I

[ ONE ]
The Shack on 8th
712 Atlantic Avenue
Virginia Beach, Virginia
1145 29 March 2026

U.S. Army Colonel C.G. Castillo (retired) sat in the driver’s seat of the rental Chevrolet Suburban—far more car than he really needed—and looked up through the open sunroof into the clear blue skies overhead. He had made good time on the drive down from Washington, DC and was enjoying a few moments of peace in the cool ocean breeze from the top floor of the parking garage.

In truth, he was just dragging his feet. He could have taken a nonstop flight from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport and already been in Tampa. But he had been putting this off for far too long already, and the four-hour drive was just the thing he needed to clear his mind before he said what he came to say.

If he even listens to me.

A flash of gray against the backdrop of blue caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat to sight in on a pair of Navy fighter jets racing low across the beach on their way to Naval Air Station Oceana, two miles away. Even with their throttles pulled back, Castillo still felt their exhaust notes resonating through the SUV and heard more than one car alarm triggered by the jet noise.

It’s the sound of freedom, right?

He glanced at his watch, then opened the driver’s door and dropped down onto the concrete. Had it been later in the afternoon in the summer, each spot would have probably already been claimed by beachgoers and bar hoppers. But before noon on a Sunday in March? He had the place to himself.

Castillo walked to the waist-high wall and leaned over, looking down on the alley separating the garage from The Shack—an oasis, as its website proclaimed, smack dab in the middle of the Virginia Beach oceanfront. Their menu boasted typical mid-Atlantic offerings of salmon, crab cakes, yellowfin tuna, and shrimp. But Castillo hadn’t come for seafood or lawn games. He turned away from the wall and headed for the stairs.

His muscles and joints ached, as much from the havoc wreaked on his fifty-seven-year-old body by the four-hour car drive as from all the running and gunning he had done in the Sudan, trying to keep up with a man almost half his age. He had done it. But his body had paid the price.

Then again, Pick was far from an average thirty-year-old. The legacy Marine was a MARSOC Raider and next up to replace Castillo. But, as he had told Marty Fleiss the day before, the kid simply wasn’t ready to be the Presidential Agent—yet.

Castillo reached the alley at street level and turned right, making for The Shack’s main entrance on Atlantic Avenue. He was there to meet with another kid—one Castillo wasn’t sure would even show—but just being there after decades of being absent had to count for something, right?

Out of habit, he pressed his arm against his side and felt for the comforting heft of his full-size 1911 pistol concealed in a shoulder holster under his travel shirt—thankful that the state of Virginia recognized his Texas resident concealed carry license. But even if that weren’t the case, Castillo still had a letter from the President of the United States in his back pocket attesting to the fact that he was “operating on a mission of vital national importance with grave consequences.”

Not that he planned on needing it, but he was glad he had it.

I probably should’ve given the letter back to Marty.

Traffic was sparse on Atlantic Avenue when Castillo exited the alley, but he still caught himself scanning the cars and pedestrians as if he were on the streets of Baghdad or Khartoum. Not the military-heavy region of the Hampton Roads. But living on the front lines of America’s war against terror for so long had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Castillo was still half a block from The Shack’s main entrance when the well-honed hairs on the back of his neck bristled and brought him up short. Castillo’s confident gait halted, and he squinted through rays of late morning sunlight at two young men standing in an alcove across the street.

Who are these guys?

They had light skin, sandy hair, and what appeared to be Eurasian ethnicity. But that in itself didn’t trigger any internal alarms. Still, something about them seemed off. He had almost dismissed it as overworked paranoia—a hangover from his past week spent in the Sudan—but then a gust of cool wind cut through his thin shirt, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh.

Jackets. Why are both men are wearing jackets?

Late March wasn’t overly warm in Virginia Beach, but it definitely wasn’t cold enough to require heavy work coats that were bulging and appeared to be concealing several layers of clothing underneath. Castillo had long since learned to pay attention to the mundane and seemingly inconsequential details when something didn’t smell right. And the two men across the street did not smell right to Castillo. Not right at all.

