The Breaker Legacy!

A late-night punishment turns into something far bigger at Genoa, the U.S. military’s most secretive black-site base. Two soldiers—Randy and Roman—are dragged into a freezing fog-covered hangar after

Location: Genoa Military Installation, United States
Date: August 27, 2022
Time: 03:12 AM
Weather: Cold night, heavy fog drifting low across the concrete

The fog was thick enough to swallow the base whole as Randy and Roman followed their sergeant across the concrete, each carrying a heavy weapons case. Sweat slid down their faces despite the cold, dripping off their chins as they struggled to keep pace behind Harlow.

They were out here for one reason �" and it was their own damn fault.

Earlier that night, during a random barracks inspection, Harlow had found a bottle of whiskey hidden under one of their mattresses. Illegal contraband. Stupid violation. Automatic punishment.

Now they were looking at a full month of weapons cleaning, starting tonight.

When they reached the maintenance hangar, Harlow grabbed the handle and pulled the massive doors open.
Cold night air rushed in instantly, fog pouring inside like a slow tide, spreading across the floor until it looked like the earth was breathing into the room.

Both men felt that familiar knot in their stomach �" the one Harlow had planted in them when they were still raw recruits.
He’d warned them about this place.
Told them this was where screwups came to sweat out their punishment.
Told them not to end up here.

Yet here they were.

Guilt twisted deeper, and Randy swallowed hard, trying not to let it show.

Harlow didn’t slow. He marched to the side of the entrance, grabbed a folded metal table, and dragged it out with one arm before slamming it down in the center of the hangar �" close enough to the doors that anyone passing by would know exactly why they were here.

Neither soldier moved.

Roman’s shoulders sank. The guilt hit him harder than the punishment itself.
He hated disappointing Harlow.

“S-sarge… I-I’m s�"”

He didn’t finish.
Randy elbowed him in the ribs �" sharp, quiet, the kind of hit that meant:
Shut up before you make this worse.

Instinct finally kicked in.
Both men rushed forward, grabbing the folding chairs, sorting the tools, lining up the oil bottles and rags, pulling the scattered supply crates closer to the table. They moved fast, desperate to fix their screwup, desperate to prove they weren’t completely useless.

Harlow stood in front of the table like a stone statue �" hands clasped behind his back, jaw locked tight, eyes cold.

When the frantic setup was done, Randy and Roman dropped into the folding chairs, sitting stiff and straight, barely breathing in the cold, echoing hangar.

They looked like two helpless kids, scrambling in their heads for any excuse that might soften what was coming.
But everything they thought of sounded pathetic.

Sweat slid down their faces anyway.

Harlow let the silence stretch.
He studied both of them like he was weighing their worth.
Even the fog rolling past their boots sounded louder than either man dared to be.

Then �" for just a heartbeat �" the corner of Harlow’s mouth twitched.
A private, sharp smile.
He erased it instantly.

He didn’t need to raise his voice.
His silence hit harder.

Harlow:
“Keep this s**t up, and let’s see where you end up next month.”

Randy straightened, panic already building.

Randy:
“Sarge, please�"”

Harlow didn’t let him finish.
He slammed his fist onto the metal table. The hit was so violent the tools jumped and a cleaning brush bounced off the edge.

The brush clattered to the floor and rolled.
Roman twitched like he meant to grab it, but boot-camp conditioning locked him in place.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t even bend down.
He just flicked his eyes toward it.

The tiny sound of the brush rolling wasn’t anywhere near the explosion of Harlow’s fist �" but in the dead hangar, it felt loud enough to slap his nerves.

His attention snapped back to Harlow like a stretched rubber band.

The sergeant slowly raised his arm and pointed at both of them �" eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.

That look said everything:
One wrong word, one wrong breath, and he’d bury them in paperwork and punishment until they begged for discharge.

Nobody spoke.

Harlow exhaled through his nose �" a tired, frustrated breath.

“Jesus… what am I supposed to do with you two,” he muttered.

He rubbed his forehead once, more exhaustion than anger, then straightened.

“At ease. And clean this mess properly. I want every inch of this table spotless before inspection.”

up to this point is great. dont add anything i will build on it  after you this. Harlow gave them one last look �" that cold, disappointed glance that felt heavier than getting punched �" then he turned and walked away, boots hammering the concrete in slow, merciless beats.

Roman froze.

He didn’t just sit still �" his whole body locked up like someone had cut the power to his muscles.

