Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
The dawn was breaking over Coronado when our helicopter touched down back at the naval air station. The morning sky was painted in brilliant streaks of orange and crimson, burning away the coastal fog that had cloaked the night’s violence.
Down in the concrete brig beneath the provost marshal’s office, Commander Brock Sullivan sat on a steel bunk, his dress uniform wrinkled, his golden hair disheveled. He had spent the last eight hours screaming at the guards, demanding a phone to call his father, and threatening every guard with career termination.
The heavy steel door at the end of the cell block clanged open.
Sullivan leapt to his feet, rushing to the iron bars. “Finally! It’s about time someone with some sense came down here! When my father hears about this abuse of power—”
He froze mid-sentence.
Walking down the concrete corridor was Admiral Vance, followed by two armed federal prosecutors, Sergeant Major Reed, and me.
I had changed out of the tactical gear and back into my service khakis. My split lip was swollen, but the black Captain’s eagles on my collar gleamed in the dim fluorescent light. Behind us, two guards escorted Marcus Kane in orange jumpsuits and heavy wrist chains, his shoulder heavily bandaged.
Sullivan’s face drained of every drop of color. “Marcus?”
Kane wouldn't look at his brother-in-law. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his shoulders slumping under the weight of utter defeat. “They took the ship, Brock. They have the transceiver. They have the financial logs. It’s over.”
Sullivan gripped the iron bars until his knuckles turned gray. “No... no, that’s impossible! You were supposed to be across the boundary line hours ago!”
“They were,” Vance said, stepping up to the cell. “Until Captain Hayes boarded the vessel, neutralized your mercenary friends, and stopped the engines.”
Sullivan’s gaze shifted to me. His arrogance had completely vanished, replaced by the hollow, sickening dread of a man who realizes he has stepped into a trap of his own making.
“You...” Sullivan whispered. “Who are you?”
“I’m the administrative officer you slapped on the parade field,” I said calmly.
Sergeant Major Reed stepped forward, holding a thick manila folder stamped with the seal of the Judge Advocate General.
“Brock Sullivan,” Reed announced in a voice that echoed through the empty cells. “Under the authority of the Secretary of the Navy and the Uniform Code of Military Justice, you are officially charged with: High Treason against the United States, Grand Larceny of Classified Defense Technology, Conspiracy to Commit Espionage, and Assault on a Superior Commissioned Officer.”
“Assault on a superior officer?” Sullivan stammered, clinging to his last desperate technicality. “We are both O-6 commanders! He’s an administrative captain! I have seniority on the active roster!”
Admiral Vance stepped forward, pulling a signed executive document from his breast pocket and sliding it through the bars.
“Avery Hayes was promoted to Senior Fleet Captain and awarded the rank of Special Operational Commodore by the President of the United States eighteen months ago,” Vance said, his voice dripping with venom. “His rank was classified under Title 10, Section 5, to protect his operational cover. When you struck him on that parade field, Brock, you didn't strike a peer. You struck your superior officer.”
Sullivan’s knees gave out.
He slid down the cold iron bars until he was sitting on the concrete floor, his hands limp at his sides. The reality of his future crashed over him like a tidal wave: Leavenworth penitentiary, the permanent revocation of his commission, and the absolute destruction of his family's proud military name.
“Take his trident,” Vance commanded.
Two Master-at-Arms unlocked the cell door. One held Sullivan against the wall, while Sergeant Major Reed stepped inside. Reed pulled out a pair of cutting shears, reached for the golden Special Warfare insignia pinned to Sullivan’s chest, and severed the pins with two sharp snaps.
The golden trident clattered to the concrete floor.
Reed didn't pick it up. He stepped on it with the heel of his combat boot, grinding it against the rough stone before turning his back on the disgraced officer.
“Lock the cell,” Vance ordered. “His court-martial begins at 0900.”
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We walked away down the corridor, leaving Brock Sullivan weeping in the dark.
***
