When the Silence Breaks

The hills beyond KMA rolled out like a green-brown map under a sky scraped raw by wind. The field exercise—Sudarshan-Delta—was meant to grind cadets against reality until the edges shone: navigation under time pressure, stealth breach of an abandoned outpost, mock extraction under radio silence. No live fire, plenty of consequence.

Vidya tightened the strap of her field kit and scanned the staging point. Cadets clustered in chalk-marked groups, faces lined with keenness and nerves. Abhimanyu circled like a hawk, tossing last-minute curveballs to test problem-solving. Rajveer checked a compass against his watch, cool and contained. And Gunny—already in position near the treeline—stood as if carved from the same iron he demanded, motionless until motion mattered.

Shalini nudged Vidya. "Ready for the wilderness?"

"As ready as I can be when my wilderness comes with a clipboard," Vidya murmured, tapping her checklist. "Vitals at pre-brief, mid-ex, post. Hydration checks at the half. Your signature here—"

Shalini laughed. "You're going to be the death of their excuses."

A whistle shrilled. Abhi's voice followed: "Teams A and B on me. Team C with Captain Randhawa. Medical shadow, maintain distance unless called."

"Medical shadow" translated to: close enough to do your job, far enough not to bother mine. Vidya had learned the phrase living in men's worlds.

Gunny turned as Team C formed up—six cadets, two radios, one map, a plastic case of coded objectives. His gaze flicked over the men and then landed, briefly, on Vidya. No greeting. Just recognition, the cool kind that logged variables the way weather logs wind.

"You'll follow my timing," he said. "We're moving fast. If your protocol slows the team, we leave protocol behind."

Vidya absorbed the hit without flinching. "If your timing risks preventable collapse, we leave timing behind."

His eyes flattened, not angry—measuring. "Doctor, this is a military exercise, not a ward round."

"Captain, a body is still a body in both."

Rajveer's glance—enough—cut across the gap like a steadying hand, and the moment snapped shut. Gunny faced his team. "We cross the dry creek, cut east, hit the outpost in forty-five minutes. Cadet Sabharwal, you navigate. Singh, you're rear. Radio discipline. Questions?"

No one had any.

They moved.

The ground turned treacherous quick—cracked scrub hiding ankle-twisters, loose shale skittering like spilled coins. Gunny set pace—fast enough to thin breath, slow enough to hold formation. He didn't look back, but he knew where everyone was by sound; his men had learned to be audible in useful ways.

Vidya kept to the right flank, using the natural gullies for cover, counting breaths with the practice of long shifts and longer walks. She watched gait patterns—the small tells: Singh's left foot landing a fraction too hard (old knee issue), Sabharwal over-correcting on the compass line (confidence rattled), another cadet's shoulders riding high with tension. Nothing dangerous yet. Nothing to cut pace for. She swallowed protocol and matched terrain.

At the dry creek—really a scar of rock and thorn—they paused three counts. Gunny scanned, finger grazing the map only long enough to confirm what his eyes already knew. He dropped down first, tested the bank with the toe of his boot, then lifted Sabharwal by the elbow without comment when the cadet slipped on shale. It was absurdly gentle. It was also over fast, tucked into efficiency so tight it nearly disappeared.

Vidya saw it anyway. File the softness; don't say it out loud.

They crested the next rise and flattened as Abhi's flare cracked distant—simulated contact, adjust route. Gunny's hand chopped once; Team C shifted left, threading thorn and stone like a body learning a new rhythm.