Chapter 4 - The Objection That Wasn't
The minister standing beneath the flower-draped wooden arch cleared his throat, opening his leather-bound Bible, and looked out over the crowded pews.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God—”
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
From the heavy wooden doors at the back of the chapel, a slow, synchronized sound echoed across the polished marble floor. Clack. Clack. Clack.
It wasn't the sound of heels or dress shoes. It was the heavy, rhythmic tread of combat-seasoned boots.
Every head in the congregation whipped around in unison.
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Marching down the center aisle, two by two, came a phalanx of men and women wearing sharp, midnight-blue service dress uniforms and civilian attire alike, their chests heavy with ribbons, combat action insignias, and Trident pins. They moved with an unmistakable, predatory grace—a silent military precision that filled the sacred space with an electric, overwhelming gravity.
At the head of the column walked Master Chief Jack Hayes, his eyes fixed straight ahead, carrying himself with a quiet, terrifying dignity.