His hands clenched the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening, the metal groaning under his grip.

His chest stopped moving. He couldn’t tell if he’d forgotten to breathe or if his lungs just refused to listen.

Each thump of Harlow’s boots hit Roman like a pulse.

One…

Two…

Three…

His heart matched the rhythm, beating harder, faster, out of sync with his breaths.

Roman tried to swallow, but his throat was sand-dry.

The taste of metal crept up the back of his tongue �" adrenaline.

His mind spiraled:

Just go around the corner… please… just go…

Faster, sarge… one more step… just one more…

Don’t turn around… don’t look back…

His leg twitched under the table. He wanted to move.

His entire body begged to move.

But that old boot-camp discipline strangled him in place.

Then, finally, Harlow’s silhouette disappeared into the wall of fog outside.

Roman’s body reacted all at once �" a shaky, violent exhale punched out of him.

His shoulders slumped.

His fingers unclenched.

Blood rushed back into his hands in a burning wave.

For a moment he just sat there, breathing like a man who had survived being held underwater.

Randy watched Roman fall apart in silence as Harlow disappeared into the fog.
He’d seen Roman like this before �" that desperate, wired look he got whenever trouble hovered over them.
It hit Randy with a small ache of guilt.
Roman had been his friend since the day they arrived at the base together.

Roman always got into fights at bars.
Not because he liked hurting people �" but because he never knew what to do with everything he felt.
Too much emotion, never enough control.

And now here he was again, ready to spring like a lion on an antelope and tear the whole situation to pieces if Harlow came back.

Randy let out a slow breath, eyes lifting toward the ceiling.

He whispered to himself, barely audible:

“Amanda’s probably wiping down the bar right now… lucky her.”
A beat passed, then quieter:
“Should I buy flowers or a new jacket or something? Maybe actually ask her out this time…”

In that moment, Randy stood up and walked toward Roman �" calm steps, soft eyes that said you knucklehead without needing the words.

“Roman,” Randy said firmly.

Roman froze, nerves sparking again. “Dude�"dude, I’m sorry, man, I fucked up ba�"”

Before he could finish, Randy slipped his right arm around Roman’s shoulders, steadying him.

“Hey,” Randy said, voice low. “You think Amanda would go out with me if I gave it a real shot?”

Roman blinked at Randy, completely thrown off by how calm he suddenly was.
He tried to speak, voice confused but laced with that small, childish humor he always used when things got bad.

“If helping you get Amanda’s number gets me off the hook for the whiskey bottle I smuggled in… then call me your cupid, brother.”

Randy burst out laughing �" real, full laughter that echoed in the empty hangar.

“Oh yeah, Roman… before you play cupid, maybe you should work on your skills with Candy at the strip club. I’ve never seen anyone get shut down faster in my life.”

Roman groaned. “Come on, Randy! I really tried that time!”

“Yeah, yeah, Roman. Let’s just get to work.”

A beat.

“…Randy? You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Randy couldn’t resist teasing him.
He slowly lifted his shoulders up… and down… offering the world’s most unhelpful shrug.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Roman squinted at him, even more confused.
He was terrible at reading people when they went quiet �" and Randy knew it.

Randy and Roman finally sat still, the last of their tension bleeding out into the cold air.

What neither of them realized was that Sergeant James E. Harlow had quietly doubled back.

He stood just outside the hangar doors, hidden in the fog, watching the two idiots he’d spent three years training and yelling at.
A small smile tugged at his mouth.

They were fools �" late-twenties, loud, emotional fools �" but they were his fools.

And as much as he pretended otherwise, Harlow worried about how they handled punishment more than he ever admitted.

After a moment, he turned away, steps lighter now, and headed back toward his office.

As James finally saw his office �" a custom-built container unit welded to the far edge of the barracks, close enough for him to keep an eye on his soldiers at all hours �" he felt the tension ease from his shoulders.

He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. The hinges let out their usual long, squeaky groan.

Note to self, he thought. Fix that damn door. That sound’s been more of a pain in my a*s than Randy and Roman combined.

He stepped inside.
Cold fog swept in behind him like a living thing, curling across the floor in soft waves. Harlow paused, watching it drift around the steel walls, always a little amused by the natural phenomenon.

There was something beautiful about it �" calm, quiet, untouched.

His mind almost drifted.

But before he could enjoy the moment, a sharp, piercing ring sliced straight through the silence.

