“No tag on the board, no name on the sheet, no stamp required.”

Salas looked down at his boots.

“Nobody pulls brass for a joke, Sergeant.

Somebody wanted cars through this gate that don’t get written down.”

That was the thing about Salas.

Twenty years old, and he could say a hard sentence without dressing it up.

I took the garrison stamp out of the drawer and inked it on the supply pad.

The impression came up navy on the scrap paper, flat as a coin, and I set the two marks side by side.