Chapter 7 - The Admiral’s Table
At 1900 hours, I arrived alone at Admiral Sterling’s historic residence overlooking Pearl Harbor. The manicured garden was illuminated by subtle landscape lights; a white-coated mess specialist served chilled white wine on the lanai.
Rear Admiral Paul Sterling looked like a poster boy for the military-industrial complex: silver hair cut high and tight, piercing blue eyes, and four rows of combat ribbons topped by the Legion of Merit.
"Sit down, Avery," Sterling said warmly, pointing to a mahogany chair across from him. "Have some mahogany-roasted pork. Our culinary team outdid themselves tonight."
"I ate aboard the *Vanguard*, Admiral," I said, remaining standing.
Sterling chuckled, setting down his glass of wine. "Still playing the righteous crusader. You know, when Sullivan struck you on that parade ground, I told Vance he had made a tactical error. A strike makes a martyr. A martyr attracts cameras and paperwork. If Sullivan had simply assigned you to a winter patrol in the Bering Strait, none of this unpleasantness would have occurred."
"David Morales wasn't an unpleasantness, Admiral. He was a murder."
Sterling’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of cold, predatory detachment. "Morales was an acceptable operational casualty in the development of next-generation deep-sea dominance. China has undersea sensors wrapping the entire first island chain. If we don't have divers capable of operating at eight hundred feet without submersible hulls, we lose the Pacific before the first shot is fired."
"You sold Navy sailors to private defense contractors to pad your post-retirement board seats," I fired back, leaning across the table. "You bypassed every safety doctrine in naval history."
"And who will prove it?" Sterling asked softly. He stood up, towering over me. "Callahan is dead. Sullivan is taking a plea deal that confines his testimony to Coronado. And as of ten minutes ago, your mentor, Admiral Mercer, has been relieved of his post by the Secretary of the Navy pending an ethics inquiry."
The air left my chest for a second. Mercer, our shield, had been stripped of command.
May you like
"You're out of depth, Commander," Sterling whispered, leaning so close I could smell the expensive tobacco on his breath. "Sign the transfer to the inactive reserve tonight. Or Morales won't be the only diver who experiences a catastrophic decompression."
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