“Admiral?” Rostova prompted, a tiny fracture of unease appearing in her otherwise flawless professional facade. “Sir, we are holding the broadcast for your seating.”
“We are not starting, Commander,” Sterling replied. His voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a baritone resonance that effortlessly cut through the thick silence of the room. It was the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed in the middle of a war zone.
Rostova blinked, her eyes darting to her meticulously curated master schedule. “Sir, I apologize, but I don’t understand. Every invited guest has signed in. The manifest is complete. The auditorium is at maximum fire-code capacity. Captain Hayes is waiting to make his final walk.”
“The manifest is incorrect, Commander,” Sterling said, his gaze never stopping, still searching the back doors. “Someone is missing. And I will not take my seat until he is sitting in the chair beside me.”
A low, uneasy murmur rippled through the two hundred attendees. Flag officers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. On the stage, the chaplain looked panicked. This was a severe breach of protocol. A three-star admiral was effectively hijacking a highly orchestrated military ceremony, holding two hundred senior personnel hostage in a silent standoff.
