Chapter 5: Rank and Retribution

Chapter 5: Rank and Retribution

The office of the Base Admiral was a world away from the grit and grime of a sailor's life. It was a chamber of power, hushed and imposing, on the top floor of the command building. A thick, navy-blue carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps. The vast, mahogany desk was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the brass ship's clock on the wall and the gray, churning waters of the Thames River visible through a panoramic window. This was a room where entire fleets were managed, where careers were forged in commendations and shattered with the stroke of a pen.

Rear Admiral Thompson, a man whose face was a roadmap of a thirty-year career, stood by the window, his back to the door. He was a creature of process, of procedure, of a chain of command as rigid and sacred as scripture. Captain Anna Reed’s call had been a bomb thrown into the well-ordered machinery of his day.

She entered without being announced, her small frame a stark contrast to the grandeur of the room. She did not approach the guest chairs in front of the Admiral’s desk. She remained standing in the center of the room, a statue of compressed fury in a perfect dress uniform.

The Admiral turned, his expression a careful mixture of authority and concern. “Anna,” he began, his voice a low baritone accustomed to being obeyed. “Your yeoman said it was urgent. What’s happened?”

“An hour ago, Seaman Recruit William Jensen, a student at the Submarine School, was found in a barracks shower by the duty officer,” Reed said. Her voice was devoid of emotion, a flat, cold statement of fact that made it all the more chilling. “He had attempted to take his own life. He is currently in the ICU at the Naval Hospital, in critical condition.”

Thompson’s face tightened. A suicide attempt on his base was a serious, tragic, and unfortunately not unheard-of event. It meant investigations, wellness checks, a cascade of paperwork. “I see. A terrible tragedy. I’ll get the Master Chief on it immediately, we’ll start a command investigation—”

“No,” Reed said, the single word cutting him off with the finality of a guillotine. “You will not start an investigation, Admiral. Because I have already completed it.”

Thompson’s eyebrows rose. The sheer audacity of her statement hung in the air.

“Seaman Jensen,” she continued, her voice never rising but gaining an intensity that was almost physical, “is a brilliant young man, set to become a top-tier Sonar Technician. His intellectual gifts, however, were perceived as a weakness by his instructors, Petty Officer Frank Russo and Petty Officer Marcus Cole.”

She took a step forward, her icy gaze locked on the Admiral. “Over the past several weeks, these two Petty Officers subjected Seaman Jensen to a targeted campaign of physical and psychological abuse. Two weeks ago, during a punitive training session, he sustained a severe ligament tear in his knee. The base medical officer confirmed the injury and issued a lawful order for two weeks of light duty.”

She paused, letting the weight of the next words land. “That medical chit, a direct order from a commissioned officer, was torn to pieces by Petty Officer Russo in front of the entire formation. He then forced Seaman Jensen to perform low-crawls on a gravel training pit, on the same injured knee, as a punishment for ‘malingering.’”

Admiral Thompson’s face had gone from concerned to grim. This was no longer just a tragedy; it was a criminal act. A blatant, unforgivable breach of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

“When his body was broken,” Reed went on, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “and when your chain of command had utterly failed him, he sought the final safety net this Navy provides. He scheduled a confidential appointment with me.”

This was it. The heart of the matter. The Admiral stood motionless, sensing the true purpose of her crusade.

“But he never made it to my office,” she said, the cold fury now radiating from her in waves. “Because Petty Officers Russo and Cole intercepted him. They threatened him. They intimidated him. They convinced a desperate, broken young man that seeking my help would only bring him more pain. He cancelled his appointment with my aide, stating he was ‘feeling much better.’” She spat the words out as if they were poison.

She took one more step, standing directly before the massive desk, a diminutive David before a Goliath of institutional power. But in her eyes, there was no fear, only the righteous fire of an angel of vengeance.

“This is the ultimate sin, Admiral. They didn’t just assault a sailor. They didn’t just defy a lawful order. They severed a man from his last hope. They placed themselves as armed guards at the door of my sanctuary and turned away one of my flock. They willfully and maliciously sabotaged a command-level, mission-critical safety protocol. They sabotaged me.”

The Admiral was silent for a long moment, the implications crashing down around him. He saw the inevitable path this would take: a long, drawn-out investigation, lawyers, hearings, the potential for media involvement. A scandal that would stain the reputation of his base for years.

“Anna, their careers are over,” he said, his voice heavy. “A Captain’s Mast is a certainty. We can court-martial them for assault, for dereliction…”

“Insufficient,” she snapped, her voice like cracking ice. “A Mast is an insult. A court-martial is a process. And process is what failed this boy at every single turn. I am not here to ask for their discipline, Admiral. I am here to demand their removal.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her white-knuckled fists on the polished mahogany. “I want them gone. Not transferred. Not demoted. Gone. I want Petty Officer Frank Russo and Petty Officer Marcus Cole processed out of my Navy with Other Than Honorable discharges. I want their careers, their benefits, and their futures annihilated. I want them off my base by sunset. And you are going to make it happen.”

It was not a request. It was a demand, backed by the full weight of her rank, her unique moral authority, and the unspoken threat of the storm she could unleash if she was denied. She had laid a perfectly constructed case at his feet, complete with sworn witness testimony from Jensen’s friends—a fact she knew the Admiral’s staff had already relayed to him. He was cornered not by her anger, but by the undeniable, explosive truth of her report.

He saw the abyss she had opened before him. Refuse her, and she could go to the Chief of Naval Operations. She could leak it. The story of a chaplain being prevented from saving a suicidal sailor was a nightmare scenario. He looked at her face, at the unyielding, righteous fury in her eyes, and knew she would not hesitate. She was holding a lit torch over a powder keg, and he was sitting on top of it.

With a heavy sigh that was equal parts resignation and decision, Admiral Thompson moved to his desk and sat down. He picked up the secure telephone, bypassing all normal channels. He punched in a three-digit extension.

“Master Chief, get me the command legal officer on the line. Now.” He paused, his eyes still on Captain Reed. “Then I want you to pull the service records for Petty Officer First Class Frank Russo and Petty Officer Second Class Marcus Cole. Expedite the paperwork for an immediate Administrative Separation board.”

He listened for a moment, then his voice turned to iron. “The charge is Conduct Prejudicial to Good Order and Discipline. The specifics will be failure to obey a lawful order, assault, and hazing resulting in grievous bodily harm.” He took a breath. “And add a final specification: Undermining the integrity and mission of the United States Navy Chaplain Corps.”

He slammed the phone down. The sound echoed in the silent, opulent office. The wheels of military justice, which usually ground slow and fine, were now spinning with the speed and finality of an executioner's axe. All norms were bypassed. All process was truncated. Judgment had been rendered.

Captain Anna Reed watched, her expression unreadable. She had gathered the cannons, aimed them, and forced the Admiral to light the fuse.

She gave a single, sharp nod—not of gratitude, but of acknowledgment. Her work here was done. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the Admiral’s office, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet, leaving the man in charge to manage the fallout of her righteous war.