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bandages are seeping. Come on, better change ’em before they get infected.”
    Nolan dutifully followed his old colleague out of the Cube and to a first aid table they’d set up just outside the command area.
    As Branford set to work unwinding the endless roll of white that spiraled around Nolan’s head, he smirked. “Your funeral’s going to be on all the major networks in a few hours. Wouldn’t want to miss that. Our glorious president is giving the eulogy.”

7
    I have never known anyone,” said President Hastings into the lectern’s microphone, “with the heart, courage, or conviction of Lieutenant Nolan Gray.”
    His words echoed across the field at Arlington National Cemetery, where hundreds of members of the press were in attendance, along with thousands of Americans who’d shown up to mourn Nolan’s death. Dozens of cameras were trained on the small dais where Hastings stood wearing an onyx-black linen suit that his stylist had ordered specifically for the occasion. It was handmade, and like everything else about Nolan’s funeral, no expense was spared.
    Nolan’s dog tags were clutched in Hastings’ hand, held so tight that they were biting into his skin. He didn’t care.
    Members of Hastings’ own administration made up much of the small audience that was provided with white folding chairs near the podium. A handful of foreign dignitaries had come to show their support for Nolan and what he meant to the American people. A half dozen compatriots from Nolan’s time in the military were seated as honored guests—all of them owing their lives to Nolan Gray. Hastings’ staff had been unable to locate anyone else who Nolan called “friend.”
    “It is no exaggeration to say that Lieutenant Gray was the best soldier this country has ever trained, skilled in at least nine forms of martial arts, extremely high proficiency with every weapon he got his hands on, and an uncommon focus and clarity of purpose while on the battlefield. His strength of will was unmatched, his character unequaled. There exists no official count of the number of people whose lives he saved, because that number is far greater than anyone could possibly keep track of. To watch him in battle was to stand in awe of a man doing precisely what he was put on this earth to do, and doing it with confidence and razor-sharp precision. The Army Special Forces can claim to have turned him into the perfect soldier, but those of us who served with him know the truth. He was a warrior from birth.”
    Hastings cleared his throat and chided himself for displaying signs of anxiety. The next topic in his speech—which he’d revised five times himself, by hand—was not the most comfortable subject to talk about. But it was impossible to honor Nolan and not get to this.
    He swallowed.
    “During a covert mission on enemy soil during the war, Nolan and seven other members of his unit were discovered and taken prisoner—a captivity that would last those who survived more than two years. It was a day that I will never forget, because as the whole world knows, I was one of the men taken captive alongside Lieutenant Gray.
    “We were already comrades. We trusted each other, the way that men serving together on the battlefield are forced to. But it was after we were taken prisoner that we became friends. While I and others succumbed to illness, Nolan made it his mission to protect us, keep us safe. He routinely gave some of his daily rations to those of us who were sick, and regularly took on our portion of the daily punishments. The horrific events of those dark days are . . . well, they’re a matter of public record.”
    He paused. It was the first time in his entire speech he’d gone off script, and the first time he let emotion seep through.
    “The things that we endured will haunt me for the rest of my life. My body still bears the scars. My sleep still suffers from recurring nightmares. There are times when I smell something, or hear