Chapter 3 - The Order of the Sycophant
The cold rain began to pick up again, tapping an erratic, hollow rhythm against the corrugated roofs of the motor pool. From across the tarmac, the muffled drums of the brigade band started their opening rolls—thump-thump, thump-thump—the rhythmic cadence of eight hundred soldiers beginning their alignment checks.
Barrett took two slow steps backward, his eyes scanning the gathering soldiers.
Standing near the front bumper of the second FMTV was Corporal Dylan—a nineteen-year-old junior soldier from Iowa, fresh out of advanced infantry training, his clean-shaven face pale, his uniform immaculate, his posture stiff with the raw terror typical of a private in the presence of an unstable officer.
Barrett pointed a finger at Dylan.
"Corporal Dylan. Front and center."
The young soldier jumped as if struck by an electric current. He hurried forward, his combat boots splashing through the water, coming to an awkward, trembling halt three paces from Barrett. He snapped a rigid salute. "Sir!"
Barrett did not return the salute. He kept his eyes locked on Mara, who was struggling to shift her weight off her crushed joint onto the dry side of the curb.
"Corporal," Barrett said, his voice dropping into a flat, venomous register that carried over the sound of the distant band. "Sergeant Whitmore seems to believe she can selectively choose when she participates in company duties. She claims she has an injury that excuses her from the Governor’s review."
Dylan swallowed dryly, his eyes flicking downward to Mara’s grotesquely swollen knee, then back to the officer's cold, predatory face. "Sir?"
Barrett tilted his head, his hand resting casually on his hip. "I want you to verify her medical condition, Corporal. I want to ensure there is zero ambiguity about whether she is capable of standing in the ranks. Make sure she can’t march."
The words hung in the damp air like unexploded ordnance.
Dylan froze. The color drained from the young soldier's face until he looked like a statue carved from river clay. His mouth opened, but his throat seized; his hands twitched at the seams of his trousers. Every fiber of his training, every lesson on lawful orders and non-combatant ethics, screamed that what the lieutenant had just commanded was a felony, a brutal assault on a fellow soldier.
"Sir?" Dylan squeaked, his voice cracking. "I... I don't understand, Lieutenant."
"You have a direct order from your platoon leader, Corporal!" Barrett snarled, stepping into Dylan’s space, his towering frame casting a dark silhouette over the young man. "Are you refusing an order during an active mission preparation? Are you siding with a malingering non-commissioned officer over your commanding officer?"
"No, sir! But—"
"Then execute!"
Dylan did not move. His boots remained anchored to the wet concrete. Tears of sheer panic welled in the corners of his nineteen-year-old eyes. He looked down at Mara Whitmore—a decorated combat sergeant who had trained his platoon on the live-fire lanes with patience, who had personally checked his pack before his first five-mile ruck, who wore the Silver Star on her chest—and his body simply refused to obey.
Mara looked up from the ground.
Her dark eyes, sharp and clear despite the haze of agony radiating through her leg, met Dylan’s terrified gaze. She saw the boy trembling. She saw the utter ruin Barrett was about to bring down upon a kid who didn't know how to navigate the sadistic politics of an abusive officer.
"Dylan," Mara said softly, her voice steady, cutting through the lieutenant's fury. "Stand down. Don't touch me. Go to the formation."
Dylan looked at her, his lips quivering, and stepped half a step backward, lowering his eyes in profound, desperate shame.
Barrett watched the young corporal retreat, and something inside the officer snapped completely. The illusion of his absolute, unquestioned dominion over the platoon had been rejected twice in three minutes—first by a medic, then by a junior enlisted soldier. The manufactured authority he clung to had cracked in front of his squad.
His face contorted into an ugly, sneering mask of uncontrolled malice.
"Useless," Barrett hissed, turning back to Mara. "Every single one of you is useless."
His gaze dropped to the ground near the rear tire of the FMTV.
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There, lying in the grease-stained puddle, was Mara’s dropped M4 carbine. The weapon lay on its side, the matte-black receiver wet with rain, the heavy composite buttstock resting against the tread of the heavy truck tire.
Barrett took three strides, bent down, and scooped the rifle up by its handguard with his right hand.
