They Mocked Me at the Military Gate. Seconds Later, the General Saluted Me.

 

My name is Rachel Monroe. On my tax returns, I write one simple word under “Occupation”: consultant. It’s vague, forgettable, and that’s exactly the point. It allows me to move through life quietly, to blend into dinner parties and neighborhood gatherings without the burden of long explanations. When someone asks, I say I work in government logistics or strategic coordination, and their eyes glaze over before I finish the sentence. They nod, half-listening, and move on. It’s easier that way. It’s safer too.

To my family, I’m something else entirely. They think I’m a photographer—some kind of creative wanderer with a camera hanging around my neck, scraping by on small gigs and travel photos. They love that image because it fits a story they can understand: the artistic, free-spirited daughter who never quite settled down, never made as much money as her brothers, but at least “followed her passion.” They say it with affection, but it’s the kind that sits on a foundation of condescension. They love me, but they don’t respect me.

My brothers, on the other hand, are the real heroes in the family lore. Both in uniform, both serving with ranks and titles that sound impressive over Thanksgiving dinner. My parents have their photos framed in the living room—one in a dress uniform, one saluting from the deck of a ship. My picture hangs too, tucked away on a side table, an old family snapshot from a beach trip. They never ask about my work, not really. Maybe they think it’s too dull, or maybe they’ve learned I’ll never give them the answers they want.

But that Tuesday morning, family impressions and half-truths didn’t matter. What mattered was that the President of the United States was landing at Joint Base Andrews in two hours and fourteen minutes, and the entire base was locked down tighter than a vault. I was on the road to the gate, running on a schedule measured in seconds, not minutes. And the man behind the wheel of the SUV beside me thought I was just along for the ride.

Captain Andrew Davis. Former Marine. The kind of man who still wore his old service haircut like it was a medal. We’d dated briefly years ago, back when I was young enough to mistake confidence for competence. The relationship didn’t last, but his ego certainly did. When my assigned transport—a government-issued Suburban—blew a transmission block three miles from the base, Davis happened to drive by in his shiny black truck. He offered me a ride. I didn’t have time to argue.

From the second I buckled my seatbelt, I regretted it.

He was already talking, explaining the process of base entry and event security like I was a clueless tourist. “Don’t worry,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “I’ve been to plenty of these. It gets intense with all the brass around. Just stick close to me, and try not to get in the way of the real operators.”

His words hung in the air like bad cologne. I turned toward the window so he couldn’t see the small, involuntary curve of a smile tugging at my mouth. I’d learned long ago that silence was its own form of power. Men like Davis fill quiet with noise because they can’t stand not being in control of it.

“I’ll try to behave,” I said finally.

“Good,” he replied with a grin, tapping the steering wheel. “And don’t start snapping artsy pictures of restricted stuff, alright? I don’t want to have to bail you out of MP custody because you thought a fuel tank looked poetic.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. My clearance badge was buried inside the folder in my lap—a laminated key that could open doors he didn’t even know existed.

The SUV rolled down the access road leading toward the base, and the heat outside shimmered against the horizon. It was one of those Washington summer mornings that feel more like a damp fever than weather—thick air that clung to the skin and turned every breath into effort. Ahead of us, traffic had come to a standstill. A long snake of cars wound toward the main security gate, where guards checked each vehicle with slow, methodical precision. Concrete barriers turned the approach into a zigzag of choke points.

Davis drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Amateurs,” he muttered. “Civilians trying to get a glimpse of Air Force One. Whole place turns into a circus when the President’s in town.”

Without warning, he yanked the wheel left, pulling into the lane marked “Military Personnel Only.” He glanced at me, smug. “We’ll cut through here. Rank has its privileges.”

I said nothing, just watched the guard tower loom larger as we approached. The booth at the gate was manned by a single airman who couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Sweat trickled down his temples beneath his helmet. His M4 hung heavy against his chest as he waved the next car forward. You could tell from his face that he’d been standing there since dawn.

Davis rolled down his window, flashing his retired military ID with the casual confidence of a man who’d done it a thousand times before. His voice slipped into that old officer tone—measured, commanding, condescending. “Captain Davis, retired. Heading to the flight line for the arrival ceremony. She’s with me.”

