“Page three, bottom right,” Kenneth said.

“Vance was the senior chief who pulled Wyler off the beach four years ago.”

I took the sheet back out of my pocket and turned to page three.

The signature at the bottom was in black ink, long and slanted, written right across the words Special Warfare Training Command.

The clock on the command truck’s dashboard rolled over to 10:48.

“We’ve got forty-two minutes before the Navy panel starts in the gym,” I said.