So did Terrence.
Vance entered through the glass doors.
Behind him came a Department of Defense attorney, two military aides, and federal liaison personnel.
Captain Sloan stepped forward.
“Lieutenant General Vance.”
Vance looked past him.
“Where is General Whitmore?”
Terrence stood beside the front desk.
Vance’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
He walked toward him.
Stopped.
Came to attention.
Raised his right hand in a flawless salute.
Every police officer watching froze.
Terrence looked at Vance for a long second.
Then returned the salute.
Vance lowered his hand.
“Sir.”
“Conrad.”
“I wish this reunion had occurred somewhere with better coffee.”
Terrence’s mouth twitched.
“So do I.”
Vance looked toward his wrists.
The faint red marks from the cuffs remained.
His expression hardened.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Medical?”
“Unnecessary.”
Vance glanced toward Sloan.
Terrence said quietly:
“Do not turn this into theater.”
Vance looked back.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Terrence raised an eyebrow.
Vance almost smiled.
Then Captain Sloan stepped forward.
“General Whitmore, on behalf of the department—”
Terrence held up one hand.
“Not here.”
Sloan stopped.
Terrence looked around the station.
Officers stood beside desks.
Citizens still occupied two waiting chairs.
Doyle stared at the floor.
Langley had gone pale.
Carver had not moved in several minutes.
Terrence said:
“You owe explanations.”
“Not a performance for me.”
Sloan nodded.
Then Vance spoke.
“I was instructed to convey one formal message.”
Terrence looked at him.
“From General Halden.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
Vance turned toward Sloan.
“The Army Chief of Staff asked that this department be reminded of the distinction between rank and dignity.”
Sloan waited.
Vance continued.
“The Department of Defense cannot command your civilian officers as soldiers.”
Several officers looked relieved.
Then Vance added:
“But your captain can.”
He looked directly at Sloan.
Sloan understood.
The captain’s face tightened.
He stepped into the center of the bullpen.
“Everyone.”
Officers turned.
“All sworn personnel present, stand.”
Chairs scraped.
Men and women rose.
Some slowly.
Some immediately.
Sloan looked at Terrence.
Then toward Vance.
The Pentagon had not ordered a local police department into military formation.
But after two verified calls from senior Army leadership, after the complete collapse of his officers’ assumptions, Sloan understood the symbolic meaning of what had been requested.
He made the decision himself.
“Attention.”
The station straightened.
More than thirty officers came upright.
Even Carver.
Even Langley.
Doyle stood behind the front counter.
Sloan continued.
“General Terrence Whitmore served this country for more than thirty years.”
His voice shook slightly.
“He entered this station today as a private citizen asking for assistance.”
“We failed him before we knew his rank.”
“That failure is ours.”
Terrence watched.
Sloan swallowed.
“On my command, render honors.”
Hands rose.
One after another.
Thirty police officers saluted.
The sound was not loud.
No music.
No cheering.
Only the slight movement of uniforms, the hum of fluorescent lights, and restrained breathing.
Terrence stood facing them.
He hated part of it.
The idea that his stars could suddenly produce the respect his ordinary clothes could not had become the central ugliness of the entire day.
Still, he understood what Sloan was trying to do.