He jerked a thumb in my direction without looking. “Civilian photographer or something.”

There it was. The dismissal. That subtle shift in tone that reduced me from person to accessory. The kind of voice men use when they think they’re being protective but are really being patronizing.

The young airman took the ID. He didn’t smile. Didn’t salute. He scanned the card on a handheld device, then looked down at a clipboard inside the booth. His brow furrowed.

“Sir,” he said carefully, handing the ID back, “your name isn’t on the manifest.”

For a split second, Davis’s grin faltered. Then he leaned back, exuding calm superiority. “Check again, son. I’m a retired officer. I have base privileges. I’ve been at this airfield more times than I can count. You must be new.”

“This isn’t an air show, sir,” the airman replied. His tone stayed even, his posture steady. “Joint Base Andrews is at Condition Yellow for a POTUS movement. Only those on the Secret Service access list are cleared past this point. No exceptions.”

The color rose in Davis’s neck, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Listen, I don’t think you understand who you’re talking to—”

But I could already see how this would go. The young guard wasn’t budging. He was following orders exactly as he should. The real issue wasn’t the guard; it was Davis’s pride colliding with authority higher than his own. He started to argue, words sharp with indignation.

I opened my bag and reached for the small, unmarked envelope I’d been carrying. The air outside shimmered with heat as I stepped out of the SUV, the asphalt radiating warmth through my boots. The guard’s eyes darted toward me, cautious. I didn’t blame him. Everything about this situation must have looked strange—a sweaty ex-Marine arguing with a civilian woman beside a government checkpoint.

I walked up slowly, handing him the envelope. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stay in the vehicle,” Davis barked, still seated.

The airman took the envelope, slid out a single folded document, and froze. His posture changed instantly. His chin lifted. His expression tightened into professional composure. He glanced at me, then back down at the paper.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “please stand by.”

He turned, radioing someone in rapid, clipped language I couldn’t hear over the hum of the engines. Two minutes later, the guardhouse door opened. A senior NCO stepped out, followed by a man in dress uniform—a general, his insignia unmistakable even from twenty yards away.

The general strode toward us, the air shimmering around his shoulders like the heat itself recognized rank. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask for identification. He stopped three feet away, met my eyes, and raised his hand in a crisp salute.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Davis’s mouth hung open. The airman beside the booth stared straight ahead, trying not to look shocked.

“Ma’am,” the general said, his voice carrying over the idling engines, “welcome to Andrews.”

I returned the salute with a calmness that felt like muscle memory, then nodded once.

The general turned to the guard. “Clear her vehicle for immediate entry. Escort to the primary hangar. No delays.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general pivoted sharply and strode back toward the gatehouse, his aides trailing behind him. The airman motioned for me to drive through.

I opened the passenger door of the SUV, the heat rolling out in waves. Davis was staring straight ahead, face flushed, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

“Guess I don’t need to stick close after all,” I said softly, sliding back into my seat.

He didn’t answer.

The guard waved us forward, the barrier arm lifting slowly as we rolled through. The sound of the base opened up ahead—rotors, engines, the steady pulse of precision. And as we crossed onto the runway road, I caught a glimpse of the general’s salute reflected faintly in the side mirror, still hanging in the air behind us.

I said nothing more. Some truths don’t need to be explained.

Continue below

 

 

 

 

I’m Rachel Monroe. On my tax returns, under the section asking for occupation, I simply write consultant. It’s boring. It’s vague. It’s the kind of job title that makes people’s eyes glaze over at dinner parties, allowing me to slip back into the background, unnoticed and unbothered. My family thinks I’m a photographer, a creative.

 To them, that means I drift through life with a camera strap around my neck, taking pictures of weddings or landscapes, living paycheck to paycheck, and probably needing a loan for a down payment on a condo. They love me, sure, but they don’t respect me. Not in the way they respect my brothers, who wear uniforms and carry ranks that everyone understands.

But on that particular Tuesday morning, none of that mattered. What mattered was that the president of the United States was landing at Joint Base Andrews in exactly 2 hours and 14 minutes. And the man driving the SUV beside me thought I was just tagging along to take pictures of the airplanes. Captain Davis, former Marine, part-time hero in his own head and full-time ex-boyfriend, was behind the wheel.

