"Not yet."
At the next table, Rick noticed Marisol collecting an abandoned glass so a passing server would not have to reach across an older guest. He seized the opportunity to assign her a place in the room, thrusting a tray in her direction.
"Bus these for us, would you?"
Gene extended his arm and intercepted the tray before it reached her. He moved more quickly than Rick expected and gave the young man a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Here, son."
When Rick frowned and tried to push past him, Gene placed the tray on an empty chair and straightened his back as much as age allowed.
"She's my guest, son."
Rick gave the older man a glance full of dismissal. His loyalty was to Hollister, who had promised him a position after the election, and the candidate's contempt had become Rick's preferred way of proving himself useful.
"Sit tight, Gramps."
The caterer at the buffet station announced the meal before the exchange could become physical. Several former soldiers rose, glad for an excuse to leave a confrontation they had pretended not to notice.
"Come and get it, lunch is served."
Gene returned with a plate of chicken, vegetables, and bread. He placed it before Marisol, then sat opposite her and opened a packet of salt. The old medic had seen the distant look in her eyes when Hollister said Daniel's name. There were ways of recognizing another member of a flight crew that had nothing to do with insignia.
"Eat. A pilot eats when she can."
Marisol looked at him sharply. She had not worn wings in public for years, and Boone had promised to keep her past private until the general arrived. Gene folded his hands and waited, offering no explanation.
"I never told you that."
"Didn't have to."
At the head table, Hollister lifted a glass. His voice boomed across the hall, gathering the attention that lunch had briefly scattered. He had learned the power of a toast: it made questioning him feel like questioning the dead.
"To the brothers who held the ridge."
"To the brothers who held the ridge."
The response rose unevenly but sincerely. Men who had once been young and frightened closed their eyes for names they had not said aloud in months. Marisol lifted her water glass, knowing that the man being honored did not deserve to be forgotten because another man's story had grown louder.
"Sergeant Daniel Mercer—rest easy, brother."
Hollister spotted her glass. His tone turned playful, which made his next words crueler. He pointed at Marisol as if she were a hired entertainer who had misunderstood her place in the room.
"Look at that: the cook's toasting with water. Who are you toasting, exactly?"
"Daniel Mercer."
"Didn't know the kitchen knew him."
A veteran two seats away had heard enough. He had been seated near Hollister at multiple reunions and had grown ashamed of how often he had laughed simply to avoid becoming the target. He turned to Gene with a low question.
"Who is she?"
Gene set his fork down. His answer was quiet, but it traveled through the space between the tables more effectively than shouting would have.
"A guest of the Sergeant Major's. She's the only one in here not performing."