“Master Chief Merrick,” Wyler said, pitching his voice just high enough to reach the top row of the bleachers without shouting.

“You’re ten minutes late for the official Navy presentation.”

I kept my left arm clamped against my ribs, holding the Bronze Star citation folder and my service record tight to my side.

“The sand at Sandbridge took forty minutes to clear, Lieutenant,” I told him.

My voice, with no microphone behind it, was plain and level, but it carried right through the air of the gym without climbing even half an octave.

Wyler smiled into the head of the black mic and stepped right across the yellow painted line to block my way to the tables.