The Seal Colonel Shouted, “I Need A Tier-1 Sniper!” I Stood Up. My General Father Laughed, “Sit Down.
My General Father said, “Sit down, you’re a nobody,” until he heard my call sign, “Ghost 13.”
My general father believed he could erase me, but inadvertently he was laying the groundwork for one of the most satisfying vengeance tales ever told: “Sit down, you are a zero.”
I was the family’s biggest letdown for years, but the reality could no longer be concealed when a Navy SEAL requested a confidential Tier-1 asset. In contrast to sour tales of retaliation, my response was one of unadulterated professionalism that brought the room to a halt.
The blood left my father’s face when I responded to the call sign “Ghost 13.” It dawned on him at last that the tactical weapon he feared most was the daughter he denigrated.
Revenge stories like this provide the perfect emotional release and validation if you have ever been undervalued by poisonous relatives. We don’t publish these tales of retaliation to incite hatred, but rather to give you the courage to establish limits and recover your value.
I’m Lucia, a 33-year-old major in the Air Force and a ghost agent—one that not even my own father is aware of. In front of 200 senior officers at MacDill Air Force Base, my father, General Neves, laughed directly in front of me while the room was filled with the stench of stale coffee and oppressive stillness. His voice boomed over the auditorium as he pointed a finger.
Lucia, have a seat. You’re a complete failure. Don’t make me look bad.
He was unaware that the commanding Navy SEAL colonel who had just entered was not present to greet him. He came to look for me. Furthermore, “the general’s daughter” was not my code name.
In my father’s opinion, he was the strongest man present. However, his face changed from red to ghost white as I opened the file with the name GHOST 13. He had committed the greatest error of his life.
If your own family has ever undervalued you, leave a comment with the word “justice” and subscribe. The cost of arrogance is the subject of this tale.
Burned coffee, industrial floor wax, and the metallic tang of aggressive air conditioning were the constant scents of the strategic briefing room at MacDill Air Force Base. It smelled of authority and bureaucracy, chilly and sterile.
I was seated in seat Z14 in the back row, with my back against the hard plastic of the chair. My blonde hair was pushed back in a regulated bun so tightly that it tugged at my temples, and my uniform was sharpened enough to cut glass. I reduced myself. I turned into an invisible person.
I had spent thirty years perfecting this survival mechanism. At the dining table, not at SERE training.
The VIPs were seated in the first row beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. My father, General Arthur Neves, was in the middle, sitting on a throne like a king. He carried his years like medals, even though he was sixty. His complexion was tan from spending weekends on the golf course with senators, and his silver hair was cut in a high-and-tight fade that defied gravity.
A lieutenant colonel had just whispered something to him, and he was laughing aloud. It was a loud, well-rehearsed laugh, the kind meant to fill a space and serve as a reminder to everyone that the oxygen in it belonged to them.
“Well done, Johnson. My father said, “That’s rich,” and slapped his knee.
The officers around him all laughed together, a chorus of spies. It was humorous, yet they didn’t laugh. They chuckled because their careers hinged on his disposition and he was a general with three stars on his shoulder.
I turned to face my hands. They remained stable. They must have been. Every night before I went to bed, I read about the stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius: “The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”
I inhaled, held it for four counts, and then released it for four.
Then something changed in the room.
There was no sound. There was a shift in pressure. Not with the typical creak, the heavy double doors at the back of the auditorium swung open. With controlled violence, they exploded.
The room’s conversation abruptly stopped. My father’s laughing was also interrupted, like a fishbone stuck in his throat.
A man entered. He stalked rather than walked.
In contrast to the sea of Air Force blue, he was dressed in the Navy working uniform, which included digital camouflage. He had a full colonel’s silver eagle on his collar. The trident of a Navy SEAL rested on his chest.
Marcus Hail, Colonel.
I knew him operationally rather than socially. Three years prior, in Kandahar, we had shared an extraction helicopter. In the special operations community, he was revered as a man who avoided politics. He was a keeper.
Two hundred heads turned toward him, but he ignored them. He disregarded the protocol. His boots thudded repeatedly against the carpet as he proceeded straight down the center aisle. He paused ten feet away from the stage and fixed his gaze on the generals’ panel.
It was Hail who said, “General Neves.”
Even though his voice wasn’t loud, it was terrifyingly clear and could be heard in the back of the room. It was sandpaper and gravel.
My dad blinked, obviously irritated that his spotlight was being taken. He put on his mask of beneficent boss and fixed his tie.
“Colonel Hail, what is the reason for this disruption? We are currently doing a strategy evaluation.
Hail interrupted, saying, “General, I don’t have time for assessments.” “In the Sierra Tango sector, a problem is emerging for me. I require a Tier-1 asset. deployment right away.
My father leaned back and scoffed.
“Colonel, there are lots of pilots here. Choose what you want.
Hail declared, “I don’t need a pilot.” “I require a ghost.” In particular, a sniper with deep reconnaissance skills who has TS/SCI clearance.
There was silence in the room.
Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmented Information is known as TS/SCI. There was more to that than high clearance. That clearance was “doesn’t exist.”
With his eyes roaming like a predator looking for food, Hail looked around the room.
“I was informed that this room contains the asset.”
My heart pounded on my chest.
Lucia, do it.
I avoided looking at my dad. I avoided looking at the men’s bewildered expressions. Above Hail’s head, the exit sign caught my attention.
I got to my feet.
In a library, the sound of my chair scraping the floor reverberated like a gunshot. People’s heads turned. From the stage to the back row, two hundred pairs of eyeballs moved.
I was a flawless statue of military discipline, standing at attention with my shoulders back and my chin raised.
Slowly, Marcus Hail turned and met my gaze. His expression was one of professional evaluation rather than recognition. He gave one nod.
However, a voice shouted from the front before he could say anything.
“Take a seat.”
My dad was the one. He had stopped staring at Hail. He was observing me.
His face had changed. The kind leader has vanished. He was replaced by the man who, when I was ten, would examine my room while wearing a white glove. A mix of humiliation and anger contorted his features.
“Major Neves,” he said, his tone brimming with arrogance. “Have you not heard me? “Sit down,” I urged.
I said, “General,” my voice calm in spite of my knees’ wobbling. “The colonel asked for—”
My father got up to demonstrate his power and yelled, “I don’t care what he requested.”
He glanced around the room, grinning tightly and apologetically at the other cops as though I were a mischievous child who had just spilled juice on the carpet.
My father’s tone changed to one of dismissive laughter as he replied, “I apologize, gentlemen.” He gestured at me with a finger that felt like a weapon. “My daughter becomes perplexed. She is employed in supply chains, logistics, and administration. She tends to exaggerate how important she is.
There was a sigh in the room. The stress subsided. Laughter rippled through the audience.
Someone murmured, “Admin,” close by. She defended a sniper’s request. That is very wealthy.
My father responded, “Sit down, Lucia,” his voice lowering to a low, menacing growl that only family members could identify. “In this equation, you are a zero. Don’t bring me down with you. Absent.”
Pride precedes ruin, and arrogance before collapse. My mind flew to the Proverbs passage.
For three seconds, which seemed like three lifetimes, I stood there. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks—not from guilt, but from a harsh, icy rage.
He didn’t simply brush me off. He deleted me. The uniform I wore was a costume to him. It was an ornament on my shoulder.
I sank back into the chair gradually.
Satisfied, my father nodded. He had returned the dog to its kennel. With a victorious smile, he turned back to Marcus Hail.
“All right, Colonel, how about we locate you a legitimate operator?”
However, I was no longer staring at the floor.
I raised my head and fixed my gaze directly on my father’s back. He cocked his head slightly, briefly meeting my gaze before brushing me off once more. That expression—that same expression of nonchalant disdain. The expression that conveyed, “You are nothing.” “You are just a girl,” that expression conveyed.
Cold and uncaring, the air conditioner hummed.
But the briefing room vanished as I fixed my gaze on the back of his head. The aroma of wood polish and roast turkey took the place of the coffee. I was no longer a 33-year-old major. My father was staring at me with those same eyes as I sat at the mahogany dining table in Virginia when I was eighteen once more.
The glare. That served as a link between the past and the present.
The chilly hum of the air conditioner vanished as I sat in that antiseptic briefing room in Florida, gazing at the back of my father’s head. The smell of roast turkey, sage stuffing, and the overpowering, oppressive smell of wood polish took its place.
