrance swung open—

—and in walked the base commander, Captain Reed Vance, flanked by Fleet Master Chief Isaac Harris.

And behind them—

Eight United States Marines in full dress blues, rifles at perfect present arms.

The corridor fell into a vacuum of silence.

Jennings froze mid-grab. His face went pale.

The procession advanced with purpose. Not fast. Not slow.

Just inevitable.

They stopped three feet from Stanley Morton.

Captain Vance ignored Jennings entirely—didn’t even glance at him. Instead, he stood tall, took a breath, and saluted with such razor precision that even the Marines seemed to stiffen further.

“Mr. Morton,” the captain said, voice ringing through the stunned corridor, “it is an honor, sir.”

Jennings blinked. His hand released Stanley’s arm automatically. He stared as the Fleet Master Chief and all eight Marines followed with their own salutes—a perfect cascade of respect.

The crowd melted to the walls, terrified of being in the way.

Chief Miller stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“For those who aren’t aware,” he said carefully, “you are standing in the presence of a man once known as… Dragon Six.”

Gasps.

Whispers.

Someone dropped a clipboard.

Jennings swayed as if he’d been punched in the gut.

Miller continued:

“He commanded a clandestine MACVSOG unit, Project Dragon’s Tooth, in Vietnam. Served five tours. Rescued eighty-seven American servicemen. Awarded the Navy Cross—twice. The Silver Star—four times. Bronze Star for Valor. And a Medal of Honor whose citation is still classified.”

Stanley Morton didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

He was a mountain in a windstorm.

Captain Vance lowered his salute and turned his gaze on Jennings.

“Petty Officer,” he said calmly—too calmly—“you have disgraced this uniform. And you will answer for it.”

Jennings opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The marines flanked him.

He was done.

Finished.

His career didn’t just derail—it plummeted off a cliff.

Then the captain turned back to Stanley.

“Sir, on behalf of my entire command, I apologize for this incident.”

Stanley finally spoke.

“No need, Captain,” he said softly. “He’s just a boy. The young ones—” he nodded toward Jennings, “—they’re loud. They think the world needs to hear them. Doesn’t mean they’re bad. Just means they haven’t learned yet.”

He tapped the faded dragon pin on his collar gently.

“Honor’s quiet,” he murmured. “Teach them to look a little closer.”

And with that, the impossible moment passed. The honor guard pivoted. The commander followed. The Fleet Master Chief lingered only long enough to give Stanley a nod of deep, unspoken respect.

Jennings was escorted away—ashen, shaking, humiliated.

Stanley retrieved his mop.

Dipped it into the bucket.

Resumed cleaning the corridor.

As if nothing had happened.

Because for someone who had once lived through the worst places on earth—this was nothing.

This was quiet.

This was peace.

And he intended to protect it.

Part II 

The Marines didn’t march Petty Officer Cade Jennings down the corridor so much as they absorbed him into a wall of polished brass and blue. The moment the heavy doors to the administrative wing swung shut behind him, the murmuring crowd began to dissipate like smoke in a breeze. Sailors drifted back toward their workstations, returning to consoles and terminals with a strange reverence in their movements—as if they were afraid to make noise in a place that had just witnessed a quiet miracle.

Chief Miller remained for a moment, staring after the procession, his hand still clenched where the phone had been minutes before. He looked exhausted—genuinely exhausted—as if he had just aged a decade in the span of ten minutes.

Stanley was already mopping again.

Same rhythm. Same steady pace. Same gentle arc of motion across the tile.

Chief Miller approached him slowly, deliberately, like a man approaching a wild animal he wasn’t fully convinced wouldn’t suddenly reveal fangs.

“You, ah… doing alright, sir?”

Stanley didn’t look up. “Son, if you call me sir again, I’m going to start charging rent.”

Miller cracked a smile before he could stop himself. “Fair enough. Just—wanted to check.”

Stanley paused long enough to wring the mop. “I’m fine. He’s a kid. Kids make noise.”

Miller nodded. “Yes, but… that wasn’t noise, Mr. Morton. That was stupidity.”

Stanley shrugged. “There’s always overlap.”

Miller laughed under his breath. “You’re not wrong.”

Before Miller could say more, the CIC doors burst open—Lieutenant Commander Delia Torres nearly sprinting out, headset dangling around her neck. She was a woman known for two things: terrifying competence and the uncanny ability to appear in three places at once when the Navy was on fire.

She stopped dead when she saw Stanley.

And immediately straightened her uniform.

“Mr. Morton,” she said quickly, breathlessly, “I—just wanted to say… I’ve heard stories, but I didn’t—”

“Ma’am,” Stanley interrupted softly, “you’ve got real fires to put out. Don’t worry about this old man.”

She gave him a tight, grateful smile—a smile that said thank you for letting me off the hook—then pivoted and disappeared into the bustling CIC like a gust of wind swallowed by machinery.

Miller watched her go and shook his head. “That woman once yelled at an admiral. Now she’s starstruck by a janitor.”

“Good thing I’m not a janitor,” Stanley replied.

Miller blinked. “But your ID—”

“I’m a man who mops floors,” Stanley said evenly. “Job descriptions don’t change who you are. Or who you were.”

Miller took a slow breath, nodded, and stepped back.

He didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t think he had earned the right.

And Stanley appreciated that more than Miller could know.

Jennings felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice.

The blue-uniformed Marines formed a silent corridor of muscle around him—escorting, not restraining, but making it clear the difference didn’t matter. He wasn’t going anywhere except where they wanted him.

Far down the hallway, a door marked COMMAND SUITE — RESTRICTED loomed like a sentence.

And behind that door—

Captain Vance.

Fleet Master Chief Harris.

Jennings’s stomach clamped so hard he felt nauseous.

The Marine on his right—a Gunnery Sergeant built like a refrigerator—leaned slightly toward him.

“You’re about to get educated, son.”

Jennings swallowed hard. “About… what?”

“History.” The Gunny’s lips barely moved. “And humility.”

Jennings wanted to throw up.

The door opened.

They ushered him inside.

The captain was waiting.

He didn’t yell.

That was the worst part.

