"And the paperwork?"
"Impeccable," Victoria said, a cold, tight smile touching her lips. "Too impeccable. Every bolt accounted for on paper. Every man-hour logged down to the minute. In my experience, Marcus, reality is rarely that neat. Human error leaves jagged edges. When an account is perfectly smooth, it usually means someone used an industrial sander on the books."
They reached the security checkpoint, a squat concrete bunker draped in chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. A guard in a black tactical uniform stepped out, holding a clipboard. But before he could speak, a tall man in a tailored navy-blue overcoat, unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white shirt and no tie, emerged from the glass-fronted administration building behind the gate.
Lawrence Croft walked with the relaxed, rolling gait of a former naval officer who had long since traded the deck plate for the boardroom. His silver hair was perfectly swept back, untroubled by the wind, and his tanned face wore an expression of practiced, effortless charisma.
"Victoria Vance," Croft boomed, extending a broad, calloused hand as he bypassed the guard entirely. "The legend precedes you. Welcome to Atlantic Deepwater. I’d offer you sunnier weather, but the Atlantic Fleet doesn't wait for blue skies."
Victoria took his hand, holding it just a second past the point of casual warmth. "Mr. Croft. I appreciate you accommodating us on such short notice."
"Nonsense," Croft dismissed with a wave of his hand, gesturing for them to enter the facility complex. "When the Special Audit Division of the Department of Defense calls, we open the gates. We’re proud of what we’re building here, Miss Vance. We build the backbone of American naval sovereignty. Come, my office is warmed, and the coffee is actually drinkable."
They walked through the yard, Croft pointing out various installations with the familiar pride of a monarch touring his domain. Heavy haulers moved massive sheets of high-yield steel; teams of welders in dark visors created cascading curtains of blue electric sparks against the dark grey hulls.
"You've run this yard for six years now, haven't you, Lawrence?" Victoria asked casually, her heels clicking against the concrete walkway.
"Six years as CEO, twelve before that as Chief Operating Officer," Croft replied. "I watched this shipyard rebuild itself from a bankrupt rusting relic into the premier defense maintenance facility on the Eastern Seaboard. We employ over four thousand local shipwrights, engineers, and pipefitters."
"A noble undertaking," Victoria said smoothly. "And a very expensive one. The Navy’s latest appropriations report shows an eighty-two percent cost escalation on the sub-surface propulsion upgrade program over the last twenty-four months."
Croft didn't flinch. He merely smiled, a slight crease appearing between his brow. "Precision engineering isn't cheap, Victoria. When you’re dealing with high-pressure nuclear containment envelopes and silent-running drive shafts, the tolerances are measured in microns. Inflation, supply chain disruptions, rare-earth element shortages... you know how the world is right now."
"I do," Victoria said as they entered the carpeted tranquility of the executive building. "Which is why I brought a team of eight forensic accountants and marine structural engineers with me. They’ll be reviewing your physical inventory alongside the material procurement ledgers starting at 0800 tomorrow."
Croft stopped outside the double doors of his corner office overlooking the harbor. He turned to face her, his eyes hardening just a fraction behind his pleasant demeanor.
"Of course," Croft said, his tone dipping into a smooth, authoritative low. "Anything you need, my staff will provide. Just remember, Miss Vance... this is an active naval shipyard. High-hazard zones, classified operational spaces, volatile materials. For your own safety, we require forty-eight hours' advance notice for access to the actual dry docks. Rules of the Department of the Navy, I’m sure you understand."
Victoria looked at him, her gaze cool and unyielding. "I understand the rules very well, Mr. Croft. I also understand federal grant compliance mandates. Under Title 10, Section 2313, my team has unrestricted, unannounced access to any site funded by federal defense capital."
Croft chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Let's not let legalities spoil our evening. You’ve had a long train ride down from D.C. Let me host you and your associate for dinner at the Harbor Club tonight. We can talk numbers over a decent ribeye."
"I prefer to keep my dinners separate from my audits," Victoria replied evenly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Croft. We'll see ourselves out."
As they walked back toward the front gates, Marcus leaned in close. "He’s stonewalling. The forty-eight-hour rule is a classic delay tactic."