A few employees in-and-out-of-uniform crossed, most eschewing umbrellas, from one office to another. 

Across the plaza was the mammoth concrete pile that housed the Department of Virus Control. It was the biggest building at the Defense Bureau by a wide margin. And we’re still losing this war, Winter thought.

Inside, the screeners gave them a perfunctory sweep, laced with terse pleasantries and friendly jibes, and they were admitted to the lobby. This elevator was broken so they forced themselves up two flights of steps. Winter kept fit but his calves were aching by the end. He was wearing 15 pounds of body armor, which he’d acclimated to, but this had been an exhausting shift.

Douglas, another trooper, passed as they entered the locker rooms. “Top is looking for you,” he said, with a significant look.

Winter and Nic traded glances. Couldn’t be good. There wasn’t time to hand out commendations these days. The only business was bad news.

Winter’s weary mind ran through the options as they headed for the captain’s office. They might have to work a double shift. He dreaded that possibility, but it wasn’t the worst-case scenario. Could Gary have reported his run-in with Nic? Nah. The guy was a first-class son of a bitch, but he was no tattletale.

In the locker room, a few troopers changed into or out of their body armor. Someone was playing reggae music at moderate volume.

Captain Frank Quarles himself suddenly banged through the doors and spotted them. He was one of those guys who always spoke three decibels louder than any situation called for.

“Waters! Masakawa! I need five minutes of your precious time.”

He jerked his head in the direction of his office. They followed. Winter could sense the tension in Nic’s body language. She wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, that was for sure.

Fortunately, their captain was a no-bullshit kinda guy.

Quarles’ office spoke volumes about him. The American flag, not unfurled but seated in a dignified stand. The portrait, not of their current president, but Ronald Reagan. The immaculate desk with an old-fashioned nameplate on it. As if anyone needed one to know who occupied this office.

Quarles beckoned them to take seats opposite the desk and sank into his basic, uncomfortable-looking chair. Again, the chair was telling. The captain could have a nice Aeron if he wanted one. But he didn’t.

Quarles had the look of an aging but still-fit Army man. Winter was aware of an armed services background in the captain’s past, but Quarles hadn’t said much about it. His sculpted silver hair was parted severely. He had mentioned that he used push-ups (lots of them) rather than Nautilus machines to maintain his physique at fifty-something. 

On the other hand, the wire-rimmed glasses he wore were more math teacher than soldier. Looking at him, you weren’t sure if Quarles was about to issue commands or complete equations. 

Winter had heard a lot of commands but never seen the captain take chalk to a blackboard.

“You kids look like shit,” Quarles said by way of preamble as they settled into their chairs.

“Maybe the work doesn’t agree with us,” Winter replied.

“No, you’re still the best I have.