Thrace hands a coil of rope to McBride. He takes it with a nod; no words needed. Between her and the next person is nearly ten meters of swirling white, the kind of distance that can swallow a soldier whole in a storm like this.
McBride signals Black and Simmons.
"You’ve both got the experience," he says, voice steady over the wind. "And I trust either of you to handle the number‑two spot."He looks at Black and continues, "I’d like for you to take number two. I’ll put Dawid (NPC), the Doctor and Wolfe (NPC) behind you."
Black nods once, already unclipping a carabiner from his ruck strap.
McBride turns to Simmons. "I’d like you to take the midpoint. With Ms. Kharchenko, McCain and our Canadien, MacDonald behind you."
Simmons gives a short, knowing nod. He’s already reading the rope, the spacing, the wind direction, instincts kicking in without fanfare.
"Everyone will be at 5 meter intervals starting with Black. And I’ll bring up the rear. Any questions?"
Any questions get answered quickly. If no one speaks. The wind fills the silence.
As McBride moves down the line, he places each person right where he said, checking clips, knots, and spacing. He stops briefly with each soldier.
In a low, firm voice he tells each one, "Movement within these walls are not really a problem. Shelter’s only a few meters in any direction. But once we pass out that gate, a lost person in a storm like this is as good as dead. So clip in and make sure you stay clipped in until LT Thrace or myself say otherwise."
The wind is out of the northwest, hard enough that everyone has to lean into it as they pass through the gate. It claws at parkas, rattles ruck straps, and sends loose snow skittering across the ground like dry sand. The temperature is well below zero, but the wind makes it feel colder still; a sharp, biting cold that finds seams and gaps in clothing no matter how well layered.
Beyond the gate, the world narrows to a tunnel of swirling white. The road is technically gravel. But right now, the surface is mostly wind-scoured packed snow/ice covering the rutted road, ruts currently barely noticeable under the snowpack.
The Yaktrax and bunny boots prove their worth immediately, each step lands with a confidence the inexperienced replacements didn’t expect. Confidence quickly builds despite the incredible cold and stinging weather.
Thrace sets the pace, steady and deliberate. McBride walks at the rear, eyes scanning the formation, making sure spacing stays tight and nobody drifts. The replacements follow, heads down, shoulders hunched against the wind. Their breath streams out in long white plumes that are instantly torn away by the storm. They move well. Better than McBride expected.
Within moments, COP Charlie disappears behind them.
Not gradually — completely.
No stray light from any building…
No blue flashes…
No outline of HESCO barrier walls…
The blizzard swallows the outpost whole.
From the guard post, it only took a minute… maybe less… Anyone looking for signs of the LRRP’s departure would find nothing. Ten people. Three sleds.

No footprints.
No drag marks.
No churned snow.
No trail to follow.
Snowpack. And the wind erases everything within seconds.
Only their absence betrays their passing.





