Chapter 5 - The Toast to James BennettGeneral Vance turned back to the bar, pulling out a stool beside mine, sitting down with a quiet sigh.
Frank Mercer immediately reached under the counter, pulling out a dusty, unopened bottle of twenty-year-old single-malt scotch—a bottle that had sat on the top shelf behind the bar for decades.
Frank poured three clean crystal glasses, setting one before General Vance, one before me, and holding the third in his own trembling hand.
"Major Bennett," Frank said, his voice thick with emotion, raising his glass under the warm amber lights of the hall. "To your grandfather, James Bennett... and to the Black Kestrel who came home."
Every veteran in the room—men who had served in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, and quiet cold wars—stood up from their booths, raising their glasses in silent, profound respect toward the end of the bar.
I stood up from my stool, holding my glass steady in my hand, my hazel eyes meeting the eyes of the old men who had known my grandfather.
"To James Bennett," I said softly. "And to the comfortable silence."
We drank together—a smooth, warm amber burn that completely erased the bitter taste of the cheap rye whiskey on my uniform.
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General Vance took a slow sip, looking at me with a warm, genuine smile touching his severe features. "The President signed your promotion package two hours ago, Claire. You're being assigned as the Chief Aviation Officer for the 160th Special Operations Wing."
I offered a quiet nod. "Thank you, General."
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