A young corporal sitting at a nearby desk looked up, startled.
“Everything all right, Sergeant Major?”
“Corporal, get the CO on the line now,” Thorne said.
His voice was not a shout. It was a low-frequency blast that rattled the pens in their holder.
“And get a vehicle detail ready. Two vehicles, six men, dress blues. They have ninety seconds to be in the parking lot. Go.”
The corporal, trained to react, not to question, was already dialing.
As the phone rang, Thorne strode to the window, his jaw clenched.
The CO’s voice, sharp and professional, crackled through the speakerphone.
“What is it, Thorne?”
“Sir, we have a broken-arrow situation,” Thorne said, using an old unofficial term for a legend in distress. “Not a real one, sir. A personal one. It’s Gunny Clark. Raymond Clark.”
The silence from the CO was profound.
Every Marine knew the name.
They knew the stories.
Raymond “Ironheart” Clark was not just a veteran.
He was a monument.
“My God,” the CO breathed. “Where is he?”
“At the Oak Barrel Diner on Route 9, sir, being harassed by civilians. They’re trying to throw him out as we speak.”
“What do you need, Marcus?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Thorne said, his voice ringing with absolute conviction,...
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