The ringing hit James like a slap �" the exact jolt his mind needed to snap back to reality.

Instinct kicked in.
He moved fast, crossing the small container office in two long strides.

He snatched his phone off the desk. He’d left it there on purpose earlier, when he’d dragged Randy and Roman in for their punishment. His eyes flicked to the wall opposite the desk �" a faint streak of blue ink still marked where he’d thrown his pen between them.

Focus, James, he told himself. Right now.

He tapped the green icon on the glowing touchscreen and lifted the phone to his ear.

“This is James E. Harlow,” he said, steadying his voice. “How can I be of service, sir?”

The voice on the other end belonged to no one else but Michael Manson �" fifty-two years old, Director of the Eclipse Division.

James knew that voice instantly.
His pulse spiked on instinct.

Michael was not a man you wasted time with.
He didn’t care for excuses.
He didn’t tolerate rambling.
He wanted straight answers, nothing more.

Hell �" Michael was the reason this entire base even existed.
He was the one who convinced the President to build Genoa in total secrecy.
A new black site.
A new frontier.

Michael’s tone came through sharp and final, exactly like always:

“Clark is on his way for a late-night personnel inspection. I want an updated status report. Wake everyone necessary.”

James’s body reacted before his mind did �" spine straight, shoulders squared, as if Michael were standing right in front of him.

“Yes, sir. It’ll be taken care of now.”

“Good, James,” Michael replied. “I knew I could depend on you. You’re my guy for a reason.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

A quiet breath from Michael �" subtle, but enough to signal the edge of the conversation was softening.

“Call me if anything happens. You know you have my support, right?”

James froze for half a second.
He knew this tone.
He knew this was a test �" another one of Michael’s little traps to check loyalty, discipline, and memory.

So James answered the only correct way:

“Article 3.14 of the Genoa Base Protocol, sir. Eclipse Division authority is final �" and followed to the letter.”

Michael actually cracked up on the other end �" a rare sound from a man who usually spoke like a machine.

“A man who copies protocol to save himself,” Michael said, still amused. “Priceless. No wonder that immovable mountain we call Clark likes you. You’re a clever one, James. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, sir. You as well.”

The line cut.

James didn’t realize how tense his body had been until the silence hit him. His knees loosened, and he fell back into his chair, exhaling hard.

“Jesus, Michael,” he muttered under his breath. “Will you ever give me a break…?”

But he already knew the answer.
Breaks weren’t part of the job.

A sudden jolt ran up his spine �" the kind that snaps a soldier back to duty.
James jumped to his feet.

He had work to do.
A mission to finish.

James blinked hard, fighting the heaviness dragging at his eyes.
He shook his head once, trying to snap himself awake.

On instinct, he reached for the glass of water he’d abandoned earlier �" the one he never drank because he’d been too busy tearing Randy and Roman apart. He dipped both hands into the cold water, let the icy sting bite into his skin, then dragged it across his face.

The shock hit him immediately �" sharp enough to cut through the fog in his brain.

Two deep breaths.
In… out.
His heartbeat slowed, muscles unclenching one by one after almost twenty-four straight hours awake.

“D****t… focus,” he muttered to himself.

James opened the top compartment of his desk �" the one he only touched when things were serious �" and pulled out the base radio. He switched it over to the flight tower frequency, thumb hovering over the transmit button.

He pressed down.

“Dave, come in.”

Dave wasn’t just any NCO �" he was First Sergeant David Marlow, former pilot, the guy they trusted with anything that flew in or out of the base. If something was coming, Dave knew before anyone else.

“Dave, come in,” James repeated.

Nothing.

He waited, listening to the static.
Ten seconds passed before the noise shifted.

“I’m here, boss!”

“That’s Master Sergeant,” James snapped.

His muscles tightened again, heat rising up his neck.

“Sorry, sir,” Dave replied quickly.

“Dave… do you want to get fired?”
James didn’t even try to hide the irritation.

“Oh come on, boss. You know there’s nobody better than me at this job�"”

Suddenly a yell blasted through the radio:

“OMFG, Curry! You kidding me!? How the hell do you miss that shot?! F**k me!”

James blinked.

“…Dave.”

Silence.

“…Yeah, Master Sergeant?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t respond to my first call because you guys are watching a f*****g basketball game?”

James took a long breath, trying not to lose it.

“Dave.”

“Of course we’re watching it, Sarge! It’s the Play of Game �" Golden State’s on fire!”

