Captain James Mallory stood at the edge of Bagac Bay, his boots sinking into wet sand as the tide rolled in.
The Thompson hung loose across his chest, the weight familiar and indifferent.
Ships came and went through the harbor, black silhouettes against the dying light, but Mallory wasn't watching them. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. On Siam.
He couldn't see its shores, but he knew that's where they'd be sent soon enough.
The Royal Thai Army had grown into something dangerous over the last twenty years, especially the last ten.
Replacing Japan as the new power of Southeast Asia, they were loyal to Berlin, armed and trained by it.
The Reich had poured steel and science into Siam like holy oil: rifles, uniforms, armor, even warships.
Some were stamped "Made in Bangkok," while others were born from German blueprints.
Germany had made a proxy. And America…. Well, Mallory didn't care.
Politics weren't his business. He wasn't a philosopher or a grand strategist.
