The low hum from the propellers vibrates through the darkened cabin of the plane. There is no soundproofing material, or any other cabin decoration to dampen it. Through it, the trained ear can make out the sound of the air sliding along the fuselage, and the hiss of the turbines. There is a slight difference between the left and the right turbine speeds. The right one being probably older, as it needs a faster speed to align the propeller torques. Suddenly, the sound of the wind increases, as the load-master rises from his seat and opens the plane door. The tone of the turbines change, and the plane starts slowing down.

As usual, the air rushing inside the plane seems colder than what I've ever felt, and I see the man cringe at the feeling. I exchange a glance with the man, and notice he still looks unsure about us, but he's going to do his job. He's a soldier; obeying orders is his honor. My team mates are now looking at the red light above the door, and at each other. Five boys and two other girls not aged more than fifteen, maybe even younger, but none of us know our real birth date. No unit insignia, no flag, nothing to make us identifiable.

I watch them, and I feel proud. Honor and duty are on their minds. They're ready to do their duty, to sacrifice their lives to the mission, to honor our country. We are just teenagers, but we have spent our short lives learning to fight, preparing for a moment like that. Only that ever mattered. After the betrayal and desertion of the best part of our unit six years ago, this is the first time some of us are trusted on a large scale mission, and outside of the country; our chance to demonstrate our loyalty; our chance to redeem the honor of our kin and our unit.

We know we have not been chosen because the command esteems or trusts us; we know we are there because the decision-makers were desperate for a solution. We've had enough psychological warfare, interrogation, and manipulation classes to understand that through the way the mission preparation has gone. But we do not mind; it has just been another obstacle on the way to our duty. And if some of us had minded, they had quickly realized their anger was better channeled towards the mission, transformed into cold determination.

I check the instruments on my wrist once again: heading 040, flight level 310, jump towards the west. I rehearse once again the gestures in my head.

"Jump in ten seconds." The voice of the pilot comes through the headsets. Calm, like she is reviewing a routine checklist, not looking out for hostile fighters while encroaching in enemy airspace. They're not from our unit, and it's a relief to realize they're still trained pros doing their job.

I take a last deep breath, remove the oxygen mask and the headset, and stand at the door, first in line. I'm not the leader, but I'm the scout, the one who opens the way. The rest of the team follows my move. Four seconds after the green light, the aft cabin is already empty as the plane re-accelerates to continue on its course like a normal airliner. I watch its position lights moving away as my fall picks up speed, before the pressure on my limbs grows strong enough for me to maneuver.

The night is pitch black: cloudy and moonless. Even with my trained and enhanced night vision, I have no sight of the ground or my teammates while we fly in the thin air. We're going to have to regroup. That was expected, that's why we planned a rendezvous point. And an alternate one in case the first is not safe. And even a second alternate. I concentrate on maintaining my course and on monitoring the altimeter. It is decreasing slightly faster than during training; I must be heavier with equipment. I feel my body fighting the lack of oxygen and the cold, but I'm not worried. I know I'm able to hold my breath for three or four minutes, even more than five if in good conditions. At nearly 150 miles per hour, this is not going to last that long.

Two and a half minutes later, I open my parachute, inside hot humid air. I feel the black sail deploy, and immediately grab the controls and brake to minimum speed. If my navigation is accurate, the ground should now be very close, but it is still invisible. And there is no mean to cross-check, since The Bomb has fried the transmitters of the greatest part of the world satellites navigation systems. Finally, I break out of low stratus clouds above mirror-calm water, to find myself illuminated by the search lights of a military camp. I barely have the time to put my hands on the release handles and curse my bad navigation before I hit the surface.

Too far. Got a better glide coefficient than we thought. OPSEC breach to report. And that's for a supposedly low-observable sail.

Ten minutes later, I emerge on the far side the lake, dripping water on the marshy soil. I hide the parachute bag under a booby-trapped bush, along with the bodies of the soldiers from the search party that had been sent after me. No need to explain how I killed them all; with my training and without them having any night vision device, they didn't stand a chance. Then, I run on the way to the rendezvous point in the supple silent stride I've been taught while their now explosive-laden pneumatic reaches the camp beach. I still smell their blood.

Let them believe this was my objective.

