The afterglow of dusk crossed Coronado Bridge, dyeing San Diego Bay at California's southernmost tip a magnificent dark gold. Here stood the United States' second-largest naval base: Naval Base San Diego.
In 1919, it had begun as nothing more than an ordinary warship repair yard, silently maintaining the weary Destroyers left behind after World War I. The flames of World War II completely changed its Fate. After that shocking air raid, it temporarily succeeded Pearl Harbor as the Pacific Fleet's command center.
Not until 1946 was it officially given the name "Naval Base San Diego." From then on, its very breath became tightly bound to the logistical lifeline of the entire Pacific Fleet.
Today, as a home port, it housed nearly a third of the Pacific Fleet's steel leviathans. More than sixty vessels lay dormant here, including the most formidable force of all—the nuclear-powered carrier battle group centered around the Nimitz.
They rested quietly in the natural harbor, which averaged eleven meters in depth, their towering islands resembling a range of steel mountains.
At the harbor, the sea wind was bitterly cold, carrying the salty tang of rust.
Amon wore a crisp snow-white uniform, though his shoulder boards were still bare. Before him stood Ronald, who had come specifically for this occasion.
Amon had said there was no need for a ceremony, but Ronald believed that such an important moment needed some sense of ritual to anchor it in memory.
Thus, a brief award ceremony was held under the watchful eyes of all the marines. There was no military music, only the fierce howl of the wind whipping the flags. Ronald personally fastened the heavy five-star shoulder boards onto Amon's shoulders, then gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.
Their eyes met. They stared silently at each other for