The truth was that I didn’t file paperwork for the motor pool. I authorized kinetic strikes in sector four. The truth was that while my father was reliving the Cold War in his head, I was commanding Joint Task Forces in the Middle East.
I reached out and unzipped the bag. The moonlight caught the heavy gold braiding on the sleeves. This wasn’t just a uniform. It was the Army Blue Mess—the most formal evening attire in the military arsenal. Tailored to perfection, black as midnight, with gold accouterments that gleamed like fire.
I touched the shoulder boards. They weren’t empty. They didn’t have the oak leaf of a Major or the bird of a Colonel. They held two silver stars. Major General. O-8. My father was a Lieutenant Colonel, an O-5. In the military food chain, he was a middle manager. I was the CEO.
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