The words landed in the middle of the Fort Campbell dining facility with enough force to quiet nearly half the room.

General Carter did not look at the company commander. He did not look at the three hundred soldiers frozen at attention.

His piercing gray eyes scanned the dining hall until they fell upon the young woman standing beside the spilled tray, leaning her weight against the aluminum crutch.

When the General saw the crushed velvet ribbon case beneath Briggs's boot and the faint tremor of pain in his daughter’s right knee, a terrifying, predatory stillness settled over his weathered features.

General Carter walked down the linoleum aisle, his polished jump boots striking the floor with the cadence of an approaching execution.

He stopped three inches from Sergeant Marcus Briggs.

Briggs was standing at attention, but his broad chest was heaving with frantic, suffocating breaths. His eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. Sweat was pouring down his temples, dripping off his jawline onto his collar.

“Sergeant Briggs,” General Carter spoke. His voice was not a shout; it was a low, vibrating rumble that made the linoleum floor hum beneath their feet.

“S-Sir!” Briggs choked out, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak.

General Carter looked down at Briggs’s combat boot, which was still resting against the broken velvet box.

“Lift your foot,” the General commanded softly.

Briggs lifted his leg so fast he nearly lost his balance, his heel clicking against the other boot.

General Carter slowly bent down. The four-star commander of Forces Command dropped to one knee on the dirty mess hall floor, picked up the crushed velvet pouch, and gently brushed the gray dust from the silver Combat Medical Badge.

He stood up, turning to face Natalie.

The four-star general brought his right hand to his temple, rendering a slow, pristine, perfect military salute to the junior lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Carter,” General Carter said with deep, unshakeable reverence. “Report your status.”