A father towing two small suitcases nudged his son over to the edge of the carpet and pointed at my polished black leather shoes.

“Look at that uniform, son,” the father whispered as I passed.

I didn’t look back.

Exhaustion tugged at the back of my eyes, heavy and dry after long months of overseas staff work, but I kept my posture rigid, the way I’d been trained to carry myself on the worst days as well as the best ones.

About fifty feet ahead of me, near the waiting area for Gate C27, three young men were sitting in a row of cold vinyl chairs by the big window.

They had on civilian jeans and dark hoodies, but their razor-short haircuts and ramrod spines gave them away at once.