 He hadn’t changed much since we split up two years ago. Same high and tight buzzcut, same Oakley sunglasses resting on the dashboard, same habit of speaking like every sentence was a tactical command that required immediate compliance. I’d agreed to ride with him because my governmentissued Suburban had blown a transmission block 3 miles from the base and my replacement transport was 20 minutes out.

 I didn’t have 20 minutes. In my line of work, 20 minutes is the difference between a successful arrival and a diplomatic incident. So, when Davis happened to drive by and offered a lift, I swallowed my pride and got in. Big mistake. From the moment I clicked the seat belt, he acted like he was doing me a favor. Like letting me onto the base with him was some kind of charity work for the civilian ex-girlfriend who couldn’t manage her own life.

 Don’t worry, he said, adjusting his rear view mirror to check his own reflection. I know the drill at these events. It can get pretty intense with all the brass around. Just stick close to me. Keep your head down and try not to get in the way of the real operators. I turned my head to look out the window so he wouldn’t see the ghost of a smile playing on my lips.

I’ll try to stay out of trouble, Davis. Yeah. Well, he chuckled, tapping the steering wheel. Just don’t start snapping photos of anything restricted. I don’t want to have to bail you out of MP custody because you thought a fuel tank looked artistic. I let him talk. I learned a long time ago that silence is the loudest way to win.

 He was filling the air with his own importance because he couldn’t stand the quiet. He needed to be the guide, the protector, the man in charge. As we merged onto the highway leading to the main security checkpoint of Joint Base Andrews, the heat outside was already unbearable. It was a humid DC summer morning, the kind where the air feels like wet wool.

 Heat waves shimmerred off the asphalt, distorting the horizon. The traffic was backed up for a mile. Security was tighter than usual. Secret service checkpoints, bomb dogs, and concrete barriers arranged in a chicane pattern to stop vehicle ramming attacks. Davis sighed loudly, checking his watch. Gridlock. Civilians are trying to get a glimpse of the big bird. Amateur hour.

 He pulled the SUV into the left lane, bypassing a line of cars, and headed toward the gate marked for military personnel. He drove with the confidence of a man who believes the rules are written for other people. “We’ll cut through here,” he announced. “Rank has its privileges.” “We pulled up to the guard booth.” A young airman, probably no older than 19, stepped out.

 He was sweating in his full tactical gear. An M4 carbine slung across his chest. He looked tired and on edge. Davis leaned out his window, flashing his retired military ID with a practiced flick of the wrist. He smiled that insider smile, the one that says, “We’re part of the same club, son.” “Captain Davis, retired,” he said, his voice projecting authority.

 “Heading to the flight line for the arrival ceremony. She’s just with me.” He nodded toward me without even looking in my direction. civilian media photographer or something. I’m escorting her. There it was. The tone, not aggressive, not even loud, just dismissive enough to shrink me down to background noise, just enough to tell the guard I wasn’t worth checking in with. I was just cargo.

The airman took the ID. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t salute. He scanned the card on his handheld device, waited for the beep, and then looked at a clipboard hanging inside the booth. He frowned. “Sir,” the airman said, handing the ID back through the window. “Your name isn’t on the manifest.” Davis’s smile faltered just for a second before he reassembled it into a look of patient condescension.

“Check again, son. I’m a retired officer. I have base privileges. I come here for the air show every year. This isn’t the air show, sir, the guard said, his voice flat. The base is on condition yellow lockdown for a pus movement. No non-essential personnel. If you aren’t on the Secret Service access list, you don’t get in. Davis flushed red.

 The vein in his neck popped. He hated being told no, especially by someone he considered a subordinate, and especially in front of me. Look, airman, Davis snapped, dropping the friendly act. I’m not a tourist. I served two tours in the sandbox. I’m trying to get her. He jabbed a thumb at me again. To the media tent.

 She’s running late, and I’m doing her a favor. The guard leaned down and looked at me through the passenger window. He looked bored. He looked like he had been dealing with entitled retirees all morning. If she’s media, she needs a press credential issued by the White House press office. The guard said, “If she doesn’t have one, you both need to leave now.