I was taken back to the Northern Virginia suburbs.
I was eighteen. It was the day of Thanksgiving.
Our home was a large colonial-style estate with white pillars and a well-kept lawn that appeared to have been trimmed with nail scissors. It was a museum of my father’s ego, complete with shadow boxes containing his medals, framed pictures of him shaking hands with senators, and an American flag folded into a perfect triangle on the mantle.
The fine china, the kind we were afraid to break, was on the dining room table. The lunch had taken my mother three days to prepare. The fowl had a golden brown color. The jellied cranberry sauce was flawless. The center of the sweet potato dish was steaming.
However, the temperature was so low that you could practically see your breath.
My father said, “Pass the gravy,” without taking his eyes from his dish.
The Dallas Cowboys game was playing on the TV in the living room, and the noise of the crowd broke the stillness at our table.
I inhaled deeply. Beneath the table, my trembling hands were clutching the napkin until my knuckles were white.
I had some news. Big news. For weeks, I had been holding it in, waiting for the right opportunity. He would undoubtedly see me at last on a day of gratitude and family.
“Dad,” I said in a low voice. “I received the letter today.”
He continued to chew, carefully cutting a chunk of white meat.
Which letter?”
I couldn’t help but speak with pride as I said, “The Air Force.” “I entered. Dad, not just in. I was accepted into the specialty track. I scored in the 99th percentile on the ASVAB.
With the gravy boat hanging in midair, my mother froze. Her eyes were wide as she silently begged him to be kind to her. Only once.
My dad put down his fork carefully. A gavel-like clinking sound reverberated against the dinnerware.
At last, he turned to face me. It wasn’t a proud expression. It was a perplexed expression, as though I had just informed him that I intended to pursue a career as a circus clown.
“A nurse?He inquired. Or logistics?”
I sat up taller and corrected him, saying, “Combat operations.” “I’d like to soar. or perhaps intelligence.
He chuckled. The chuckle was a brief, piercing bark. He swirled the pricey cabernet in his wine glass.
“Lucia, let’s be practical, honey. Being in the military is not easy. It isn’t for someone with your personality. Do you wish to assist others? Become a nurse. In the medical corps, locate a kind officer. Don’t act like a soldier.
In an instant, my heart broke.
I pressed, “But, Dad, when you enlisted, my scores were higher than yours.”
The room’s temperature dropped by ten degrees.
He yelled, “Scores are paper.” Blood is war. You’re not able to handle it.
He turned his back on me and waved his hand dismissively, discarding my entire future. He glanced at Jason, my brother, who was seated across from me. The golden boy, Jason. Jason had been sleeping on the couch and playing video games for the past three months after quitting UVA because the pressure was too much.
My father’s voice quickly became gentle and loving as he said, “Jason, how is the job search going, son? You know, there’s no rush. You must discover who you are. Go slowly. We admire you for being aware of your boundaries.
Jason shoved a roll into his mouth and shrugged.
“Thank you, Dad.”
I glanced at my dish below. The turkey had an ash-like appearance. The injustice was like acid in my throat. Jason was encouraged to resign. I did well, and I was fired.
I laid on my bedroom floor that night while everyone else in the house slept. I took out an old Nike shoebox from under my bed.
My secret was this. I was ashamed of this.
There were no journals or love letters inside. Ribbons—blue ribbons from the nearby shooting range and diplomas for scoring highly at the ROTC summer camp, which I had attended without informing him—were inside.
I touched the gold foil of the trophies with my fingers. I had to keep them hidden. He would smirk every time I tried to show him a target sheet with a close grouping.
“Lucia, guns belong to men. A woman with a firearm appears absurd. It appears desperate.
I therefore learnt to conceal my skill. I came to feel embarrassed about the one thing I was very good at.
I pushed the box back into the shadows, allowing it to collect dust beneath the bed among the creatures.
To get a drink of water, I headed downstairs. My mom was cleaning the roasting pan in the kitchen. The hot water had left her hands sore and red. She appeared worn out. She always had a worn-out appearance.
“Mom,” I muttered. Why does he act in that way? Why does he object to my desire to serve?”
She let out a sigh without looking back. The steel wool scratched against the metal as she continued to scrape.
Lucia, he doesn’t detest it. Simply put, he worries. The old guard is from a different era. He believes he is keeping you safe.
With a shaky voice, I added, “He’s not protecting me.” “He’s deleting me.”
After turning off the water, she used a dish towel to dry her hands. She approached me and put her hand on my cheek. Her eyes were vacant, yet her hand was warm.
“Honey, don’t make a scene. Please. Let him be the general, in my opinion. That makes things easier.
the silence’s complicity. She frightened him more than she feared me.
That pattern remained the same. It trailed me into the uniform and out of that house.
Three years later, I suffered a severe fall during a nighttime rappelling exercise while undergoing advanced tactical training in the Mojave Desert. I broke two ribs and tore my rotator cuff.
I spent three days at the base hospital.
I didn’t give him a call. I was aware. However, my mom did.
I anticipated receiving a call, a card, or even a generic “get well soon” signed by a secretary.
Nothing arrived.
My phone buzzed on the fourth day as I was preparing to leave the hospital. Dad texted me.
My heart leaped. I was still a desperate child yearning for a crumb, even though I was twenty-one, a grown lady, and a commissioned officer.
I clicked on the mail.
Mom informed me you were injured. It wasn’t a playground, I told you. Your point has been made. Come home and resign your commission. Patrick, the neighbor’s son, is unmarried. He practices law. It’s time to get married and put an end to this foolishness.
I gazed at the screen till the backlight went off and I was left in the dark.
He didn’t inquire about my pain. He didn’t inquire about my well-being. He viewed my suffering as a chance to establish his correctness. He saw my fractured bones as an indication that I ought to return to the cooking.
Please click the “I am enough” comment below and hit the “like” button if you have ever put your all into making someone proud only to be met with criticism or icy indifference. We should all remember that our worth is not determined by the opinions of others.
I removed the message.
That night, the melancholy changed into something else. In the pit of my stomach, it became a hard, cold rock. I asked myself the question that would plague me for the next ten years as I stood in that hospital room clutching my wounded arm:
For a man who is adamant about being blind, why am I still attempting to prove myself?
Perhaps I should go somewhere he couldn’t turn away from—somewhere tougher, somewhere darker—if he wouldn’t look at me when I was standing in the light.
I had no intention of becoming a nurse. I had no intention of marrying a lawyer. The thing he feared most was going to be me. I was going to turn into an uncontrollable weapon.
Hell is not fire and brimstone, if you’re curious about what it looks like. At three in the morning, forty-degree mud is seeping into your pores from a drainage ditch in Georgia.
In a ghillie suit that weighed twenty pounds dry and fifty pounds wet, I lay prone at the age of twenty-two. It had been fourteen hours since I last moved. My body was screaming. It was as if every joint were being reduced to dust. I was unable to blink despite an ant crawling over my eyelid. The spotters using powerful optics to scan the tree line might be able to determine my location if I blinked.
This was the school for snipers. The rate of washout exceeded 60%. It was almost difficult for women. Women are statistically better shooters because of their lower centers of gravity and patience, not because we couldn’t shoot, but rather because of our guts.
I had a full bladder. Anguishingly filled. I would excuse myself and head to a tiled bathroom with potpourri on the counter in a typical life, the life my father desired for me. But there was no time-out here in the mud.
I thought, “Callous your mind.”
I concentrated on the inner voice. It was no longer my father’s voice. David Goggins was the one. During my rucks, I had been listening to “Can’t Hurt Me” nonstop. I recited his words like a prayer: You’re only using 40% of your body’s potential when you believe you’re done.
I remained motionless. I simply let go.
As soon as I felt the warmth permeating the suit, the icy cold set in when the muck and urine combined. It was demeaning. It was repulsive. And that was extremely essential.
I lay in my own filth for eighteen more hours. I didn’t feel ashamed when the teachers eventually passed me by, missing my spot by just a few inches. I experienced strength.
What the golden boys couldn’t do, I had done. To survive, I had eliminated myself.
The dust of Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley took the place of Georgia’s muck six months later.
It wasn’t training. The real show was this one.
My first task involved keeping an eye on a SEAL battalion while they cleared a village thought to be home to HVT (high-value target) couriers. I was gazing through a Schmidt & Bender scope from a ridge 800 yards away. My hands were somewhat shaking. This was the crucial moment.
