“I’m talking to you.”
Arthur took a sip of water.
“This is a military installation,” Logan continued. “You have authorization to be here?”
The old man looked up at last.
His eyes were pale blue and deeply tired.
Beneath the weariness was something Logan could not identify.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Stillness.
Arthur’s gaze moved briefly to the Trident on Logan’s chest.
Then back to his face.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’m authorized.”
“Let me see your identification.”
Several sailors at nearby tables looked over.
Everyone understood the demand exceeded Logan’s authority.
Identification checks belonged to base security and masters-at-arms, not operators conducting private interrogations over lunch.
No one intervened.
Logan was a SEAL.
Arthur was an elderly stranger.
The social calculation happened silently.
Arthur reached for his water instead of his wallet.
Logan leaned forward and placed both forearms on the table.
“Look at me when I’m speaking.”
Arthur turned his face fully toward him.
“I am looking.”
The calm response made Mason’s smile disappear.
Logan lowered his voice.
“We have standards here.”
Arthur looked around the dining hall.
“So I’ve heard.”
“We don’t let random civilians wander onto the base and take up space.”
“I was escorted through the main gate.”
“By whom?”
“A young chief.”
“Name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Logan smiled without humor.
“Convenient.”
Arthur returned his attention to the chili.
The dismissal struck Logan more deeply than an insult would have.
Publicly, the old man had decided he was not worth continuing the conversation with.