Navy SEAL Asked Her Rank As A Joke — Then Four Generals Saluted Her Immediately
Chapter 10
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"I haven't breached any data.""Chief Kline says otherwise."So Kline called it in. Disappointing, but not surprising."Then Chief Kline should present his evidence through proper channels.""Proper channels?" Reese's face darkens. "You think you can lawyer your way out of this? You think citing regulations means anything when you've been caught red-handed?"She meets his eyes, holds them, lets the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. "With all due respect, Admiral, if you're going to make accusations, you should probably have your facts straight first.""My facts are straight. You were in a restricted system at an unauthorized time, looking at files you have no clearance to access.""System access logs aren't classified. They're administrative records. Any user with basic clearance can view them.""Not at 0500, they can't.""The time of day doesn't change the classification level."Reese's hands flatten on the table. "You're done. I'm calling security. You'll be detained pending investigation." He pulls out his radio, keys it. "Base security, this is Admiral Reese. I need a detention team at the enlisted DFAC immediately. We have a contractor in violation of security protocols."The response crackles back:"Copy that, Admiral. Team en route."She doesn't run, doesn't argue, just sits there breathing in that steady four-count rhythm, watching him with those winter ocean eyes.Within three minutes, four MPs arrive: body armor, sidearms, the full intimidation package."Sir," the senior MP salutes Reese."This contractor has been accessing classified systems without authorization. I want her detained and investigated.""Yes, sir." The MP turns to her. "Ma'am, I'm going to need you to stand up slowly and keep your hands visible."She complies: sets down her spoon, pushes back from the table, stands with her hands at her sides—relaxed, non-threatening.The dining facility has gone quiet, everyone watching. This is the story that'll be told all day: the contractor who thought she was something special, getting exactly what she deserved."Hands behind your back, please."She complies again, feels the zip-ties go on—not tight enough to cut circulation, but secure enough to prevent any sudden movements."Do you have any weapons or contraband on your person?""No.""We're going to search you anyway.""Of course."They're professional about it: quick pat-down, check her pockets, confiscate her tablet, her ID, her phone. The watch stays on; nobody thinks to check it. Why would they? It's just a watch."Where are we taking her, sir?" the MP asks Reese."Holding facility, cell three. I want her isolated until we can get a full investigative team together.""Cell three is for criminal detainees, sir.""Did I stutter?""No, sir."They escort her out through the dining facility, across the courtyard, past morning formations and curious stares. Someone takes a photo, probably already posting it to social media, probably already viral in certain circles.The holding facility is a low concrete building near the base perimeter, designed for temporarily detaining personnel awaiting transport to more permanent facilities. It has six cells, a processing area, and the distinct smell of disinfectant failing to cover older, less pleasant odors. Cell three is eight by ten feet: concrete walls, metal bench, toilet without a lid, a small window near the ceiling that lets in light but shows only sky.