Chapter 1 - The Badge in the Dust
Lieutenant Colonel Derek Moss stepped on my badge like he was crushing the last piece of my name.
The black enamel Nightshade hawk lay in the dust outside the motor pool at Fort Sentinel, Arizona, its silver talons catching the first hard light of morning. Moss ground his boot heel over it once. Then again. Slowly enough for the soldiers nearby to understand they were supposed to watch.
I did not bend down.
I did not speak.
That bothered him more than anger would have.
“Enjoy perimeter maintenance, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “Maybe sandbags won’t outthink you.”
Seven weeks later, I dropped my fifty-first sandbag onto the wall with enough control to make dust jump but not enough to waste motion.
Sergeant First Class Pruitt pointed at the stack with his clipboard. “You’re doing it wrong.”
I looked at the offset pattern, then at him.
“Physics disagrees.”
A few soldiers near the water station looked down fast.
Pruitt stepped closer, embarrassed. “You want to make that hole deeper?”
Before I could answer, a black command convoy rolled into the motor pool. Engines shifted. Dust washed over the yard. Soldiers straightened like rank had entered their bones before their eyes confirmed it.
General Marcus Harrison stepped out.
Four stars.
Calm face.
No performance.
His gaze moved from the sandbag wall to my dusty hands, then stopped on the repaired Nightshade badge on my vest.
His voice dropped.
“Nightshade?”
I stood at attention. “Yes, sir.”
He looked at Pruitt. Then toward Moss.
May you like
“Why is a Nightshade operator doing manual labor?”
The whole yard went silent.
