Nathan flinched. The glass in his hand trembled slightly.
But the sound of her laughter was still ringing in my ears. The scar on my shoulder throbbed. The thirty-six hours of sleepless vigilance weighed on my soul.
And then she said it. The one word she should have never, ever used. “Honestly,” Marjorie sighed, setting her glass down, “it’s good you have a safe job, Collins.
A ‘person other than grunt.’”
The room went dead silent. POG wasn’t just an acronym. In the military, coming from a civilian who had never served a day in her life, it was a slur.
“Mom,” he warned, his voice dark. “What?” Marjorie blinked, innocent and cruel. “It’s true, isn’t it?
That was it. The dam broke.
The word hung in the air, toxic and heavy. POG. For civilians, it’s just an acronym.
For service members, it’s a dividing line. But the way Marjorie said it—with that sneer, that casual, wine-drunk arrogance—turned it into a weapon. “A POG,” she repeated, savoring the taste of it.
She took another sip of her Cabernet, her eyes glassy but focused intently on tearing me down. “I have to be honest with you because I’m family, and family tells the truth.
It’s embarrassing. I look at your father’s picture on the mantle—a real soldier—and then I look at you. He would be ashamed.
My blood ran cold. It wasn’t the heat of embarrassment anymore. It was the icy chill of absolute clarity.
“Marjorie,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Stop.”
“Why?” she laughed, gesturing with her fork. “Because the truth hurts?
You think putting on a uniform makes you special? It’s just dress-up, Collins. You’re playing dress-up to fool people into thinking you matter.
But we know. We know you’re just a glorified clerk hiding behind the government’s skirt.”
I turned my head slowly to look at my mother. She was sitting directly across from me, her shoulders hunched as if she were expecting a physical blow.
She heard every word. She heard her sister-in-law call her daughter a fraud, a disgrace, a stain on the family name. “Mom,” I said softly.
My mother didn’t look up. She busied herself with cutting a piece of turkey that was already cut. She took a sip of water.
She did everything except look me in the eye. She did everything except say, “That’s enough, Marjorie.”
The silence from her side of the table was louder than Marjorie’s insults. It was a deafening confirmation.
I was alone in this room. In this family. I had no allies.
My own mother would trade my dignity for a peaceful dinner and a continued invitation to the beach house. A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. The last tether of familial obligation snapped.
“Wow,” I breathed out. “Okay.”
I looked down at my hands. My right hand was gripping the silver dinner knife.
I squeezed it. My knuckles turned white. The metal dug into my palm, a grounding pain that kept me from flipping the table.
Across from me, the dynamic shifted. Nathan wasn’t laughing anymore. The smirk had vanished from his face.
He was staring at my hand, at the way I was gripping the knife. He was a SEAL. He had been trained to recognize threat indicators.
He knew that a grip like that didn’t come from a hurt feeling. It came from a suppressed lethal instinct. He looked up at my face.
I wasn’t looking at Marjorie anymore. I was staring at a spot on the wall behind her, my eyes unfocused but intense. My breathing had slowed.
My posture had shifted, shoulders squared, chin down. It wasn’t the posture of a beaten niece. It was the posture of an operator entering a killbox.
Nathan slowly, deliberately placed his wineglass on the table. Clunk. “Mom,” he said.
His voice was different now. The playful son was gone. This was the lieutenant commander speaking.
“Shut up.”
Marjorie blinked, stunned. “Excuse me, Nathan. Honey, don’t be rude.
I’m just telling her what she needs to hear for her own good.”
“I said, shut up,” Nathan barked. The command cracked like a whip across the dining room table. Marjorie recoiled, her mouth hanging open.
My mother finally looked up, her eyes wide with terror. Nathan ignored them both. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, invading my space.
He locked eyes with me. He was searching. He was looking past the gray suit, past the cousin-Collins façade, trying to find what he had just glimpsed in my grip on the knife.
He saw the scar tissue in my eyes, the kind you don’t get from paper cuts. He saw the thousand-yard stare that I had let slip for just a fraction of a second. “Collins,” Nathan said, his voice low, deadly serious.
“You’re not admin, are you?”
I didn’t answer. I kept my gaze steady, cold. “I’ve been watching you all night,” Nathan continued, his eyes narrowing.
“You cleared the room when you walked in. You checked the exits. You haven’t sat with your back to the door once.
And that grip…” He nodded at my hand, still strangling the knife. “That’s not how a clerk holds silverware.”
