Chapter 4 - The Confrontation
The brig holding area on the base was stark, smelling of fresh paint and institutional floor wax.
When I walked down the corridor accompanied by a Master-at-Arms, Brandon was sitting on a metal bench inside a temporary detention room, his head in his hands. The immaculate white cover he was so proud of sat on the table beside him, looking completely out of place in the sterile room.
The guard unlocked the heavy mesh door and pulled it open.
“You have ten minutes, Captain,” the Master-at-Arms said, stepping back out into the hallway.
I stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind me with a heavy, final sound.
Brandon didn't look up immediately. He sat staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched inside his chambray shirt, the golden crows on his sleeve looking suddenly tarnished under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Come to gloat?” he muttered, his voice thick with resentment. “Come to tell me how much better you are at playing officer?”
“I didn't come to gloat, Brandon,” I said, stopping two feet from the bench. “I came to tell you that the Article 15 paperwork has been officially signed by Admiral Sterling.”
Brandon’s head snapped up. His eyes were red-rimmed, full of a desperate, terrified fury. “You actually did it. You’re really going to throw me out? After everything Dad said? After everything our family means in the service?”
“Dad isn't the one who signed your name to a falsified safety report,” I replied coldly. “You did that all by yourself.”
“I was busy!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and slamming his palms onto the metal table. “I had liberty plans! I had things to do! Everybody pencil-whips those logs, Sandra! Nobody checks them unless a ship actually breaks down! You only targeted me because you wanted to show off for the admiral!”
I stared at him—really stared at him—seeing past the uniform, past the Navy brat upbringing, past the lifelong shadow of my father’s misplaced pride. I saw a man who had spent his entire life believing the rules didn't apply to him because someone else would always be there to clean up his mess.
“You still don't get it, do you?” I said softly.
“Get what?” he sneered. “That you’re a cold, heartless bureaucrat who cares more about a binder full of paper than her own flesh and blood?”
“No,” I said, taking a step closer until he was forced to look directly into my eyes. “I care about the twenty sailors sleeping in the berthing compartment directly above those unserviced pumps. I care about whether this ship comes back to port in one piece when she hits heavy seas. Your arrogance isn't just a character flaw, Brandon. It’s a liability.”
He opened his mouth to snap back, but the words caught in his throat as the heavy metal door clicked open behind us.
Admiral Sterling stepped into the room, holding a thick manila folder under his arm.
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“Captain Owens,” the admiral said, nodding to me. “We have a developing situation in communications. A secure dispatch just came down from Commander, Naval Surface Force.”
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