Chapter 0 : 3

Sergeant First Class Daniel Reyes sat across from Nora Vance in a small, dimly lit booth at the All-American Diner off base, nursing a cup of coffee he had not touched. The jukebox in the corner was playing something old and country, and the grill sizzled behind the counter where a bored-looking teenage cook flipped burgers.

Reyes had not spoken since they sat down.

Nora let the silence stretch. She had learned that men like Reyes — senior NCOs with decades of institutional memory — did not respond to pressure. They responded to evidence that the person across from them knew what they were doing.

"Eight years in this battalion," she said finally. "That's eight command cycles. You've seen captains come and go. You've seen a few of them do it well."

Reyes nodded slowly. "I've seen a few of them do it well, ma'am."

"What do you think of Marcus Hale?"

Reyes's eyes flicked to the window, then back. "He's a competent small-unit leader, ma'am. He's good with the troops when he wants to be. He's got the command voice, the presence, the right sort of charm." He paused. "He's also the kind of officer who would rather be loved than be right. And in a command billet, that's a dangerous preference."

"Because he'll do anything to stay loved?"

"Because he'll do anything to avoid being questioned." Reyes's voice was level. "And when a man who needs to be loved is in charge of a unit, he starts making decisions that protect his comfort instead of the mission. He stops listening to people who tell him what he doesn't want to hear. He starts pushing the hard things down the road, hoping they'll disappear." He looked at her directly. "And he starts to surround himself with people who tell him what he wants to hear, which is how you end up with a motor pool that's running on borrowed parts and a maintenance log that doesn't add up."

Nora held his gaze. "You know about the supply room."

"I know about a lot of things, ma'am." Reyes's voice was careful. "I've been in this battalion for eight years. I've seen the files, I've read the receipts, I've watched the inventory drift. I've mentioned it to two prior commanders. Neither of them pursued it."

"Why not?"

"Because Marcus Hale is connected, ma'am. He's the kind of officer who plays golf with the colonel's aide and drinks with the chaplain. He's got a network of people who'll vouch for him, and if you try to bring him down without a foundation that can't be cracked, he'll crack you first." Reyes paused. "I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying it's true."

Nora absorbed that. "What would it take to crack him?"

Reyes looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded manila envelope, worn at the edges, stained with coffee rings. He placed it on the table between them.

"Ma'am, I keep copies. Copies of every requisition form that doesn't match the inventory. Copies of every transfer order that goes through the motor pool. Copies of the maintenance logs that were altered to match parts that never arrived." He tapped the envelope. "I've been keeping these for three years. Because I knew eventually someone would come asking."