Chapter 8

By the end of the week, the sequence of events was a matter of record.

The recalled lot flag had gone out at 0430. The truck had offloaded at 0545. The third shell in that crate had come off the same truck as the first — a mixing error at the supply depot, a warehouseman stacking boxes from two trucks on the same pallet, a manifest that reflected the wrong truck because the paperwork had been filled out before the loading was complete.

The XO's office had rescinded Otis's clearance as part of a routine hygiene fix, unaware of who he was or what his walk meant. The ammunition section had signed off without checking. The gate had waved him through because he had been waved through for years.

The fire direction center had confirmed the recall at 0612, with the first volley scheduled for 0630.

The gap between the flag and the volley had been exactly forty-two minutes.

Reyes found Braddock at the firing point at the end of the day, the sun falling low across the lane, the crates empty and the guns cleaned and the recruits dismissed for chow.

"Gate log," she said, holding a photocopy. "The full entry for that morning."

Braddock took it. The columns were the same ones he had read a week ago — the supply truck at 0512, the maintenance vehicle at 0525, the civilian contractor at 0540. No Redfern.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing," Reyes agreed. "But I talked to the gate guard — the one from that morning. He remembers the old man coming through. Remembers him waving. Remembers thinking he'd catch up on the way out to tell him his name had come off the list."