"Thomas Brennan," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
She straightened in her chair, all trace of fatigue vanishing. "Confirm that name. B-R-E-N-N-A-N."
"Confirmed, ma'am."
Morgan grabbed the secure phone again, her voice suddenly ice cold.
"Raise the captain immediately. I don't care if he's in the head. Get him on comms within 30 seconds. Alert my security detail. Clear the passageways for immediate transit to the mess deck. This is no longer a disciplinary issue. This is a critical command situation."
The duty officer sounded stunned. "Command situation, ma'am? Over a food service contractor?"
Morgan's voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
"If that is the Thomas Brennan I think it is, we have made a catastrophic mistake. The moment Lieutenant Blake puts another hand on him, we have a strategic failure. Get the captain to the mess deck. Now."
Back in the galley, Blake had reached the peak of his self-righteous fury.
The silence of the gathered sailors, the tightness in Chief Reeves's stance, he interpreted it all as grudging respect for his decisiveness.
"Since you refuse to comply, I'm placing you on formal report for gross insubordination and failure to follow a direct order from a commissioned officer," Blake announced, pulling a notebook from his pocket. "I'll personally ensure this report reaches your contracting firm, and I'll recommend they never employ you again on any Navy vessel."
He leaned in, his face inches from Thomas's.
"You may have fooled people on shore with your quiet grandfather routine, but this ship is a combat asset. We don't tolerate dead weight."
Just as Blake lifted his hand to point dramatically toward the exit, a sound reverberated through the mess deck that silenced every conversation, every clatter of silverware, every breath.
It was the distinctive, rhythmic, heavy sound of senior officers moving at speed.