“Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“If you say so,” Tychus growled. The sound of his voice was like a gravel crusher in low gear. “I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Sims… . Is he around?”

The private nodded earnestly. “He’s inside, but I gotta see some ID first, Sarge.”

Tychus grunted, waited for the sentry to pass a scanner in front of his eyes, and was already making his way toward the front door when the green indicator light came on. That was when the private spoke into his lapel mic, heard a one-word reply, and turned his back to the warehouse. For the first time in at least a minute, the private exhaled.

Having entered the dimly lit warehouse, Tychus spotted a distant light and made his way toward it. The air was cool and slightly musty. Piles of Kel-Morian cargo modules were stacked against the walls—while others stood like islands in the middle of the clean-swept floor. Now that Tychus was closer he could see the desk that sat directly below the light. A gunnery sergeant was seated behind the beat-up piece of furniture with his feet up. Had Tychus been an officer, this would have been a dangerous thing to do, so it was obvious that Sims was expecting his visitor and wasn’t the least bit surprised when the other noncom came to a stop.

Sims had one pay grade on Tychus, but there are pay grades, and then there are pay grades. And, as every marine knows, the jump from staff sergeant to gunnery sergeant involves a lot of additional responsibility, authority, and respect. That, combined with the fact that Sims “owned” the warehouse, put him in the driver’s seat.