THE MISSION
The sun rose steadily over the horizon, casting golden beams of light across the military barracks. Its rays danced off the metallic surfaces of armored vehicles, shimmering on the sweat-covered backs of the trainees who pounded the earth with tireless resolve. Whistles blew. Commands barked. Muscles burned.
It was morning training at its peak—a symphony of discipline and purpose.
Through the main gates rolled a dusty military jeep. The postman, known simply as P. Man among the soldiers, stepped out with a familiar grin on his face. Slung over one shoulder was his signature satchel, stuffed with documents, orders, and—more often than not—stories. He adjusted his beret, took in the scene, and began walking toward the administrative building, weaving through squads mid-drill.
"Go, boys!!" he shouted, clapping enthusiastically. "It pays to serve as a patriotic citizen! I'm rooting for you all!"
His voice was rich, spirited, the kind that inspired even the most exhausted soldiers to push a little harder. He was no ordinary postman—he was a friend, a motivator, and, for some, a brother in arms.
He passed a cluster of young officers and gave a casual salute before heading toward the inner quarters of the base. His destination: the senior officers' residence—more specifically, the apartment of Officer John Slow.
Now, Officer Slow was a man of paradox. His solutions to problems were often baffling on paper, yet they worked in the field like magic. He was gregarious, strategic, and infamously unpredictable. His relaxed demeanor stood in sharp contrast to the high-pressure world he operated in. Some called him lazy. Most called him brilliant.
The postman reached his door and, without hesitation, started banging.
"Officer John Slow!" he called. "Don't tell me you're still in bed. It's 6:34 a.m. sharp. You shouldn't be indoors at this hour!"
The knocking was relentless.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. At fifteen, the door creaked open.
Standing there in a loosely buttoned military shirt and no footwear was Officer John Slow, his hair unkempt, his face expressionless.
The postman didn't flinch. He stared back with raised brows.
"Do I need to remind you of basic social etiquette?" Officer Slow asked dryly, folding his arms.
"No," the postman shot back, stepping closer. "But I do need to remind you that you're a military leader. Your men are already sweating their guts out. And you're here, sleeping? Lost track of time, have we?"
Officer Slow blinked, then chuckled. There it was—the familiarity. The bond between two men who had once trained together, suffered together, and climbed the ranks together—though their paths had diverged with time.
"You really love getting under my skin, don't you, P. Man?" he said. "Careful now, I might ask the boys to make you their next training assignment."
The postman laughed. "Go ahead! If they can handle me, they'll be better for it. But let's not pretend—if anyone needs training, it's you. Now, enough small talk. I have a letter for you. Straight from the General."
Officer Slow raised a brow and stepped aside, allowing the postman in. The letter, sealed and marked urgent, was placed on the desk. The postman didn't wait for permission; he opened it, scanned the contents, and began his briefing.
"I know you," he said, waving the letter in the air. "You'd probably toss this in your drawer and forget about it for a week. So I'll save you the trouble."
He cleared his throat, smirking. "Looks like you're up for another promotion, my friend."
Officer Slow rubbed his chin. "That's not news anymore. Just tell me the problem."
"Alright," the postman said, serious now. "There's a village—small, peaceful... or it used to be. A young man's been causing chaos there. He's wanted. Police have tried—failed. The locals are scared. The General has decided to hand the case over to the military. And guess who he asked for specifically?"
"Don't tell me…"
"I recommended you," the postman said proudly, crossing his arms. "Again."
They both broke into laughter, the kind that carried the weight of shared memories and unspoken trust.
"You'll never change," Officer Slow muttered. "Fine. Hand me the letter. I'll meet with the General myself today."
As he reached for the letter, the postman raised a finger. "Ah ah! Hands down. Show some appreciation. I've been throwing your name in the ring for years. I deserve a party—or at least a cold drink."
Officer Slow rolled his eyes and snatched the letter with a grin. "Get out before I report you for insubordination."
"Pleasure as always," the postman said with a mock bow, then left, whistling his way down the hall.
---
Later That Day
The General's office was a picture of control—maps on the walls, glowing monitors, stacks of confidential reports. Officer John Slow entered with quiet respect and presented himself before the General.
"Ah, John," the General said, waving him in. "You've read the letter, I presume."
"Yes, sir."
"Then you know the urgency of the situation. The villagers are on edge. The authorities are stuck. This young man—whoever he is—has proven too clever, too elusive. I want your thoughts."
Officer Slow paced slowly before the desk, his mind already at work.
"I suggest an unconventional approach," he said. "I'll go alone—undercover. No military uniform. No weapons—unless I request them. I'll pose as a religious leader, someone peaceful, non-threatening. My goal is to blend in, earn trust, and observe."
He paused, then added, "Guns will only escalate things. If I walk in as a soldier, he'll run or fight. If I walk in as a man of peace, I might get close enough to end this quietly. I'll need a minimum of three months—maybe up to six—to understand his network and plan my move."
The General leaned back, folding his hands.
"You'll get five months minimum," he said. "Nine maximum. You'll have support at a distance, but this will be your operation. No one else involved unless you request it."
"Yes, sir. Copied, sir. Permission to begin preparations?"
"Granted. Depart before the end of the month."
---
Back at the Apartment
Officer Slow returned to his quarters and immediately began writing. He made a list of religious garments, scriptures, and neutral supplies he would need to sell his cover. He drafted instructions for his second-in-command, arranged schedules, and ensured all barrack-related duties would be handled in his absence.
He called a small meeting with his men that evening.
"I will be leaving soon," he told them. "It's a solo mission, and I won't be back here until it's done. Prepare to drop me off when the time comes—and stay sharp while I'm away. The eyes of the army are on us."
His men nodded in quiet respect.
Officer Slow looked out through his window at the setting sun. The mission ahead was dangerous, delicate, and unlike any he'd done before. But he wasn't afraid.
He was prepared.
To Be Continued...