Chapter 2 - The Command CarTyler’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. His phone was still live, and the comments were beginning to shift as viewers picked up on the sudden, heavy tension inside the hall.
"This is bullshit," Tyler spat, his voice rising in panicked defiance as he tried to regain control of his audience. "So what?! She’s got a cool patch! That doesn't mean she can wear three rows of combat decorations! I've been in the Reserve for three months, and my instructors told us nobody gets a Silver Star before thirty-five unless—"
SCREECH.
The sound of heavy, reinforced rubber tires skidding to a halt outside the Legion hall echoed through the front glass windows.
A sleek, black staff car with government plates pulled up to the curb, its twin amber warning lights flashing silently against the brick exterior.
Through the frosted glass doors of Post 214, two towering, immaculate airmen wearing dress blues and white shoulder cords pushed the double doors open, stepping inside and snapping to rigid attention on either side of the entrance.
The old veterans in the booths sat up straight. The murmurs died instantly.
Stepping through the threshold, holding a leather command portfolio under his arm, was Brigadier General Marcus Vance.
At fifty-eight, General Vance was a legendary figure in Military Global Strike Command—six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, his hair cut into a sharp iron-gray brush, his chest covered in four rows of ribbons topped by the Master Pilot Wings.
Tyler Grant froze. His jaw dropped open so wide his phone nearly slipped from his fingers. The two reservists standing behind him immediately snapped into frantic, rigid salutes, their faces turning paper-white.
General Vance didn't look at the reservists. He didn't look at the old men in the booths. His sharp blue eyes swept across the dim room until they locked onto the end of the bar, where I sat soaking in cheap whiskey.
General Vance walked down the wooden aisle, his polished leather boots clicking against the floorboards like crisp military clockwork.
He stopped two paces from my stool.
He looked at the whiskey dripping from my sleeve, looked at the empty glass in Tyler’s hand, then looked straight into my eyes.
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"Major Bennett," General Vance spoke, his voice booming through the quiet hall with a velvet authority that commanded total, absolute obedience.
The whole Legion hall went silent.
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