The room was silent except for the faint ticking of a nautical clock on the wall. Captain Reed Vance stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, his face carved from granite.

Jennings snapped to attention instinctively, sweat already dripping between his shoulder blades.

“Petty Officer Jennings,” Captain Vance said in a calm, chilling tone. “At ease.”

It was not a suggestion.

Jennings lowered his hands but didn’t relax. He couldn’t.

Fleet Master Chief Harris closed the door behind them, then stepped forward to stand beside the captain—two immovable pillars of naval authority.

Vance’s gaze narrowed.

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

Jennings swallowed. “Sir… I—I made a mistake.”

“No,” Vance said. “A mistake is forgetting your cover in the wardroom. A mistake is mislabeling a personnel file.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

“What you did was dishonor a man whose boots you are not worthy to shine.”

Jennings flinched.

Harris stepped forward.

“You grabbed him,” the Master Chief said slowly. “You laid hands on him. You threatened him. A man who’s done more for the United States Navy than you could in six lifetimes.”

Jennings felt the blood drain from his face.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

The Master Chief’s voice thundered. “YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE NEEDED TO KNOW!”

Jennings jolted, the impact of the words hitting him like shrapnel.

“Respect,” Harris continued more quietly. “Respect is not conditional. Not something you only give when someone deserves it. It is the baseline expectation of this uniform.”

Jennings stared at the floor.

“I’m—” He caught himself. “Sir, I… I apologize.”

Vance raised an eyebrow. “To me?”

Jennings froze.

Harris leaned in. “Boy. You’re apologizing to the wrong man.”

And Jennings realized—

He didn’t just owe an apology.

He owed something deeper.

And it would not be forgiven easily.

Captain Vance walked to a locked steel cabinet in the corner of his office. He turned the combination with quick, practiced motions.

Jennings watched, confused.

Vance opened the top drawer and withdrew a thin file—thin, but heavy in a way that had nothing to do with weight.

He placed it on the desk.

Harris flipped it open.

Jennings leaned forward, trying to understand the significance.

Half the pages were blacked out—fully redacted, ink so thick it looked like tar smeared across history.

But a few lines remained visible.

Just enough.

Jennings read:

PROJECT DESIGNATION: DRAGON’S TOOTH
COMMAND AUTHORITY: DRAGON 6
SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP—MACV-SOG
STATUS: CLASSIFIED

Jennings blinked. “Dragon… Six?”

Vance nodded. “The man you mocked, belittled, and physically grabbed.”

Jennings felt dizzy.

Harris began reading aloud from the few unredacted notes.

“Five tours. Deep-field recon. POW extractions. Pilots pulled from burning wrecks. Whole teams rescued.”

He flipped the page.

“This line,” Harris said quietly, “not many people know it exists.”

He pointed.

Confirmed: 87 U.S. personnel recovered alive under his command.

Jennings felt the number punch him in the gut.

Eighty-seven.

Eighty-seven lives.

“And that’s just what wasn’t classified,” Vance added.

Jennings stared at the floor.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered again.

“And yet,” Vance replied calmly, “you acted as if you were superior to him. Because of a uniform. Because of a rank.”

Jennings squeezed his eyes shut.

Vance waited a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then:

“You’re not being discharged.”

Jennings looked up, stunned.

“You’re being reassigned.”

The captain’s voice turned colder.

“Effective immediately, you are demoted to Seaman Apprentice.”

Jennings’s stomach dropped.

“You will spend the next eight weeks on latrine duty, barracks cleaning, and supply detail.” Vance paused. “Supervised by Chief Miller.”

Jennings nodded numbly. It could have been worse. Much worse.

“And after those eight weeks?” Jennings asked softly.

Vance exchanged a glance with Harris. “After that? We’ll see if there’s anything left of you that can be turned into a sailor.”

Harris stepped forward.

“Dismissed.”

Jennings walked out feeling like his bones were made of sand.

Whispers

Back in the corridor, Stanley had finished the stretch of hallway and moved on toward the supply closet. Sailors paused as he passed, almost unconsciously stepping aside, offering nods, stiff spines, forced smiles.

They didn’t know what to say.

No one did.

Stanley didn’t say anything either.

He simply wheeled his bucket past the gawking junior sailors as if the earlier chaos had never happened.

Chief Miller trailed behind him for a few steps.

One sailor whispered:

“Is it really true?”

“I heard he rescued whole teams.”

“I heard he did black ops stuff, like… way off the record.”

“They saluted him. The captain saluted him.”

“No way his Medal of Honor is classified. Is that even possible?”

“Anything’s possible when you’ve done the kind of things they say he’s done.”

Miller shot them a warning glare, and the whispers evaporated.

He followed Stanley around the corner. “Sorry about the chatter.”

Stanley shrugged. “Stories are stories.”

“Yeah, but this one’s true.”

Stanley paused at that.

Then gave Miller a small, sad smile.

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

Miller swallowed hard.

There was nothing to say.

The base seemed different after that.

For days, the hallway felt hallowed. Sailors straightened their uniforms when Stanley walked by. Officers greeted him with polite nods. A few chiefs stood when he entered a room—out of instinct, maybe, or out of respect they didn’t know how to express.

Stanley hated it.

He didn’t want to be a legend.

Legends didn’t mop floors.

Legends didn’t sleep alone in small rented apartments.

Legends didn’t lose friends in jungles that smelled like death and rain.

He wanted quiet.

He wanted normal.

But normal had been shattered the moment Jennings opened his mouth.

Even so, Stanley knew the storm would pass. People always returned to routine. The Navy didn’t stop for sentiment, fame, or rumors. It marched forward.

And that was fine.

Because Stanley had made peace with who he was a long time ago.

Not Dragon Six.

Not Commander Morton.

Not the man who once crawled through enemy territory with a wounded airman draped across his shoulders, praying the flare gun jammed in his pocket wouldn’t go off.

He was just a man with a mop.

And this was his life now.

But the past has a way of catching up—even when you’ve buried it deep.

Three days later, Seaman Apprentice Cade Jennings scrubbed the floor of a barracks latrine until his hands were raw.

His face was flushed, muscles trembling, uniform damp with sweat and bleach.

He’d done more manual labor in three days than in his entire career combined.

