The radio screamed. It was a raw, tearing sound that ripped the quiet morning apart. “CONTACT. CONTACT. WE ARE PINNED.” The command tent went still. Coffee cups stopped halfway to mouths. The tactical map, once a clean grid of green icons, bled red. 540 men, a whole battalion, had walked into a meat grinder. Colonel Miller stared at the screen, his face a mask of concrete. The men who laughed an hour ago were silent now. They looked at the map, then at each other. They were looking for an answer

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