Stopping at the doorway as he had been taught, Nathan rapped on the doorframe and waited to be called into his superior’s private lair. The first thing that struck Nathan as he moved forward until he was but three feet in front of the battalion commander’s desk was the proliferation of maroon and gold banners, pennants, and other regalia. Even as he snapped his right arm up into a crisp, regulation salute, Nathan could not help but think things had just about gotten as bad as they could. His battalion commander was an Aggie, a graduate of Texas A&M.

Stepping from the shadows of the doorway, where he had hung the field gear he had been wearing on a rack neatly, Colonel Blackwell slowly made his way to his seat. As he did so, he eyed Nathan up and down. From his position Nathan did likewise, as best he could. Blackwell was a tall man who gave new meaning to Nathan’s definition of lanky. What hair he had was close chopped to the point where the widow’s peak dipping down into his forehead was all but invisible. There was so little of the stuff that Nathan could not tell, for sure, what color the man’s hair was.

“Take a seat, Lieutenant,” Blackwell barked, all but choking on the word lieutenant as if it were a bone stuck in his throat. As he did so Nathan looked into the colonel’s eyes. Everything about the man, he quickly concluded, was lean and mean. From the narrow, almost hawkish-looking face to the cold, steady gaze Blackwell returned stated boldly that he was a warrior.

For the longest of moments Blackwell stared at Nathan. Not knowing what to do or say, Nathan returned it. Was this, Nathan wondered, some sort of trial of wills? Was he waiting for me to blink, or flinch, or divert my eyes? If it was, the young officer concluded, he would not give the old man the pleasure of breaking first. As he had learned to do with his father, Nathan allowed his eyes to narrow, just slightly, to show that the flame of passion and determination burned within his heart just as brightly.

Having seen many a lieutenant come and go during his eighteen years of service, Norman Blackwell knew a winner when he saw one. Allowing one corner of his lips to curl up a tad in what passed as a smile for him, Blackwell allowed himself to ease back in his seat. “I know you’re not going to want to hear this, Lieutenant Dixon, since I’m sure you’ve been hearing it all day, but I greatly admire your father. He’s a warrior. A no frills, cut the bullshit and get the job done honest to God warrior. How he ever managed to make it to general in today’s Army has never ceased to amaze me.”