Chapter 32 - The Pier Standoff
The salt air hit my face like cold water as I emerged from the lower maintenance hatch near Berth 4. The pier was bathed in the harsh amber glow of security floodlights, but something was profoundly wrong. The standard naval shore patrol guards were nowhere to be seen. In their place stood a dozen armed men wearing unmarked black tactical gear, setting up a perimeter around the gangway of my destroyer.
The *Farragut* loomed against the dark Atlantic, a gray titan resting in the harbor. I could see the faint silhouette of my Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Martinez, standing high on the bridge wing, clearly disputing orders being barked from below.
"I don't give a damn what badge you're flashing!" Martinez’s voice echoed down across the water, amplified by a handheld megaphone. "Under US Navy Regulations, no civilian contractor or unverified federal agency boards this vessel without direct authorization from Commander Whitaker or Fleet Forces Command!"
A man in a dark trench coat standing at the foot of the gangway raised a megaphone of his own. "Commander Whitaker is currently a person of interest in an active treason investigation originating out of the Pentagon! By order of Undersecretary Ross, the *Farragut* is placed under immediate administrative impoundment. Stand down your watch, Lieutenant Commander, or your crew will be charged with mutiny!"
Hearing that lie made my blood boil. They were using my family's disgraced company in Dayton as the pretext to frame me, locking down the one warship capable of exposing their real operation.
I didn't hesitate. Stepping out from the shadows of the crane housing, I raised my weapon, keeping it at low ready, and projected my voice with all the authority of a ship's commanding officer.
"Stand down your weapons on this pier immediately!" I shouted, striding forward into the harsh glare of the halogen lights.
Every rifle swung in my direction. The trench-coated official turned, his expression twisting from smug authority to sharp shock.
"Commander Whitaker," he sneered, regaining his composure. "You're under arrest."
"You are standing on a United States naval installation without valid DOD escort credentials," I retorted coldly, closing the distance until I was ten paces away. "And unless you want the entire base alerted to an armed insurrection against a guided-missile destroyer, you will clear this gangway."
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From the deck above, the sharp clatter of thirty naval rifles locking forward sounded in unison. Chief Petty Officer Sullivan and an entire security detail had lined the ship's railing, weapons aimed straight down at the perimeter below.
"Captain on deck!" Sullivan roared. "Back off from our skipper, or we open fire!"
