“The hearing starts in twenty minutes.”

At ten o’clock on the dot I was standing at the steel counter in the base armory.

The armorer, Sergeant Miller, lifted my rifle and checked the orange safety flag poking out of the chamber.

He inspected the bolt face, ran a pocket flashlight down the barrel, and signed the weapons transit ledger in black ink.

“Unloaded, confirmed inert, logged for official duty transport,” Sergeant Miller said, passing me the stamped carbon slip.

I folded the slip and slid it into the side cargo pocket of my camouflage trousers.