 You’re blocking the lane and we have a convoy inbound.” Davis slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to me. “See bureaucracy. This kid doesn’t know his left from his right. He shifted the SUV into reverse, checking his mirrors aggressively. Great. We’re turning around. Sorry, Rachel.

 Looks like you’re missing your photo op. Don’t, I said. It was the first word I’d spoken in 20 minutes. It was soft, but it carried a weight that made Davis pause. He looked at me annoyed. What? We can’t get in, Rachel. You heard the kid. The list is locked. I said, “Don’t turn around.” I reached into my bag.

 It was a nondescript leather tote, the kind that looks like it holds gym clothes and a water bottle. Inside, nestled between a backup battery and a granola bar, was a lanyard. I pulled it out. The badge wasn’t the flimsy laminated paper used for press passes. It was a hard shell smart card. encased in a matte black holder. On the front, holographically printed over my photo, was a single gold star and the seal of the executive office of the president.

Below my face in bold red letters was the designation. You lead. I didn’t look at Davis. I rolled down my window. The airman stepped forward aggressively, his hand moving toward his radio. Ma’am, I said you need to clear the Then he saw the badge dangling from my hand. He stopped mid-sentence.

 His eyes went wide. He looked at the badge, then at my face, and the boredom vanished instantly, replaced by a jolt of pure high voltage adrenaline. He recognized the color code. He knew what lead meant. He didn’t just straighten up. He snapped to attention so hard his heels clicked on the pavement.

 “Director Monroe,” he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you in the vehicle. I thought you were I didn’t know.” Davis froze. His hands were still on the wheel mid turn. He looked at the guard who was now trembling slightly and then at me. His mouth hung slightly open. Director, Davis whispered. The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

 I ignored him. I looked at the airman. Open the gate, airman, I said. My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. I’m 10 minutes behind schedule, and the Secret Service special agent in charge is waiting for my go-ahad on the tarmac. If I’m late, the president holds in the air.

 Do you want to be the reason Air Force One is burning fuel in a holding pattern? No, ma’am. Absolutely not, ma’am. The airman didn’t just open the gate. He hit the emergency override button. The heavy steel barrier flew up with a clang. He waved us through frantically, speaking into his shoulder radio with urgency. Control, this is gate six.

 We have the lead advance on site. Repeat, lead advance is inbound. Clear the lane, make a hole. I turned to Davis. His face was a mask of absolute confusion. He looked like a man trying to solve a calculus equation using only the alphabet. Drive, I said calmly. He drove, but the swagger was gone. His hands were gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles white.

 The SUV rolled forward, passing a line of saluting MPs who had apparently just heard the radio call. Rachel, he said, his voice unsure, stripped of its command. What was that? What badge is that? I thought you were freelancing. Just drive to the flight line, Davis. And for the love of God, don’t park in the VIP lot.

 You don’t have the clearance, and they will tow you. Growing up in a military family meant one thing was clear from day one. Respect came with rank and anything outside of a uniform was considered a hobby. I still remember the day I told my father I wanted to study visual logistics and communications. He looked at me like I just announced I was joining the circus.

 He told me cameras were toys, that no one would ever salute a woman with a lens. that real power came from the barrel of a gun or the stars on a collar. My brothers joined ROC. They learned how to march. I joined a program that taught me how to see. When I met Davis, it was the same song. He admired my spirit, but wished I did something real.

 To him, real meant a rank, a deployment, a medal. He saw my work as decoration, fluff, something to make the real heroes look good. What no one seemed to understand, what I never bothered to explain to them, was that I never wanted a seat at their table. I built my own. And that table somehow brought me straight to the White House.

I wasn’t just a photographer. I was the director of lead advance for presidential movements. For those who don’t know, the advanced team runs the world. We are the people who fly in 5 days before the president. We own the ground. We design the security perimeter. We negotiate with foreign governments.

 We decide where the plane lands, where the motorcade drives, and who gets to stand in the room. We tell the Secret Service where to put the snipers. We tell the generals where to stand so they don’t block the shot. We tell the governors when they are allowed to speak. We don’t just take the picture. We build the reality that the world sees.