But none of that was the worst part.

The worst part was the silence.

No friends visiting.

No one joking with him.

No one looking him in the eyes.

Not out of malice, but out of discomfort.

People didn’t know how to talk to him now.

Every time they saw him, they remembered the image of him grabbing an old man’s arm—just seconds before the base commander saluted that same old man like he was royalty.

Jennings scrubbed harder.

Chief Miller walked in, clipboard in hand.

“How’s it going, Jennings?” Miller asked, voice not unkind.

Jennings didn’t look up. “I’m working on it, Chief.”

“You missed a spot.”

Jennings scrubbed it immediately.

Miller studied him for a moment.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re not the first sailor to screw up. Won’t be the last.”

“Not like this,” Jennings muttered.

Miller didn’t argue.

Instead, he knelt down beside him.

“You planning on quitting?”

Jennings shook his head. “No, Chief.”

“Good. Because we’re going to fix you.”

“Why?” Jennings whispered.

Miller’s voice softened. “Because that’s what the Navy does. We break people down and build them back up. And because some men—men like Stanley Morton—believe every kid deserves a second chance.”

Jennings swallowed hard.

He wasn’t sure he deserved one.

But he was determined to earn it.

It was late afternoon the following week when Jennings finally crossed paths with Stanley again.

Jennings had been assigned to scrub the grout lines of the older barracks—a task that felt like penance carved into stone.

Stanley rolled his mop bucket into the doorway and paused.

Jennings froze.

Their eyes met.

A long silence followed.

Jennings stood, his knees popping, his face flushed with shame.

“Mr. Morton,” he said quietly. “Sir… I—I don’t know how to—”

Stanley raised a hand gently, stopping him.

He looked around the room, at the half-cleaned tiles, the bucket of dirty water, the worn brush in Jennings’s hand.

Then he nodded.

“You’re doing good work.”

Jennings blinked. “Sir?”

Stanley pointed with his chin to the corner.

“You missed a spot.”

Not a taunt.

Not mockery.

Just truth.

Just guidance.

Jennings stared at him for a moment—really stared—and something inside him cracked open. Not pain. Not humiliation.

Humility.

He knelt back down and resumed scrubbing.

Stanley dipped his mop.

For a moment, the two of them worked side by side—quietly, respectfully, simply.

Two men who had walked very different roads, now standing on the same tile.

And for Stanley Morton—

It was enough.

Part III 

For a few days, life on Naval Base Port Sterling moved in a strange half-whisper. The kind that settles over a community after something unbelievable happens. Sailors still talked about it—but quietly, like the event had transformed from gossip fodder into lore overnight.

A call sign whispered in the halls.
A salute given to a janitor.
A legend walking with a mop.

No one knew what to make of it.

Except the man at the center of it.

To Stanley Morton, the attention felt like a spotlight he had never asked for—and never wanted.

But life didn’t ask for preferences. It just happened.

And sometimes, the past rose up whether you opened the door or not.

An Unexpected Knock

It was late evening when Stanley shuffled into the tiny industrial supply closet tucked near the mess deck. He checked inventory every night before locking up—paper towels, degreaser, cleaning solution, mop heads, bleach tablets. He was meticulous. Always had been.

He finished writing the last line on the clipboard and turned toward the door.

Before he could reach it, a sharp knock echoed on the metal frame.

Stanley frowned. Almost no one ever came here.

“Yeah?” he called with a crackled voice.

The door opened just enough for Chief Petty Officer Miller to poke his head in.

He didn’t enter fully—almost as if stepping inside would violate some boundary. Stanley wasn’t sure whether to find that polite or annoying.

“Evening, Mr. Morton,” Miller said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You are bothering me,” Stanley answered simply. “But you can keep talking.”

Miller chuckled, entering just far enough to let the door close behind him. “I just wanted to check in. Make sure all that mess last week didn’t get under your skin.”

Stanley shrugged. “It got under his.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Miller leaned against a shelf, arms crossed.

“You handled it… better than most,” he said carefully.

Stanley raised an eyebrow. “Most people don’t have to handle anything. They just react.”

Miller studied him. “Is that why you didn’t react?”

Stanley gave him a look that could have sliced a rivet.

“I reacted,” he said quietly. “Just not the way you think.”

Miller swallowed. “Can I ask something personal?”

“You just did.”

Miller suppressed a smile. “Fair. But I mean… can I ask another?”

“Depends if I want to answer.”

“Why are you still here?” Miller asked. “A man with your record could have retired a hero forty years ago. Lived anywhere. Done anything.”

Stanley didn’t speak for several seconds.

His eyes drifted to the mop leaning in the corner.

“You ever heard a hallway scream?” he finally asked.

Miller blinked. “Sir?”

Stanley’s voice softened. “You ever walk down a corridor so quiet it sounds loud? Where every echo feels like a ghost? Where the air tastes like metal and old memories?”

Miller said nothing.

Stanley continued.

“People think war sticks to your skin,” he murmured. “But it sticks in your ears. In your bones. In the quiet moments.”

He looked at Miller.

“And I came back to a country that had gotten very loud.”

Miller nodded slowly. Not fully understanding—but understanding enough.

“So I found a quiet job,” Stanley said. “In a quiet place. With rules. Structure. Routine.”

He tapped his temple lightly.

“Quiet helps.”

Miller let the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward. It was respectful.

Finally, he straightened.

“Well… thank you for telling me,” he said. “If you ever need anything—”

“I’ll ask,” Stanley said, cutting him off.

And that was that.

Miller left.

Stanley locked the closet.

And the base lights dimmed for the night.

The Ripple Effects

The next morning, the base commander’s directive landed in every inbox.

SUBJECT: Heritage & Conduct Training Initiative

Effective immediately, all personnel are required to attend a mandatory course on Naval history, respect, and the contributions of veterans across all job classifications.

Unofficially, sailors referred to it as:

THE DRAGON SIX PROTOCOL

The name stuck instantly.

Some found it inspiring.

Some found it unnecessarily dramatic.

Some found it terrifying.

But no one ignored it.

Even the base newspaper ran a small, unofficial column the next week titled:

THE JANITOR WHO STOOD LIKE A MOUNTAIN

No names.
No details.
But everyone knew.

