“You going to ignore him?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m going to his office at fifteen hundred.”

The administration building at Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek smelled of cold carpet cleaner and stale instant coffee.

Lieutenant Easton Wyler sat behind a spotless glass-topped desk with three yellow highlighters lined up in a row beside his keyboard.

His service dress uniform was flawless, the gold collar insignia polished to a mirror shine.

I stood two feet from his desk holding my beige service record folder.