Part Three: Colonel Reeves
Colonel André Reeves had commanded Fort Beaumont for three years and had, in that time, developed a reputation that was built on the specific qualities that earn lasting respect in a military context: absolute competence, absolute fairness, and an economy of expression that meant when he spoke it was because speaking was warranted. He did not make speeches. He did not perform authority. He had the kind of authority that does not require performance.
He entered the canteen at twelve-oh-eight, which was slightly later than his usual schedule — a morning meeting had run over, and the running-over had not been the meeting’s fault, which meant it was not something that would recur. He collected his tray at the line with the same efficiency he brought to all tasks, scanned the room with the automatic tactical assessment that had long since become reflex, and walked to the east wall.
The soldier at the east wall table had not turned around.
He crossed the room directly — not the most direct route to his usual table, but the direct route to her. The canteen had already registered his entrance. Now it registered the direction of his walk. The mathematics of that combination produced the silence that had been spreading since the door.
He came to a stop. He stood at attention — Colonel André Reeves, commander of Fort Beaumont, stood at full military attention — and he saluted.
“Commander,” he said.
One word. The correct word. Delivered with the respect that one delivers to a superior officer, which was what she was.
