Brandon swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet wardroom as he looked down at the paperwork. “Those… those are standard survey sheets, ma’am. I process hundreds of them every single month in supply.”
“You processed these specific sheets through an unmonitored terminal during the night watch,” Harris countered immediately, stepping forward. “Using administrative privileges granted by a junior lieutenant whose credentials you obtained without proper authorization.”
Brandon flinched as if struck across the face, his trembling hands clutching his service cap until the fabric crumpled. “I was just following informal guidance from senior petty officers, ma’am. Everyone shortcuts the disposal procedures to save time.”
“These parts were not short-cut into a dumpster, Brandon,” I said, using his name for the very first time. “They were retrieved from a private storage locker rented under your own personal credit card in Chula Vista.”
The room grew so silent that the hum of the ship’s ventilation fans sounded like a distant roaring waterfall. Brandon’s lips parted, but no sound emerged; his clever excuses, rehearsed for family gatherings, had completely failed him.