My father had replied, “Guns are for men.” You’re not able to handle it.
The communications crackled below me.
catching fire. High altitude, three o’clock
From behind a rock wall, I spotted him—a fighter brandishing an RPG, aimed straight at the leading truck.
The shuddering ceased at once. The crosshairs became the only thing in my existence.
Three clicks left, Windage. elevation with the angle taken into account. Inhale. Exhale. At the bottom of the exhale, pause.
Squeeze.
My shoulder was kicked by the M24’s recoil. The gray rock was sprinkled with pink mist a second later. The combatant fell. The RPG hit the floor with a harmless clang.
“Excellent effect on target,” my spotter muttered. “Clean kill.”
I didn’t feel ill. I was not depressed. I experienced a chilly sense of professional fulfillment.
Four American lives had just been spared by me.
This was something I was good at. I was quite good at this.
I took two tours. Any of my father’s staff officers would have been jealous of my confirmed kill total. I returned with a Bronze Star in my duffle bag and sand in my boots.
On leave, I returned home to Virginia.
It was summertime. There was a humming of cicadas. A garden party was being hosted by my parents. The lawn was flawless. The white wine was cold. The usual D.C. guests were present. crowd—officers hoping for promotions, contractors, and lobbyists.
I had a sundress on, which covered the rifle stock bruises on my shoulders. I had an alien feeling. My ears were still ringing from the Hindu Kush’s quiet, but here, people were griping about the humidity and the I-95 traffic.
I was contacted by a woman, Mrs. Gable, a senator’s wife.
She swirled her chardonnay and chirped, “Lucia, darling, we haven’t seen you in ages.” According to your father, you have been absent. You were where?”
I parted my lips. I wanted to mention that I was overwatching the 101st Airborne in the Pech River Valley. It had been seven months since I last slept in a bed.
However, my father’s fingers touched my shoulder before I could say anything. It was warning, hefty, and possessive.
“She was in Europe,” my father exclaimed, flashing that lovely, well-practiced smile. “You know how millennials are—backpacking. She ended up in hostels throughout Italy and France.
I went cold.
Mrs. Gable chuckled. “Oh, how lovely. Springtime in Paris is just amazing.
I turned to face my dad. He avoided looking at me. Already, he was looking across the crowd for someone more significant to speak with.
He had told a falsehood. He had made my sacrifice, my blood, and my sweat into a vacation.
Why? Because the story of the general’s lovely family does not include a daughter who murders terrorists. It was too messy, too manly. His fame was in jeopardy.
I became aware that I was invisible as I stood there surrounded by wealth and power.
He wasn’t corrected by me. I didn’t cause any trouble. I simply sipped my iced tea and let the illusion to envelop me like a veil.
At that point, Lucia passed away, and Ghost was genuinely born.
My squad saw anything when I got back to base. The O-club was not where I spent my time. I didn’t boast about my shots. I didn’t share wartime tales. I would complete the task, submit the report, and disappear.
“Where on earth is Neves?One day, following a mission briefing, my CO inquired.
Marcus Hail, a lieutenant commander at the time, looked at the vacant chair where I had been sitting and remarked, “Gone, sir.” She resembles a ghost. She disappears before you can express your gratitude, and you only see her when she requests it.
Ghost.
The moniker stayed.
I decided on my call sign once I joined the special activities section and received my Top Secret clearance.
Ghost 13.
13 was considered unlucky. The misfortune of my father. because he believed his lies had buried me. He believed he had embarrassed me into keeping quiet. He was unaware that he had provided me with the ideal cover by ignoring me and pushing me into the shadows. I was made invisible by him. Additionally, a sniper’s best tool is invisibility.
Yelp wasn’t the right location to find the Rusty Anchor. Three kilometers from the base’s main gate, on a service road, stood a dive bar. There were no windows on it. The air smelled of sweat, lemon disinfectant, and stale hops, and the floor was always sticky from spilled domestic draft.
A bystander might have thought it was a hole in the wall. It was a cathedral to us.
It was a Friday evening. George Strait was playing on the jukebox in the corner, and the sharp clack-clack of pool balls and the roar of laughing from the booths competed with the quiet twang of the guitar.
I was drinking a bottle of Miller High Life while seated at a wooden table that was scratched close to the rear. My uniform was not on. For the first time in days, I let my hair down and was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt.
My squad, my true family, sat around me.
One of them was Tex, a Houston-based heavy-weapons expert who could remove a machine gun in 30 seconds while wearing a blindfold. Our communications guy, Miller, received a Purple Heart for pulling a wounded Marine out of a flaming Humvee. He appeared to be a high school accountant.
Then there was the recollection of the guy who had united us all.
My thoughts strayed to a briefing room in Kandahar six months earlier as I gazed at the moisture trickling down my beer bottle.
I had never worked directly with Colonel Marcus Hail before.
It had been a high-stakes joint venture. A mountain hostage rescue. We were under intense fire from three directions while trapped in a valley. The extraction bird was unable to touch down. Our ammunition was becoming short.
Five hundred yards above the ground, on a rocky outcropping, I had discovered a perch. I spent twelve hours there, roasting in the sun and figuring out the wind speeds of the unpredictable swirling canyon.
I had nine shots. Nine tangos were dropped by me. They all posed a threat to Hail’s team.
I anticipated the typical when we eventually returned to base, covered in dust and adrenaline. I anticipated that the SEALs would disregard the Air Force’s assistance and attend their own debrief.
Rather, Marcus Hail had approached me directly in the mess hall. His face was smeared with perspiration, and he was coated in filth. He was not smiling. He was not flirtatious. He gave me a direct glance.
Before me, he slapped a brand-new bottle of water onto the table.
“Neves,” he murmured in a gravelly voice.
“Sir,” I had automatically gotten to my feet.
He said, “Sit down,” but not in the same way as my father. The command was given respectfully.
He lowered his voice so that only I could hear him as he leaned in.
“That shot on the eleven-o’clock RPG gunner.”
I answered, “Windage was tricky, sir.”
Hail remarked, “You saved my point man’s life.” “Major, you are the all-seeing eye. We would have arrived home in body bags today if you hadn’t been up on that rock.
He gave me a hard shoulder clap. In no way was it possessive. It was a confirmation.
Neves, you are a weapon. A very good one.
I valued that moment more than all the medals my father had ever put on display in his shadow boxes.
No woman had been spotted by Hail. He had never seen the daughter of a general. He had spotted a fighter.
I was startled out of the memory when I saw a hand wave in front of my face back in the Rusty Anchor.
“Earth to Ghost,” Tex chuckled as he placed a beer pitcher on the table. Once more, you’re staring at nothing. Have a drink. Tonight, Tab will be on me.
I grinned, a sincere grin that extended to my eyes.
“Thank you, Tex.”
A raspy voice from the seat next to me said, “Hey.”
I pivoted.
Elena Rodriguez, Master Sergeant, was the one. With gray strands in her hair and a cynical expression in her eyes from too many commanders coming and going, she was fifty years old and as tough as leather.
As she approached retirement, she had emerged as our unit’s unofficial mother hen—if mother hens smoked Marlboro Reds and drank neat whiskey.
Elena sipped her drink and gave me a sharply intelligent gaze.
She remarked, “I was informed about the briefing today.” “Regarding the list of promotions.”
I tensed up. Once more, I had not been selected for the command track.
Elena’s voice trailed off as she replied, “And let me guess,” “Daddy Dearest had something to do with that.”
I traced the bottle’s rim while shrugging.
I’m not ready,” he says. I need more administrative experience, he says. He believes I’m being hard because of the field.
Elena blew a puff of fictitious smoke and scoffed.
Her tone changed from casual to fierce as she leaned closer.
“Hear me out, Lucia. For thirty years, I served under individuals such as Arthur Neves. I am aware of the type.
She gestured at my chest with a rough finger.
He’s not blind. He is fully aware of your excellence. That is the issue.
I scowled.
“What are you saying?”
“He’s envious,” Elena said. He is an elderly security guard. He earned his status by playing golf and shaking his hands. You? In the dirt, you earn your rank.
You are respected. genuine regard. The type he cannot purchase. Kids, don’t allow the shade of the elderly man obscure your sun. He fears that you may eventually surpass him.
Her remarks struck me like a blow to the body.
envious. The mighty general, my father.
It didn’t seem conceivable. However, as I observed Tex and Miller laughing around the table and how they treated me as an equal—as an essential component of the system—I came to the conclusion that Elena might be correct.
