"Give me your crew identity card, Miss Reyes."
My right hand moved to the lanyard around my neck before my mind gave full permission. The plastic credential felt cold against my thumb—my employee number printed beneath a clear, three-year-old photograph taken the week I finished initial line qualification. I held it out across the prep counter.
Vance took it by the plastic edge. He laid it flat beside his logbook, copied the six-digit employee code into his ledger with small, deliberate strokes, and then looked toward the flight deck door.
First Officer Davis was still standing in the cockpit threshold, his shoulder pressed against the door frame, watching us with the helpless neutrality of an officer who knew better than to cross an examining line captain during a ramp evaluation.
"Davis," Vance said without raising his head.
"Yes, sir?"
"Call the station operations supervisor. Inform them Flight 247 has an operational crew removal under Section Twelve of the General Operations Manual. Request an immediate reserve replacement from the local ready room, or tell dispatch to combine the service rotation if cabin minimums allow."
"Captain," Davis said, his jaw tightening slightly. "Reserve dispatch at this hour is forty-five minutes out of the north terminal annex. If we wait for a deadhead fill, the flight deck crew runs into maximum duty limitations before we reach the Chicago handover. We'll time out."
"Then you time out," Vance said evenly. "You will not fly an aircraft with a purser who conceals regulatory dispatch paperwork in her pocket to protect a departure metric, nor will you fly with a business-class cabin attendant who invents airline regulations to conceal her failure to sync her terminal."
Hannah took a half-step forward, her breath catching audibly. "Arthur, don't put this on the whole flight. Emma made the call at 2A. I should have handed her the revised paper manifest, yes. I took the packet from the gate agent while the bridge was still clearing, and I put it in my blazer because catering had two broken tray locks in the aft galley that needed a maintenance sign-off before the door sealed. It was an oversight, not a cover-up."
Vance stopped writing. He capped the pen with a small, sharp snap that cut cleanly through the vibration of the auxiliary turbine beneath our feet.
"An oversight," he repeated, looking up at Hannah. "Let me see the paper you took from the agent."
Hannah pulled the folded trifold from her pocket again. Her fingers were no longer steady. She unfolded the stiff paper across the prep counter, flattening the coffee-ringed corner against the steel.
Vance did not touch it. He bent his head, his eyes scanning the three printed sections with the effortless speed of someone who had spent decades reviewing maintenance logs, incident briefs, and weight tickets.
His finger came down on the third column, halfway down the page.
"Read that line aloud, Hannah."
Hannah swallowed. Her voice dropped an octave, losing its standard customer-service cadence. "'Operational Notice 04-B: Flight 247 carries a Department of Transportation special courier pouch in forward cargo hold three, requiring dual crew verification prior to manifest sign-off.'"
Silence pressed down on the galley.
"Did you verify hold three, Purser Miller?" Vance asked.
Hannah did not answer. She stared at the paper as if the black print had rearranged itself while it sat in her blazer pocket.