See something, say something. That’s what they always say, Charley.

Castillo gritted his teeth, looked both ways, then stepped out into the street while slipping his hand through the flap in his loose-fitting shirt, preparing to draw his pistol. Though he didn’t relish the idea. No matter what kind of letter he carried in his pocket—or who it was from—it would take a lot more than that to keep him out of jail if bullets started flying and people got hurt. But he couldn’t just sit on the sidelines and do nothing.

Recognizing he was succumbing to tunnel vision, Castillo forced himself to widen the aperture on his situational awareness. He scanned along the street in both directions, searching for a law enforcement presence or innocent bystanders who might be caught in a potential crossfire. Looking over his left shoulder—past the entrance to The Shack—he saw a trim, dark-haired young man being led by a large dog on its leash.

Castillo froze.

Max?

He recognized the rough-coated appearance of a Bouvier des Flandres but knew that the grayish-black dog couldn’t have been his longtime companion. His Max—the dog that had stood by his side through the worst moments of his life—was buried in a serene patch of land on his family’s ranch outside Uvalde, Texas. Not alive and well here in Virginia Beach.

That’s not Max. But he sure looks like him.

He glanced up into the eyes of the young man holding Not-Max’s leash and saw a flash of recognition there. Then, the eyes quickly darkened with something else. Anger? Hurt? Betrayal?

Before Castillo could process the emotion, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the pair of young men he had seen standing in the shadows of the beachfront hotel’s entrance. All thoughts of a cold beer over lunch at The Shack were forgotten in a blink when they threw open their jackets and revealed M16 assault rifles slung tightly across tactical vests that were adorned with several spare magazines.

Oh, shit!

“Charley!” a man’s voice cried out.

Castillo recognized it, but he was already yanking the pistol free from its shoulder holster and presenting it to the first target. There was no time to let disbelief stay his hand, and he pressed back on the trigger as the Novak front sight post settled on center mass.

The handgun barked, but he barely noticed the powerful .45 ACP recoil. He let the trigger reset as the sights settled, then pressed back again and sent another jacketed hollow point into the gunman.

Even as his target fell backwards, Castillo’s heart sank when he realized that the sharp staccato of automatic gunfire raking the beachfront appeared to be coming from multiple directions. In the distance, he could hear shrill screams and shouts of alarm echoing over the deep thumping of blood pulsing in his brain. But he tuned it out while shifting his aim to the second gunman. Before his sights had settled, he pressed back on the trigger a third time, already knowing he had rushed his shot.

The man spun and leveled the rifle on Castillo just as he pressed back on the trigger again. But this time, his aim was true. The man’s head snapped back and showered the air behind him in red.

Two tangoes down.

As he had been trained, Castillo drew his pistol in close to his body and scanned left and right for additional threats. He knew more than one amped-up police officer had reholstered his service weapon too soon after engaging a threat and paid for the mistake with his life. Castillo wasn’t about to do the same.

“Charley!” the man’s voice cried out again.

Castillo hesitated. From over his shoulder, he heard the stomping of feet of somebody running toward him at full speed, and he spun to see the dog’s owner with a stricken look on his face.

“Stay back, Randy! There might be—”

A searing pain slammed into his upper back and spun him around like a dervish, knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth and pushed the pistol outward with one hand, straining to find the shooter before it was too late.

“Behind you!” Randy yelled.

Disoriented and confused, Castillo pivoted and saw two new shooters, similarly dressed, racing from the hotel. He whipped his pistol up in their direction and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, hoping for just one of his rushed shots to find its mark. But the dark-clad men continued running at him, spitting fire from their rifles.

Again, something slammed into Castillo, and he staggered. He opened his mouth to shout another warning for Randy to run, but nothing came out. Fear gripped him when he realized he couldn’t breathe, and he collapsed to his knees, struggling to keep his pistol pointed up at the shooters. The sound of gunfire was quickly drowned out by the rhythmic beating of his heart and the muffled shouts of men surrounding him.

