Chapter 3 - The Broken Pedestal
By noon, the command deck at Fort Bragg was in a state of absolute administrative paralysis.
Richard sat in his executive corner office, pacing back and forth across the plush Persian rug like a caged animal.
His biological son, Tyler, was sprawled carelessly across the leather sofa, scrolling through sports betting apps on his phone.
Tyler was twenty-six, unemployed, and currently driving a sixty-thousand-dollar truck paid for by Richard’s base housing allowance.
“Dad, you’re stressing over nothing,” Tyler drawled, not even looking up from his screen.
“Claire is probably just working some high-tech support desk for the spook agencies. It’s still desk work.”
Richard whirled on his son, his face pale and veins bulging at his temples.
“Shut your mouth, Tyler!” the general roared, slamming his leather binder onto the mahogany desk.
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff called my private line twenty minutes ago!”
Tyler paused, his thumb hovering above his phone screen as the gravity of his father's tone finally penetrated his apathy.
“General Vance didn’t just pull rank,” Richard stammered, running shaking hands through his thinning gray hair.
“General Markley told me that if Claire files a formal harassment complaint regarding this morning, my fourth star is canceled.”
“He said I’d be lucky to retire as a colonel with a stripped pension.”
The office door creaked open, and Major Yates stepped inside without knocking, holding a stack of red-stamped memorandums.
Yates looked as if he hadn't slept in a week; his tie was crooked and his collar was drenched in nervous perspiration.
“Sir... the automated access cards for the east perimeter bunker just revoked our security clearance,” Yates whispered.
“We can’t enter the logistics server room. Even your personal keycard was rejected at the airlock.”
Richard marched over to his computer terminal and jammed his personal CAC card into the slot.
The dual monitors flashed red, displaying a brutal message:
ACCESS DENIED. ASSET HOLDING FACILITY UNDER EXCLUSIVE AUTHORITY OF PROJECT AVERNUS. DIRECT INQUIRIES TO OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR (CLAIRE BRADLEY).
“She locked me out of my own base,” Richard gasped, stumbling backward against his bookshelf.
“That’s impossible! I am the three-star commander of this installation!”
“She didn't just lock us out, General,” Yates said in a trembling whisper.
“The Defense Contract Audit Agency just flagged all non-standard supply disbursements from the last three fiscal years.”
“They're auditing the executive transport fuel logs and Tyler's subsidized housing lease.”
Tyler sat bolt upright on the sofa, dropping his phone onto the carpet.
“Wait, what? Dad, you said those fuel vouchers were untraceable!”
Richard closed his eyes as the walls began closing in around him.
For seven years, he had used Claire’s supposed logistics office as a convenient dumping ground for administrative discrepancies.
Whenever Tyler needed money for a botched business venture or luxury travel, Richard had buried the paperwork under her department code.
He had assumed Claire was too timid, too grateful for his “charity,” to ever look closely at the numbers.
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He had treated a world-class cryptographic auditor like a blind fool.
And now, the ghost had turned on the lights.
