“You were emotional.”
“I was correct.”
His expression became colder.
“This is neither the time nor the place.”
“That is exactly why I chose it.”
My father glanced around the ballroom.
Every important person in his world was watching.
“You came here to humiliate me.”
“No,” I said. “Celeste handled the humiliation. I came here to give you one chance to tell the truth.”
Celeste pushed between us.
“Tell the truth about what?”
I looked at her.
“About the Resolute.”
Her face changed.
It happened for less than a second, but I saw it.
Recognition.
Fear.
She knew the name.
My father seized my arm.
“Come with me.”
Admiral Reed stepped forward, but I raised a hand.
“It’s all right.”
It was not all right.
But I had spent five years preparing for this conversation.
My father led us through a side door into the club’s private library. My mother and Celeste followed. Admiral Reed remained just outside, close enough to intervene.
The door closed behind us.
My father turned on me.
“What have you told them?”
“Enough to reopen the investigation.”
“You ungrateful little fool.”
My mother flinched.
Celeste folded her arms. “Investigation into what?”
I reached inside the admiral’s jacket and removed a thin black envelope.
Then I placed three photographs on the library table.
The first showed a shipping container loaded at one of Harrington Maritime Defense’s private docks.
The second showed the same container aboard the Resolute.
The third showed a burned guidance unit recovered from the wreckage.
My father looked at the photographs without touching them.
“Harrington Maritime was contracted to transport communications hardware,” he said.
“The listed communications hardware weighed eight hundred pounds. The cargo actually loaded weighed nearly three tons.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves the manifest was falsified.”
Celeste picked up one photograph.
“What was in the container?”
I watched my father instead of answering.
He knew.
“Prototype targeting systems,” I said. “Technology prohibited from private export.”
My mother sank into a leather chair.
Celeste dropped the photograph.
My father remained silent.
“The systems were being diverted to a foreign buyer,” I continued. “Someone aboard the Resolute discovered the shipment and attempted to transmit the evidence. Before the transmission was completed, the fire began.”
“You’re accusing me of sabotage,” my father said.
“I’m accusing someone with access to your company’s shipping network.”
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
“You still cannot say it directly.”
“Fine. I believe you authorized the shipment.”
My mother whispered my name.
My father walked toward me until only inches separated us.
“I built everything you see around you,” he said. “I employed thousands of people. I funded naval research when politicians refused to do it. Do you have any understanding of the consequences if you attack this company?”
“Thirteen people almost died because someone protected that company.”
“People die in military operations.”
“They were not in combat.”
“You are naïve.”
“And you are afraid.”
His eyes narrowed.
Celeste suddenly slapped the photographs off the table.
“Stop speaking to him like that!”
When she moved, something slipped from her clutch and landed on the carpet.
A small silver key card.
I recognized the symbol printed on it.
A black anchor inside a red circle.
The same symbol had been burned onto the damaged guidance unit recovered from the Resolute.
Celeste lunged for the card.
I reached it first.
For the first time that night, real panic spread across her face.
“Give that back.”
I examined the access number.
Level Seven.
