My hand went to my pocket, tracing the cold metal of my father’s old Marine Corps dog tags.

The metal was worn smooth at the edges, a familiar comfort against my fingers.

Tomorrow, General Drummond would present me with the Navy Cross in the main pavilion.

I knew exactly what I would say when I accepted it.

I would tell them about the man who taught me what service really meant.

I would make sure his name was spoken in the halls of command, where it belonged.

I walked back toward the main lobby, my mind turning to the preparations for the ceremony.

The storm outside seemed to be slackening, the wind dying down to a low whistle.

As I reached the security desk, the duty sergeant looked up and saluted.

“Colonel Rogers,” he said, handing me a small, sealed envelope. “This was just delivered to the gate for you.”

“Who left it?” I asked, taking the envelope.

“A civilian courier, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “He didn’t leave a name.”

I tore open the envelope.

Inside was a single, handwritten note on plain white paper.