Chapter 3 - The First Orders
The reception inside the Officers' Club was loud, crowded, and smelled of roast beef, white wine, and expensive cigars.
Commanders from nearby army posts, local politicians, and senior staff officers swarmed around me, offering congratulations, handshakes, and business cards. I navigated the room with practiced ease, nodding, acknowledging every word, making small talk while my mind was already tracking the three operational briefs I had scheduled for 1300.
In the corner of the room, standing near a potted palm tree and holding a plastic cup of sparkling water he looked deeply uncomfortable with, was Glenn.
He was isolated. People bumped past him, politely ignoring the civilian in the faded polo who looked like he had wandered in from a nearby gas station. Every time someone addressed him as "Colonel Connelly’s brother," Glenn would offer a tight, awkward nod and pull his head down into his shoulders.
I excused myself from a conversation with the Mayor of Barstow and walked over to him.
"You haven't touched the food," I said softly, setting my own cup down on a high-top table beside him.
Glenn looked up. The defensiveness was still there in his eyes, but it was frayed at the edges now, worn thin by hours of overwhelming ceremony.
"It's fancy," he said, his voice flat. "A little too fancy for a guy who works on carburetors for a living."
"It's just food, Glenn," I replied. "Made by young Marines who spent three hours prepping it."
Glenn took a small sip of his water, staring down at the ice cubes. "You really run this place, don't you? All of it?"
"I do."
"How many people?"
"Four thousand military personnel. Eight hundred civilian contractors. About twelve hundred family members living in base housing."
Glenn swallowed hard. "And that guy at the gate... the one who locked you up. What happens to him?"
I looked at him closely. "Why do you ask?"
Glenn shrugged, trying to adopt his old casual posture, though his hands were slightly shaking. "I don't know. I thought you'd have him court-martialed or something. You know, show everybody who's boss."
"If I used my rank to crush a twenty-two-year-old corporal for a procedural mistake made out of ignorance, I wouldn't be a commander, Glenn," I said, my tone even. "I’d just be a bully with an eagle on my collar. He made a mistake. He’ll learn from it. That’s how leadership works."
Glenn fell silent again. He stared at the carpet, his jaw working as he tried to process a concept that clearly didn't fit into his worldview. In Glenn’s world, power was something you used to make other people feel small—the way our father used it at the dinner table, the way Glenn had used his jokes to diminish my career for thirty years.
Before Glenn could answer, Major Vance stepped up to our table. His face was formal, but his eyes were sharp.
"Excuse me, Colonel," Vance said, bowing his head slightly. "The Provost Marshal is outside. He’s brought the full incident report from Gate 1, along with the internal security logs from the morning shift."
"Thank you, Major," I said. "Tell him I’ll review it in my office in ten minutes."
"Understood, ma'am." Vance hesitated, then looked at Glenn. "Sir, if you need transport back to your hotel or the airport, I can arrange a driver from the motor pool."
Glenn looked at Vance, then at me. The old defiance flared up in him one last time, a desperate attempt to reclaim some shred of control.
"I don't need a driver," Glenn said sharply. "Maggie drove me here. She can drive me back."
Major Vance’s eyes narrowed slightly at the use of my first name in a room full of officers, but he held his tongue, looking to me for guidance.
"Major," I said calmly. "Please assign a duty driver to escort Mr. Connelly to the VIP quarters on base. He’ll be staying through the weekend."
Glenn blinked. "Wait a minute. I didn't say I was staying through the weekend. I have to get back to the shop on Monday—"
"You're staying, Glenn," I said, turning my full gaze onto him.
It wasn't a mean tone. It wasn't angry. It was the absolute, unshakeable tone of a commander issuing a movement order.
"You've spent thirty years watching my life through a small window," I said softly, stepping closer so only he could hear. "You spent thirty years telling yourself and everyone in our family that what I do is a joke. You're going to sit on this base for forty-eight hours. You're going to see the shift changes at midnight. You're going to see the supply lines moving to the Pacific. You're going to see the families waiting for word from overseas. And then, when you go home, you can tell whatever story you want. But it won't be a lie anymore."
Glenn stared at me. His mouth opened to object, to make another joke, to find some way to shrink the room back down to the size of his kitchen table.
Nothing came out.
"Major Vance," I said, turning back to my executive officer. "Escort my brother to room 104 at the VIP quarters. Make sure he has everything he needs."
"Aye, aye, ma'am," Vance said, stepping beside Glenn. "This way, Mr. Connelly."
May you like
Glenn looked at me one last time—not with anger, not with the old smirk, but with a strange, terrified sense of awe. He slowly turned and followed Major Vance out of the Officers' Club, his boots dragging slightly on the polished floor.
I watched him go, then took a slow breath, smoothed my dress blue tunic, and turned back toward the main room to begin my first day of command.
