Chapter 2 - The Fall of the Arrogant SEAL
The silence in the Sea-Tac military lounge was absolute. You could hear the faint hum of the industrial refrigeration unit across the room, and nothing else.
Petty Officer Marcus Vance—no relation, thankfully—stared at me, his hand hovering mid-air as if he had just touched a live electrical wire. The color had completely vanished from his tanned face, leaving a sickly, pale grey tone beneath his high-and-tight haircut. He looked from my faded gray hoodie down to my worn boots, and then slowly back to the two-star general standing in the doorway with eyes like chips of blue granite.
"Commander..." Marcus stammered, his voice cracking slightly on the final syllable. "Ma'am. I... I didn't realize—"
"Clearly," I said, stepping back and smoothing down the front of my hoodie where his fist had bunched the fabric. I didn't raise my voice. In my line of work, raising your voice meant you were losing control. I had never lost control in seventeen years, and I wasn't going to start in an airport terminal. "You have a remarkable talent for making assumptions, Petty Officer. Too bad tactical awareness didn't make the cut alongside your ego."
Major General Thomas stepped into the room, his boots clicking sharply against the tile. The two contractors by the window had already gathered their belongings and practically sprinted toward the exit. The young airman near the snack counter was standing at rigid attention, staring straight ahead as if carved from stone.
"Is there a problem here, Commander Vance?" General Thomas asked, his gaze fixed entirely on Marcus.
"None that won't be addressed shortly, General," I replied, slinging my tactical bag over my uninjured shoulder. "The Petty Officer was simply demonstrating his unique interpretation of operator hospitality."
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "Sir, I request permission to speak—"
"Denied," General Thomas cut him off, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. "You are assigned to the new Joint Special Operations Task Force staging out of Joint Base Lewis-McChord, effective zero-eight-hundred tomorrow. Commander Vance is heading that task force. She has spent the last seventeen years running black-ops missions you only read about in sanitized after-action reports while you were still chewing on crayons in basic training. And your first official act under her command is physical assault in a public transit hub?"
Marcus looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His Trident pin seemed to suddenly weigh fifty pounds on his chest.
"I thought she was a civilian, sir," Marcus mumbled, staring intensely at the floor tiles.
"A civilian," General Thomas repeated coldly. "In a military lounge with scanned transport orders. Your observational skills are a liability, Petty Officer. Report to the tarmac vehicle in ten minutes. Dismissed."
Marcus didn't wait for a second invitation. He grabbed his tactical bag, turned on his heel, and hurried out of the lounge so fast he nearly tripped over his own combat boots.
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I turned to General Thomas, offering a slight, dry smile. "Always a pleasure starting a new command with a peaceful morning coffee."
The General let out a short, dry chuckle. "Knowing your track record, Elena, he's going to need more than a cup of coffee to survive your training regime."
