The corridor outside the restricted armory wing at Naval Amphibious Station Harbor Point was polished enough to reflect rank.
Brass nameplates shone beneath fluorescent light. Navy officers moved through the hall in pressed uniforms and polished shoes, carrying folders, coffee cups, and the easy arrogance that grows in places where authority is worn visibly every day. The building was used for special readiness briefings, storage oversight, and command traffic no civilian worker was expected to understand.
Which was why the laughter came so quickly.
At the far end of the hall, a woman in a faded gray janitorial uniform pushed a mop bucket with quiet, methodical care. She looked small from a distance. Not frail, but easy to overlook. Her hair was pulled back tight. Her sleeves were rolled just enough to show lean forearms darkened by work and sun. Nothing about her invited attention—unless you were the sort of man who liked humiliating people he assumed could not answer back.
Admiral Victor Sloan stopped first.
