The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "Special Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out of the Academy in the first couple of years."
He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point at Mauson.
"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva. Graham and I have some talking to do."
"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.
"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.
"Come on, you. March."
Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.
"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handling that one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to. Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.
"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."
"But I've got—"