And Stanley absolutely hated it.

Three days later, a message arrived from the Office of Admiral Thorne—Commander of the 7th Fleet.

The message contained only four words:

“Bring him to me.”

The base commander paled when he read it.

Fleet Master Chief Harris looked like someone had told him ghosts were real.

They both knew what it meant.

They both dreaded it.

Because bringing Stanley Morton anywhere voluntarily required convincing a mountain to move.

The next morning, Admiral Thorne arrived on base via helicopter—Rotor Squadron One landing on the tarmac with its usual flourish. A cluster of officers assembled with perfect posture as the admiral descended the ramp.

Tall. Weathered. Eyes sharp as broken glass.

The kind of man who carried entire fleets in his shoulders.

When he spoke, every conversation in a fifty-yard radius stopped.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Captain Vance cleared his throat. “Mr. Morton… is working his usual shift, sir.”

“Working?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thorne stared at him. “And I assume you haven’t told him I’m here.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

The admiral walked across the base with deliberate steps until he reached the long corridor outside the CIC.

There, at the far end—

Stanley pushed his mop in quiet arcs, humming an off-key tune.

He didn’t look up until the admiral was ten feet away.

“Mr. Morton,” Admiral Thorne said.

Stanley sighed. Loudly.

“You’re blocking my bucket,” he said flatly.

The admiral blinked once. Then—shockingly—he smiled.

“Still the same, I see.”

“Nope,” Stanley replied. “Older.”

The admiral shifted his weight. “Walk with me.”

“Nope.”

Thorne gave him a very patient look. “Stanley.”

“Fine,” Stanley grumbled. “But I’m not putting the mop down. It’s expensive.”

“It’s government property.”

“So is the paint on the floor,” Stanley said, “and I’m the one keeping it clean.”

The admiral chuckled despite himself.

The two men walked in silence for several moments.

It was an odd sight.

One of the most powerful men in the U.S. Navy walking beside a janitor wielding a mop like a staff.

A few sailors stopped to stare—until the admiral glared at them, sending them scrambling away like startled deer.

Finally, Thorne exhaled.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Nope,” Stanley answered.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Wasn’t lying. Just don’t care.”

The admiral rubbed his forehead. “Stanley, for God’s sake—”

“I told you years ago,” Stanley cut in. “Don’t call me by that name unless you’re yelling at me under mortar fire.”

Thorne looked down.

There was a sadness there. A deep, worn sadness.

“You were the best operative I ever commanded.”

“Congratulations,” Stanley said dryly. “You’re the only one who remembers that.”

“That’s not true.”

Stanley’s jaw tightened.

The admiral lowered his voice.

“You disappear, you mop floors for decades, and you think I didn’t know?” Thorne asked. “You think I didn’t keep tabs on you? You think I didn’t read every monthly status report from the civilian contractor division?”

Stanley stopped walking.

The admiral stopped too.

“You’ve been watching me?” Stanley demanded.

Thorne nodded. “I’ve been making sure you were safe.”

A long moment passed.

Stanley exhaled through his nose.

“Why?”

The admiral’s voice softened.

“Because Dragon Six saved my life.”

Stanley’s eyes flickered.

Then dimmed.

“That was a long time ago,” he muttered.

“Everything lasting is,” Thorne replied.

The two men stood quietly.

The admiral took a breath.

“There’s a piece of business that needs your attention.”

“No,” Stanley said immediately.

“You don’t know what it is.”

“I don’t need to know. The answer’s no.”

The admiral looked tired. Defeated. But not surprised.

“Fine,” he said. “Then I came to say thank you.”

Stanley blinked.

Thorne straightened his uniform, cleared his throat, and delivered the sharpest salute the corridor had seen since the captain’s one a week earlier.

It echoed.

It meant something.

Stanley didn’t return it.

He simply nodded.

That was enough.

The admiral lowered his salute and said quietly:

“Take care of yourself, old friend.”

And then he walked away.

Leaving Stanley alone with his mop—and a thousand unspoken memories pressing at the edges of his mind.

Later that afternoon, Seaman Apprentice Cade Jennings sat behind the barracks alone, staring at the dirt like it had personally wronged him.

He had been scrubbing decks and cleaning latrines for five days straight. His fingers were cracked. His knees hurt. His back felt like someone had replaced his spine with a rusty pipe.

If this was meant to break him—it was working.

He heard footsteps behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Chief,” Jennings muttered.

Chief Miller sat beside him anyway.

“Good thing I’m not here to babysit.”

Jennings stared ahead. “You here to lecture me?”

“Nope.”

“Punish me?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

Miller sighed. “I’m here to see if you’re quitting.”

Jennings clenched his jaw.

“I’m not quitting.”

“Good.”

Silence.

Then Jennings said quietly:

“Chief… did you know who he was? Before all this?”

Miller shook his head. “Not really. Heard rumors. Didn’t believe them.”

Jennings let out a breath. “I just… I just thought he was some old guy.”

“You were half-right,” Miller replied. “He is old.”

Jennings didn’t laugh.

Miller continued.

“But men like him—” he shook his head, “—they’re not easy to spot. They don’t brag. They don’t tell stories. They don’t make noise.”

Jennings said nothing.

Miller looked at him.

“Let me ask you something, Jennings.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you see in him? Before you knew the truth?”

Jennings hesitated.

He expected to feel shame. He expected anger. But instead—

He felt something else.

Confusion.

“I saw… I don’t know. Someone quiet. Someone who didn’t fight back. Someone who—”

He swallowed.

“Someone who didn’t look dangerous.”

Miller nodded slowly. “That’s exactly why he is.”

Jennings looked at him.

“Great warriors,” Miller said with a tired smile, “don’t walk around trying to prove anything. They don’t pretend. They don’t brag. They just… exist.”

Jennings ran a hand through his hair. “Chief, I made a fool of myself.”

“No,” Miller corrected. “You made a sailor of yourself. Now you get to make a good one.”

Jennings nodded.

For the first time since the incident—

He believed he could.

That night, in the quiet of his small apartment, Stanley sat at his tiny kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee.

Nothing stirred.