I was Ghost 13 here. I was crucial.
My phone was banging against the wood on the table and buzzing ferociously. The screen sprang to life. “Dad” flashed in demanding, bright letters.
At the table, the laughter appeared to wane. The bar’s warmth dispersed.
My gut knotted as I reached for the phone.
I clicked on the text.
Get home by tomorrow at 0800. Mom is anxious about the senator’s barbecue. The downstairs bathroom was overlooked by the cleaning service, and the patio furniture has to be scrubbed. Don a good outfit. No camouflage.
I gazed at the text.
cleaning patio furnishings.
I was a Tier-1 asset. I could hit a target from a mile away because I was the all-seeing eye. My father wanted to impress a politician, so my hands, which had saved the lives of Navy SEALs, were called upon to wash down seats and clean toilets.
The irony tasted like blood in my tongue because it was so acute.
Tex turned to check how my expression had changed.
“Unpleasant news? Remember the order?”
I gave him a look. This family of outcasts who would take a bullet for me caught my eye. I then turned my attention back to the phone.
“No,” I muttered. “Just to remind you where I am.”
I grabbed my beer and swallowed it all at once. The bitterness in my heart was reflected in the hops.
I got up and said, “I have to go.” “Tomorrow is my duty day.”
“Duty?Miller inquired. “Saturday is here.”
“Yes,” I replied, reaching for my keys. “Janitorial duty.”
I left the cozy Rusty Anchor and into the muggy Florida night. The music continued to play behind me. The mansion, the barbecue, and the man who wished to transform a wolf into a golden retriever were all in front of me.
But as I moved, Elena’s words continued to replay in my head.
He fears that you will surpass him in the future.
Perhaps it was time to start flipping the table instead of washing the furnishings.
The incident that occurred in the briefing room occurred precisely seven days prior. Ghost 13 would be shown to the public one week prior.
The scene was Langley Air Force Base’s officers’ club. It was the yearly gala, a night filled with the scent of prime rib, pricey cologne, and the frantic perspiration of colonels attempting to become general.
The room was filled with the sound of crystal glasses clinking, the jazz band was playing a gentle version of “Fly Me to the Moon,” and the lighting was low.
At precisely 1900 hours, I arrived.
I had prepared in front of my mirror for an hour. I wasn’t dressed for a cocktail. I didn’t have on pearls. My service dress blues were on. My outfit was spotless. On my shoulders sparkled the silver oak leaves of my major rank.
My medal rack was spectacular, with three rows of commendations that reflected blood, sweat, and sand, even though I kept the most delicate operations off of it.
I was pleased. I felt like I belonged in this world for the first time in a long time.
On the other side of the room, I saw my dad. A senator and two defense contractors were gathered around him as he held court close to the open bar. With a superbly tailored tuxedo, a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, he appeared to be a dignified politician.
I approached with my shoulders back.
“General, good evening.”
He pivoted. The moment his gaze came to rest on me, the smile that had been beaming at the senator disappeared. His lip curled in disgust as he examined me from head to toe.
“Lucia,” he murmured, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by the others. “What do you have on?”
I blinked, perplexed.
“Dad, this is a military gala. This is the proper attire for a mother—
“A man,” he growled. “You appear to be an awful chauffeur. I advised your mother to get the blue silk dress that truly accentuates your form.
He shook his head and sighed as though I had particularly offended him.
“God, you are so difficult to assist. Tonight, Senator Miller brought his kid. He works as an investment banker. I wanted to give you an introduction. How can I convince him of this?”
As though they were stains, he made hazy gestures toward my uniform and the medals on my chest.
My stomach turned over. He didn’t consider me a daughter. I wasn’t a police officer. I was a commodity to be exchanged.
I answered stiffly, “General, I’m not here to find a husband.” “I am here on behalf of my unit.”
He was about to respond when a young lieutenant came up to us. It was a young member of my intelligence team named Lieutenant Evans. He became alert as soon as he noticed me.
“Good evening, Major Neves,” Evans remarked in a respectful tone.
He failed to notice a woman dressed in a costume. His top officer was there.
My dad’s gaze narrowed. He detested it. He detested it when I was respected without his consent.
My father stepped in between us and said, “At ease, Lieutenant.”
He put a hefty, condescending hand on my shoulder. He gave Evans a shark-like smile.
“Son, Lucia is not on duty tonight. She is merely present as my daughter.
His hand tightened over my shoulder as he turned to face me.
“The senator’s glass is empty, sweetie. Would you mind grabbing him a refill at the bar? Tonic, gin, and additional lime. And while you’re at it, grab me another scotch.
I exhaled the air.
Lieutenant Evans appeared perplexed. He glanced at the general, then at me. He was aware that it was improper. Like a waitress, you wouldn’t ask a field-grade cop to get drinks.
I muttered, my face flaming, “Dad.” “Servers are available for that.”
My father’s voice rose just enough to be heard in the circle around him as he continued, “I asked you to do it.” “Go ahead, Lucia. Be of service. Avoid merely standing there with a rigid expression.
Ignoring the power maneuver, the senator laughed.
“Dear, a gin and tonic would be delicious.”
For a heartbeat, I stood there. Lieutenant Evans was down at the ground, clearly embarrassed for me. The other policemen’ eyes were palpable. In a matter of seconds, my rank, my experience, and my sacrifices were all taken away. I was only assistance to him.
The anger tasted like bile, but I swallowed it.
“Yes, sir.”
I strolled up to the bar. The walk of humiliation made my legs feel heavy.
It got ten times worse when the bartender gave me a pitying look as I placed my drink order. I felt as though every step I took betrayed the uniform I was wearing as I carried the crystal glasses back across the room.
I gave his drink to the senator. I gave my dad his scotch.
My father patted my cheek and said, “Good girl.” “You see? It wasn’t that difficult.
I needed to yell and breathe, so I turned to go. However, my dad took hold of my elbow. He no longer had a fatherly hold. It hurt.
He led me out of the group and into a quiet corner by the kitchen door. He leaned closer. His breath had an overpowering scent of pricey scotch.
The kind general’s mask had vanished. He had harsh, icy flint eyes.
With a low growl, he murmured, “I saw that look in your eye.” “Never again should you humiliate me in that way. Never hesitate to follow my instructions.
I withdrew my arm.
“You made me look foolish in front of my subordinate.”
“You were humiliated?He made a harsh, dry laugh. “Until I grant you status, you don’t have any. Do you believe the medals have any significance? Do you believe that rank has any significance? To get you into the academy, I made calls. To maintain a clean record, I made calls. Lucia, you are my creation.
His face was inches from mine as he leaned in closer.
And keep in mind that I created you. I have the power to shatter you. With just one phone call, I can remove those oak leaves from your shoulder. Thus, be aware of your position. Until I say so, you are my daughter first and an officer second.
The mask clicked back into place as he brushed his tie and straightened his tuxedo jacket.
“Go repair your face now. You appear to be feeling something. It is not honorable.
I stood by myself in the hallway’s shadows as he made his way back to the party.
Silently, I drove home. I didn’t switch the radio on. I refrained from crying. The tears would not flow. I had moved on from my misery. I was somewhere far colder than melancholy.
I entered my apartment and immediately headed to the restroom. I switched on the bright lights on my vanity. I turned to face the mirror. The woman in the blue uniform caught my attention. He had grabbed me, and I could see the marks on my arm.
In that instant, I came to a realization.
He was not merely interested in controlling me. He desired to possess me. He thought I belonged to him. I was also his property as long as I followed his rules and sought his approval.
Please hit the “like” button and leave a comment below that reads, “I define my own worth,” if you have ever had the people who should be happy of you discount your hard-earned accomplishments. Let’s demonstrate to the world that our opinions are the only ones that define us.
My collar was unfastened. I gently hung the uniform jacket after removing it.
I created you. I have the power to shatter you.
I told the empty room what he had said again.
I muttered to my reflection, “No, Dad.” “I wasn’t made by you. I was forced by the Air Force. I was made by the war. I was made by the agony.
Furthermore, as a ghost cannot be broken, he was unable to break me.
The strategy briefing at MacDill took place the next week. He would be present. I would be present.
I used cold water to wash my face. The frightened girl was gone when I looked up. Ghost 13 returned the stare.
I promised not to get the beverages the next time. I’ll bring the storm the next time.
Lucia, have a seat. You’re a complete failure. Don’t make me look bad.
