Chapter 2 - The Shockwave
The silence in the bar stretched thin enough to snap. Sergeant Major Thomas Vance—a man who had chewed out battalion commanders, terrified captains, and stared down insurgents without blinking—looked like he had just seen a ghost walk out of a graveyard.
"We were told you weren't due at Fort Meade until Monday morning, ma'am," Vance said, his voice dropping an octave as he struggled to process the reality standing before him. "The base commander said your transport from Norfolk was delayed by the storm system off the coast."
"The transport was fine," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the rim of my glass. "I rented a car and drove straight through. Some of us prefer to scout the terrain before taking command."
Miller swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. His broad shoulders suddenly seemed remarkably fragile inside his flannel shirt. "Command... sir—ma'am? Wait. Command of what?"
Vance finally turned his head, and the look he shot Miller could have liquefied titanium. It was the kind of glare that historically preceded thirty days of extra-strength latrine duty or a swift administrative separation from the United States Army.
"Command of the entire 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, you absolute fool," Vance barked, his voice slamming off the wood paneling.
The word Regiment hung in the air like tear gas.
Across the room, chairs began to scrape backward. Men who had been lounging in booths, nursing IPAs and swapping old deployment stories, were suddenly standing up. Faces that had looked bored or amused seconds ago now bore expressions of collective, synchronized horror. These weren’t just random patrons; they were veterans, active-duty NCOs, and company commanders attached to the very unit I had been assigned to whip into shape.
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And Miller—the brilliant architect of territorial bar games—had just spent five minutes mocking their new commanding officer’s fashion choices, stealing her stool, and suggesting she go eat cheese.
"Oh, God," Miller whispered, the color draining entirely from his face until he looked like unbaked dough. His younger friend took a slow, desperate step backward toward the exit, looking like he wanted to phase directly through the wooden wall.