But inside him—

A memory pushed its way to the surface.

Uninvited.

Unstoppable.

Vietnam — 1969

The jungle was on fire.

Smoke rose from the trees like black ghosts. The ground shook from mortar impacts. Dragons roared overhead—Huey blades chopping the humid air into a frenzy.

A young pilot lay beside him, bleeding badly from a shrapnel wound in his abdomen.

“Dragon Six,” the pilot rasped. “You… you shouldn’t have come back.”

Stanley—then thirty-one and carved from muscle and stone—pressed a bandage to the man’s wound.

“Not in the mood for lectures,” he growled.

“There were… too many of them,” the pilot whispered. “You and your team—you weren’t supposed to—”

“Save you?” Stanley snapped. “That’s exactly what we do.”

The pilot coughed, blood spotting his lips.

“Take this,” he murmured, reaching into his vest.

He pressed a small object into Stanley’s hand.

A hand-carved dragon. Primitive. Lightweight. Beautiful.

“Call sign fits you,” the pilot wheezed. “Figured… you ought to have one.”

Stanley stared at it for a long moment.

Then nodded once.

The pilot smiled weakly.

“Get me home, Dragon Six.”

Stanley did.

At any cost.

Present Day

Stanley blinked.

The memory faded.

He looked down at the tiny metal pin on his collar.

He touched it gently.

Then he whispered:

“I got you home.”

The base didn’t calm down.

If anything—

The legend grew.

More officers approached Stanley with nods. A few chiefs tried to talk to him. Young sailors whispered his name like it belonged in a ballad.

Stanley hated every second of it.

He wanted quiet.

But the past wasn’t done with him yet.

And the storm was far from over.

Part IV 

The base returned to its routine schedule on paper, but in practice, nothing felt the same. It wasn’t that operations slowed. Radar towers still hummed. Routine alerts still pinged through CIC. Patrol boats still left the docks at dawn. Flights still roared off the runway like steel thunderbirds.

It was that people were different.

Where before sailors walked briskly past without a glance, now their eyes lingered a little longer on the small-framed older man pushing a mop down the polished corridor.

Where before they ignored his presence entirely, now some straightened their collars or gave a stiff nod.

Where before they only saw a janitor—

Now they saw something they didn’t quite understand.

Some called him “sir.”
Some slipped him “thank yous.”
Some avoided his eyes because they didn’t know what to do with their own guilt.

And Stanley Morton… hated all of it.

Not because he disliked respect.
Not because he was shy.

But because it was a reminder. And reminders brought memories.
And memories dragged ghosts behind them.

Ghosts he’d spent a lifetime trying to lay to rest.

Cade Jennings had become the punchline of the base—quietly, subtly, behind closed doors.

No one mocked him publicly. That had been shut down hard by the chain of command.
But sailors didn’t forget easily. And humiliation, once carved into the ship’s gossip network, spread like wildfire.

He was the guy who grabbed a living legend.
The guy who almost manhandled a Medal of Honor recipient.
The guy who mistook a dragon for a housefly.

And that was a reputation no amount of deck scrubbing could wash off.

Even his friends—Viper and Hammer—had distanced themselves. Not out of cruelty, but because they didn’t know how to handle the fallout. They’d been there. They’d snickered too. But Jennings had taken the brunt of the punishment.

So now Jennings worked alone.

Always alone.

Chief Miller watched him from a distance, saw the slump in the kid’s shoulders as he hauled a bucket across the courtyard, saw the bruises on his palms from rough cleaning tools, saw the way he forced himself not to complain.

One afternoon, Miller walked out behind the barracks and found Jennings sitting on a concrete step, arms draped over his knees, staring at the wet mess mop like he wished it would dissolve into dust.

“Rough day?” Miller asked.

Jennings didn’t answer. He took a slow breath through his nose.

“Chief,” he said after a moment. “Is there a way… to come back from something like this?”

Miller sat down beside him.

“You ever see a ship take a torpedo?” he asked.

Jennings blinked. “Uh… not in person.”

“Well,” Miller said, “the damage looks permanent. Gaping hole in the hull. Fires. Flooding. You’d swear she’s going down.”

Jennings nodded.

“But if she gets the right repairs… gets the right crew… gets the time she needs… she sails again.”

Jennings didn’t speak.

Miller gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re not sunk, kid. You just got hit where it hurts. Now you gotta rebuild.”

Jennings swallowed. “And Mr. Morton?”

“What about him?”

“Can I ever make that right?”

Miller sighed. “That’s something only one person can answer. And I can’t speak for him.”

Jennings nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor.

“But,” Miller added, standing up, “he doesn’t hate you.”

Jennings looked up sharply. “What? How do you know?”

“Because,” Miller said with a faint smile, “if he did, you wouldn’t be mopping barracks. You’d be facing a court-martial.”

Jennings blinked.

“Now get moving,” Miller said. “You’ve got half a hallway left before I can sign off your shift.”

Jennings nodded and rose to his feet.

Somewhere in all that humiliation, something small and precious had begun sprouting inside him.

Humility.
Respect.
Growth.

Seeds planted by a mistake so massive it had nearly ended his career.

But seeds nonetheless.

The first Dragon Six training session happened two days later.

No formal classroom. No slideshow. No podium.

Just sailors—dozens of them—gathered in the large briefing auditorium, whispering as they filed in. Some were curious. Some were bored. Some wanted to understand the story that had taken over the base like a ghost rumor.

When the murmuring finally died, the lights dimmed slightly.

Captain Vance stepped onto the small stage.

No uniform modifications. No ceremony.

Just authority wrapped in quiet.

“I won’t repeat the full story,” he said, voice firm. “Many of you know it. Many of you think you know it. Some of you only heard the dramatic version.”

He paused.

“This isn’t about dramatics.”

The room was dead silent.

“This is about remembering who we stand next to. Every single day.”

He glanced toward the front row.

Chief Miller sat there, arms crossed, listening intently. Jennings sat five seats away, stiff and uncomfortable in his too-new demotion uniform.

“When you see a junior sailor,” Vance continued, “you see someone learning. When you see a chief, you see leadership. When you see an officer, you see responsibility.”

He took a slow breath.

