«Look at that. She definitely took a wrong turn,» one of the Marines muttered, nudging his buddy. «Probably trying to find her husband’s unit.» A wave of low, mocking chuckles spread through their small clique. Buoyed by his friends’ reactions, Corporal Miller rose from his seat and sauntered toward her table. He propped himself against the edge, folding his arms in a posture he likely believed was relaxed and charming. «Ma’am,» he started, a smug grin twisting the corner of his mouth.

«That’s some impressive gear you’re wearing,» he said, nodding at her flight jacket. «Must be a huge supporter of Marine aviation, huh?»

Major Jessica Reed didn’t acknowledge him at first. She methodically finished the bite she was chewing, took a deliberate sip of water, and only then raised her head. Her gaze, a placid and unwavering shade of blue, locked onto his.

«You could say that,» she replied, her voice perfectly level and soft.

Her complete lack of agitation momentarily disarmed him, but he recovered quickly. This whole display was for his audience, and his fellow corporals were now observing with rapt attention.

«Awesome. You know, around here, we all have our call signs,» he continued, gesturing broadly toward the flight line visible through the mess hall windows. «It’s a pilot thing. I’m guessing a high-speed jacket like that has to come with a high-speed nickname. What’s yours? ‘Mrs. Top Gun’?»

His friends erupted in predictable snickers. The jibe was crafted to hit its target—a dismissive, sharp poke intended to frame her as an outsider, a dependent, or a civilian groupie. Anything but a part of their world.

He was anticipating a blush, perhaps an indignant response, or a flusttered denial. What he was utterly unprepared for was her placing her fork down with measured precision, looking him squarely in the eyes, and responding with zero emotional inflection.

«Black Mamba.»

The name just hovered in the space between them. Miller’s self-assured smirk wavered. This wasn’t a variable his ego had factored in. The answer was too precise, too inherently aggressive. He had tossed out a rhetorical, condescending question to a woman he assumed was a civilian, and she had returned it like a live grenade.

A quiet moment stretched into an uncomfortable void. The background chatter of the cafeteria seemed to recede. The young corporal suddenly felt like he had blundered into a trap, the name «Black Mamba» rooting him to the spot.

Miller blinked, a shadow of genuine uncertainty flashing across his features before his bravado surged back to mask it. He produced a forced laugh, slightly too loud and brittle.

«Black Mamba. That’s hilarious. But for real, ma’am, that’s a restricted item. You can find yourself in a serious jam for wearing official gear you’re not rated for on base. It’s a violation of the UCMJ.»

He was digging in, refusing to retreat. His audience of peers made backing down impossible.

Jessica retrieved her fork, her movements economical and controlled. «I am fully versed in the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Corporal. Are you?»

Miller pushed on, his voice gaining a slight edge. «Because that name tape says ‘Reed,’ and these patches…» He squinted at a circular emblem on her right shoulder, which depicted a skull in a pilot’s helmet. «That’s VMFAT-101. The Sharpshooters. That’s a Hornet training squadron. A Fleet Replacement Squadron. Are you actually trying to tell me you’re a Hornet pilot?»

The challenge was unmistakable. It was no longer a question; it was a direct accusation.

Nearby, a few older, more seasoned Marines started to observe the confrontation, their expressions a mix of irritation and tired resignation. They had seen this scenario play out countless times: a fresh-faced boot, high on his own confidence, initiating a conflict he was guaranteed to lose. But this one felt different. The woman’s absolute stillness was deeply unsettling.

«I’ve been attached to the Sharpshooters,» Jessica replied, her tone remaining perfectly neutral. She took another bite of her chicken.

Miller was becoming visibly frustrated. Her composure was an impenetrable fortress he couldn’t find a way to breach. He felt his perceived authority—the authority of his uniform and his environment—eroding. He had to re-establish dominance.

«Alright, look,» he snapped, abandoning all pretense of civility. «Let’s see your ID. If you’re authorized to wear that jacket, you’ll have a CAC card to prove it.»

Without a single word, Jessica reached into a zippered pocket on the leg of her flight suit, retrieved her wallet, and extracted her Common Access Card. She held it out.

Miller snatched the card from her hand. He glanced down, fully expecting to see the tan coloring of a dependent ID or the blue of a civilian contractor—something to confirm his suspicions and justify his public interrogation.

Instead, he saw the distinct green background of an active-duty officer.

He read the name: REED, JESSICA E.

And then he saw the rank: O-4, MAJOR.

A cold, hard knot instantly formed in his gut. This was a significant problem. A very big one. But his pride was a relentless animal. He couldn’t just hand it back with an apology, not with his friends watching. He needed a different exit strategy, one that didn’t involve him looking like a total idiot. He squinted at the card, feigning intense scrutiny.