Chapter 5 - The Command Center
The next morning, five-thirty AM.
The Defense Logistics Agency regional command center was an underground complex of steel, glass, and glowing blue monitors. The room hummed with the quiet, intense energy of fifty watch officers monitoring global supply chains in real time.
I stood in my full Service Alpha uniform—the olive-green jacket, crisp khaki shirt, dark tie, and the silver Major’s oak leaves shining on my shoulders. On my left chest, three rows of ribbons caught the fluorescent light, led by the Meritorious Service Medal.
My chief warrant officer, CWO3 Miller—a veteran with twenty-two years in the Corps—stepped up to my desk holding a steaming mug of black coffee and a tablet.
"Good morning, Major," Miller said, handing me the coffee. "You're in early today."
"Sleep was overrated today, Miller," I said, taking a sip of the strong coffee. "What’s the status on the 2nd Marine Division’s fuel shipment in Norfolk?"
"Rerouted and secured, ma'am," Miller replied, clicking through his tablet. "And, uh... you have two civilian visitors waiting in the lobby downstairs."
I paused, setting my mug down on the glass desk. "Visitors? At six in the morning? Who?"
Miller hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. "A Mr. Richard Monroe and a Mrs. Catherine Monroe. They don't have base passes, ma'am. They told the gate guards they were your parents and demanded to be brought to your office. Security is currently holding them at the visitor center."
I closed my eyes for three seconds, letting out a slow, measured breath.
"Did they state their business?"
"They said it was an urgent family emergency," Miller said. "Though, according to the gate guard, the father looks like he hasn't slept in thirty-six hours, and the mother was crying at the security desk."
I adjusted the lapels of my coat, pulling my shoulders back.
"Have Marcus escort them to Conference Room B," I commanded smoothly. "And Miller?"
"Ma'am?"
"Do not leave the room during the conversation."
Ten minutes later, I walked into Conference Room B.
The room was clinical, white, and sparse—containing only a heavy oak conference table, six chairs, and a glass wall overlooking the lower operations floor where dozens of uniformed personnel worked at computer terminals.
My father was pacing near the glass wall. He looked terrible. His suit from the night before was rumpled, his tie was loosened at his neck, and dark purple bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes.
My mother sat in one of the leather chairs, her face pale, her hands trembling as she held a paper cup of water.
When the heavy steel door opened and I walked in, flanked by CWO3 Miller, both of my parents froze.
For the first time in my life, they were seeing me in full military authority. They saw the silver oak leaves on my collar, the ribbons on my chest, and the imposing presence of a veteran warrant officer standing at attention behind me.
"Harper..." my father breathed, stepping forward, his voice cracking. "Oh God, Harper..."
"Mr. and Mrs. Monroe," I said, my tone completely professional, devoid of any anger or affection. "This is a secure military installation. You do not have clearance to be in this sector. State your business so my officer can escort you off the property."
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My mother burst into tears, dropping her paper cup onto the table.
"Harper, please!" Catherine cried out, reaching her hands across the table toward me. "You have to fix this! The Sterlings... they canceled the wedding!"