“But when you see a civilian on this base—any civilian, whether they carry tools, mop floors, fix wires, or haul supplies—you see someone who chose to serve. Maybe not in uniform. But serve nonetheless.”

He let the silence stretch.

“And sometimes,” Vance said softly, “you are standing next to a story much bigger than you will ever know.”

Several sailors shifted uncomfortably.

Jennings stared at the floor.

Vance’s eyes swept the room.

“If we lose respect,” he said, “we lose everything.”

Then he stepped back.

Chief Miller took the stage next. He didn’t use a microphone. He didn’t need one.

“I’m only going to say one thing,” he said. “The quietest men I ever met were the ones who had the loudest reasons not to be.”

He walked offstage.

No applause.

Not needed.

The room simply absorbed the truth like the steel hull of a ship absorbing waves.

Stanley at the Edge of the Noise

While the auditorium buzzed, Stanley mopped the mess deck.

He hadn’t been invited to the Dragon Six Protocol sessions.

He had specifically told Captain Vance that if he set foot in one, he would resign immediately.

“Respect isn’t taught in a classroom,” he had said. “It’s taught by example.”

Vance hadn’t argued.

So Stanley did what Stanley always did.

He worked.

He avoided crowds.
He avoided admiration.
He avoided anything that smelled like attention.

He was a man who treasured invisibility.

But invisibility wasn’t returning anytime soon.

Case in point—

“Mr. Morton?”

Stanley froze mid-swipe.

He turned his head slowly.

Jennings stood there, nervous, sweaty, awkward, holding his cap in both hands like it was a fragile heirloom.

“What?” Stanley asked, tone neutral.

Jennings swallowed. “I… I don’t want to bother you.”

“You are.”

Jennings nodded. “Yes, sir. I mean—yes. Sorry.”

Stanley stared at him.

The kid looked like a puppy that had been yelled at by every member of the family. Twice. With extra disappointment.

Jennings took a breath.

“I know you don’t owe me anything,” he began. “And I know what I did was… well, it was beyond wrong.”

Stanley said nothing.

“I didn’t know who you were,” Jennings continued.

Stanley’s eyes sharpened. “And you think that matters?”

Jennings blinked. “Sir?”

Stanley stepped forward, leaning on the mop like a cane.

“If I had been nobody,” Stanley said slowly, “if all I ever did was clean floors—would it have been okay?”

Jennings froze.

“N-no,” he stammered. “Of course not.”

Stanley tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the mop handle.

“Good. Then don’t apologize because of who I was. Apologize because of who you were.”

Jennings’s throat clicked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Stanley nodded once. “Accepted.”

Jennings stared at him in shock. “Just like that?”

“What’d you expect? A parade?” Stanley grunted. “Get back to work. You’re not done with that hallway.”

Jennings managed a small smile.

“Yes, sir.”

As the young sailor hurried away, Stanley watched him go.

And for the first time in years—

He felt something warm.

Like pride.

Small. Faint. But real.

Three days later, Admiral Thorne’s helicopter returned.

Nobody knew why.

Nobody expected it.

Captain Vance practically sprinted to the landing pad, Fleet Master Chief Harris beside him. They hadn’t been told of any inspection. No scheduled briefings. No operational emergencies.

The admiral stepped onto the tarmac with a look that suggested he hadn’t slept much.

“Where is he?” Thorne asked immediately.

Vance swallowed. “Mopping the hangar bay, sir.”

The admiral nodded once.

“Then we go to him.”

Vance and Harris exchanged looks.

They followed.

Stanley was halfway through cleaning the concrete floor of Hangar Bay Two when the large door opened.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Didn’t pause.

He recognized the footsteps without looking.

Only one man walked like he was carrying a nation behind him.

“Stanley,” Admiral Thorne said.

“You again,” Stanley muttered.

The admiral stepped forward.

He wasn’t alone.

Two other officers flanked him—a Commander and a Lieutenant Colonel from the intelligence wing.

Stanley glared.

“No,” he said immediately. “Whatever this is—no.”

Thorne exhaled. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“I know trouble when it knocks,” Stanley growled. “And you’re pounding on the door.”

“We need a briefing,” the Commander said.

Stanley cut him off. “Not my job.”

“Your name came up,” the Lieutenant Colonel added.

Stanley’s expression went cold as arctic stone.

“My name,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Thorne said gently. “Old files resurfaced. New intel connected some dots. Something from your past.”

Stanley gripped the mop handle so tight the old wood creaked.

“Dragon’s Tooth,” Thorne said softly. “It’s come up again.”

Silence.

Cold. Still. Heavy.

Stanley slowly set the mop aside.

Not because he was agreeing.

But because he needed both hands to steady the tremble in his fingers.

“What did you say?” he asked quietly.

Thorne didn’t meet his eyes. “A fragment of the operation. A name associated with your final tour. Someone you extracted.”

“That mission is classified beyond classified,” Stanley said. “Nobody should even know the name Dragon’s Tooth exists.”

“I know,” Thorne replied.

“Then why are you standing here?”

The admiral took a breath.

“Because someone else does, too.”

Stanley’s jaw flexed.

Something dark flickered in his eyes.

Anger.

Fear.

Memory.

“Stanley,” the admiral said softly, “we’re not asking you to go back out there. God knows you’ve done enough. We just need a briefing. Context. Anything you can remember.”

Stanley closed his eyes.

Images fired through his mind.

Mud.
Rain.
A burning LZ.
Radio static.
Screams.
The pilot pressing a dragon carving into his hand.

He opened his eyes.

“No,” he said.

Thorne nodded slowly. He had expected this.

But he didn’t retreat.

Instead, he stepped closer.

“Stanley,” he said, voice quiet, “lives may depend on this.”

Stanley’s jaw tightened into a granite line.

He didn’t answer.

He simply picked up the mop and walked away.

And the admiral let him go.

For now.

The Night Shift

That night, Stanley didn’t sleep.

He sat at the table again, coffee turning cold, the tiny dragon pin catching the dim light of the single lamp.

His mind raced.

Dragon’s Tooth.
Dragon Six.
The mission he had buried deeper than the jungles that swallowed half of Southeast Asia.