Castillo toppled forward to the ground and rolled onto his side, looking down the street in disbelief as dozens of dark-clad shooters fired indiscriminately into crowded stores and restaurants. But his vision blurred and his horrific view on what was sure to become a mass casualty event began to dim. He tried lifting his custom 1911 to stay in the fight, but his strength was gone. He was done.

How many died here today?

His eyes closed as the sounds of gunfire and screams faded into silence.

Is this how I’m to be reunited with my Svetlana?

 

 

[ TWO ]
Scott Natatorium
U.S. Naval Academy
Annapolis, Maryland
1230 29 March 2026

United States Marine Captain P.K. McCoy Jr. stood tall with his back to the room, a sly grin hidden underneath his bushy auburn beard. It had been almost ten years since he stood there with his classmates—almost in the exact same spot in the coach’s office—and added his own bobblehead to the coach’s obscenely large and unusual collection. He reached up and flicked miniature Second Lieutenant McCoy’s white dress cap and chuckled when his head began to bob.

“Pick!” a voice called out.

He spun and saw Coach Luis Nicolao, a member of the Class of 1992, walking into the room with his ruddy complexion and trademark smile plastered on his face.

“Hey, Coach.”

Luis gestured to a pair of chairs arranged in front of his large oak desk. “Have a seat.”

Before miniature Pick’s head had stopped bobbing, the real Pick took his seat across from the all-time leading scorer in Academy history and relaxed in the large armchair.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything—”

“Not at all. We’re just getting back from spring break and are putting on a clinic this weekend. You know things aren’t very busy around here this time of year. Just gearing up for graduation and the next recruiting season.”

Pick remembered.

“But I assume you didn’t come here just to catch up on the state of Navy Water Polo.”

“Actually, I did.”

Luis cocked his head and studied his former protégé. “Uh-huh.”

Pick laughed. “Seriously. I was just in the area and thought I’d stop by. Haven’t had much time to visit my alma mater since graduating.”

The coach ran a hand along his smoothly shaved face and gestured at Pick’s exact opposite. “Well, based on your grooming standards, I’m guessing you’ve either moved on from the Marine Corps or are in some secret squirrel outfit doing high-speed shit.”

Pick laughed. “Something like that.”

“Seriously, what are you doing now? Married? Kids?”

He knew most of his classmates had already settled down and married their ring dance dates or local girls they had met in Pensacola, San Diego, Norfolk, or wherever else the Navy and Marine Corps had sent them after graduation. But he didn’t take offense to the question. He knew the coach viewed his former players like family. “Well…”

Luis leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “That long of a story, huh?”

“No, not really. Officially, I’m still in the Marine Corps and based down at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.”

“Officially?”

Pick nodded. “Officially.”

“And unofficially?”

Pick stroked his beard. “Now, that story’s a little bit longer and not one I think I’m able to get into.”

“Secret squirrel shit,” Luis repeated. “I knew it.”

I doubt you’d believe me if I told you.

There was no way he could tell his former coach that he had been yanked from his Raider team in Iraq and brought back to the United States to meet with President Natalie Cohen. No way he could even begin to explain how he had been brought in under the tutelage of a former Army aviator and Green Beret—a West Pointer with a Distinguished Flying Cross, no less. And absolutely no way he could divulge to Luis that he had been on the ground in the Sudan the week before, rescuing Secretary of State Frank Malone.

“It doesn’t matter,” Pick said. “I’m thinking about transferring back to my old unit anyway.”

“Which is?”

“MARSOC. 2nd Marine Raider battalion.”

Luis craned his neck to look over his shoulder as Moose, his fluffy and charismatic cream-colored Aussiedoodle, plodded into the room and sauntered up to Pick. The coach’s dog was a fixture on the pool deck and as much a part of the Navy water polo team as any of the players. Pick reached down and scratched behind Moose’s ears.

