Sterling finally stopped scanning the room and looked down at the Commander. “Master Gunnery Sergeant Silas Abernathy.”
Rostova’s mind raced, flipping through the thousands of names she had processed over the last month. “A Master Gunnery Sergeant? Sir, this is a Naval intelligence officer’s retirement. I do not have any senior Marine Corps enlisted personnel on the cleared guest list. Is he a visiting dignitary from Quantico?”
“He is the reason I am breathing the air in this room, Commander,” Sterling said coldly. “And you won’t find him on a VIP list. He is currently working in the base galley. He serves the mashed potatoes on the hot line. His name tag says ‘Sy’. You have exactly five minutes to bring him to this room, or I will walk down there and get him myself.”
The Long Walk from the Shadows
Lieutenant David Rossi, a junior aide desperately trying not to ruin his career on his first major assignment, was practically sprinting down the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors beneath the auditorium. He burst through the swinging double doors of the galley kitchen, the pristine white of his dress uniform violently clashing with the chaotic, grease-stained environment of industrial food preparation.
“I need to find a man named Sy!” Rossi shouted over the deafening hiss of a steam kettle.
In the far corner, near the massive dishwashing unit, Silas slowly turned around. He held a wet rag in his right hand. His apron was stained with coffee and marinara sauce. He looked at the breathless young lieutenant with the mild, exhausted confusion of an old man who just wanted to finish his shift and go back to his quiet apartment.
“That’s me, sir,” Silas said, his voice like dry gravel. “If this is about the coffee urns in the briefing room, I told the petty officer I’d get to them after the lunch rush—”
“No, no, you need to come with me. Right now. Drop the rag,” Rossi stammered, his eyes wide with adrenaline and panic. “You are holding up the Admiral. You are holding up the entire retirement ceremony upstairs. They sent me to get you.”
Silas froze. His heart, which usually beat with a slow, lethargic rhythm, gave a sudden, painful lurch against his ribs. The military was a machine of rules, and a cafeteria worker being summoned to a high-level officer’s ceremony meant only one thing: he had done something catastrophically wrong, and he was going to be made an example of. He was going to lose his job. The quiet sanctuary he had built for himself was collapsing.
“Lieutenant, I’m covered in grease. I’m not authorized to be on the presentation deck. Let me just clock out, and I can meet security at the front gate—”
