Joe lifted a startled gaze from the magazine he was reading in the clinic’s waiting area. He’d been well aware of the older man standing immediately in front of him, clutching a cane and watching everything Joe did. But he’d assumed the man was either senile or lost in his own thoughts, not that he was pondering Joe’s identity. “Yes, sir,” He set the magazine aside, thinking, Do I know this guy? “I’m Admiral Jacobs,” divulged the stranger. He wore civilian clothing and sported sparse silver hair atop his egg-shaped head. An admiral. Joe rocketed to his feet. “Sir, nice to meet you, sir.” He snapped off a salute, which the admiral half-heartedly returned. “At ease, there, Commander,” the old man growled. “We’re all in civilian clothes, here.” “Would you like to sit, sir?” Joe asked, offering his chair, though there were several empty seats in the waiting area. “Oh, no. Sitting makes me feel confined. Brings back memories of ’Nam.” “You were a POW, sir?”
