“What the hell do you mean we’re not going?” Rankin slammed his helmet on the chair next to him in the secure communications space. The sailors on the other side of the room jerked around and stared.
“The order is from Parnelles himself,” said Van Buren over the secure satellite radio. “We’re on Hold.”
“Aw, screw that, Colonel. Screw it. We gotta go in.”
“We are not, Sergeant. We are standing by until we have further orders.”
Sergeant. The chain of command always came up when the shit hit the fan, thought Rankin.
“Stephen?”
“Yeah, all right. We’ll stand fucking by,” said Rankin. He tossed the microphone down and stalked from the compartment.