The Price of Doing Nothing

It all starts when Gwen leans across the table, points her finger at me, and says, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

I’ve been telling my family about Ukraine—about the bombed-out cities, the hungry refugees fleeing their hometowns, the scared children who’ve lost their parents. I want them to understand the importance of it all. But my sister just doesn’t get it.

Everyone stops eating and look at us.

“You don’t care about anyone except yourself,” I tell her. “I’ve done six year of military service, I know what it means to sacrifice for others.”

Dad changes the subject, always the peacemaker. I decide to let it go. It's Thanksgiving, after all.

But later, the question sticks with me. What am I going to do about it? I start asking around, reaching out to old contacts, scrolling through forums.

That’s when I find him—a fellow ex-Navy SEAL on Facebook.

Greg is already over there fighting with The Volunteers. “If you’re serious,” he says, “I can get you in.”

A week later, I’m on a plane to Poland with a contact to get into Ukraine.

The months that follow are a blur of boredom, chaos, and heartbreak. I see entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble, families hiding in basements, children who’ve lost everything.

Putin is crushing them. There are countless nights I can’t stop my tears.

After months of taking potshots at a distant enemy I can barely see, I’m assigned a real mission, Something that can make a difference.

Flying at treetop height in the dark, a UA helicopter drops my team of American soldiers behind the Russian line. Our objective: blow the last bridge to Sudhka, cutting off a critical supply route. We hide in the forest for days. The artillery and airstrikes on the nearby front line have been relentless, but finally, there is a lull. We emerge from our well concealed bunker before sunrise.

Fred, our comms guy, checks his equipment. “An immediate ceasefire is in effect from 0400 hours,” he reads out. It's already after four now.

“What do we do now?” I ask, gripping my well oiled MK17.

“Turn yourselves in,” Fred reads back.

“To whom?” I ask, stomach sinking.

Fred’s tone darkens. “To the Russians.”

We set out to recon our surroundings. We move cautiously across a barren field, keeping low and using the terrain for cover. Ahead, we spot a shed flying a Russian flag, an APAC parked beside it.

“There they are,” I whisper, my heart pounding, hoping they don’t respond poorly to a squad of heavily armed Americans interrupting their breakfast.

A metallic clank-clank cuts the silence. Someone racking a round into the chamber.

“A Seal Team never surrenders,” Fred growls, raising his weapon.

“Roger that,” I snap back, loading my own weapon.

Fred takes the shot, dropping the man standing guard.

Everything goes black.

When my vision clears, glowing text fills my HUD: In this US Naval Command simulation, test subject has failed to comply with operational commands.