“Why am I not surprised you became a Raider?”

Pick saw the humor in his coach’s eyes. “Because you know my family?”

Luis leaned forward in his chair. “Yeah, and because you’re part of our family, Pick. So, tell me what’s really bothering you.”

Moose nuzzled Pick as if to underscore the coach’s sentiment.

“My entire life, I knew I would grow up to be a Marine.” He looked over his shoulder at the Second Lieutenant Pick bobblehead doll and remembered the pride he felt putting on the Blue-White Dress uniform for the first time at graduation. “I think my dad gave me a Marmeluke Sword around the time when most other dads gave their sons baseball bats.”

Luis chuckled but didn’t say anything.

“And I love being a Marine. I love the history. The tradition. I love being part of something bigger than myself.” Pick looked around the coach’s office. “The way I loved playing for you as a member of this team.”

“That’s what this brotherhood is all about, Pick,” Luis said. “Some of us graduate to become surface warfare officers—”

“Like you.”

Luis nodded. “And some of us become submariners or pilots. Some of us even go to BUD/S and become SEALs—”

“And later write books.”

Luis ignored him. “And some of us become Marines. But we’re all part of the same brotherhood.”

Pick had heard this speech before. Most collegiate student-athletes are part of something only for as long as they’re playing the game. But those lucky enough to play for a team at one of the service academies are part of something that lasts well beyond their graduation.

“The brotherhood of war,” Pick said.

Before the coach could respond, Moose dropped a tennis ball at Pick’s feet as if to say, if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, can we go play catch now?

But Luis wasn’t done. “You know, wearing a uniform doesn’t make you who you are. I’d bet that even if you never put on a Marine uniform again, you’d still live by their core values.”

Honor, courage, and commitment.

“Are you saying I should get out?”

Luis shook his head, reminding Pick of the bobblehead dolls on the shelf behind him. “What I’m saying is that you need to do what you think is right. As long as you’re living by the values you were raised on—the values that were ingrained in you here—you’ll always be a Marine.”

“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” Pick said, echoing the popular sentiment.

“Semper Fi.”

 

 

[ THREE ]
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, D.C.
1245 29 March 2026

President Natalie Cohen sat with her back to the Resolute desk and stared at the miniature television encased in a golden frame, thus making it inconspicuous among the framed photographs adorning the table. Whenever she found herself alone in the office and free from the prying eyes of the press, she often had the television turned on and tuned to a 24-hour news channel.

Sometimes, she listened to pundits debate, just to get a read on how the people were viewing her fledgling presidency. Other times, like now, the television gave her a jump on breaking events before her staff even had the opportunity to brief her. It was ironic—and unfortunate—that her Director of National Intelligence, Marty Fleiss, was there to brief her on a separate matter when the news broke.

“How could this happen, Marty?”

She spun away from the television and looked up at the retired general and former deputy director of the CIA. But he only shook his head in mild disbelief.

“I don’t know, Madam President.”

She had been in the office for only two months and had already been blindsided by an event that tested her mettle as Commander-in-Chief. When Secretary of State Frank Malone had been kidnapped while on a diplomatic mission to Egypt, she had been forced to abandon her platform of transparency and bring in Charley Castillo from retirement to serve once more as Presidential Agent.

Cohen calmly folded her hands on top of the oak desk, exhibiting a calmness contrary to how she actually felt. “Marty, you are my Director of National Intelligence.”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“And we had no inkling that something like this was in the works?”

Instead of answering, Fleiss averted his gaze and looked over her shoulder at the television on the table behind her. She closed her eyes, having already seen enough of the news footage to know that the mass shooting in Virginia Beach wasn’t just another act of a deranged individual who had easy access to guns. It wasn’t a crime of passion or opportunity that had become all too commonplace on America’s streets. Cohen knew it was an act of terrorism—what she was sure would become the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil since September 11th.