The briefing room’s acoustic tiles continued to reflect my father’s words. The air was still filled with the laughter of the sycophants, the majors and lieutenant colonels who made their careers out of laughing at my father’s jokes.
It was the moment I had always feared: being publicly humiliated and having my dignity taken away in front of the same individuals I worked with.
However, an odd event occurred.
I didn’t get any smaller. I didn’t break down. I didn’t run away like the mouse he intended me to be, look at my shoes, or apologize.
I was at ease.
It was a serene feeling that occurs just before you pull the trigger. The world slowed. A dull buzz replaced the background sounds of the rustle of papers, the hum of the server racks, and the snickering.
I remained upright.
I had wonderful posture. My chin was in line with the ground. I avoided looking at my dad. I examined him.
I was staring at the Navy SEAL fifteen feet away.
Marcus Hail, the colonel, had not chuckled. He was still standing. His intensity was burning hotter than the fluorescent lights as he gazed at me.
“Major,” my dad growled, his face turning a perilous crimson.
With his hand lifted like though he were going to hit a misbehaving child, he took a step in my direction.
“I gave you a clear directive. Before I have the MPs drag you out of here for being unruly, please take a seat.
Deathly silence fell in the room.
The laughter abruptly stopped. Even General Neves went too far in threatening a field-grade officer with military police during a briefing.
My arms’ hair stood on end as the air became heavy and charged with static electricity.
Marcus Hail shifted.
He didn’t approach my dad. He moved in between us.
The front row gasped as he disregarded the general, a blatant violation of convention.
Hail gave me a direct glance.
“Major Neves.”
With a steady voice that showed no signs of the excitement coursing through my veins, I answered, “Colonel.”
“I requested a particular asset,” Hail stated in a low, menacing voice. “I was informed that this chamber contained the asset. Are you asserting that persona?”
Behind him, my father sputtered.
I’m not sure what game you’re playing, Colonel, but my daughter works as a logistics officer. She schedules gasoline trucks and places orders for paper clips. She isn’t—
Hail bellowed, “Silence.”
Like a whip, the word began to crack.
With his mouth hanging open, my father froze. Arthur Neves was not instructed to keep quiet. Not at his own base. In his own kingdom, no.
Hail didn’t even look back. He continued to watch me.
“Major, I have a question for you. Identification and status
It was this. the point at which there is no way back.
I inhaled. The daughter who cleaned patio furniture was let go. The girl who concealed ribbons beneath her bed was released by me.
“Ghost 13,” I murmured.
The name lingered in the atmosphere.
“Sector?Hail inquired.
“Tango Sierra,” I answered. “Kush Hindu.” The Valley of Death operation. Team Six in Overwatch.
Hail nodded, his face inscrutable.
What is your level of clearance?”
I hesitated for a little moment. I allowed my gaze to stray to my father, who was standing there with a confused expression on his face and blinking quickly.
“Level Five,” I stated emphatically. “White Yankee.” Program for Special Access.
The response was instantaneous and disastrous.
My father’s hand started to shake as he held his glass of water. Water trickled over the edge and onto his shiny shoes.
Level Five.
That meant something to him. In that room, every officer understood what that meant.
My father was a general with three stars. He was Top Secret with Level Three clearance. He believed that he was God.
However, the stratosphere was Level Five. Even generals weren’t read in until they were absolutely necessary for the objective because it was so important to know. I was told to report to Shadows. It meant that if I murmured things in his ear, they would land him in jail.
My father’s voice lost its volume as he stumbled, “That’s… that’s impossible.”
Seeking an ally, he scanned the room.
She’s telling lies. She has hallucinations. She is employed in the supply industry.
He turned to face Colonel Roar, his chief of staff.
“Roar, tell them. Inform them that she is really a paper pusher.
Colonel Roar, meanwhile, was avoiding eye contact with the general. He was observing me. And he wasn’t staring at me pityingly for the first time in ten years. He was staring at me with amazement.
“Sir, we don’t have access to those files if she knows the Sierra Tango designator,” Roar said. Black ops is what that is.
My father’s eyes were wide as he turned back to face me, looking for the child he believed to be his.
However, she wasn’t present.
“Lucia,” he murmured. “You never told me,” I said.
I said, “You never asked.”
“You were too busy telling people that I was traveling around Europe on a backpack.”
There was a murmur in the room. Suddenly, two hundred officers were whispering.
Have you heard that? Ghost 13. The Korengal Valley sharpshooter.
The general was unaware.
His own daughter is a Tier-1 operator; how could he have been unaware of this?
He handled her as if she were a secretary.
They were taken aback by the realization. In his own home, the man people dreaded, the one who gave off the impression of having all-knowing power, was a fool. The emperor without clothing was him.
Marcus Hail looked at his timepiece. He had had enough of the drama. What he had come for was his.
Hail told me, “We have a bird spinning on the tarmac that will wheel up in ten minutes.” Have you got your equipment?”
“Always,” I said. “It’s in my car’s trunk.”
“SP. “Get it,” Hail said. “In Yemen, an extraction team is waiting.” By 0600, I need eyes on the ground.
“Yes, sir.”
I moved away from the row. The cops who had just snickered at me were gone as I passed them. They scrambled to get out of my way, pulling their legs in. In an instinctive response to the presence of a better warrior, some of them even began to stand up.
I arrived at the middle aisle.
My progress was being blocked by my father.
He appeared smaller now. He slouched his shoulders. The self-assurance that usually emanated from him had vanished, leaving an elderly, bewildered man wearing a suit that appeared suddenly too large for him.
He extended his hand as though to seize my arm and yank me back under his authority.
“Lucia, hold on. We must talk about this. You can’t simply walk away. I won’t allow—
I didn’t wince. I didn’t retreat. I simply paused and gave him a glance.
I examined the creases surrounding his eyes. I examined the dread that underpinned his arrogance.
I had wanted to yell at him for years. Every time he made me feel inferior, I wanted to lash out, to enumerate all the injustices and insults. I expected this to feel like retaliation. I anticipated feeling irritated.
However, I didn’t.
I was sympathetic.
Believing that strength derived from the stars on your shoulder, he had dedicated his entire life to constructing a temple to himself and pursuing status and rank. The magnificence in front of him had eluded him. I had been missed.
“General, you don’t have permission to talk about this,” I whispered.
I spoke with the tact of a nurse, yet the words were a sword.
“Lucia,” he said in a broken voice.
“Dad, good bye,” I said. “Have fun at your meeting.”
I passed him. Colonel Hail was waiting for me at the hefty double doors.
The white, blazing Florida sun was streaming in from the outside. I heard a glass breaking against the floor as I went over the threshold.
I didn’t go back.
I stepped onto the asphalt after leaving the air-conditioned nightmare. I was assaulted by the heat, which smelled like freedom and jet fuel. A Blackhawk helicopter’s rotors were already turning, slicing across the atmosphere, ready to transport me to a conflict where the adversaries were truthful but the bullets were real.
I was done trying to win his favor. I was now battling for my life.
And I was pleased with my odds for the first time.
No civilian GPS system has the coordinates.
We were at a black spot someplace north of the Hadramaut highlands, deep within Yemen’s rocky landscape. Compared to Florida, the air here was different. It didn’t smell like old coffee and floor wax. It smelled like burning trash, diesel, and the tang of high-voltage electronics.
I was seated in the Tactical Operations Center, or TOC, a makeshift building made of Kevlar and sandbags. The only steady sound was the hum of cooling fans from the server racks. A bank of high-def monitors mounted on the wall displayed drone feeds and hazy, green-tinted images of a community three miles away.
I had taken off my army dress blues. I was sweaty, dusty, and wearing multicam fatigues. My hair was tightly secured in a braid across my scalp.
My tool of the trade, a CheyTac M200 Intervention, was seated in front of me. It was more than a firearm. It was a mathematical certainty. It fired a.408 round that could travel more than 2,000 yards at supersonic velocity.
A voice crackled in my earpiece, “Ghost.” Marcus Hail was the one. In the valley below, he was on the ground, guiding a four-man SEAL element through the maze of mud-brick homes.
“We’re pinned.” Sniper in sector four of the minaret. Have you have an answer?”
I bent over the scope. My entire world shrank to a glass circle.
I located the minaret. The enemy shooter’s heat signature was visible to me. He was competent. With his lofty position, he was preventing Hail’s squad from getting to the hostages by silencing them.
