Intelligence officer.
Steady under pressure.
Frustratingly good at chess.
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A man who drank terrible coffee, disliked flying, and wrote letters to his children from every assignment even when they were too young to understand
them.
A man who had saved my life eleven years before.
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“Colonel?”
Marco moved closer.
“You know that name?”
I looked at him.
“I knew their father.”
The words felt heavy.
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The final time I had seen Daniel, we had been standing inside a hangar outside Ramstein Air Base.
Rain pounded against the roof.
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He had shaken my hand before boarding a transport flight home.
“You’re getting old, Steel,” he had joked.
“So are you.”
“Not me. I’m retiring before gravity wins.”
He had smiled.
Then his expression shifted.
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“Take care of yourself, sir.”
“You too, Carter.”
We never served together afterward.