“Madam President, every day we assess and evaluate hundreds of threats. But we had no intel whatsoever about a potential attack in Virginia Beach.”

And the largest and most capable intelligence community in the world knows nothing about it. Great.

“Where’s Castillo?”

Fleiss looked surprised but quickly recovered. “He left here earlier this morning for MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa to begin his next assignment.”

Cohen nodded but didn’t immediately press for details. She had placed the DNI in charge of Charley Castillo, and she prided herself on letting people manage their resources without her interfering. But sometimes, she knew she just needed to take the bull by the horns and steer them in the right direction.

“Don’t you think we should put him on this?”

“Madam President, maybe we should allow the FBI to complete their investigation and determine what happened first.”

Cohen clenched her jaw, inwardly seething as she attempted yet another round of four-count tactical breathing to calm herself. “I think it’s pretty clear what happened, Marty. What’s not clear is how this could happen right under our noses without anybody catching even a whiff. Not the CIA. Not the DIA. Not the FBI or NSA. Not even Homeland Security, for Christ’s sake. Nobody.”

“Yes, Madam—”

She cut him off. “I want you to recall Castillo and send him to Virginia Beach to find out if this was a one off or only the start of something bigger.”

When Fleiss didn’t answer, she felt her blood pressure tick up a notch until she noticed that the DNI hadn’t heard her question because he was focused on the television behind her.

“Marty!”

He gave a little shake of his head to break free from his momentary paralysis, then pointed at the golden-framed television. Cohen felt a chill drop down her spine as she slowly turned to face what she wished she could erase from her mind—a scene that would take years to fade from the nation’s collective memory. She turned up the volume and listened to a reporter delivering the most current—and probably inaccurate—information.

“…authorities have identified him as Carlos Guillermo Castillo, a retired Army Special Forces colonel, who we have confirmed was not licensed to carry a firearm by the Commonwealth of…”

“Castillo did this?” Her mouth suddenly became dry.

Fleiss shushed her. “Just listen!”

If she hadn’t been so shocked at hearing the reporter mention Castillo by name, she might have taken offense at Marty’s uncharacteristic brusqueness. But Cohen’s mind was already spiraling at the thought of her Presidential Agent committing such a heinous act, and she almost missed what the journalist said after she continued her report on the attack.

“…we are being told that Castillo shot and killed three of the attackers before himself being shot multiple times…”

“He was shot?” Cohen was embarrassed that she felt relieved.

“Yes…”

“What happened?”

But Fleiss ignored her question and pulled out his phone to place a call. “This is Director Fleiss… I’m with the President… A retired Army officer was shot in Virginia Beach… Carlos Castillo… I need to know his condition and what hospital he was taken to… Yes, immediately… Call me back.”

“Marty…”

He swallowed before answering her. “We’re going to get answers, Madam President.”

“What are we going to do?”

Cohen turned away from the television and slumped low in her seat. She had felt helpless after hearing the first reports of the terrorist attack. But with her Presidential Agent injured and out of commission, she felt completely lost.

“May I suggest we call in Captain McCoy?”

“Castillo’s new Marine partner?”

Fleiss nodded. “Yes, Madam President. You picked him as Charley’s successor.”

“On General McNab’s recommendation,” she clarified. “And, if I recall correctly, Castillo believed he wasn’t ready to step into the role just yet.”

Fleiss looked up at the television again as a subtle reminder. “With all due respect, Madam President, circumstances sometimes prevent us from having the luxury of waiting until we’re ready.”

Cohen wasn’t sure if Fleiss was talking about her ability to lead the country as President or McCoy’s ability to serve as Presidential Agent. But maybe they were one and the same. “What do we really know about Pick McCoy?”

