His instructors described him as aggressive, decisive, and physically exceptional.
Those qualities had saved lives.
They had also built an arrogance that fewer people confronted each year.
The Trident above his chest opened doors.
It silenced disagreements.
It caused junior sailors to step aside before he asked.
Logan no longer noticed how often people moved for him.
Near the center of the mess hall, an elderly man occupied a four-person table alone.
He wore a brown tweed jacket over a white shirt buttoned carefully at the neck. His trousers were slightly too loose, and the elbows of the jacket had been repaired with darker fabric.
He ate chili slowly.
Nothing about him appeared military.
No veteran’s cap.
No ribbons.
No unit patches.
Only a small tarnished pin on his lapel.
The design was nearly worn away.
A pair of narrow wings extended from a small shield, with a dark vertical shape etched through the center.
Logan glanced around.
The mess hall was crowded, and his preferred table had been taken.
The elderly man’s table offered three empty seats.
Mason nodded toward it.
“Ask him to move?”
Logan approached with his tray.
Instead of asking whether the seats were available, he looked down at the old man.
“Hey, Pop, what was your rank back in the Stone Age?”
Arthur Bennett lifted another spoonful of chili.
“Mess cook, third class?”
Mason and Derek laughed.
Arthur finished the bite.
He placed his spoon beside the bowl with deliberate care.
His hand remained steady despite the thin, spotted skin covering it.
Logan felt the first irritation when the man did not answer.