Chapter 7

The call went through at 14:00.

Sergeant Major Tate watched it happen from the doorway of the administrative building, his arms folded, his shaved head catching the afternoon sun. Captain Meredith Callahan stood at the pay phone on the wall outside the clerk's office — an old device that had been kept for emergencies, one that did not route through the base switchboard and could not be logged by the personnel who had made the first complaint disappear.

She dialed. She waited. She spoke in a voice so low that Tate could not make out the words, but he did not need words. He could see the number she had dialed, written on a scrap of paper in her hand. It started with a prefix he had seen exactly once in his career, and that was enough.

When she hung up, she turned and looked at him. The red mark at the corner of her mouth was almost healed now, a thin pink line that would fade to nothing in another day. She did not touch it. She did not need to. It had served its purpose.

"Sergeant Major," she said.

"Ma'am." He stepped forward, out of the shadow of the doorway. "Commander Marrow told me she gave you a copy of the tracking form."

"She did." Tate pulled the folded page from his shirt pocket and held it out. "It's the one that was voided. I don't know if it will help."

Captain Callahan took the page. She unfolded it, read it, and folded it again. Her hands were steady.