Chapter 16 - The Echo in the Hull
The steel deck of the USS Enterprise shuddered as fifty thousand tons of armored hull met the violent swells of the North Atlantic.
Inside the Combat Direction Center, three hundred tactical displays cast a cool, sapphire glow across the faces of forty watchstanders.
I stood beside the master tactical console, my gold-braided cover resting on the plotting table beside an encrypted satellite terminal.
Captain Vance approached from the communications bay, his jaw set in a rigid, uncompromising line.
"Admiral, Norfolk Fleet Operations has finalized the damage assessment from the Ross Logistics investigation," Vance said quietly.
"Give me the headline, Captain," I replied, without turning my eyes away from the oceanic radar track.
"Derek’s phantom corporation accepted seven point four million dollars in commercial logistics contracts over forty-eight months," Vance stated.
"He used forged letterheads bearing the seal of the Assistant Secretary of the Navy to bypass secondary customs inspections at Newport News."
"Every subcontract was routed through shell entities that supplied substandard industrial components to naval dry docks."
"Three guided-missile cruisers had to have their auxiliary coolant valves replaced at dry dock because of his fraudulent certifications."
I felt no surprise, only the dull, heavy certainty of a debt that had been compounding for thirty years.
Derek had never built an engine, laid a weld, or spent a single freezing night guarding an ammunition depot.
He had been taught by our mother that real work was an inconvenience reserved for the invisible and the subservient.
To Derek, the United States Navy was simply an enormous machine meant to provide him with country club memberships and custom suits.
"What about the forfeiture proceedings?" I asked, my voice flat and even against the rhythmic hum of the carrier's ventilation fans.
"The federal marshal took possession of the house on Elmwood Terrace at noon yesterday," Vance answered.
"Mrs. Ross refused to vacate the premises until the local sheriff threatened her with physical removal."
"According to the field report, she attempted to hand the arresting deputies a scrapbooked binder of Derek's high school track medals."
"She insisted that a family of such distinguished community pedigree was immune from county eviction statutes."
I looked at the radar screen where our carrier strike group carved an unbroken diamond formation through the storm.
Thousands of young men and women aboard these vessels were braving freezing salt spray and twenty-foot waves for twenty-four dollars an hour.
They slept on stacked canvas racks, ate in crowded mess decks, and risked their lives without demanding applause.
My mother had believed that five plastic ribbons earned in a middle school gymnasium placed her favorite son above the laws of the republic.
"Let the Department of Justice proceed without my interference," I told Vance.
"If Derek stole from the fleet, he will answer to the iron of the fleet."
"Understood, Admiral," Vance replied, stepping back into the shadows of the command center.
Suddenly, the tactical action officer’s voice cut through the hum of the computers with razor-sharp urgency.
"Admiral on the bridge, surface search radar shows an unidentified surface combatant breaking through Sector Four."
"Distance eighteen nautical miles and closing at thirty-two knots on an intercept vector toward our carrier screen."
I pulled my cover onto my head, feeling the cold weight of the brass crest against my forehead.
May you like
"Sound general quarters," I ordered, stepping toward the center of the tactical bridge.
"Let them see what happens when you challenge an American strike group."
