Every summer, the place filled with polished shoes, sharp haircuts, and young men and women who believed discipline could be pressed into a uniform. The stone buildings were old enough to intimidate, the traditions older still. Portraits of admirals hung in every administration hallway. Brass was polished until it reflected faces. Even the silence on the main quadrangle felt rehearsed.
On the Monday morning Commander Rowan Chase arrived, the academy was running on ceremony.
Plebe summer was two days away. Upperclass cadets moved in tight formations, carrying clipboards, barking instructions, trying on authority for size. Parents would begin arriving by noon, donors by evening, and Admiral Nathan Cole—the superintendent of the entire academy—was scheduled to deliver a welcome address from the main hall at ten sharp.
Everything was supposed to look perfect.
That was exactly why Rowan had been told to come in civilian clothes.
She stepped out of a black government sedan at 8:14 a.m. wearing dark jeans, brown boots, and a plain navy windbreaker zipped halfway up against the waterfront chill. Her hair was tied low at the nape of her neck. A canvas duffel hung over one shoulder. In her left hand she carried a weathered leather bag that looked old enough to have crossed oceans.
She paused just inside the academy gate and studied the yard.