 I had signed more NDAs than most people read in a lifetime. I had briefed the chief of staff in the Oval Office. I had rearranged the furniture in Buckingham Palace because the lighting was bad. But to my family and to Davis, I was just Rachel with the camera. I let them believe it. It was easier than explaining that while Davis was learning how to fire a rifle, I was learning how to shut down a city grid to move a world leader.

 It was easier to be underestimated than to be interrogated. But that morning, the cover was blown. We reached the inner perimeter of the airfield. The scene was controlled chaos. A Secret Service checkpoint blocked the road. Black SUVs with blue lights were everywhere. Men in suits with earpieces stood like statues scanning the horizon.

 Snipers were visible on the hangar roofs. Davis slowed down, looking nervous. The sight of this level of security usually makes civilians, even former military, uncomfortable. It’s the realization that you are very small in the face of the state. I can’t drive past this, he said, stopping the car 50 yard from the checkpoint. This is a sterile zone.

They’ll arrest us. I know, I said. I unbuckled my seat belt. I opened the door while the car was still rolling to a halt. Where are you going? Davis asked, panicked. You can’t just walk out there. Rachel, get back in the car. I stepped out onto the tarmac. The heat hit me, smelling of jet fuel, ozone, and power.

 Two Secret Service agents approached immediately. They were big men, stone-faced, hands near their waists. Davis flinched, expecting them to yell, expecting to be ordered to the ground. Instead, the lead agent, the special agent in charge, SIC, of the presidential detail, walked right past the front of Davis’s car. He ignored Davis completely.

 He didn’t even look at the SUV. He walked up to me and extended a hand. “Director Monroe,” he said. “Good to see you. We were getting worried. Traffic transmission blew on the Suburban,” I said, adjusting my blazer and clipping my badge to my lapel. “Had to hitch a ride. Is the timeline holding?” Air Force One is wheels down in 20 minutes.

The beast is staged. We’re holding the press pool in the risers. The colonel was asking about the greeting line formation. I nodded, my mind already shifting into operational gear. Good. I need to check the camera angles on the greeting line. The sun is harsh today. We need to shift the generals 3 ft to the left or they’re going to be squinting in the official shot.

 And tell the band to hold the fanfare until boots hit the pavement, not when the door opens. Understood, the agent said. He tapped his earpiece. Command, this is lead. Director Monroe is on deck. We are going for the arrival. I turned back to the car. Davis was watching us through the windshield. He looked like a man trying to read a book written in a language he didn’t speak.

 His mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. He looked from me to the agent. then back to me. I walked back to his window and leaned in. “Park over there,” I said, pointing to a ropedoff area about 200 yards away filled with news vans, sweaty cameramen, and local reporters fighting for space. “The what?” Davis asked. “The press pen,” I said.

 “It’s where the observers go. You can watch from there, but stay behind the rope line. If you step out, the service will tackle you and I won’t bail you out. Rachel, he stammered. I’m a captain. I should be in the VIP tent. I have my retired ID. I looked at him. The man who had dismissed me for years. The man who thought my work was fluff.

The man who thought he was the main character of every room he entered. The VIP tent is for people essential to the mission. Davis,” I said coolly. “Today you’re just a spectator. Go to the pen.” I tapped the roof of his car twice, dismissing him. Then I turned and walked away, flanked by the Secret Service. I didn’t look back.

 I had a president to land. The next hour was a symphony of chaos that I conducted. I walked onto the flight line, the vast expanse of concrete radiating heat. A full military honor guard was assembled. 200 soldiers, sailors, and marines standing rigid in form. A military band was waiting. A red carpet was rolled out, taped down against the wind.

 A colonel, the base commander, saw me coming and jogged over. A full colonel, a man who usually commanded thousands. Director, he said slightly out of breath. We have a problem with the staging. The stairs truck is jamming. We might have to use the internal stairs of the aircraft. I stopped. No. If he uses the internal stairs, he comes out the belly.

 The photo op is the way from the top of the main door. Fix the truck, Colonel. We’re trying, but I don’t want to try, I said, my voice cutting through the noise of the idling engines. I want a working staircase. You have 10 minutes. Get the backup truck from the hanger. If the president has to duck to get off his own plane, it’s on you.