 

 

II

[ ONE ]
Alumni Hall
U.S. Naval Academy
Annapolis, Maryland
0615 27 June 2013

Eighteen-year-old P.K. McCoy Jr. stood in a long line of strangers, looking up at a large Naval Academy crest affixed above the Isherwood Entrance of Alumni Hall. His shaggy auburn hair had already been bleached by the sun, and he wore a lightweight short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into a pair of khaki shorts. As he looked around at the other candidates, he noticed that it seemed to be the preferred uniform of choice.

“Nervous?” a female voice asked from behind him.

Pick, as he was known to his friends, turned around and noticed a short girl with long dark hair and rosy cheeks smiling up at him. “Not really. Are you?”

“I’m terrified,” she said, then laughed to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

He smiled back at her. “Actually, me too.”

The girl might have been scared, but she certainly wasn’t shy. She thrust her hand out to him. “My name’s Hannah. From Savannah.”

He shook it. “On purpose?”

The corners of her mouth twitched downward as if to hide her smile. “My mom said they’re going to make us memorize everybody else’s names and where they’re from.”

Pick looked behind her at the long line of candidates snaking up the sidewalk along Decatur Road. “All of them?”

This time there was no hiding her smile. “Just the ones in our company. I thought it might make it easier to remember my hometown if I introduced myself like that. What’s your name? Where are you from?”

Nope, she’s not shy at all.

“Pick McCoy,” he said. “Uh, from San Diego.”

“It doesn’t rhyme.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m sorry I don’t have an easy way of remembering where I’m from.”

The line ahead of them moved, and Hannah gestured for Pick to keep up with the group. “Not many places rhyme with Pick, I don’t think.”

“I guess not.”

“Is that a nickname?”

“Sort of. It’s short for Pickering.”

Hannah giggled, then quickly wiped her smile off her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. You’re probably named for somebody famous in your family.”

“My dad,” Pick replied. “I’m a junior.”

“Wait, your dad’s name is Pickering too?”

The line moved again, and again Pick shuffled forward a few steps. But he was thankful for Hannah’s gregarious personality to keep his mind off what awaited them on the other side of the double doors.

“My grandpa named him after his best friend in the war.”

“Which war was that?”

“World War Two,” Pick replied. “He was a Marine pilot and flew Wildcats with the Cactus Air Force on Guadalcanal.”

“Your grandpa?”

“His friend.”

“Was your dad a Marine too?”

Pick nodded.

“Pilot?”

Again, Pick nodded.

“And you’re going to be a Marine pilot, too?”

Pick hesitated, then shook his head.

 

 

[ TWO ]

Pick’s eyes glassed over, and he stood with his back against the wall, running his hand across the fresh stubble covering his scalp. Knowing they would shave his head on I-Day wasn’t the same as having a barber named Sarge run clippers through his thick hair without regard for his comfort or appearance. His eyes had teared up as much from seeing his auburn locks fall to the ground as from Sarge’s rough treatment. Probably more so.

Well, there’s no turning back now, Pick.

But that wasn’t totally true. He knew he could drop out any time before his first class in the fall of his junior year and not owe Uncle Sam a nickel. Even if the elder McCoy hadn’t made it clear that quitting wasn’t an option, Pick had made his choice and wasn’t about to return home with his tail tucked between his legs. He smiled at the thought of graduating from the Naval Academy in four years to follow in his father’s—and grandfather’s—footsteps and become a Marine.

You just have to make it through the summer and take it one day at a—

“Something funny, candidate?”

Pick’s smile disappeared. The midshipman speaking to him was dressed in summer whites with two diagonal stripes on his shoulder boards and a red name tag above his right breast pocket. “Uh, no, sir?”

“Is that a question?”

Pick swallowed to buy himself time, scrambling to remember his basic responses. “No, sir.”

“Sir, no, sir,” the midshipman corrected.

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Guess you were just thinking about your girlfriend in a bikini, sunning herself on the beach back home. Is that about right, McCoy?”