Seven black figures disperse around as I now advance towards the objective on the darker side of the street. Without looking around, I know what they are doing. One, the leader, is monitoring the situation from a roof top. Four is with him, providing cover with the sniper rifle. Six is taking position on a side building with the machine gun, ready to provide suppression fire just in case things turn real ugly. I hope not, we're not geared for a full frontal assault; we're going for stealth. Two - one of the other girls - is on support behind me for the scouting, and ready to lead the assault. We're all proficient at close combat, but she's our best for silent kills. The other three are closing in from the other sides.

The hot and humid night is perfectly calm when the silence is broken by the cries of a baby in a nearby house. I freeze in the shadow while her mother brings him on the balcony, murmuring soft words of reassurance and love in Spanish. She sits on a chair under a mosquito net, and reveals a breast heavy with milk. The woman is young, only a few years older than me. It is one thing to be explained human reproduction in socialization and biology courses; it is something else to witness that scene.

I take one second off my mission to sort through memories, memories of other children who have betrayed us and escaped the camp. Where are they now? Where would I be if I had been with them? Would I be like this woman? Would I have accepted some boy to impregnate me with his offspring? To have to care for it, to let myself weighed down by something so weak? That woman looks so happy. Are reproductions hormones strong enough to make one do that?

Fucking hormones!

I know I'm not supposed to know how to swear. Nobody officially taught us. But I've had examples. Dislocating the shoulder of an200 pound close-combat instructor, while being a mere 60 pound, ten year-old girl tends to do that. Or smashing another one's newly-mended teeth on the ground, too. I've had a lot of people to learn from.

And I am a soldier anyway; that's not important. What's important is that I have a duty, a mission. I turn back towards the US Embassy, count the Panamanian guards on my side, add to them that civilian looking at them from his porch, and make my report on the wireless link. I do not count the breastfeeding woman; she cannot see the embassy from her balcony; she's been lucky, and will never know it. I adapt the silencer on my sidearm and slip on the hood that will hide my face from the people I'm going to rescue. I turn my knife in my hand, and patiently wait for Two to launch the attack at the designated time.

The initial assault is perfectly silent. No rifle or suppression fire is needed, as everything, for once, goes nearly as planned. Seven of us are inside the building without anyone knowing it. Like their colleagues outside, the soldiers that are in contact with the hostages have no time to react before they have their necks broken, a knife through their throats, or a sidearm bullet through their heads (we allow ourselves some noise this time in the name of hostages' safety). Soon, all said hostages are on the roof and the helicopters are confirmed. I am on the roof with One, Six, and Four who has now joined us, shepherding the civilians and surveying the approaches, while the others plant the demolition charges in the building and clean it of any remaining file.

We do not speak more than necessary, and do not remove our hoods until inside our own aircraft. Back to the base, during debriefing, we are shown the news, including an interview of the ambassador on-board the old aircraft carrier where we'd landed. He thanks the soldiers without having seen a face under the black hoods, without even knowing who or what we are.

I feel a bit bad about having killed all those people. Not that bad, mind you, just a little bit. It's part of life. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it's normal that they're no more; it's a reminder that it might happen to us if we're not careful enough. It's just that they really had no chances. No choice. I hope that when my turn comes, I sacrifice for helping accomplish the mission. That I will choose my death, instead of being helpless like them. I make the mistake to voice my thought aloud during the breakfast that interrupts debriefing, and have to spend one hour a day during the next month in psy-ops to make sure I understand why I acted perfectly, and this was necessary, and I should be proud of myself, and I should reinforce my aggressive tendencies instead of questioning them like that.

After that, I keep my mouth shut. Even if it has gone much smoother lately, now that we're not considered potential traitors anymore or at least less than before, I'm fed up with having my psy checked and adjusted. That in itself is a lack of confidence in my hierarchy that I should report and have adjusted too. But I just want a bit of intimacy in my head, as strange as it would seem for my team-mates. I've read somewhere in a biology book that this rebellious streak is normal around my age, that it comes with adolescence hormonal shifts. But knowing doesn't make it easier to fight, and in this case, I simply can't bring myself to speak up.

Fucking hormones…

Thanks to Kim (Berley on The Globe) for the beta-review!

Sound: Beirut, played by Steps Ahead.