The sailor at the terminal restored the camera feed first.
“Don’t touch the access system,” I said.
Ward stared at me.
“You don’t command this room.”
“No. But somebody just erased a file while we were looking at evidence connected to it.”
The sailor glanced toward Ward, then kept his hands above the keyboard.
The live image showed the same empty corridor.
The hatch was shut now.
No person appeared on either side of it.
I pointed at the screen.
“Can you rewind that?”
The sailor hesitated.
Ward answered before he could.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him.
Ward’s face tightened.
“I mean don’t alter anything until the system is secured.”
For once, I agreed.
“Then preserve it.”
The sailor called the duty officer.
I stayed beside the wet logbook.
Ward remained near the door.
He had said the deletion wasn’t his.
Maybe it wasn’t.
The problem was that someone else had acted at exactly the moment the handwritten entry became important.
The duty officer arrived with a systems technician.
“What happened?”
The sailor explained.
The original electronic file had been visible in the access records. Then, while we were comparing its timing with the handwritten log, the file disappeared.
At almost the same moment, the monitor briefly went dark.
When the image returned, the nearby hatch was closing.
“Did anyone see a person?” the duty officer asked.
“No,” the sailor said.
“Did the camera show the hatch opening?”
“We haven’t reviewed the recording.”
The duty officer turned to the technician.
“Preserve everything before you review anything.”
The technician nodded.
Ward gestured toward the logbook.
“That should be preserved too.”
I looked at him.
“You wouldn’t touch it five minutes ago.”
“Because it wasn’t cleared for your review.”
“That didn’t make it disappear.”
“No.”
His answer was calm.
Too calm.
But calm wasn’t evidence.
The duty officer placed the damaged logbook in a protective sleeve and photographed the page before moving it.
Then he asked me where I had found it.
I told him.
He wrote down my answer without interpretation.
“What made this page significant?”
“The time.”
I pointed through the clear sleeve.
“The handwritten entry matches the ship’s access record.”
“Matches what event?”
“The access recorded at the restricted section.”
Ward interrupted.
“That still doesn’t establish who made the handwritten entry.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
The duty officer raised a hand.
“One person at a time.”
The systems technician began working at the terminal.
After several minutes, he spoke.
“The file was deleted from an authenticated session.”
Ward looked at him.
“Whose?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then find out.”
The technician continued.
I watched Ward.
He wasn’t looking at me anymore.
He was looking at the corridor monitor.
The duty officer noticed.
“What is beyond that hatch?”
Ward answered immediately.
“Service passage.”
“Where does it lead?”
“Several places.”
“Which ones?”
Ward hesitated.
“Communications access. Electrical routing. Secondary administrative spaces.”
The technician looked up.
“There’s also a maintenance terminal.”
Ward turned toward him.
“Not an active one.”
The technician frowned.
“It was active this morning.”
Silence.
I looked at the live feed again.
“Can that terminal access the file that was deleted?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly isn’t enough.”
“I need the system logs.”
The duty officer nodded.
“Get them.”
A second sailor was sent to secure the hatch from the far side.
He returned several minutes later.
“No one there.”
“What about the maintenance terminal?” the duty officer asked.
“Screen was on.”
The technician stopped typing.
“Was anyone logged in?”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“Good.”
The duty officer sent the technician with him.
Ward took one step toward the door.
The duty officer blocked him.
“Stay here.”
Ward’s expression hardened.
“Again?”
“Again.”
“You’re treating me like a suspect.”
“I’m keeping everyone connected to this evidence in one place until we know what happened.”
Ward looked toward me.
“She brought an unauthorized document into operations.”
I almost laughed.
“That page is matching your own access system.”
“That does not make her possession of it authorized.”
The duty officer stepped between us.
“We can address how she obtained it separately.”
He pointed toward the protected logbook.
“Right now, I’m interested in why the corresponding electronic record disappeared.”
Ward stopped arguing.
A few minutes later, the technician returned.
He looked troubled.
“Well?” the duty officer asked.
“The service terminal was used.”
“When?”
The technician gave the time.
It was within the same minute the original file vanished.
“Used for what?”
“I need to compare the audit records.”
“Do it here.”
The technician connected a secured device to the operations terminal and began comparing logs.
I moved closer.
Ward stayed back.
The technician opened the first record.
“Here’s the deletion request.”
“Source?”
“Service terminal.”
The duty officer looked toward the corridor feed.
“So someone went through that hatch, reached the terminal, and deleted the file?”
