However, the hitch in his left stride betrayed the agony radiating from his hip. He was a man of the old breed, a Marine’s Marine, with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic Ocean. Even in civilian clothes—a tight-fitting polo that strained against his biceps and tactical cargo pants—he radiated authority.
He was the commanding officer of the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, the legendary “Dark Horse” Battalion, and he was not accustomed to waiting. He gripped the reception counter with knuckles that turned white. The young Petty Officer behind the desk, a Hospitalman Apprentice barely out of high school, looked up and swallowed hard.
“Sir?” the young man squeaked. “I need a consult. Orthopedics.
Now,” Sterling growled. His voice was a low rumble, like a tank idling in a garage. “My hip feels like someone replaced the joint with broken glass.”
“Do… do you have an appointment, Colonel?”
Sterling leaned in.
“Son, I have a battalion deploying in three weeks. I don’t have time for appointments. I have shrapnel shifting in my hip from Fallujah, and it’s deciding to migrate south today.
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