Things no one should remember.
Things no one should uncover.
Things he wished he himself could forget.

He rubbed his temples.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

The knock came at 2 a.m.

Three taps.

Quiet.

He knew the pattern instantly.

Only one person used it.

Stanley opened the door.

And saw Jennings.

Standing awkwardly in the hallway, still wearing his work uniform, mop in hand.

“Jennings,” Stanley said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s two in the damn morning.”

Jennings swallowed. “Chief Miller says you always work the night rotation on Thursdays.”

Stanley blinked. “And?”

“I… I wanted to make sure you weren’t doing it alone.”

Stanley stared at him.

Jennings didn’t flinch.

“I know you don’t want help,” Jennings said quickly. “And I know you don’t need it. But I figured… maybe tonight… you wouldn’t mind some company.”

Stanley looked at him for a long time.

A very long time.

Then he stepped back and opened the door.

Jennings entered.

They didn’t talk much.

They didn’t need to.

They just cleaned.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Two men who needed the work for very different reasons.

One to make amends.
One to quiet the ghosts.

And deep down—

Stanley knew the ghosts weren’t done.

Not yet.

PART V

The night shift on Naval Base Port Sterling was a strange kind of quiet—where the hum of distant generators felt almost like breathing, and the long corridors stretched like endless silver tunnels. It was during these hours, when the world felt emptied of everything except fluorescent lights and tired footsteps, that Stanley Morton found the most peace.

Jennings discovered the same thing.

Over the following week, the young sailor—demoted, humbled, bruised but not broken—showed up every night for voluntary cleaning duty. No orders. No oversight. Just a quiet desire to be better than he had been.

Stanley never invited him.

Stanley never thanked him.

But he always left the door unlocked.

Jennings worked beside him each night, matching his pace, learning how to mop properly—how to move in smooth arcs, not frantic scrubbing. How to let the tools do the work. How to breathe in a rhythm that matched the swish of the mop head over tile.

There were no lectures.

No forgiveness speeches.

Just work.

And in the quiet, something unspoken formed between them.

A truce.
A lesson.
A beginning.

But the world rarely lets beginnings happen without forcing an ending first.

Five days after the late-night visit in the hangar bay, Admiral Thorne returned.

But this time—

He didn’t arrive by helicopter.

He arrived in person through the front gate, riding in an unmarked black sedan, escorted by a pair of intelligence officers whose uniforms bore no insignia and whose expressions were carved from stone.

They weren’t here for ceremony.

They weren’t here for respect.

They were here for business.

The kind of business the normal Navy didn’t even know existed.

The base commander felt the shift before anyone explained it.
He could see it in the Admiral’s gait.
See it in the sealed envelopes he carried.
See it in the way the intelligence officers scanned every corner.

Something dangerous was in play.

Something old.

Something Stanley had hoped was buried.

Thorne summoned Vance, Harris, Miller, and two analysts into the CIC briefing room.

Then he locked the door.

What he revealed made the room fall silent.

A classified satellite intercept.
A decrypted radio fragment.
A name.

A name that wasn’t supposed to exist.
A name connected to a mission that official records insisted had never happened.
A name tied to the darkest part of Operation Dragon’s Tooth.

Thorne placed a photo on the table.

Black and white.
Grainy.
Time-worn.

The face was hard to make out, but the features were unmistakable.

Chief Miller exhaled slowly. “Sir… is that—”

“Yes,” the admiral said grimly. “Colonel Tranh.”

Captain Vance stiffened.

Fleet Master Chief Harris swore under his breath.

Jennings, who had been cleaning outside the room, heard none of this. But he felt something shift in the air—a weight, like the whole building had inhaled sharply and forgotten how to exhale.

Thorne continued.

“Colonel Tranh was the deputy commander of the PAVN counter-intelligence task force that ambushed Dragon’s Tooth on their final extraction mission. According to the recovered fragment, someone claiming to be Tranh has resurfaced.”

The room went cold.

The admiral’s voice hardened.

“Gentlemen, the only American alive who ever saw him up close—who knew what happened on that ridge—who knows the truth of what Dragon’s Tooth encountered…”

He slipped another folder onto the table.

“…is the man mopping your hallways.”

When they approached him that afternoon—Thorne, Vance, Harris, Miller—all stepping into the hallway like a silent phalanx—Stanley stopped pushing his mop.

Not from fear.

Not from surprise.

But from recognition.

He looked at the admiral.

“You didn’t let it go,” he said.

Thorne’s jaw flexed. “We can’t.”

“You promised me it was over,” Stanley whispered.

Harris stepped forward. “Mr. Morton—”

“I’m not discussing this,” Stanley snapped.

The force of his voice startled all of them.

It was sharper than anything they had heard from him before.
It held command.
It held authority.
It held a shadow of the man he had once been.

Thorne dismissed the others with a gesture.

Then he stood alone with Stanley.

Just like years ago—in jungles dripping with rain and death.

“Stanley,” he said softly, “we didn’t dig this up. Someone else did.”

Stanley turned away, gripping the mop so hard the old wood groaned.

“What do you want from me?” he whispered.

Thorne didn’t approach.

“We want the truth.”

“Truth is a dangerous thing,” Stanley muttered.

“Truth saves lives.”

Stanley closed his eyes. “Sometimes it destroys them.”

Thorne’s voice softened even further.

“Stanley… someone is targeting men connected to classified SOG operations. A retired officer in San Diego died last month. Another disappeared in Virginia. We think whoever resurfaced is trying to erase witnesses from that era.”

Stanley froze.

“The men from Dragon’s Tooth?” he whispered.

Thorne nodded.

“We believe you’re next on the list.”

Silence.

Pure. Heavy. Crushing.

Stanley drew a long breath.

Then he turned—and for the first time since the admiral arrived weeks ago, Stanley Morton looked scared.

Real fear.

A fear no one else understood.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “I’m not ready.”

Thorne shook his head. “None of us are.”

“Admiral—please.”

Thorne straightened.

“When the intelligence team meets tonight, I need you in that room. Not to fight. Not to go back into the field. Just to talk. To help us understand who we’re dealing with.”

Stanley opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then nodded.

“…fine.”

