Chapter 5 - The Dispatch
I turned away from Brandon, leaving him standing alone beside the metal bench, and walked out into the corridor with Admiral Sterling.
The heavy mesh door swung shut behind us with a sharp metallic clatter, muffling Brandon’s angry protests as the guard secured the latch.
“What is it, Admiral?” I asked as we walked down the polished hallway toward the executive comms room.
Sterling handed me the manila folder. I pulled out the crisp, red-bordered printout bearing the digital signature of the Fleet Commander himself.
My eyes scanned the first three lines, and my breath caught in my throat.
URGENT: ASSIGNMENT MODIFICATION.
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.
“The Sterett’s scheduled deployment window has been moved up by forty-eight hours,” Sterling explained quietly, his expression grim. “Intelligence reports indicate an unscheduled naval exercise in the South China Sea, and Surface Force command has designated this vessel as the lead escort for the carrier strike group.”
I looked up from the paper, my mind racing through the tactical implications. “With Sector Four red-tagged and half the auxiliary systems offline pending audit review, this ship isn't deployment-ready.”
“Precisely,” Sterling said, stopping outside the double doors of the comms center. “Which means we have less than thirty-six hours to clear the engineering backlogs, replace the faulty valve assemblies, and certify every single compartment from keel to masthead before we cast off.”
He looked down at me, his eyes sharp and evaluating.
“And that brings us to the real problem, Captain. Your father just called the base commander’s office thirty minutes ago, screaming about political retaliation and threatening to go to his congressional representative if Brandon isn't reinstated by nightfall.”
I let out a cold, humorless breath. “My father always did know how to escalate things when his favorite son was in trouble.”
“The base commander is holding the line for now, but the political pressure is going to get heavy very quickly,” Sterling warned. “If we drop charges on an unqualified engineer just to appease a retired Sergeant Major, the safety of this entire strike group is compromised. But if we proceed with the court-martial, you’re going to be fighting your own family in the public press.”
Before I could answer, the comms officer inside the room pushed open the inner door, holding a ringing secure phone out toward us.
May you like
“Captain Owens? It’s the Pentagon desk. It’s the Chief of Naval Operations himself.”
I looked at Admiral Sterling, then down at the red-bordered dispatch in my hand, knowing that the real war—the one back home, and the one on the decks of the Sterett—was only just beginning.
