Preston reached for the folder.
I closed it before he could touch it.
“Those certificates are fabricated.”
My father’s face hardened.
“Be careful what you accuse your brother of.”
Vice Admiral Mercer looked at him.
“She isn’t accusing him.”
He nodded toward the Coast Guard investigators entering behind us.
“She’s informing him.”
The christening stopped.
Workers were ordered off the vessel.
The forty-two people scheduled to sail that afternoon never boarded.
Preston looked around at the cameras, employees and executives watching him.
“This is ridiculous. Those inspections were handled by operations.”
I opened the folder again.
Three signatures.
All his.
One authorized replacement fire-suppression valves.
One certified emergency pumps that had never been tested.
The third approved repairs to a cracked fuel line aboard the ship behind us.
The repairs had not been completed.
Emma held my hand.
Her breathing had stabilized, but I could still feel her fingers trembling.
Preston noticed.
He pointed at her.
“You’re doing this because of what happened with the inhaler.”
“No.”
I looked toward the ship.
“I started this audit eleven weeks ago.”
That silenced him.
My mother stared at me.
“You were investigating us?”
“I was investigating safety failures.”
“This is your family.”
“There are forty-two families who almost put someone on that ship.”
Mercer asked Preston one question.
“Who told you the federal review had been delayed?”
Preston stopped talking.
That was the first real mistake he made.
Because nobody outside a restricted group knew a delay had been requested.
Investigators searched his office.
They found encrypted messages between Preston and a subcontractor named Gulf Meridian Services.
Gulf Meridian had billed Hale Maritime almost fourteen million dollars for repairs across six vessels.
Several repairs existed only on paper.
My father sank into a chair.
“We paid them.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why?”
Preston answered before I could.
“To keep the company alive.”
Everyone turned toward him.
He realized too late what he had admitted.
Three years earlier, Hale Maritime began missing delivery deadlines. Penalties mounted. Banks threatened to freeze credit.
Preston found a shortcut.
Instead of completing expensive safety work, he paid Gulf Meridian to generate documents showing the work had been finished.
The company appeared profitable.
Contracts continued.
My parents celebrated him for saving margins.
Then failures started accumulating.
That was why the restructuring became necessary.
My father looked at me.
“You knew?”
“Not all of it.”
“When?”
“Before the federal package was approved.”
My mother’s voice shook.
“And you still saved the company?”
I looked toward the shipyard workers gathered behind the barricades.
“I saved their jobs.”
Not Preston.
Not the Hale name.
Them.
Mercer then removed a second folder.
“This part wasn’t in Admiral Hale’s audit.”
He handed it to me.
Inside were personnel records.
Six employees had reported falsified inspections during the previous two years.
All six were fired.
Every termination had been approved by Preston.
One name stopped me.
Chief Engineer Michael Torres.
I knew Michael.
He had served under me years earlier before leaving the Coast Guard for civilian work.
The file said he died seven months after Hale Maritime terminated him.
Vehicle accident.
Preston looked away when I reached that page.
I noticed.
So did Mercer.
“What happened to Torres?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Look at me.”
He did not.
An investigator approached Mercer and whispered something.
Mercer’s expression changed.
Then he handed me a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a small flash drive.
“Recovered from Torres’s safety deposit box this morning.”
My father whispered:
“What’s on it?”
Mercer looked directly at Preston.
“A recording Michael Torres made the night before he died.”
Preston backed away from the table.
And for the first time since the ceremony began, he looked frightened.