The morning bit with a November edge, crisp enough to haze over the sports fields was more breath than fog, pooling in idle clouds above the trampled upon grass. Joseph Garcia arrived earlier than everyone but the groundskeepers, alone in the charged quiet, the drill field raw with dew and tireless birdsong. The sky was a layered bruise, blue fighting off the last streaks of dawns purples, and every bench and chain-link shadow looked sharper, more exacting, than in the gentler hours.
The Stony Point High School flags snapped to their poles; first the United States, then Texas, and finally the cadet flag for their in-house NJROTC program. Joseph stood at the head of the blacktop "grinder" with his arms crossed, shoulders squared, the pressed seams of his uniform sharper than any teacher's expectation. The railroad track insignia of four bars rested in a brass coating on the shirt collars of the worn Navy Service Uniform, his borrowed uniform and authority being worn like it was a second skin.
"Yo, Garcia!" the first of the cadet staff loped out from the staff portable, windbreaker unzipped, hair unkempt. He saluted, mock-serous.
Joseph returned it, unamused. "Button up Wilson. You're in my sight line."
Wilson grinned and straightened his uniform with the casual panic of a boy who knew the difference between real consequences and performance. He fell in at the front, beside Joseph, eyeing the slowly assembling ranks.
They came in pairs and clumps, half-awake, hands jammed deep in their NSU pants. The younger cadets in the staff platoon lined up with the grim fatalism of conscripts; the juniors and seniors arranged themselves with a practiced ease. Joseph watched the last arrivals breaking into a jog, rushed along by Cadet Ensign Park, whose vigilance was more eager than effective.
At precisely 0700, Joseph stepped out and raised his voice, which always seemed to startle the younger of the kids. "Staff platoon, fall in!" His words landed crisp, cracking like distance rifle reports. The line shuddered and re-formed, the bodies knitting together with only a minimum of shuffling.
His eyes swept over the group of cadets. There was about thirty-six of them, all standing with their polished black shoes in perfect rows, faces stiffened by both the cold and by his gaze. Joseph liked the way the world made sense in lines and ranks. Out here, respect was given and received in gestures, in the snap of a salute or the click of a heel, and in the way you could read any one of their lives in the shine of their shoes and crisp cease of their uniforms.
He pivoted to face the staff portable, snapping to attention himself and waited. Their instructor exited the portable now, at the exact moment that Joseph's watch chirped a single time to signal that it was 0705. First Sergeant Banks slowly walked out to the group, his own Uniform as immaculate as one could be. The United States Marine had left the Corps, but it was obvious, as with any Marine, that the Corps hadn't left him.
As First Sergeant stepped into position, Joseph raised his own hand into a salute this time rendering the respect himself. First Sergeant returned it before asking in a booming voice, "All accounted for Garcia?"
"All present and accounted for, First Sergeant," Joseph replied, his voice carrying across the drill field. "Thirty-six staff cadets ready to execute the plan of the day."
"Excellent, carry on." came the systematic reply.
When the recitation ended, he signaled at ease. The field slackened, a contained release. Joseph spun on his heel, facing his troops. "Inspection: full dress. You know the drill. Lieutenants, make sure that everyone looks sharp before we send them to their platoons or that they at least regret their pillow choices."
Scattered laughter carried across the group.It was a badge of pride that Joseph could run them hard without losing them. He paced the lines, arms clasped behind him, giving a nod to each Lieutenant's brisk once-over. Shoes were checked, cuffs unwrinkled, even the regulation haircuts scanned for violations. He caught a whiff of eucalyptus and stopped at Wilson, whose aftershave was, by regulation, invisible.
"Wilson, did your mother bathe you in menthol again?" Joseph didn't need to raise his voice; the sarcasm traveled well.
Wilson tried to stand taller. "It's medicinal, sir. I have allergies."
"Good. Maybe it'll clear your head enough to remember a belt next time."
Muted snickers. Wilson rolled his eyes, but Joseph moved on, content.
At the end of the line, Park was quietly correcting the posture of a newer cadet, a freshman named Tran who looked like he'd teleported in from a math classroom. Joseph watched the exchange, saw the effort to be gentle, the way Park's fingers shaped Tran's elbows just so. It was the sort of soft correction Joseph's father might have dismissed as coddling, but Joseph understood its place.
"You'll get it," Joseph murmured when Park finished. "We all started somewhere, Tran."
The boy flushed, gave a tiny nod. Joseph logged the moment: a small, early victory for both of them.
There was a minute or so left before the first bell. Joseph gathered his senior officers for a huddle. They encircled him with their backs to the younger cadets, and the cold made their breath look like battle smoke.
"Good morning fellas," Joseph said, quiet but insistent. "We have a visit from the local Coast Guard recruiting office this Friday. I want the band room looking like a damn recruiting poster. Nobody will be out of uniform, and nobody should be there to embarrass us in front of Commander Miles, because I swear to God, she already thinks we are a group of bumpkins after last quarter."
He looked at their faces; Park's attentive, Wilson's drifting, Jenkins with her usual scowl of concentration. "Also, Friday is pizza to celebrate the review if it goes well. I want everyone signed in and at their tables. No skipping, no drama. Tracking?"
"Aye aye sir." Jenkins said, with a straight face.
Joseph nodded, breaking the circle. "Sweet. Dismissed."
The platoon disintegrated, the order melting into chaos as the students headed for their first period platoons. Joseph lingered, savoring the emptiness. When the last of the cadets had vanished into their respective portables, he allowed himself a moment to loosen his posture, to flex the cold from his hands.
"Impressive work, Garcia." The voice came from behind, edged with amusement. It was First Sergeant Banks. He wore his own Service Uniform like a second skin, and even retired, the man carried the authority of someone who'd survived things Joseph could only imagine.
"Thank you, sir," Joseph said, standing a little taller despite himself.
Banks walked beside him, scanning the field for errors. "So, have you considered going into the officer track? The Navy is always looking."
Joseph shrugged. "Every day."
"Good answer." Banks stopped at the edge of the blacktop, eyeing the empty flagpole. "You'll go far if you want it. Just don't lose your head on the way."
Joseph smiled, thin but real. "No promises, sir."
Banks grunted, then headed back toward the building, hands dug deep in the pockets of his windbreaker. Joseph watched him go, then turned back to face the silent field. The air was already warming; the day, for all its sharpness, was just another in a line of days. But Joseph felt it, a low hum in his chest, a sense that there was more out there, somewhere beyond the school, the county, even the cityscape that fringed the horizon. The future was a formation yet to be called, and Joseph had every intention of being the one to give the order.
He made his way to his first period, head high, every stride measured. The command stayed with him, even as the world fell back into its old, unpredictable shape.