“Not necessarily.”
The technician pointed at the screen.
“The deletion request originated there. That doesn’t prove the person who used it physically passed through the hatch at the moment we saw it close.”
That distinction mattered.
The camera and computer records were connected by timing.
Not yet by identity.
“Can you identify the login?” I asked.
He opened another field.
Then his eyebrows lifted.
“What?”
“The session wasn’t opened with a normal user account.”
Ward stepped closer.
“What was used?”
“Maintenance authorization.”
The room became quiet.
The technician enlarged the entry.
The credential belonged to a temporary maintenance profile used when systems staff needed access without a standard workstation login.
“Who can activate that?” the duty officer asked.
“Systems personnel.”
“Anyone else?”
“Someone with the authorization code.”
“Who has the code?”
“It’s supposed to rotate.”
“Supposed to?”
The technician nodded reluctantly.
“The current one was issued this morning.”
“To whom?”
He checked.
Then he looked toward Ward.
Ward’s expression changed.
“Say it,” the duty officer ordered.
“Captain’s administrative office.”
I stared at Ward.
He immediately shook his head.
“That code was requested for a systems check.”
“By you?” I asked.
“By my office.”
“That’s not the same answer.”
Ward looked at the duty officer.
“I did not delete that file.”
The duty officer nodded once.
“Then we’re going to find out who used the code.”
For the first time, Ward seemed almost relieved.
That caught my attention.
If the credential pointed toward his office, why would deeper investigation make him look relieved?
Unless he already knew it would lead somewhere else.
The technician searched the access history.
“There.”
A maintenance session had opened shortly before the deletion.
Then another event appeared.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Credential transfer.”
The duty officer leaned toward the screen.
“Explain.”
“The maintenance authorization was copied to another device.”
“Which device?”
The technician searched.
“No registered identifier.”
“Can that happen?”
“It shouldn’t.”
Ward exhaled.
“Then your system has been compromised.”
The technician looked irritated.
“Maybe. But someone still needed access to the authorization first.”
The duty officer turned to Ward.
“Who was in your administrative office today?”
“Several people.”
“Names.”
Ward gave them.
An aide.
A communications officer.
Two administrative sailors.
A maintenance coordinator.
The duty officer wrote each one down.
“Where are they now?”
Ward glanced at the clock.
“The communications officer should be on duty.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know.”
The duty officer sent sailors to locate them.
Then I noticed something.
The wet logbook page contained more than the time.
Below it was a short handwritten notation.
The water damage had blurred part of the ink.
I leaned over the protective sleeve.
“Can we photograph that under better light?”
The duty officer looked at me.
“What do you see?”
“I’m not sure.”
That was exactly why I didn’t want to guess.
They brought a portable inspection lamp.
Under stronger light, several faded characters became visible.
The technician read them.
“That’s a terminal designation.”
“Which terminal?”
He compared it with the system map.
Nobody spoke while he searched.
Then he stopped.
“The service terminal behind that hatch.”
I looked at Ward.
His face went still.
The handwritten log wasn’t merely recording a time that matched the access system.
Someone had written down the terminal involved.
“Who wrote this?” the duty officer asked.
No one knew.
Ward looked at the logbook.
“That handwriting needs to be authenticated.”
“Agreed,” I said.
He looked surprised.
I wasn’t interested in forcing the evidence to say more than it did.
If the handwriting wasn’t genuine, we needed to know.
If it was, we needed to know who had written it.
The first sailor sent to locate Ward’s administrative staff returned.
“Communications officer accounted for.”
“Where?”
“At his station. Supervisor confirms he’s been there.”
“Others?”
“Still checking.”
Another sailor entered less than a minute later.
“Administrative sailor Keller is in mess.”
Ward nodded.
The duty officer crossed out another possibility.
“What about the maintenance coordinator?”
No answer yet.
“What about the aide?”
The sailor hesitated.
“We can’t locate him.”
Ward looked up sharply.
“Lieutenant Vale?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Check my office.”
“We did.”
Ward’s face changed.
That name meant something.
I noticed.
“So did the duty officer.
“When did you last see Vale?”
Ward thought.
“Before I came here.”
“How long before?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
The technician turned toward us.
“That fits the login window.”
Ward immediately said, “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No,” the duty officer replied. “It doesn’t.”
Nobody rushed to a conclusion.
Vale being missing did not make him the person at the hatch.
It did not prove he had copied the maintenance credential.
It did not prove he had deleted the file.
