Sitting at a long twelve-foot reclaimed chestnut trestle table with an open set of regional land surveys and a steaming ceramic mug of dark-roast chicory coffee…
Was Dr. Adrian Mercer.
I was forty-two now.
I had formally assumed the permanent Chancellorship of the Sovereign Admiralty Trust six months ago, while directing strategic territorial title interdiction for the Joint Chiefs of Staff without drawing a corporate consulting dollar. The paralyzing trauma of that airborne confrontation, the exhaustion of forty-eight hours without sleep, and the heavy burden of eighty years of sovereign defense vigilance had completely metabolized into an un-shakeable, eighty-year architectural peace; my strength had completely returned, rooted in the bedrock of an un-broken command.
I wore an unadorned cream-colored linen work shirt, comfortable dark denim trousers with copper rivets, and clean leather field boots. Beside me sat my wife, Sarah, her dark curls shining in the sunlight, her face radiant with vibrant health, smiling as she poured fresh cream into my mug.
