General James "Hammer" Thornton entered through the side entrance, not the main doors. He moved with the confidence of a man who'd commanded thousands in combat, his four stars gleaming on his shoulders, his Silver Star and Purple Heart ribbons forming a colorful bar above his left pocket. His eyes, steel gray and sharp, swept the room with practiced efficiency. They locked onto the commotion at the back.
"Colonel Vance, what's happening here?" The general's voice carried authority that needed no volume.
Vance spun, surprise flashing across his face before morphing into obsequious enthusiasm. "General Thornton, sir, welcome to Fort Sill. I apologize for the disruption. We're just handling a small security issue, a vagrant who managed to slip past our—"
"A veteran, sir." Sarah Mitchell's voice shook but held firm. "A veteran from the Ranger Regiment. He was invited as part of our outreach program."
Thornton's gaze shifted to Marcus, who had stood when the general entered, old habits dying hard despite four years on the streets. Marcus's posture was unconsciously military: shoulders back, chin level, hands at his sides. The stance of a man who'd stood at attention ten thousand times.
"Stand easy, soldier." Thornton approached slowly, his eyes taking in every detail: the faded jacket, the worn boots, the patch barely visible on the torn fabric. Something about the way the man held himself, even in rags, triggered recognition deep in the general's trained awareness.
"You served in the 75th?"
"Yes, sir." Two words, simple, direct.
"What's your name?" The general stopped three feet away, his tone neutral but his eyes intensely focused.
Marcus hesitated for the first time, his gaze dropping briefly to his worn boots. "Marcus Reeves, sir."
"Sir, with respect, this man is homeless." Vance stepped forward, injecting himself between them. "He's been living on the streets. He's clearly unstable, probably fabricating his service record. I was just explaining to the staff that we can't simply—"
"Colonel." Thornton's single word cut like a blade. "I asked the man a question. I didn't ask for your commentary."
He turned back to Marcus, his expression softening imperceptibly. "Reeves. Marcus Reeves." He said the name slowly, searching his memory. "When did you serve?"
"1989 to 2003, sir. Gulf War, Afghanistan, early operations."
"Specialty?"
"Reconnaissance and direct action, sir. Deep penetration operations behind enemy lines."
Thornton's eyes narrowed. His breathing had changed, faster, shallower. "You operated in small teams?"
"Four to six men, sir. Sometimes solo for human intelligence collection."