“Nathan, what are you talking about?” Marjorie sputtered, trying to regain control. “She’s just upset because I called her out.”
“Quiet.” Nathan slammed his hand on the table, rattling the fine china.
He didn’t break eye contact with me. “Drop the act, Collins,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
“You’re not a POG. You never were. I’ve seen that look before.
I’ve seen it in guys who come back from places that don’t exist on maps.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than a scream. “Don’t lie to me. Not here.
Not now.”
He took a breath, and then he asked the question that would shatter the charade forever. “What is your call sign?”
The question hung there. A call sign isn’t just a nickname.
It’s an identity. It’s who you are when the world is burning. It’s the name that pilots scream over the radio when they need air support.
It’s the name that enemies whisper in fear. If I answered him, there was no going back. If I answered him, the gray suit, the boring job, the failure of a niece—it all died right here on this table.
Marjorie looked confusingly between us. “Call sign? Like Top Gun?
What is this nonsense?”
Nathan ignored her. “Tell me, Collins. I need to know who I’m sitting across from.
Are you my cousin, the secretary? Or are you something else?”
I slowly unclenched my hand from the knife. The blood rushed back into my white knuckles.
I looked at Nathan. I saw a man who thought he was the alpha in the room. I saw a man who thought he knew what power looked like because he wore a trident on his chest.
He had no idea. I picked up my napkin and dabbed the corner of my mouth. The movement was slow, deliberate, elegant.
“You really want to know, Nathan?” I asked softly. “Yes,” he hissed. I lowered the napkin.
I looked him dead in the eye, and I let the mask fall completely. “Oracle 9.”
The dining room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room. My mother was holding her breath.
Marjorie was blinking, a confused smile plastered on her face, waiting for the punchline. Nathan was leaning forward, his blue eyes locked onto mine like laser sights. He was daring me.
He was calling my bluff. He expected me to say something administrative, something like “Echo Support” or “Logistics One.”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t break eye contact.
I let the silence stretch until it was almost painful. Then I opened my mouth and spoke the words that had never left a secure facility before. “Oracle 9.”
I said it softly.
No drama, no theatrics. Just a fact. For a split second, nothing happened.
Then—clatter. Nathan’s fork hit his plate. It wasn’t a drop.
It was a spasm. His hand had jerked as if he’d touched a live wire. The color drained from his face so fast it was terrifying.
One moment, he was the flushed, arrogant Navy SEAL. The next, he was gray, ash-white, like he’d seen a ghost. He stood up.
He didn’t just stand. He snapped to attention. His chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor, falling backward with a loud crash.
He didn’t even look at it. His back was ramrod straight, his chin tucked, his arms pinned to his sides. It was the involuntary muscle-memory reaction of a soldier finding himself in the presence of a god.
Marjorie jumped, clutching her pearls. “Nathan, what on earth—?”
“Oracle 9,” Nathan whispered. His voice was trembling.
Actual fear. “You’re—you’re the handler for Task Force Black. The Syrian operation.”
I picked up my wineglass and took a slow sip.
“Sit down, Lieutenant Commander.”
He didn’t sit. He couldn’t. “I—I didn’t know,” he stammered.
“I swear to God, Collins, I didn’t know. The chatter… The guys talk about Oracle 9 like it’s a myth. We thought… We thought you were a general or a committee.”
“Just me,” I said calmly.
“Just the cousin who files papers.”
Marjorie looked between us, her face twisting in annoyance. She hated being left out of the joke. She hated not being the center of attention.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she shrilled, slamming her hand on the table. “What is this? A video game?
Oracle 9? What is that, a new anti-aging cream? Stop playing soldier, Collins.
You’re scaring your mother.”
She let out a high, brittle laugh. “Look at him, Nathan. She’s got you jumping at shadows.
It’s probably just her email password.”
“Shut up, Mom.”
The scream tore from Nathan’s throat. It was primal. It was desperate.
Marjorie froze. She had never, in thirty-five years, heard her son raise his voice at her. Not once.
“Nathan,” she whimpered. Nathan turned to her, his eyes wild. He pointed a shaking finger at me.
“Do you have any idea who she is? Do you have any idea what you’ve been mocking all night?”
“She’s—she’s Collins,” Marjorie stammered. “She’s a secretary.”
“She is the highest-level intelligence asset in this hemisphere,” Nathan roared.
“She holds clearance levels that don’t even have names. Mom, listen to me. Oracle 9 authorizes kill-capture missions.
She directs drone strikes. She moves whole carrier groups like chess pieces.” Continue reading…
