A few sailors at nearby tables lowered their forks.
Miller glanced around, noticing the attention.
That made him angrier.
“You’re wearing military insignia on government property. You have no authorization to be here. Give me your identification.”
George did not move.
“You have no authority to demand it.”
Miller leaned closer.
“You don’t tell me what authority I have.”
George looked at the small silver wings pinned to his lapel.
“Apparently, neither do you.”
Someone near the coffee station let out a nervous cough.
Miller’s face darkened.
“That’s enough.”
He reached toward George’s jacket.
Before his fingers could touch the old man’s shoulder, another voice cut across the room.
“Remove your hand.”
Everyone turned.
Master Chief Elias Thorne stood near the entrance.
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He had arrived without anyone noticing.
He wore his uniform perfectly, his expression unreadable, and carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had spent decades learning when not to raise his voice.
Miller immediately stepped back.
“Master Chief.”
Thorne walked toward the table.
“What is happening?”
Miller straightened.
“Unauthorized civilian in a restricted dining facility. I was asking for identification.”
Thorne looked at George.
Then at Miller.
“Did he refuse to identify himself?”
“He refused to cooperate.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Miller hesitated.
George answered calmly.
“I gave my name to the gate security officer. I signed the visitor log. I was invited for lunch.”
Thorne looked at Miller.
“Did you verify the visitor log?”
Miller’s expression shifted.
“No, Master Chief.”
“Then why are you questioning him?”
Miller glanced toward George’s lapel.
“He’s wearing insignia.”
Thorne’s eyes moved to the small, tarnished wings.
For the first time, something changed in his expression.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He stepped closer.
“Mr. Stanton?”
George nodded.
“Master Chief.”
Thorne immediately removed his cover and held it against his chest.
