«This could be a fake,» he muttered, the accusation sounding feeble even to his own ears. «The picture quality is poor.»
«It was issued at the DEERS office at Yuma. Their camera is notoriously bad,» Jessica stated, still betraying no hint of anger. «But the chip is valid. There’s a card scanner right at the main entrance if you’d like to verify my credentials.»
She was calling his bluff. He was now completely trapped. To stand down meant public humiliation. To escalate meant wading further into a minefield.
He chose the minefield. «I don’t need a scanner,» he said, his voice hardening. He jabbed a finger at the other patch, a smaller, more intricate design over her heart. «What about this one? The one with the delta wing and the target? That’s a WTI patch. Do you even know what that is, ma’am? That stands for Weapons and Tactics Instructor. That’s the absolute elite. You get that by graduating from MAWTS-1. It’s seven weeks of pure hell. You don’t just get one of those. You earn it. With blood.»
He was practically sneering, his words a torrent of self-righteous indignation. He was defending the honor of an institution he believed she was desecrating with her presence.
The instant his finger made contact with the patch, the ambient sound of the mess hall warped in Jessica’s ears. For a fraction of a second, it was replaced by a different symphony of sounds: the high-pitched shriek of an F/A-18’s airframe protesting against the laws of physics, the coppery tang of adrenaline in her mouth. Below her, the vast, lightless expanse of the desert floor, a canvas of pure black punctuated by the sudden, horrifying blossoms of anti-aircraft artillery. The acrid miasma of ozone and sweat filling her cockpit. The red illumination of the instrument panel casting her face in a demonic glow.
A voice, crackling with static and terror, in her helmet: «Viper One One, we’ve got effective AAA! Winchester flares! We need an exit, now!»
It was a flash, a memory seared into her consciousness. A ghost that resided in the very threads the corporal was now touching with such contempt.
The memory evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only the mundane clatter of trays and silverware. Her focus returned to the young Marine standing before her. His face was flushed, his arrogance radiating from him like heat. He had absolutely no concept of what that patch signified. For him, it was a status symbol. For her, it was a scar.
From across the cafeteria, Master Gunnery Sergeant Evans lowered his coffee mug. He had been observing the pathetic drama unfold. Initially, he’d dismissed it as a corporal needing a lesson in priorities, but the woman’s surreal calm, combined with the corporal’s specific mention of the WTI patch, captured his full attention.
He looked closer at her jacket. The VMFAT-101 patch. The WTI patch. And a third, a muted, almost concealed patch from a combat deployment. That particular combination was exceptionally rare, practically unheard of. Then his eyes settled on the name tape: REED.
Evans felt a chill go straight down his spine. The name. The patches. The call sign he’d overheard the corporal mock. Black Mamba.
It wasn’t a joke. It was a damn legend. It was a story they told new aviators to terrify them into excellence. A story he’d personally heard from a shell-shocked Recon team leader who owed his entire team’s life to a pilot with that call sign.
Evans didn’t stand. He didn’t shout. A man of his rank and tenure knew that a public dressing-down of a corporal was beneath him and would only escalate the situation. Instead, he reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone with a steady hand, and found a number he seldom used. He stood and walked toward the exit, pressing the call button.
The phone on the other end was picked up on the second ring. «Colonel Vance.»
«Sir,» Evans said, his voice low and urgent. «Master Gunnery Sergeant Evans. My apologies for the interruption, sir, but I believe you need to come to the 22 Area Mess Hall immediately.»
There was a beat of silence. «What is it, Master Guns?» the Colonel asked, his voice sharp with irritation at the disturbance.
Evans took a steadying breath. «Sir, I’m pretty sure Major Reed is here. The aviator from the Kandahar extraction. The one they call Black Mamba.»
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Evans could practically hear the gears grinding in the colonel’s mind. When he finally spoke, all traces of annoyance were gone, replaced by sharp, cold alarm. «I’m on my way.»