“Master Sergeant, I know why you’re calling the tower,” Dave said quickly. “I got told about fifteen minutes ago. Eclipse Division called in �" Clark’s escort notified me.”

Then, in the background:

“Curry! Why are you still shooting threes if you can’t hit one, you piece of s**t!?”

“Dave. Focus.”

“Sorry, sir! Sorry. Uh�" yeah, from my screen Clark is ten mics out.”

James clenched his jaw. “Dave… if you weren’t so f*****g good at your job, I would’ve personally fired you ages ago. Friendly reminder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And turn off that F*****G TV before I come up there myself and destroy it!”

A shuffle. A sigh.
Then Dave yelled off-radio:

“Sean, take the money �" Curry fucked me hard tonight!”

James set the radio down for a moment, rubbing his eyes as he tried to piece together the fastest way to get everyone who mattered moving. His brain felt slow, heavy �" then a clear jolt shot through him.

“Lucy,” he muttered. “Lucy’ll know.”

First Sergeant Lucy Alvarez �" the bookworm who somehow ended up organizing half the officer quarters. She was the one who had hand-picked every book on the shelf behind him. Sharp as hell. Loved her job. Trained personally by Colonel Tina. And she always knew exactly who needed to be where.

James switched the radio channel.

“Lucy, come on.”

Her voice cracked through instantly, alert as always:

“Yes, Master Sarge!”

“Lucy, listen. We’ve got a surprise inspection in five minutes. Clark himself.”

There was a tiny pause �" the kind where someone’s soul leaves their body.

“Understood,” she said, all business now.

“Call in the personnel Clark will expect to see. Everyone who matters. Lucy… I’m counting on you.”

“Consider it done, Sarge!”

Meanwhile in the hangar, Randy and Roman were still hunched over their weapons. Randy paused mid-polish, staring at the rifle in his hands, then glanced toward the open doors.

“…Huh?”
He squinted. “Roman, why are the base lights turning on?”

Roman looked up, confused. “Could it be a drill?”

Randy shrugged. “Whatever it is… we’ll find out soon enough.”

Both of them felt it �" that gut-deep shift. Something was off. Something in the air felt wrong.

That’s when they saw it.

Randy spotted it first.

“Is that a chopper…?”

Roman leaned forward, squinting at the distant shape.
“Jesus, Randy �" were you born with telescopes or something? Hawkeye over here…”

Randy ignored him, standing up a bit straighter.
“I think it’s a Blackhawk.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Oh s**t �" that usually means a surprise inspection.”

Then Roman suddenly threw his hands up. “YES! Randy, we just dodged a massive bullet! We’re stuck cleaning weapons �" we got nothing to do with this!”

“Shhh�"” Randy hissed, nudging him.

They both turned.

Lucy and Master Sergeant James were power-walking toward the helipad, followed by about ten scientists in lab coats, all moving way too fast for this hour.

Randy sighed. “…Guess you were right, Roman.”

Author's Note

The start of my first real book.

Reviews

[JayG]

Start-to-finish, this is a transcription of you, storytelling, which is an instant rejection-point in a publisher's office, for reasons invisible to the author, because for you it works.

As storyteller, when you read this, you perform, changing vocal cadence and intensity, gesturing in visual punctuation, and illustrating emotion with changes of facial expression and body-language.

But…does any of that reach the reader? Can the reader know where and when to do what you would? No. But...for the story to work, they would have to perform as they read, exactly you would—which is why we can’t transcribe ourselves performing, and must use the skills developed for our medium.

Added to that, you’re thinking visually, describing what the reader would see, where it a film. So, you tell the reader that it’s foggy. But who cares? The reader can’t see it, and the fog has no effect on what happens. At one point, you have the sergeant made invisible by the fog. Have you not been out on a foggy night? And, you make him behave like no NCO I’ve ever met. He assigned the task, and will know if it’s been done when he checks. Caring about the men bitching? He KNOWS they will. And he has his own life to live, so having him eavesdrop is VERY unrealistic—especially as it's what happens to him when he reaches his office that matters (why would he go to his office at night? He's off duty.

My point: Aside form knowing your subject better, you cannot use the skills of a given medium in another. Specifically, sound and vision. The page’s strength is our ability to take the reader where other mediums can’t go, into the mind of our protagonist. But you have no protagonist. and no one thinks, decides, or analyzes. How can that seem real? You provide physical detail in a history book way, to a reader who expects you to make them LIVE the events, not hear about them secondhand from someone who can neither be heard nor seen.