Calmly, I stated into the microphone, “The distance is 2,400 meters.”
2,400 meters. That was more than a mile and a half.
Back at MacDill, I was Lucia, the girl who brought gin and tonics to the briefing room.
I was God here.
Nobody in the TOC inquired about my father’s identity. My gender didn’t matter to anyone. They didn’t give a damn about my appearance or whether I should grin more. One thing was important to them:
Can I perform the calculations?
As I worked with the scope’s turrets, I whispered to myself, “Wind is full value, left to right, eight miles per hour.”
Click. Click. Click.
Everything had to be taken into consideration, including the air’s humidity and the propellant’s temperature in the cartridge. I even had to figure out the Earth’s rotation, or the Coriolis effect. The Earth would practically turn beneath the bullet because it would be in the air for such a long time.
Hail’s voice was tense as she spoke, “Ghost, we are taking heavy fire.” “That window needs to be open right now.”
I said, “Stand by.”
At rest, my heart rate was fifty beats per minute. My veins feel like ice water.
I briefly stepped away from the scope to look at my wind meter. My own satellite phone, which I had left on the table’s corner, began to buzz while I worked. The dull room became brighter.
Dad.
Twenty calls were not returned.
I gazed at the display.
He wasn’t concerned about my safety, which is why he was blowing up my phone. He had no idea where I was. He lacked the necessary clearance.
He was in a panic, which is why he was calling. He had lost control of the story, which is why he was calling. The admin girl had just walked out on him with a Tier-1 operator, and he was presumably sitting in his Florida office, thinking that he was afraid of what I would say.
That buzzing phone has been a leash for thirty-three years. I answered when it rang. He gave me instructions, and I followed.
I glanced at the screen that was blinking.
I next watched the drone footage, which showed Hail’s team making rounds while hunkered behind a collapsing wall.
There was no choice.
In actuality, there was never.
I extended my hand and hit the power button. Until the screen became black, I held it down.
“General, good bye.”
A physical burden left my chest.
I wasn’t his daughter right now. I did not contribute to his legacy.
I was Ghost 13.
I returned to the scope.
I said, “Solution set.” Three miles remain, Windage. One-two-zero elevation
“Transmit it,” Hail commanded.
I let out a breath. I waited for the heartbeats to naturally pause.
I pulled the trigger.
Despite the muzzle brake, the recoil was a mule kick to the shoulder. With a piercing thwack, the muffled report reverberated around the little space.
Then there was the wait.
The bullet had a flight time of almost four seconds at this distance.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The minaret’s heat signature abruptly pulled back and collapsed on the drone stream. The old stone wall was coated with pink mist.
“Target down,” I said in a monotone voice. “The window is open.”
“Excellent effect on target,” Hail answered. “Actioning.”
As Hail’s squad broke into the building, I watched on the TV. I observed as they loaded the two hostages—a journalist and an aid worker—into the extraction van after dragging them out.
I didn’t applaud. I didn’t give the communications man next to me a high five. I just ejected the spent brass case from my rifle by opening the bolt.
With a metallic chime, it struck the floor.
Well done.
The deep, bone-weary fatigue that comes only from combat had taken the place of the adrenaline three hours later.
Perched on munitions crates, we were in the debriefing area. I was eating peanut butter from an MRE packet and sipping a warm, rip-it energy drink.
Colonel Hail entered the room. The dust from the valley was still all over him.
He approached my seat. At first, he remained silent. I just got a piece of paper from him.
He was forwarding a draft of the After Action Report (AAR) to the Joint Chiefs.
I read the part that was highlighted.
The goal was accomplished with no friendly casualties. Asset Ghost 13’s precision support is directly responsible for the mission’s success. Under tremendous duress, Major Neves showed exceptional technical proficiency and tactical discernment. She is this operation’s most significant asset.
I raised my gaze to his.
I said, “You didn’t have to write that.”
Hail packed his lip and ripped open a can of dipping tobacco.
“Neves, I didn’t write it to be kind. It’s the truth, which is why I wrote it. You get what you earn in my world. And you deserved every square inch of that collared bird today.
He glanced at my phone, which was blacked out and resting on the crate next me.
“Is everything at home going well?He inquired.
He was aware. He was aware, of course. In the briefing room, he had witnessed the performance.
I looked at the dark screen and remarked, “It’s quiet.” “It’s quiet for the first time in my life.”
“Good,” Hail replied as she got to her feet. “Remain that way. If you’re gazing over your shoulder, you can’t aim.
I saw him leave. The shell from the shot that rescued them was on the floor, and I picked up the spent brass casing. Between my fingers, I rolled it. It weighed a lot. It was authentic.
I could give my dad his medals. He could have his senators and his cocktail receptions. He might be lying about Europe.
This was mine.
I had the math, the dust, and the respect of men who didn’t give it away for free.
I was eating processed peanut butter in a dark room in Yemen, 3,000 miles from home. And I didn’t feel disappointed for the first time in thirty-three years.
It made me feel like a soldier.
Back home in Florida, another form of war was going on while I lay in the dust of a Yemeni valley, waiting for a target to reveal his face.
However, I wasn’t the one being burned this time.
There is a communication network in the military that is more devastating than a drone strike, more widespread than satellite uplinks, and faster than fiber optics.
We refer to it as the rumor mill.
We refer to it as scuttlebutt.
And the only thing on the frequency for three days was General Arthur Neves.
Nothing remains secret for very long in the close-knit world of special operations, albeit I wasn’t there to see it.
I was informed by Elena. Tex informed me. In the end, even my direct commanding officer in the visible world, Lieutenant Colonel Roar, played the tapes for me.
The incident in the briefing room didn’t end there. It ran. It went down to the enlisted gym, where privates were racking weights, from the Pentagon’s E-ring.
The story’s simplicity was harsh.
The general was unaware.
This was a death sentence for a man whose entire brand was based on “family values” and complete situational awareness.
There was no longer any terror in the whispers in the corridors. They were full of mockery.
He attempted to get a Tier-1 asset to take a seat.
He requested coffee from a ghost.
If the father doesn’t even know what his own daughter does for a career, how can he manage a strategic command?
His sense of omnipotence had crumbled.
However, my father did not die quietly because he was a narcissist. Bullying was the only way he knew how to regain control.
He made the call the day following my deployment.
Later, in Lieutenant Colonel Roar’s office, I listened to the recording. It was an exquisite demonstration of despair.
The tone of a man accustomed to getting his way was sharp and forceful at the beginning of the recording.
My father’s voice roared across the speaker, “Colonel Roar.” “I want Major Lucia Neves’ personnel jacket on my desk. Hard copy, within the hour, without redaction.
Roar sounded composed, like a man who knew he had the upper hand.
“You know I can’t do that, General.”
“Pardon me?My dad lost his temper. “I am a general with three stars.” The commander of the base is me. Her father is me. Colonel, don’t quote protocol to me. I’d like to view her file. This phantom identification is what I want to see. I’m curious as to who approved it behind my back.
The line paused for a moment.
I pictured Roar sitting back in his chair and gazing up at the ceiling.
“Major Neves is currently assigned to a Special Access Program under the jurisdiction of JSOC and the CIA,” Roar continued, his voice dropping an octave to become deadly serious. Her file has a Yankee White designation and is classified as Top Secret, SCI. At the Pentagon, it is secured in a SCIF.
My father yelled, “I have Top Secret clearance.” His voice now betrayed the desperation. His voice was high-pitched.
Roar corrected him, saying, “General, you have Level Three clearance.” “A Level Five asset is Ghost 13.” It is not necessary for you to know. There is strong compartmentalization of access. I am unable to provide you access unless you have a signed authorization from the President or the Secretary of Defense.
“To be honest, sir,” Roar said, “I can’t either.
My father yelled, “This is insubordination.” Roar, I’ll have your stars. In Alaska, I’ll have you clean latrines. You were produced by me, and I can—
Then the final shot.
He was cut off by Roar. He didn’t yell. He talked with the icy, machine-like accuracy of a machine.
“I must remind you, General Neves, that this line is being taped for security reasons. According to the Espionage Act, it is illegal to try to force a subordinate into disclosing sensitive information about active clandestine agents. Do you want to end this call, General, or are you telling me to commit a crime?”
Quiet.
For ten seconds, there was a thick, dead silence.
My father’s labored breathing was the only sound on the tape.
He was confined.
The rules had turned on him and bitten him in the throat after he had spent his entire life using them to crush others.
