Chapter 9 - The Salt of Truth
The formal reception that followed in the wardroom of the Reagan was everything the previous night’s gala had not been: authentic, quiet, and filled with the rough-hewn warmth of people who had actually smelled burned paint and wet steam.
Chief Petty Officer Kowalski, who had been the Damage Control Chief on duty that terrible night five years ago, stood in the corner with a plate of cake, his eyes wet as he shook my hand with calloused, oil-stained fingers.
"We knew, ma'am," Kowalski whispered. "The whole engineering department knew. Thorne’s goons threatened us with reductions in rate if we talked, but we never forgot who turned that wheel."
"Thank you, Chief," I said, squeezing his hand. "How are the steam traps running on the lower flats?"
"Tight as a drum, Commander," he grinned, wiping his eye with the back of his cuff. "Tight as a drum because you bought us the time to fix them."
As the crowd began to thin, Admiral Carrow approached me, holding two glasses of sparkling water.
"Your orders have been cut, Maya," she said, handing me a glass. "You’ve been assigned as the Executive Officer of the Naval Surface Warfare Center at Dahlgren. You’ll be overseeing the testing, evaluation, and safety certification of all auxiliary propulsion and damage control systems for the new frigate class."
I felt a surge of deep, profound purpose settle into my chest. "No uninspected valves, Admiral."
"Not a single bolt," Carrow promised grimly. "You have absolute stop-work authority on any component that doesn't meet full survivability standards. You answer directly to my office."
She set her glass down and tilted her head toward the heavy steel watertight door that led to the hangar deck.
"Someone is outside," she said quietly. "He’s been waiting by the brow for three hours. The officer of the deck asked if he should have security remove him. I told him that was your decision."
I looked at Carrow. She gave me a single, understanding nod.
I set my glass down, adjusted my cover, and walked out through the hangar bay.
The afternoon sun was dipping toward the west, casting long, golden shadows across the flight deck and the concrete pier below. The wind had picked up, carrying the sharp, cold scent of the open Atlantic.
My father sat on a wooden bollard near the foot of the gangway.
He had removed his jacket; it lay crumpled on the timber beside him. His tie was undone, his white hair whipped into disarray by the sea breeze. In his hands, he held a small, leather-bound book—the journal he had kept during his command of the destroyer USS Paul F. Foster forty years ago.
When he heard the click of my shoes on the steel brow, he stood up.
His legs were stiff, his balance unsteady. He looked at me, taking in the Navy Cross gleaming on my breast, the gold stripes on my sleeves, and the white cover shading my face.
He tried to speak, but his voice caught in a dry, rattling gasp.
"Maya," he finally choked out.
I stopped at the bottom of the gangway, six feet from him.
"You don't have to say anything, Dad," I said quietly.
"I have to," he wept, the tears running freely down the deep lines of his face, soaking into his wrinkled collar. "I have to say it, or I will die in this skin."
He took a stumbling step forward, his hands trembling violently.
"I spent my entire life teaching you how to be an officer," he whispered, his chest heaving with agonizing remorse. "I taught you the regulations. I taught you the history. I taught you how to wear the uniform. And when the test came... when the real test of an officer came... you were ten times the leader I ever was."
He looked down at his own shaking hands.
"I was a coward, Maya. I was so afraid that the Navy wasn't perfect... so afraid that my family had a blemish... that I threw away the bravest thing I ever created."
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He looked up at me, his eyes hollow with a despair so complete it broke what little anger remained in my heart.
"Can you ever forgive me?" he sobbed. "Can an old, blind fool ever be forgiven?"
