Chapter 3
“No, sir,” Maya said quietly.
She raised her right hand to her left shoulder.
Her fingers brushed the rough, worn fabric of the patch. It felt warm against her skin, a physical anchor to the men who were gone.
She gripped the edge.
CRACK.
The sound of the velcro pulling away from her sleeve seemed incredibly loud in the silent bay.
Every eye in the room was fixed on her hand.
Maya held the patch out, her palm flat. Her hand didn’t shake, but her chest felt tight, like a band of iron was squeezing the air out of her lungs.
Captain Miller stepped forward, reaching out to take it, but Ross intercepted him.
Ross grabbed the patch from her hand, holding it up between two fingers like it was a dirty tissue.
“Look at this,” Ross said, turning to show the rest of the formation. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been in, or what kind of fantasies you have about your service. If it isn’t regulation, it doesn’t exist in my battalion.”
With a casual, dismissive flick of his wrist, Ross tossed the frayed piece of fabric toward a plastic trash bin sitting next to the commander’s desk at the front of the room.
The patch missed the rim, hitting the concrete floor with a soft, insignificant thud right next to a pile of discarded zip-ties and dust bunnies.
“Get her a standard Support Command patch by the end of the day, Miller,” Ross said, turning away without another look at Maya. “And write her up for a counseling statement. Next time, it’s an Article 15.”
The inspection team moved down the line, their boots clacking away into the distance.
Maya remained at attention, staring at the crack in the wall.
Her left shoulder felt incredibly light, almost cold, where the fabric had been stripped away.
Beside her, Chief Evans let out a slow, dangerous breath through his teeth.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Evans muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed forward. “The world has a way of sorting out people who don’t know the difference between a real soldier and a mannequin.”
Maya didn’t answer.
She just watched the dust motes dancing in the morning light above the trash bin, where the only remaining proof of Task Force Jericho lay forgotten on the dirty floor.
Chapter 2
The echo of Major Bradley Ross’s polished leather boots faded down the concrete corridor of the briefing bay, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to press down on the remaining soldiers like a physical weight. For several agonizing seconds, no one in the third rank of the 4th Logistics Support Battalion moved a muscle. The air remained thick with the smell of stale floor wax, industrial air conditioners struggling against the North Carolina humidity, and the bitter, invisible residue of a public execution of dignity.
“Company… fall out!” the First Sergeant’s voice barked across the bay, breaking the spell.
Instantly, the rigid block of olive drab and camouflage fractured into a sea of murmuring soldiers. They scattered quickly, their voices hushed, eager to escape the immediate vicinity of Staff Sergeant Maya Vance. In the garrison military, controversy was an infectious disease, and an enlisted soldier who had just drawn the lethal, vindictive ire of a battalion major was someone you avoided if you valued your own career progression. They walked past her with their eyes fixed firmly on the floor, their boots clicking against the concrete as they headed toward the motor pool and the administrative offices.
Maya stood perfectly still for a long moment after the formation dissolved. Her right hand was still curled into a loose fist, resting against the seam of her trousers. Her left sleeve felt entirely exposed, the blank square of black hook-and-loop fastener catching the harsh fluorescent light like an unhealed wound. The absence of the patch felt heavier than the fabric itself ever had.
She looked down toward the front of the room, near the commander’s heavy oak desk. The piece of faded, blackened cloth lay on the dirty concrete floor. It had bounced off the rim of the blue plastic trash bin, landing face down in a small pile of discarded zip-ties, dried mud from a utility vehicle, and grey dust motes. To anyone else, it looked exactly like what Major Ross had called it—a burned dish rag.
Before Maya could take a step forward to retrieve it, a heavy, grease-stained hand reached down into the shadow of the desk and scooped the fabric from the floor.
Master Sergeant Marcus “Chief” Evans straightened his spine with a slow, audible grunt, his old knees popping like dry twigs under his uniform trousers. Evans was fifty-two years old, with twenty-six years of continuous active service and a face that looked like it had been carved out of a block of weathered hickory. He had grease permanently embedded beneath his fingernails and a pair of jump wings on his chest that had been earned in places Major Ross had only read about in tactical manuals.