Thorne let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The meeting was set for 2100 hours.

And none of them realized that Jennings had overheard enough to know something serious—very serious—was happening.

2100 Hours — The Dragon’s Last Hunt

The briefing room smelled faintly of old paper, cold metal, and tension.

Thorne sat at the head of the table.
Vance beside him.
Harris across.
Three intelligence officers, all armed.
Chief Miller, silent but alert.
Jennings stood guard near the door—assigned by chance, not by design.

And in the center seat…

Stanley Morton.

Looking suddenly older than his years.

But his eyes were sharp.

Alive.

Awake.

Like Dragon Six had opened one eye again.

Thorne began.

“We’ve confirmed it. Colonel Tranh was spotted at a safehouse near Da Nang last month. He escaped before local forces arrived.”

Stanley rubbed his temples. “He should’ve died on that ridge. We left him for dead.”

“You sure he didn’t?” Harris asked.

Stanley’s jaw tightened. “Positive.”

One of the intel officers clicked a remote.

A grainy image appeared on the projection screen.

A man.
Weathered.
Older.
But unmistakable.

Jennings felt the hairs on his arms rise.

This wasn’t the kind of danger the Navy was trained to handle.

This was ghost danger.

Stanley leaned forward.

“That’s him,” he whispered. “Colonel Tranh.”

“And he’s looking for you,” Thorne said quietly.

Stanley stared at the table.

Long enough that the room felt like it might implode.

Finally, he spoke.

“He’s after the list.”

“What list?” Vance asked.

Stanley swallowed.

“The men I saved. The pilots. The recon team members. The locals who helped us. Everyone associated with Dragon’s Tooth. He wants them erased.”

Jennings felt goosebumps crawl up his spine.

Stanley’s eyes glistened.

“He wants revenge for what we did to his unit. He wants every man I ever pulled out of those jungles.”

Harris leaned forward. “Can he find them?”

Stanley nodded slowly.

“If he finds me… yes.”

The room went still.

Jennings whispered under his breath:

“Oh God.”

Everyone heard it.

But no one scolded him.

Because they all felt the same fear.

“Stanley,” the admiral said softly, “we need the list. We need to protect them.”

Stanley shook his head. “I don’t have it.”

“Then who does?” Miller asked.

Stanley hesitated.

A long, painful hesitation.

Then:

“A man named Bishop. Former SOG radio operator. Lives off the grid. Montana. Last I heard.”

Thorne nodded. “We’ll contact him.”

Stanley slammed his palm on the table.

“No.”

Everyone jumped.

Stanley stood abruptly, a fire burning in his eyes.

“If you send men in uniforms, you’ll expose him. And he’ll run. Or get killed.”

Thorne exhaled. “Then what do you suggest?”

Stanley closed his eyes.

When he opened them—

There was nothing of the janitor left.

Only Dragon Six.

“I’ll go.”

The room erupted in protests.

“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re retired.”
“You’re in danger.”
“You’re not fit for field missions.”

Stanley slammed his hand down again.

“IT’S MY MISSION!”

Silence.

Total. Devastating. Silence.

Thorne stared at him for a long moment.

Then sat back.

“Alright.”

Vance gaped. “Admiral—”

“Alright,” Thorne repeated. “With conditions.”

He turned to Stanley.

“You don’t go alone.”

Stanley looked insulted. “I work alone.”

“You used to,” Thorne said. “Not anymore.”

Stanley glared. “I don’t need a team.”

“You’ll have one anyway.”

“Who?”

Thorne pointed.

At the last person Stanley expected.

At the man standing by the door.

Seaman Apprentice Cade Jennings.

Jennings froze.

Mouth parted.

Eyes wide.

“Me?” he whispered.

Stanley sputtered. “Absolutely not. He’s a kid. He’s loud. He’s—”

“Learning,” Thorne said.

“He’s reckless,” Stanley snapped.

“He listens to you,” Thorne answered.

Stanley blinked.

Jennings swallowed hard.

“I won’t fail you,” he whispered.

Stanley sighed deeply. He looked toward the ceiling, muttering something that sounded like a prayer mixed with a curse.

Then he nodded.

“One mission,” Thorne said. “Find Bishop. Get the list. Bring it home. No combat. No contact. No engagement.”

Stanley stood, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t done in decades.

Jennings straightened, adrenaline rushing through him.

Thorne extended his hand.

Stanley shook it.

Then the admiral whispered:

“Welcome back, Dragon Six.”

The Next Morning

They left at dawn.

No helicopter.
No convoy.
No attention.

Just two men walking quietly across the lot.

Jennings carried the pack.
Stanley carried a folded map tucked into his jacket pocket.

As they passed the hangar bay, Chief Miller appeared.

“Jennings!” he called.

Jennings turned.

Miller walked up, gripping his shoulder.

“When you get back,” he said, voice low, “you and I are gonna sit down and figure out what kind of sailor you want to be.”

Jennings nodded.

“Yes, Chief.”

Miller looked at Stanley.

“Bring him home.”

Stanley gave him a small nod.

Then turned and kept walking.

The gate opened.

Two silhouettes stepped beyond the fence line.

One tall.
One small.
One seasoned.
One learning.

A veteran who had buried his past.
And a young man searching for his future.

They walked until the base disappeared behind them.

The world was quiet.

Stanley liked it that way.

Jennings walked at his side.

He liked that too.

A few minutes later, Jennings finally spoke.

“Mr. Morton?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?”

Stanley didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t look at him.

He just kept walking.

Finally, he muttered:

“Because you needed a mission.”

Jennings blinked. “A mission?”

Stanley nodded.

“And so did I.”

They walked on.

Into the morning sun.

Into unfinished business.

Into danger.

Into purpose.

Two men—one forged in fire, one learning to withstand it—stepping toward the last echoes of a war that refused to stay buried.

And whatever waited for them in Montana…

They would face it together.

Because some battles don’t end on the field.

Some battles end in hallways, under fluorescent lights, with a mop and a mistake.

And sometimes—

A mistake leads to redemption.

Sometimes a kid becomes a man.

Sometimes a janitor becomes a hero again.

And sometimes…

A dragon wakes one last time.

THE END