Click.
He ended the call.
However, the humiliation didn’t stop at his office. It spread to the officers’ club, also known as the O-club, where he had attempted to treat me like a waitress only a week prior.
Later, Elena told me about the scene.
On the Wednesday following the incident, it was midday. It was usually like the Red Sea separating when General Neves entered the O-club. In the hopes that part of his influence might be transferred to them, officers would stand, discussions would stop, and a line would form to shake his hand.
He entered that Wednesday.
He was attempting to appear business as usual while wearing his formal suit and polishing every medal.
He made his way to the power table, his regular spot by the window.
The room didn’t quiet down, though. The discussions continued.
People glanced up, spotted him, and then averted their gaze.
They examined their salads. They examined their phones. They avoided looking at him.
It wasn’t a hostile rejection.
It was much worse.
It was a mixture of secondhand humiliation and disinterest.
He took a seat by himself.
Eager for face time, a major or a captain would typically run over to join him. The chairs surrounding him were empty today.
A young woman who was perhaps the same age as mine when I enlisted approached a server. In front of him, she set up a menu.
He said, “Just the club sandwich and an iced tea.” He spoke softly.
She answered, “Yes, General,” and hurried off.
I was informed by Elena that she observed him from the bar. She observed the legendary Arthur Neves, the man who said he could “make” people, having a sandwich in complete seclusion in a room full of 200 officers.
He looked at his phone. No messages.
He surveyed the space. Avoid making eye contact.
He was merely an elderly man eating lunch by himself for the first time in thirty years.
The instant the truth about me was revealed, the power he believed he possessed—the power of notoriety and fear—vanished. Because he wasn’t a brilliant tactician if he couldn’t see the ghost living beneath his own roof or manage his own daughter.
He had been outwitted and was merely a bully.
I expected to feel victorious when I heard that narrative while sitting in Yemen’s dust. I thought I would laugh.
However, I didn’t.
I simply experienced an odd feeling of closure.
I hadn’t yelled at him, so it wasn’t karma. It had not resulted from a heated altercation. The truth was the source of it.
In order to feel big, he had spent his entire life attempting to make me tiny. The world was now fully aware of my size and, in contrast, his shrinkage.
No one bothered to assist him in picking up the pieces after the statue fell.
We were on equal footing.
That was the engagement’s first rule. Not in his home, where his medals’ shadow boxes were arranged like sacred symbols around the walls. Not at the base, where any possibility of honesty would be crushed under the weight of rank and convention.
Three blocks from the bay in South Tampa, we met in a Starbucks.
Three months after I had left the briefing room and boarded a Blackhawk helicopter, it was a Tuesday morning.
In stark contrast to the muggy Florida weather outside, the café’s air conditioning was frigid. The fragrance of burnt milk and toasted beans filled the air. Over the speakers, indie folk music subdued the forceful whir of the espresso grinders.
I was five minutes early. I was unable to break the habit of being on time.
I located a table in the back corner and ordered a black coffee (venti, no sugar).
I nearly didn’t recognize him when he entered.
Structure had always been a part of General Arthur Neves’s personality. His shoes were polished, his clothes were starched even on the weekends, and his posture was stiff enough to serve as a standard.
Upon entering through the glass doors, the man appeared to be unfamiliar.
He had on faded khaki shorts and a beige polo shirt that was a little too baggy around the shoulders. He was not wearing his dress shoes that were provided by the military. He had on loafers.
He appeared diminutive without the uniform and the stars on his collar to support him. He appeared to be another retiree, another wintertime snowbird.
He hesitated when he saw me.
His gaze briefly gave me the impression that he wanted to back off, but he steeled himself and moved closer.
“Lucia,” he said. The boom I was accustomed to was absent from his voice. It was tentative and rough.
I nodded and pointed to the vacant chair. “Dad.”
He took a heavy seat. He started removing the cardboard sleeve from the paper cup he was holding, strip by strip.
I had never seen such a worried tic before.
He avoided looking at me and remarked, “You look fit.” “Did deployment go smoothly?”
I declared, “Mission accomplished.” “We were able to capture the objective. The hostages have returned home.
“All right. Excellent. That’s excellent.
There was silence between us. It wasn’t the two soldiers’ cozy stillness. The silence was that of a minefield, heavy and weighted.
He frowned when he took a drink of his coffee.
“Too warm. These days, everything is too hot.
After setting down the cup, he finally turned to face me.
Regarding that day at MacDill, Lucia
I thought, Here it comes. The rationale. The pivot.
He began, spreading his hands in a pathetic gesture, “I didn’t know.” “I was unaware that you were engaged in operations at that level. Had I known—
“What would you have known?Calmly, I asked. “You would have been respectful to me? Would you have paid attention to me?”
With a glimpse of the elderly general showing through, he yelled, “I would have protected you.” “Are you aware of the dangers in that world? Lucia, it’s a meat grinder, black ops, CIA monitoring. I wanted you to be protected, so I pushed you into administration. I wished for you to lead a typical life. a spouse. Children. Sundays are off.
His eyes begged as he leaned forward.
“I am your dad. It’s my responsibility to protect you. I just had your best interests in mind.
It was the narcissist’s standard defense, “I didn’t do it.” And it wasn’t so horrible if I did. If it was, I did it for your benefit.
I gave him a look. Observe him closely.
Behind the bluster, I could see the fear. He was worried about more than just keeping me safe. His own insignificance frightened him. He feared that his daughter, whom he saw as an extension of himself, had developed an uncontrollable limb.
Dr. Henry Cloud was on my mind. Elena had given me a book about limits years ago, and I pondered about it.
We are defined by our boundaries. They define who I am and who I am not. A boundary lets me know where I stop and someone else starts.
I had no limitations for thirty-three years. I was merely Arthur Neves’ ego’s annex.
No more.
I didn’t shout. I refrained from crying. I didn’t point out his shortcomings or bring up the past. A child would act in that manner.
My hands were flat on the table.
“Dad,” I said.
My voice was absolute, level, and low.
His tears at the coffee sleeve ceased.
I said, “You don’t have to protect me like a child.” “I serve in the US Air Force as a field-grade officer. I have slain men who attempted to murder my friends. I’ve made choices that have saved lives. I don’t require your defense.
“But—”
I broke off, maintaining eye contact, “Let me finish.”
“I know you believe you were assisting. However, you weren’t. I was being erased by you. Because I didn’t fit the image you intended to present to your friends, you felt ashamed of who I was.
He started to argue, but he was stopped by the expression in my eyes. The expression that said, “Target acquired,” was the Ghost stare.
I went on, “Dad, we are going to have a new relationship.” “Or we won’t have a relationship at all.”
Startled, he blinked.
“Don’t be theatrical, Lucia. “Family games,” we say.
“My family does not give you permission to treat me disrespectfully,” I stated. Here are the guidelines, then. The new baseline is this.
I made sure he heard every word by leaning in closer.
First of all, you will never again publicly disparage my rank or my service.
Second, you’ll never refer to me as “little Lucia” or order me to get beverages like a servant.
Thirdly, you are not allowed to claim credit for my accomplishments or fabricate them in order to maintain your dignity.
I inhaled. The most difficult thing was letting go of my need for his approval.
My voice softened somewhat as I continued, “Dad, I don’t need you to be proud of me.” “I genuinely don’t. I’m pleased with myself. I need you to treat me like an equal and as an adult.
The sounds of the café seemed to subside. The grinding ceased. It was lulling indie music.
My dad sat still. He seemed to be seeing me for the first time as he gazed at me. He searched for the little girl who used to conceal ribbons beneath her bed out of desperation. At the dining table, he searched for the adolescent who had asked for his attention.
They had vanished.
A woman who didn’t require his assistance was seated across from him.
And in front of my eyes, that insight seemed to make him look five years older.
He glanced down at his now-cold, crushed coffee cup. He inhaled deeply and tremblingly.
“I,” he began, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat.
“I was unaware of how much I had been missing.”
It wasn’t a complete apology. It wasn’t an admission of guilt.
However, it was a white flag for a man like Arthur Neves.
He gave me a glance. The haughtiness had vanished. A silent, resigned acceptance took its place.
He tasted the word and repeated it: “Respect.” “All right. Alright, Lucia.
He gave a nod. It was a slow, thoughtful nod, a handless salute.
“All right,” I repeated.
I drained my coffee. It tasted like victory, but it was bitter and chilly.
