The bell tower cast a long shadow over the brick walkways. A line of plebe candidates in white T-shirts stood near the drill field, nervously clutching folders while upperclass cadets corrected posture like they were shaping marble. A bugle call sounded in the distance. Somebody shouted for a detail to pick up the pace. Somewhere on the seawall, gulls screamed over the wind.
Rowan had spent fifteen years in the Navy, and places like this still made her think of pressure disguised as patriotism.
A voice in her earpiece from twenty minutes earlier replayed in her mind.
No uniform, Commander. No announcement. No escorts until you’ve had a look around. We need to see what the culture feels like before they know you’re here.
The order had come from Admiral Cole himself.
