824 "After a Rear Admiral Publicly Slapped Me for 'Trespassing' at Camp Pendleton, Task Force Reaper Helicopters Suddenly Descended—Only for a Classified Video to Reveal My 'Dead' Sister Was Engineering the Ultimate Defense Grid Collapse."

"That’s impossible," Blackwood whispered, taking a stumbling step backward. "There is no classification above Compartmented Access."

"Only because men like you spend thirty years shuffling paper in air-conditioned offices while others bleed in the dark," Vance replied smoothly, opening his leather briefcase and pulling out a heavy, manila folder sealed with a red wax stamp.

He didn't open it. He just held it up.

"Twelve hours ago, a shipment of advanced guidance chips vanished from a secure depot fifty miles north of here," Vance said, his eyes fixed on Blackwood. "Standard logistics audit flagged a discrepancy in the serial numbers. But when my analysts dug deeper, they found something much more interesting."

Blackwood’s throat worked convulsively. He didn't speak.

"They found that every single missing crate was logged under a defunct supply code authorized by a ghost shell company," Vance continued, stepping closer. "A company registered under a residential address in San Diego. Owned by a holding corporation named Meridian Logistics."

Colonel Vance—standing near the reviewing stand—suddenly took a sharp breath, his eyes widening in horror as the puzzle pieces clicked together.

"Meridian..." Colonel Vance muttered. "That's the contractor handling the Pacific Rim modernization budget."

"Correct, Colonel," Vance said without looking away from Blackwood. "And Admiral Blackwood is the sole military signatory on Meridian's oversight committee."

Blackwood’s hands began to shake slightly at his sides. "This is an absurdity. A fabricated audit—"

"Master Chief Hayes," Vance said softly.

"Sir," Hayes barked.

"Secure the base communications array. Freeze all outgoing data streams. And lock down the Admiral's private quarters and office safe."

"Already done, Director," Hayes replied, tapping a small encrypted tablet in his palm. "Team three hit his command suite three minutes before we touched down on the tarmac. We have the physical ledger. And the transfer logs to the offshore accounts in the Caymans."

Blackwood lunged forward, a desperate, cornered animal instinct taking over. "You can't do this! I demand a tribunal! I demand—"

Before he could take another step, two Reaper operators moved in with terrifying speed. Heavy hands clamped onto Blackwood’s shoulders, forcing him down to his knees on the concrete right in front of the two thousand Marines who had spent the last twenty minutes watching him stand tall.

His immaculate cap rolled across the asphalt, stopping against the toe of my boot.

I looked down at it, then up at Blackwood’s twisted, furious face.