The Commander Asked the Homeless Veteran's Rank as a Joke — Then 'Major General' Made Him Freeze
Chapter 2
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By the time he snapped back to awareness, he was standing inside Hangar 7. The smell of aviation fuel hit him like a drug. For a moment, just a moment, he wasn't homeless: he was Commander Sullivan, call sign Reaper, the best combat search and rescue coordinator the Navy had ever produced."Hey!"The shout shattered the illusion.Lieutenant Callahan was striding toward him, face red with fury. Behind him, four other personnel turned to look: a female sergeant holding a wrench, a young corporal in security uniform, a communications officer with a tablet, a pilot in a flight suit—all of them staring at the homeless man who'd somehow wandered onto their base.Callahan stopped three feet away, close enough that Marcus could smell his cologne: expensive, the kind officers wore when they wanted to impress superiors."You have ten seconds to explain what you're doing here before I have you arrested."Marcus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The words were stuck somewhere behind four years of shame and silence. He tried to back away. His left leg, the one with shrapnel still lodged near the knee, buckled slightly.Callahan's eyes tracked the limp with predatory focus. "You served? Sure you did. And I'm an astronaut. Look at you—you're a disgrace to the uniform."The female sergeant, Chen, according to her name tape, shifted uncomfortably. The corporal by the door wouldn't meet Marcus's eyes.Callahan turned to them. "How does this happen? We've got an admiral coming for inspection in 30 minutes, and there's a vagrant in my hangar."Marcus found his voice, rough from disuse and cheap alcohol. "I'm sorry. I heard the helicopters. I didn't mean to—""Stop talking and start working," Callahan cut him off. He grabbed a mop leaning against a tool cabinet and thrust it at Marcus. "I've seen a hundred guys like you: all excuses, no discipline. That's why you're out here and we're in here. You want to avoid arrest? Clean this floor. Make yourself useful for once in your pathetic life."The mop handle felt foreign in Marcus's hands. He'd held sniper rifles and repelling ropes and the controls of multi-million-dollar rescue operations; now he was holding a mop. The symbolism wasn't lost on him: maybe Callahan was right; maybe this was all he deserved.He dipped the mop in the bucket and started cleaning. The concrete was already spotless, but he pushed the mop back and forth anyway.Around him, work resumed: mechanics returned to their helicopters; the pilot walked toward the briefing room. But Sergeant Chen kept glancing over. Something in her expression looked like recognition, or maybe pity; Marcus couldn't tell anymore.Callahan wasn't finished. He paced nearby, performing for his audience. "You think I'm being harsh? The real world doesn't give participation medals. You had your chance. You blew it. Now move faster! The admiral will be here soon, and I won't have a bum embarrassing this base."