Morrison took over, his voice a lethal whisper.
"When the world was on the brink of nuclear war, Lieutenant, a critical supply convoy was caught in a Category 4 hurricane in the Atlantic. The lead destroyer's navigation systems were destroyed. The radio was dead. They were blind, running on fumes, and carrying munitions that an entire carrier battle group desperately needed to maintain the blockade."
"Then-Lieutenant Brennan, using nothing but a sextant, dead reckoning, and instinct, navigated that convoy through three days of hell. He performed an at-sea transfer in conditions that were officially declared impossible."
Morgan pointed at the faded patch on Thomas's shoulder.
"That patch, the one you dismissed, Lieutenant, is the insignia of Task Group Atlantic 7. It doesn't exist in any official records, because the mission was so classified it was denied by two administrations. That patch was hand-sewn by Captain Brennan himself during that storm, as a promise. A promise that he would bring his men home."
Morrison's voice became even quieter, more dangerous.
"His call sign during that operation was Navigator. Not because he could read charts, but because he could navigate through the impossible. He is a living legend. And you just tried to have him fired over a cheese order."
Blake looked like he might collapse. He could not meet the captain's eyes. He stared at the deck, his entire body trembling.
Morrison turned back to Thomas. "Navigator, sir, I apologize for the conduct of this officer. We will handle this internally, with appropriate severity."
Thomas slowly set down his spatula. He wiped his hands on a clean towel, his eyes holding Blake's with surprising gentleness.