I got to my feet.
“I need to return to the base.” At 1400, we have a briefing.
Out of habit, he also got to his feet.
“All right. “Duty calls.”
Although this wasn’t a movie, there was an embarrassing moment where an embrace might have occurred in a Hallmark film. We didn’t give each other hugs. We didn’t cry.
There was still a great space between us, full of ancient wounds.
At least there was a bridge now, although a slender, precarious one constructed on borders.
“Major, drive carefully,” he advised.
I stopped.
I was referred to as Major by him. Not, darling. No, honey.
Major.
“You too, Arthur,” I replied.
I didn’t refer to him as Dad. Not at that moment. I addressed him by name, recognizing that, like me, he was a man with flaws and humanity.
After turning around, I left the Starbucks. I opened the door and went out into the intense Florida heat. I didn’t mind being engulfed in the heat.
I went to my vehicle, opened the door, and took a seat behind the wheel. I looked in the rearview mirror. Through the café’s window, I could see him sitting by himself at the table and gazing at the vacant chair where I had been.
After shifting into gear, I took off.
No war had been won by me. He had not been damaged by me.
I’d done something considerably more difficult.
I had changed what tranquility meant.
And I was free for the first time in my life.
In the military, time is defined by duty stations, deployments, and the gradual accumulation of gray hairs.
A decade. It had been ten years since I left that Tampa coffee shop. It’s been ten years since I challenged my father to cross the line I drew in the sand.
The Langley Air Force Base auditorium was completely packed today. Fresh-cut flowers and floor polish filled the air. The gold fringe of the American flag caught the overhead lights as it stood erect and motionless on the stage.
At the podium, I stood.
I was wearing a different uniform. The lieutenant colonel’s silver oak leaves had taken the place of the major’s gold oak leaves.
I peered out at the sea of blue uniforms. I saw two hundred faces in return. They weren’t staring at me fearfully. They weren’t staring at me because they had to.
They were observing me with confidence.
Now I was their commander.
The adjutant said, “Pay attention to orders.”
The room sprang to life. Like a thunderclap, 200 pairs of boots struck the floor simultaneously.
I didn’t wince. I didn’t enlarge my chest. I simply stood there, taking it all in.
I looked around the front row. This was often reserved for VIPs, such as senators and generals.
However, the seat of honor was occupied by an elderly man today.
Arthur Neves was now seventy years old. He was not in his dress uniform. Five years earlier, he had retired. His civilian clothing was charcoal gray and a bit too baggy for him. His hair, which had been high-and-tight and steel gray, was now receding and entirely white.
He was no longer the deity of war. He was merely a granddad who complained of his pain and played golf on Tuesdays.
He wasn’t asked to take the platform so I could pin my rank on him. Master Sergeant Elena Rodriguez, who is now retired and uses a cane to walk, was the person I had selected to perform that duty.
It was a modest but purposeful decision. Instead of being inherited through DNA, rank is acquired in the battlefield.
However, my dad didn’t appear upset. He didn’t appear insulted.
I glanced down at him while Elena’s trembling hands sewed the silver emblem into my collar.
He was in tears. They weren’t a manipulator’s crocodile tears. The tears were silent and silent, streaming down softened cheeks.
He glanced at me and gave me a shaky little smile.
It was a melancholy smile, the smile of a guy who was thankful to be able to watch the race conclude but who discovered too late that he had wagered on the incorrect horse for thirty years.
I gave him a nod.
Recognition. Calm.
“Ladies and gentlemen, command is not a privilege,” I stated into the microphone in a calm, clear voice. It is a burden. And I will bear that burden for you, not on top of you.
I did not cite Sun Tzu. Patton wasn’t quoted by me. I addressed them like a human. As a young officer, I lacked the dignity I now possessed, so I treated them with it.
The reception queue formed following the wedding. Sheet cake and punch were available. It was a light atmosphere.
As I worked the room, my father remained in the back, watching me with a paper cup of punch. He made no attempt to assume control. He didn’t speak out.
He remained inside the lines that we had established over the previous ten years, brick by brick.
A young lady came up to me. She had just graduated from the academy and was a second lieutenant. Her new uniform was unpleasant and rigid. She appeared frightened.
She whimpered, “Lieutenant Sarah Jenkins, ma’am.” I simply wanted to congratulate you.
Recalling the frightened girl I once was, I grinned.
I’m grateful, Lieutenant. How are you settling into the squadron?”
She paused, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention.
“Ma’am, it’s difficult. My father is a colonel in the Marines. The Air Force, in his opinion, is a soft branch. He wished for me to practice JAG law. He claims that I’m squandering my intelligence potential.
I went cold.
The melody remained the same despite the new words—the ghost of the past resonating in this young girl’s voice.
I gave my piece of cake to a helper and focused entirely on her. I invaded her personal space to protect her rather than to threaten her.
“Lieutenant, give me a look,” I firmly said.
Her eyes widened as she looked up.
I added, “I’m going to tell you something that took me a lot of heartache and thirty-three years to learn.” “Your father did not get to write your story, even though he gave you your name.”
Startled by the strength of my voice, she blinked.
I went on, “Don’t let anyone define your worth.” Not your blood, and definitely not your enemies. You are not here to carry on his legacy. You’re here to construct your own.
The youthful lieutenant stood up. I noticed a slight change in her weight, a spark in her eyes, and the start of a backbone.
She answered, “Yes, ma’am,” without squeaking this time. “I am grateful, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
A quote from Maya Angelou crossed my thoughts as she left, standing a little taller than before. During those long, lonely nights in Yemen, I came upon this:
I stand as 10,000, yet I come as one.
I was no longer just Lucia. All the women who had been told to sit down added up to me. Every child who had been taught they weren’t enough had a voice because to me.
For them, I stood.
The reception came to an end. The room fell silent.
My dad approached me. He appeared worn out.
He whispered, “Lucia, that was a good speech.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
The silver oak leaves on my shoulders caught his attention. He extended his hand, hovered it for a second, and then awkwardly patted my arm.
“You look better wearing it than I did.”
It was the closest he would ever come to acknowledging my correctness.
And it was sufficient.
Would you like to go out to dinner?He inquired. “Mom is preparing pot roast.”
I looked at my timepiece.
“I am unable to. I had to catch a flight. morning briefing at the Pentagon.
A glimmer of disappointment appeared in his eyes as he nodded, but he immediately covered it up.
“Obviously. First, duty. I comprehend.
I said, “I’ll give you a call on Sunday.”
“Sunday,” he said again. “All right.”
A lone man in a vast hall, he turned and headed for the exit. I was a little sad as I watched him leave, but I didn’t feel guilty.
I hadn’t forgotten, but I had forgiven him. The scar would always serve as a reminder of the border line, even though the relationship had healed.
I stepped out the side door after turning. The warm, golden Virginia light slammed into my face. Above Langley, the sky was a deep, unending blue that pleaded to be flown in.
I inhaled deeply, allowing the air of freedom to fill my lungs.
I wasn’t Lucia, small. I was no longer even Ghost 13. That was the name of the shadows, of a woman who, in order to live, had to conceal her brilliance.
My heels clicked steadily on the pavement as I made my way to my car. I didn’t have to hide. I didn’t have to disappear.
Lucia Neves is my name. In the US Air Force, I hold the rank of lieutenant colonel.
And I wasn’t fleeing from anything for the first time in my life.
I was in the air.
One thing I want you to remember from my experience is that you are the author of your own life narrative.
I let my father to have the pen for years. He portrayed me as a shadow, a letdown, and a victim. However, I became aware that I was none of those things as soon as I retrieved that pen.
I was a fighter.
Please keep in mind that it is not hateful to set boundaries with toxic family members. It’s a bold gesture of self-love. Being great doesn’t require their approval. You can proceed without their apology.
They don’t offer you a gift because you are valuable. You construct the fortress yourself.
I’d like to hear from you now.
Everybody has a General Neves in their life, someone who made an effort to make us feel little so they could feel large. But take a look at yourself. You remain here. You’re still upright.
If my tale touched you, please click the “like” button. It makes this message of hope more accessible to other ghosts.
Additionally, I would like you to declare anything in the comments section below. “I am the commander” should be typed.
Take responsibility for your life. Take charge of your future.
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When the truth about who you truly are finally revealed to others, have you ever had a family member try to keep you little or invisible? If yes, how did that moment alter the way you allowed them to speak into your life going forward?
