Down on the flight deck, surrounded by the hard, unfriendly faces and cocked Springfield ’03s of the security detail, Jones wondered how Kolhammer’s gamble would play out. They had assumed Spruance would meet them as they disembarked, but only the buzzing ranks of spectators and the anonymous belligerence of their guards awaited them. As they confronted the marine squad, the sergeant in command barked out, “Identify yourselves.”

All three had grown up in the military and were unfazed by the aggressive command. People had been barking at them professionally all of their adult lives. They replied in kind.

“Admiral Phillip Kolhammer, United States Navy.”

“Colonel J. L. Jones, United States Marine Corps.”

“Captain Karen Halabi, Royal Navy.”

“We were expected, Sergeant,” Jones added, with a tightly coiled menace in the delivery that the marine couldn’t help but recognize. A twenty-year man, he had been bruted by professionals, too.

“Not like this you weren’t, asshole,” the noncom muttered under his breath.

When Jones stepped one pace forward and spoke, it sounded like the engine of an Abrams turning over. Slowly. “You don’t know me yet, Sergeant. So I’ll let your personal disrespect pass. But you know these, don’t you, boy?” He fingered the silver eagles and Marine Corps insignia on his collar. “And by God, you’ll respect the uniform of the United States Marine Corps, or I’ll beat that respect into you, right here in front of your men.”

Jones’s eyes never left the sergeant’s as he spoke. They stayed locked together for two heartbeats after he had finished. The man’s jawline bunched and knotted as he struggled to contain himself, while Jones just gave him the stone face. He could see the guy’s entire life in that twisting mask, all of his prejudices and petty resentments, warring against the disciplines of the corps. There were no black marines in 1942, and of all the services the corps would fight hardest against integration. But Jones’s warrior spirit was so powerful, his command presence so finely honed, that it could not be resisted. In the end, the Sergeant deflated, crushed by a superior will.

“We’ll see,” he said, a deep flush of embarrassment discoloring his whole head. He looked as if he’d stepped in something foul.