Commander Rostova executed a crisp turn, her clipboard tucked neatly under her left arm, and approached the Admiral as he reached the front row. “Admiral Sterling, sir,” she said, her voice dropping to a respectful, hushed register. “We are deeply honored by your presence. We are perfectly on schedule. Captain Hayes is standing by in the green room, and the color guard is ready to post the colors. If you would please take your seat, we can begin.”
She gestured gracefully to the second chair from the left, directly center-stage, marked with a gleaming brass placard bearing his name and rank.
Admiral Sterling stopped in front of the chair. He looked at the brass plate. He looked at the empty seat next to it.
He did not sit down.
Instead, he turned his back to the stage, clasped his hands loosely behind his back, and let his dark eyes scan the expansive room. He looked at the front row, tracking across the faces of the base commander, the regional chaplain, the visiting dignitaries. He looked at the second row. The third. He meticulously examined the faces of the standing-room-only crowd gathered tightly at the back walls.
