Chapter 17 - The Dry Docks
The Norfolk Naval Shipyard was bathed in heavy yellow halogen floodlights when our convoy pulled through the gate.
The sentries at the gate recognized my staff vehicle immediately, raising the barrier gates without hesitation.
Massive steel hulls of grey warships towered over the concrete docks like sleeping metallic monsters in the dark.
The air smelled of salt water, ozone, cutting oil, and sea air—the exact smells that had been my home for 36 years.
We parked near Machine Shop 4, a massive corrugated steel building vibrating with the heavy hum of industrial lathes.
I stepped out of the SUV, my pristine white uniform standing out sharply against the grimy industrial background.
Master Chief Mason and his men stayed back near the vehicles, giving me the space I needed for this moment.
I walked through the small side door of the machine shop, the loud screeches of metalwork filling the cold air.
Near the back of the shop, standing over a massive steel propeller shaft, was an older man with gray hair.
He wore dark blue grease-stained work overalls, protective safety glasses, and heavy steel-toed work boots.
Despite the thirty-six years that had passed, I recognized his facial structure instantly—the same jawline as my father.
But unlike my father’s cold, arrogant eyes, this man’s eyes were soft, tired, and filled with deep, quiet gentleness.
He turned around to grab a tool, saw a Rear Admiral standing ten feet away from him, and froze completely mid-motion.
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He wiped his grease-stained hands on a rag, looking at the stars on my shoulders, then looking at my face.
"Claire?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roaring machinery of the heavy shop.
