“The safety of the fleet comes before bureaucratic neatness,” he replied.

He turned toward the door, then paused, his hand on the brass knob.

“Your sister is still downstairs,” he said quietly. “Nathan’s commanding officer just contacted her.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Nathan requested an immediate reassignment,” Bell said. “He wants off any project associated with Hart Precision Marine.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

The terminal on my desk chimed, a new operational report flashing red against the blue map.

I closed the laptop, though the red icon of the *USS Hampton* remained burned into my retinas.

The command room was quiet, save for the low hum of the cooling fans in the server racks.

I stood up and smoothed the front of my service dress blue jacket.

My hands were cold.

I walked down the narrow, concrete stairwell to the building’s visitor concourse.

The air down here was cooler, smelling of floor wax and the damp earth from the rainy Washington morning outside.

Caroline was sitting on a low, vinyl-covered bench near the security desk.

She looked small under the harsh fluorescent lights, her woolen coat draped over her knees.