The upperclassman couldn’t have known he had broken up with his high school sweetheart only the week before and was probably just trying to get a rise out of him to make him break character. Pick bit the inside of his cheek to keep his hot-tempered Irish blood in check. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut long enough for the detailer to get bored with him and move on to his next victim.

Pick remembered this time to lead with the honorific. “Sir, no, sir.”

“McCoy…” The detailer scrunched up his face, then snapped his fingers as if something had triggered his memory. “That’s it. Not your girlfriend. You were thinking about your cousin.”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“No? You’re not from Kentucky?”

The comment caught Pick off guard. “Uh, no, sir.”

“Sir, no, sir,” the midshipman corrected again.

“Sir, no, sir.”

The upperclassman shrugged, but his strained look of concentration had been replaced with one of humor. “Well, good. The last thing I need is for one of my plebes to be the great-great-grand-something of ‘Ole Ran’l’ come here to settle an ancient feud on the banks of the Severn.”

“Sir, no, sir.” It took Pick slightly less time to figure out what the hell the detailer was talking about. “I don’t know any Hatfields either, sir.”

The humorous expression vanished, and the midshipman’s face contorted with anger. “Did I fucking ask if you knew any fucking Hatfields, McCoy?”

“Sir, no—”

“Alright, listen up, candidates!” The midshipman wheeled away from McCoy and addressed the group assembled in the hallway. “My name is Midshipman Second Class Richardson. You will address me as ‘Mr. Richardson’ or ‘sir.’ I have been given the unfortunate task of taking you complete wastes of space and turning you into something that at least resembles a midshipman by the time you take your oath of office at the end of the day. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the candidates shouted in unison.

“Let’s start with the basics. Attention on deck!”

A few candidates recognized the command and shifted in place until approximating the position of attention. Pick immediately brought his heels together and gripped the outside seams of his itchy white cotton pants, remembering one of the few things his father had taught him about military life.

“Not bad,” Richardson said, walking along the line of candidates to inspect their posture.

Each candidate wore a uniform known as “white works,” consisting of Navy blue athletic shorts and a white, blue-rimmed t-shirt underneath stark white trousers and a tunic that made Pick feel like the sailor from a Cracker Jack box. A white duty belt with a silver buckle completed the ensemble and was wrapped around his trim waist.

“Any time you are indoors, you will be uncovered,” Richardson said, snatching Pick’s blue-rimmed Dixie Cup out of his hand and pressing it against his right thigh with his fingers spread inside. “You will doff your cover upon entering any building and will hold it like this. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the group answered again, feeling more confident in their responses.

The detailer tossed the cover back to Pick and moved on to the next lesson. “One exception to this rule is when you are standing the watch. For instructional purposes, you may don your covers now.”

Pick placed his Dixie Cup on top of his head and made several small adjustments until he thought it wouldn’t fall off. Then, he dropped his hands to his sides and resumed the position of attention while waiting for the detailer to inspect his handiwork.

Richardson walked along the line and nodded with approval until he came to Pick.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re going to make this a long day for me, McCoy.”

Pick kept his eyes fixed straight ahead—in what they called “the boat”—and waited for the detailer to expand on his general criticism of Pick’s lackluster performance.

“Candidate McCoy, may I make an adjustment to your cover?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Pick replied.

Richardson squared off in front of Pick and plucked the Dixie Cup from his head and canted it forward. “Place your index and middle fingers together and rest them on the bridge of your nose.”

Pick did so and felt Richardson tilt the cover forward until the sweatband rested on his brow, two fingers above his nose.

“This is the correct manner of wearing your cover, McCoy.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Richardson moved on to the next unfortunate soul and Pick swallowed. Not even one day in and he was already regretting his decision to leave the beaches of sunny San Diego for Bancroft Hall in humid Annapolis.

What have I done?

 

 

From DIRECT ACTION — Book X in the bestselling PRESIDENTIAL AGENT series.
Published 16 December 2025.
Order copies here
©2025 W.E.B. GRIFFIN & WILLIAM E. BUTTERWORTH IV.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.