Master Chief Raymond Carter came on the line, voice sharp as shrapnel: “Kid, keep eyes on Arthur Grayson. Don’t lose him. We’re coming.”
Offices emptied like a breached hull.
Mason released Arthur not because he wanted to — but because the doors exploded open.
Stepping in:
Commander Brandon Hawke, base lead. Master Chief Carter himself. Two Marine ceremonial escorts. And behind them — Vice Admiral Victor Sterling.
The hall snapped upright.
Sterling ignored the flurry of salutes and walked straight to Arthur.
Then — to Mason’s hand still inches from the old man’s sleeve.
The admiral saluted the veteran.
A clean, terrifyingly crisp salute. “Mr. Grayson,” Sterling said quietly, “it’s an honor, sir.”
Mason stepped back like the table had turned molten.
Sterling turned to the hall.
A man who finished alone what twelve began:
“For those unaware,” he announced, “this is Arthur Grayson. In 1943, as a Combat Demolition Frogman, he was inserted under Operation Iron Tide.
Of 12 deployed, 11 fell in the first hour. He finished alone.
72 hours in hostile territory. 17 confirmed kills using only a blade. Multiple listening posts destroyed. And a Medal of Honor recipient.
They called him the Phantom of Bataan, because he never made a sound — until the mission was complete.”
The hall stared.
Sterling continued: “That pin wasn’t bought. It was pressed into his palm by his dying team leader. Last words spoken to him in fire. It’s not a trinket. It’s a gravestone for the living.”
A commander’s punishment is loud. The lesson is louder. Commander Hawke stepped forward.
“Petty Officer Mason, report to my office in five minutes. Escort him, Chief.”
“Yes, sir,” Carter growled.
Arthur finally spoke, voice low but firm:
“He’s a kid, Ray. Let him learn. Just don’t crush him.”
Mason’s jaw tightened. Not pride this time — shame.
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