A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit

“A tray at the quartermaster’s, sir.

Pre-signed, blank date.

Anybody with a pen could wave a car through Gate Six, and the file would look perfect afterward.”

“Anybody,” he said.

“You mean the colonel.”

“I mean the forms.”

He wiped his mouth and set the napkin down on the papers.

“How old are your children?”