The man sitting in the restaurant with his family had a name familiar to most everyone in America with a television or an Internet connection, but virtually no one recognized him by sight—mainly because he went out of his way to keep a low profile.
And this was why he found it so damn peculiar that the twitchy man on the sidewalk kept staring at him.
Scott Hagen was a commander in the U.S. Navy, which certainly did not make one famous, but he had earned distinction as the captain of the guided missile destroyer that, according to many in the media, almost single-handedly won one of the largest sea battles since the Second World War.
The naval engagement with the United States and Poland on one side and the Russian Federation on the other had taken place just seven months earlier in the Baltic Sea, and while it had garnered the name Commander Scott Hagen significant recognition at the time, Hagen had conducted no media interviews, and the only image used of him in the press featured him standing proudly in his dress blues with his commander white officer hat on his head.
Right now, in contrast, Hagen wore a T-shirt and flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a couple days’ stubble on his face, and no one in the world, certainly no one in this outdoor Mexican café in New Jersey, could possibly associate him with that Department of the Navy-distributed photo.
So why, he wondered, was the dude with the creepy eyes and the bowl cut standing in the dark next to the bicycle rack constantly glancing his way?
This was a college town, the guy was college-aged, and he looked like he could have been drunk. He wore a polo shirt and jeans, he held a beer can in one hand and a cell phone in the other, and it seemed to Hagen that about twice a minute he glared across the lighted patio full of diners and over to Hagen’s table.
The commander wasn’t worried, really—more curious.
He was here with his family, and his sister’s family, eight in all, and everyone else at the table kept talking and eating chips and guacamole while they waited for their entrées. The kids had soft drinks, while Hagen’s wife, his sister, and his brother-in-law downed margaritas. Hagen himself was sticking with soda because it was his night to drive the clan around in the rented van.
They were here in town for a club soccer tournament; Hagen’s seventeen-year-old nephew was a star keeper for his high school team, and the finals were the following afternoon. Tomorrow Scott’s wife would drive the rental so her husband could tip back some cold brews at a restaurant after the match.