The wind moved through the grass in long, slow waves. From the ridge, a pair of startled larks climbed, argued, and dropped again. Peaceful, if you didn't know better.

Below, the base lay open in the scope's crosshairs — gray hangars, a parade square, one soldier smoking against a jeep. Nothing you hadn't watched through this same lens for four days running now.

The wind rustled the grass behind you.

Then a boot pressed down between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat to the hillside. The rustling hadn't been wind.