The grip locked onto his shoulder seam like iron and pinned the young Marine flat against the vinyl back of seat 12B.

Evan froze mid-breath, his hand stopping two inches from my uniform.

The quick, nervous drumming of his boot heel stopped dead.

General Vance didn’t shove the young man, and he didn’t shift his weight on the terminal floor.

He just held that shoulder in place with unshakable physical authority.

“Lieutenant Colonel Miller, is this young man giving you trouble?” General Vance asked.

His deep, booming command voice rolled through row 12, carrying across the main walkway and cutting straight through the crisp announcements on the terminal loudspeakers.