Bottom line: To write fiction you need the skills of the Commercial Fiction Writing profession, because nothing-else-works. Would universities offer degrees in Commercial Fiction Writing if the skills they teach aren’t necessary? You can no more write fiction without those skills than you can perform surgery with the skills learned in Health Class.

That doesn’t say you can’t be a writer, only that like every successful writer who faced the same problem, add those skills to YOUR tool box. They’re neither hard to find nor learn.

So, grab a copy of a good book on the basics of adding wings to your words, like Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure and dig in:

https://archive.org/details/scenestructurejackbickham

You’ll be glad you did.

And for an overview of the field, you might check my articles and YouTube videos.

But whatever you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

[jamal]

Thank you for taking the time to read and review my second draft.
This was my first real attempt at writing scenes, so I do appreciate the feedback.

I don’t agree with a few points, mainly where personal worldview or preferred style seems to have slipped into the critique, but that’s normal — every writer and reviewer brings their own perspective.

There were useful elements in what you said, and I will take those to heart as I continue improving my craft. It’s a shame you didn’t see anything positive in the writing itself, but that’s okay — no hard feelings.

This won’t discourage me. I’ll keep studying, watching resources, and learning how to refine my technique.

Thanks again for your time and your review.

[JayG]

• I don’t agree with a few points, mainly where personal worldview or preferred style seems to have slipped into the critique,

You should have looked at my bio. I wasn't giving my personal viewpoint. As someone who has signed multiple publishing contracts, has 30 books on sale, has taught at workshops, and owned a manuscript critiquing service, what I was giving is what you'd learn early in any degree program on Fiction Writing, or from good books like the one I linked to.

Never forget that belief, no matter how strongly held, has nothing to do with that belief being either true or false.

As Holly Lisle puts it: “Michelangelo did not have a college degree, nor did Leonardo da Vinci. Thomas Edison didn't. Neither did Mark Twain (though he was granted honorary degrees in later life.) All of these people were professionals. None of them were experts. Get your education from professionals, and always avoid experts.”

They've been refining the skills for hundreds of years because they work. So don't depend on feelings, and personal opinion. Over 75% of submissions are rejected on age one—often paragraph one—because the author, like you, hasn't dug into the skills of the profession. Of the rest, all but three are rejected because the work is less than professional.

So, unless you do acquire those skills you're not even in the game.

[jamal]

I tried to be respectful, but you seem focused on debating, posturing, and speaking condescendingly from the start.
You keep framing your personal preferences as universal rules, and that’s where the disconnect happens.

Professionals are everywhere — that alone doesn’t justify treating others like beginners who need to “prove themselves.”
What you’re doing comes across more like writer hazing than critique.

I came here for honest, constructive feedback.
What you delivered felt dismissive, rigid, and rooted in a very narrow view of how fiction “must” be written.
That’s fine — but it doesn’t fit the kind of work or style I’m developing.

And asking me to read your work after talking down to mine only makes your intentions clearer.

Different creative worlds exist.
Mine doesn’t fit inside the tiny box you’re trying to push me into.

No hard feelings, but I’m not looking for that type of energy or gatekeeping.

[JayG]

• I tried to be respectful, but you seem focused on debating, posturing, and speaking condescendingly from the start.

Easy enough to prove me wrong. Sell something to a publisher. I have, and since you know more than I do it should be a snap. Right?

You post the work. You DON'T dictate how the response is to be written. Had I praised the work you'd have accepted that without comment, as your right. Yet when it's not praise, instead of learning from it, your response is to lash out, and demand to be treated like a writer when you've taken not the smallest step toward becoming one. As Sol Stein puts it:

“A writer, shy or not, needs a tough skin, for no matter how advanced one’s experience and career, expert criticism cuts to the quick, and one learns to endure and to perfect, if for no other reason than to challenge the pain-maker.”

Somone you don't know took time they did NOT have to give you, to point out the problems that would cause a reader-rejection on page one, and provided a link to a book by an honored professor of writing that would provide that needed knowledge.

Your response was to complain that I didn't heap praise on a story that no one else even responded to.

I made the mistake of assuming that you would look at my posted work, here, and notice that I get pages worth of positive comments on it. So just maybe, that book I suggested could help.

That being said, my purpose was to help you improve, not argue or be insulted. So I'll bow out.