“Wanted to see if you still had sense of humor.”
“Barely.”
Whitaker extended his hand.
Marcus shook it.
The admiral’s eyes returned to the marks on Marcus’s wrists.
“Tell me.”
Marcus glanced around.
“Not here.”
“Good answer.”
They walked toward the secure exit.
For the first time since Vance touched his arm, Marcus allowed himself to feel the anger.
It came all at once.
Not explosive.
Heavy.
He looked down at his uniform.
One brass button was slightly twisted.
The sleeve had wrinkled where Vance gripped him.
There was dust near the hem from where the sea bag had struck his leg.
The uniform itself was fine.
That somehow made it worse.
Because nothing visible explained how the word costume had felt.
Twenty-one years of service.
Three ships.
Two commands.
Four deployments.
A typhoon evacuation operation in the western Pacific.
A collision-response team that had worked seventy-two hours without real sleep.
Families he had called after sailors died.
Men and women he had recommended for promotion.
Others he had removed from duty when they could no longer be trusted.
Every stripe had come slowly.
Every decoration had a story.
Vance had looked at all of it and seen a disguise.
Marcus said nothing until they were inside the secure vehicle.
Whitaker sat across from him.
Nathan Carter took the forward seat.
A Navy security specialist closed the door.
Only then did Whitaker ask:
“What happened?”
Marcus told him.
From the first word.
No embellishment.
No interpretation.
Just sequence.
8:07.
Vance approaches.
“Stop impersonating a military officer.”
Marcus gives name and rank.
Vance calls uniform a costume.
Marcus offers ID.
Vance refuses.
Vance blocks access to bag.
Vance orders turn.
Marcus complies.
Cuffs.
Stolen valor accusation.
Bag kicked.
Movement through concourse.
Ruiz arrives.
Radio transmission.
Brooks arrives.
Cuffs removed.
Whitaker listened without interruption.
When Marcus finished, the admiral stared through tinted glass.
“Did he actually say ‘take off the costume’?”
“Yes, sir.”
Whitaker’s jaw shifted.
“Do you want to know what I want to do?”
“No, sir.”
“That was rhetorical.”
“I know.”
Carter turned slightly.
“Airport police chief already requesting contact.”
Whitaker said:
“He can contact counsel.”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
The admiral looked at him.
“I want to speak with him.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear whether first question is about what happened or about how to keep it quiet.”
Whitaker studied him.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are not conducting an investigation.”
“I know.”
“You are involved party.”
“I know.”