The annex was quiet and smelled of floor wax, old cedar deck planks and brass polish.

Retired Master Chief Harlan Vance sat behind a heavy oak display case, scrubbing salt crust off an old brass diving helmet with a fine wire brush.

Vance was sixty-two, broad across the shoulders, with a thick gray beard and hands roughened by thirty years of service at sea.

He laid his right hand flat on the wooden display table when I came up to the counter.

He looked over my blue-gray Navy working uniform, then down at the name tape stitched above my chest pocket.