 The colonel nodded, pale. Yes, ma’am. He turned and started screaming orders at his crew. I looked over toward the press pen. It was a mass of bodies and lenses. I spotted Davis. He was standing pressed against the metal barricade holding his visitor pass. He looked sunburned and shell shocked. He was watching me.

 He watched as the colonel took orders from me. He watched as the Secret Service detail moved the barricades based on my hand signals. He watched as I moved a senator to a different spot because his tie clashed with the flags. He was finally seeing it. I wasn’t the girl who took pictures of the event. I was the architect of the event. Then the sky rumbled.

 Wheels down. The radio on my hip crackled. Air Force One is on the deck. The massive blue and white 747, the most recognizable plane in the world, roared overhead and touched down. Smoke screeched from the tires. The engine screamed as they reversed thrust. It taxied toward us. a majestic beast of state power.

 It rolled slowly, aiming for the yellow tape marks I had placed on the ground three hours ago. It stopped exactly on the mark. The mobile stairs, the backup truck I had ordered, rolled up to the front door. The red carpet was adjusted. The door opened. The band struck up hail to the chief. The honor guard snapped to present arms. The cameras in the pit went wild.

 A wall of clicking shutters. The president stepped out. He waved. It was the perfect shot. The sun was right. The flags were flying. The generals weren’t squinting. He walked down the stairs. At the bottom, he shook hands with the base commander, the senator, and the mayor. Then he looked over their heads. He looked at me.

 standing just behind the secret service line holding my radio. He gave me a quick subtle nod of recognition. We’re good. Good job, Rachel. I tapped my earpiece. Package is on the ground. Move the motorcade. The beast, the massive armored limousine, a tank disguised as a Cadillac, rolled forward on my command.

 It stopped precisely at the end of the carpet. The president got in. The heavy door slammed shut with a thud that felt like a vault closing. As the motorcade departed, sweeping off the tarmac in a blur of sirens and flags. The adrenaline finally started to fade. The airfield began to clear. The band packed up. The honor guard marched off.

I took a deep breath. Another one done. I walked over to the press pen. The reporters were packing up their gear, shouting into phones, filing their stories. Davis was still standing there. He hadn’t moved. He looked at me as I approached the barrier. You, he started, then stopped. He cleared his throat.

 You told the colonel what to do. He was hesitating, I said simply. You run the advance team, he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a confession of his own ignorance. All this time, you said you were a photographer. I said I worked in visual strategy. I corrected. You heard what you wanted to hear.

 You heard girl with a camera because it made you feel big. He looked at the empty tarmac, then back at me. He looked at the badge on my chest. I offered you a ride, he muttered, shaking his head. I tried to explain security protocols to you. I tried to tell you how to act. He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

 I must have looked like a complete idiot. I looked at him. I didn’t feel angry anymore. I didn’t feel the need to rub it in. I just felt distant, like I was looking at a relic from a life I had outgrown a long time ago. You looked like a man who judges things by their cover, Davis, I said. In my line of work, that’s a fatal error.

 He rubbed the back of his neck. So, are you ready to go? I can drive you back to the city. I promise I won’t I won’t try to explain the traffic to you. It was an olive branch. A weak one, but an attempt. I looked at his SUV parked in the dusty lot. Then I looked past him. A black armored Suburban with tinted windows and government plates pulled up onto the tarmac behind me.

 The back door popped open. A Secret Service agent stepped out and held it open. Director, the agent said, “We’re rolling to the White House. Chief of staff wants a debrief in the situation room in 40 minutes.” I looked back at Davis. I have a ride, I said. To where? to work. I said the real work. I walked past him. I walked past the barrier he was stuck behind.

 I climbed into the back of the Suburban. It smelled of leather and AC. I plugged my phone into the secure line. As the agent closed the door, I looked out the window at Davis one last time. He was standing alone on the melting asphalt, a retired captain who used to think he was the most important person in the room. He finally understood.

 He played soldier. I played chess. The SUV peeled away, lights flashing, merging into the tail end of the motorcade. I opened my laptop. I had another trip to plan in Tokyo next week. And the prime minister’s advance team was already emailing me about lighting requirements. I didn’t need applause.

 I didn’t need him to know my rank. I knew who I was. I was the one who cleared the path.