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as the super elite, was that the work spaces assigned to the crème-de-la-crème were among the dumpiest in the Navy.
    Yes, they were the most powerful, the most influential, the brightest of the Navy JAG Corps, but their work environment sure didn’t show it.
    The problem was that they were in the Pentagon, which, for the midgrade officer on a military career path, was the plumiest of assignments. But the Pentagon was also home to more high-ranking brass than any other place on the planet. And a lieutenant commander, or even a captain or a commander at the Pentagon, would always take a backseat to the officer wearing stars on his collar.
    Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald, JAGC, United States Navy, had, before coming to Washington, been accustomed to receiving salutes, to having subordinates come to attention for him, and to sometimes having the waters parted for him, all because he wore a gold oak leaf on his collar.
    All the attention had been kind of nice. Rank had its advantages. No problems waiting in line.
    But he left all that behind in San Diego, a major working naval base, where something like 90 percent of all naval personnel ranked below him.
    But P.J. MacDonald would never forget the day he first arrived at the Pentagon. He had parked his car way out in the hinterlands of the parking lot, walked across the asphalt for what seemed like a mile, passed what seemed to be about ten thousand cars. But when he arrived at the sidewalk by the entrance of the building, he witnessed a sight he would never forget.
    A tall U.S. Air Force officer stood in the bus line, holding his briefcase, waiting for a public bus to Northern Virginia.
    At first P.J. didn’t think about it.
    But as he walked past the officer, he realized his mind was now registering a delayed reaction.
    Wait a minute. Had he seen that right?
    Surely that had to be the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant colonel on the officer’s epaulette. Why else would he be standing in the bus line?
    P.J. stopped, turned around, and took another look at the officer.
    His mind had told him it had to be an oak leaf, because an officer wearing a star would never be holding his own briefcase at a military installation. But the oak leaf, on second glance, really was a single silver star!
    And when P.J. realized he was witnessing a one-star brigadier general standing in the bus line at the Pentagon, holding his own briefcase, waiting for a bus, reality hit him.
    On any other military installation in America, any one-star flag or general officer, whether a brigadier general in the Air Force, Army, or Marines, or a rear admiral, out in the open would be the recipient of spit polish and brass, ruffles and flourishes. A star on an officer’s collar, even a single star, usually meant the sounding of military band trumpets, a red-carpet rollout, and fanfare. Even without the trumpet call, when a general or an admiral entered the building, everyone jumped to strict attention, not breathing until the “at ease” command was given.
    In the fleet, a general or admiral would have an entourage surrounding him wherever he went. Usually a junior aide would carry a flag officer’s bags and take care of menial matters, while a senior aide took care of correspondence and more substantive matters. Then there would be an enlisted man serving as the admiral’s driver, for the flag or general officer always had his own personal staff car, complete with flapping blue-and-white flags on the hood above the headlamps, depicting the number of stars on the officer’s collar.
    When a general or admiral’s car pulled into a military installation, others, not part of the official entourage, would swarm around, trying to get face time with the high-ranking officer and to ingratiate themselves with the seat of military power.
    Against this backdrop, and understanding the awe and reverence for a star on the collar out in the “real” military, P.J. found himself