"I object to these proceedings without civilian counsel present," Sterling said, staring straight at the microphones.
"Your objection is noted and preserved for the record," Bradley replied without looking up from his legal pad. "Colonel Vance, present your first corroborated exhibit."
I opened the canvas logbook to the page marked with the grease pencil.
"Exhibit Alpha," I stated. "The official refrigeration custody ledger for Camp Vora’s auxiliary pharmacy. At zero-four-hundred hours, Captain Miller documented that the external bypass valve was opened deliberately, cutting power to the cold-storage walk-in unit. At zero-five-thirty hours, Major Sterling entered this scullery office, crossed out Miller's notes, and certified that twenty cases of Schedule II narcotics were destroyed in the post burn pit."
"As base commander, I had the legal authority to order emergency disposal," Sterling interrupted, his voice rising in panic. "The temperature alarm had tripped. The drugs were degraded. Injecting degraded ketamine into active personnel causes fatal cardiac arrest. I saved lives by destroying those stocks!"
"Then explain Exhibit Bravo," I said, placing the damp commercial routing slip beside the ledger. "This slip was recovered from the scullery grease trap where your courier dropped it twenty minutes ago. It carries the identical batch number—CV-8842-RX—assigned to the drugs you claim you burned. But the bill of lading is addressed to a private shell corporation operating out of an abandoned warehouse on Industrial Drive in Fayetteville."
Sterling swallowed hard. His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. "That is a piece of trash. Anyone could have thrown that into the scullery sink. Trainees track garbage through this mess hall twelve hours a day."
"Sergeant Ruiz," I called out.
Ruiz stepped forward from the line of guards at the door, marching to the witness boundary line painted on the floor. He snapped to attention, saluted, and stood with his thumbs aligned along the seams of his trousers.
"Sergeant Ruiz," I said. "Between zero-one-hundred and zero-four-hundred this morning, did you observe Major Sterling in the vicinity of the loading dock?"
"Yes, ma'am," Ruiz testified clearly, his words ringing off the steel kitchen hoods. "At zero-two-fifteen, I was inspecting the grease trap cleanup detail. I observed Major Sterling using a master maintenance key to unlock the loading dock roller door. A dark blue Ford sedan backed into the bay without lights. Major Sterling and a civilian male loaded six heavy green transport cases into the trunk. When I approached to render a salute, the Major ordered me to return to the barracks and warned me that the loading area was under classified quarantine."
Sterling half-rose from his chair, his face contorted in fury. "You lying bastard! You were on rack duty in the third barracks!"
"Sit down, Major!" Bradley commanded, slamming an open palm against the table. The sharp crack made Sterling drop back into the chair as if pulled by a wire. "Sergeant Ruiz is testifying under oath. Another outburst and I will have you shackled to the bulkhead."
"Sergeant Ruiz didn't see what was in those cases," Sterling gasped, leaning forward, pleading directly to Bradley now. "Even if he saw boxes being moved, he cannot testify to the contents! Bandages, Bradley! It was surplus medical gauze and field kits being rotated out for auction!"
"That brings us to Exhibit Charlie," I said quietly.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my smartphone, and laid it flat between the two recorders. I pressed play on the screen.
The screen displayed a high-resolution forensic data stream transmitted from the transponder mounted on my staff vehicle. On the display was an active signal scan, showing a pulsing blue beacon centered directly behind the mess hall’s exterior loading ramp.
"The transport containers used for Department of Defense pharmaceutical consignments are fitted with internal Bluetooth proximity loggers," I explained for the record. "They do not record video or audio. They record internal temperature and ambient barometric pressure every thirty seconds, and they ping the nearest DOD logistics vehicle within fifty meters. The cases currently sitting in the trunk of the car behind this building are transmitting live right now."
I tapped the screen, opening the live telemetry window.
"Case serial number alpha-nine-nine," I read aloud. "Current internal temperature: three point four degrees Celsius. Condition: stable. Contents: four hundred vials of pharmaceutical-grade morphine sulphate. Location: vehicle trunk, Camp Vora Mess Hall service dock. Transmitting to regional medical server at Fort Bragg."