But now there was someone unaccounted for.
The duty officer ordered a search.
Ward moved toward the exit.
This time I didn’t block him.
The duty officer did.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my aide.”
“No.”
“Lieutenant Vale works for me.”
“Which is exactly why someone else will find him.”
Ward stared at him.
“You think I’m protecting him?”
“I haven’t said that.”
“Then let me through.”
The duty officer didn’t move.
“No.”
Ward stepped back.
I watched his reaction carefully.
It wasn’t anger anymore.
It looked closer to fear.
“Captain,” I said.
He turned toward me.
“Why are you worried about Vale?”
“I’m worried because an officer is missing while someone is interfering with ship records.”
That was a reasonable answer.
But then the corridor monitor flickered.
Everyone turned.
The live camera showed the hatch again.
Still closed.
Then a shadow crossed the far end of the corridor.
“Someone’s there,” the sailor said.
The duty officer grabbed the radio.
“Team to service corridor. Now.”
The shadow disappeared.
Seconds later, two sailors appeared on the monitor from the opposite direction.
They reached the hatch.
One tried it.
Locked.
“Operations, hatch secured from inside.”
The duty officer lifted the radio.
“Can you open it?”
“Stand by.”
The technician looked at the access display.
A new entry appeared.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Someone just used the maintenance credential again.”
“Where?”
He pointed toward the screen.
“Inside the service passage.”
Ward closed his eyes for half a second.
I saw it.
“Captain.”
He opened them.
“What?”
“You know who is in there.”
“No.”
“Then what do you know?”
He didn’t answer.
The duty officer lowered the radio.
“Ward.”
Silence.
“Tell me now.”
Ward looked around the room.
At the sailors.
At the technician.
At the damaged logbook.
Finally, he spoke.
“Vale had access to my authorization.”
The duty officer stared at him.
“You said it was issued to your office.”
“It was.”
“You didn’t say your aide personally had it.”
“You didn’t ask.”
I couldn’t believe the answer.
“Why would he need it?”
Ward looked at me.
“Because I told him to review the records.”
The room went completely still.
“Which records?” the duty officer asked.
Ward hesitated.
“The maintenance files.”
My eyes went to the torn logbook.
“Including the file that just disappeared?”
“I don’t know.”
The duty officer stepped closer.
“What exactly did you tell Vale to do?”
Ward’s voice became quieter.
“To identify anything connected to the unresolved maintenance entries.”
“Why?”
“Because after the data card surfaced, I needed to know what else existed.”
There it was.
Not a confession to deleting anything.
Not proof that Ward had ordered evidence destroyed.
But an admission that he had sent his aide searching for the same records now disappearing.
The radio crackled.
“We’re through the hatch.”
Everyone turned toward it.
“Status?”
A pause.
Then:
“Service passage is empty.”
Ward stared at the radio.
The duty officer asked, “What about the terminal?”
“Active.”
“Anyone nearby?”
“Negative.”
Another pause.
Then the sailor’s voice returned.
“Sir, there’s a second access door down here.”
Ward looked toward the corridor map.
The duty officer noticed.
“Where does it go?”
Ward didn’t answer.
I walked to the map.
The service passage extended behind several compartments before connecting to another stairwell.
But one narrow route branched away from it.
The label was partly obscured on the old diagram.
The technician enlarged the digital map.
“Records storage.”
My stomach tightened.
The duty officer immediately radioed the team.
“Secure records storage. Do not let anyone remove anything.”
Ward stepped toward him.
“Wait.”
The duty officer lowered the radio.
“Why?”
Ward’s eyes went to the wet logbook.
Then he finally said what he had been avoiding.
“Because that logbook shouldn’t have been where she found it.”
I stared at him.
“You said it wasn’t cleared for my review.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You never said it was missing.”
Ward didn’t respond.
The duty officer’s expression hardened.
“How long has it been missing?”
“Since this morning.”
“And you didn’t report it?”
“I was trying to determine who had taken it.”
“By sending Vale through the records?”
Ward said nothing.
The radio crackled again.
“Sir, records storage is open.”
“Anyone inside?”
“Negative.”
“Anything disturbed?”
A long pause.
Then the answer came.
“Yes.”
The sailor described an open storage cabinet.
Several folders had been pulled out.
One space on the shelf was empty.
The duty officer looked at Ward.
“What belongs there?”
Ward didn’t answer.
I already knew what I wanted to ask.
“Another logbook?”
Ward looked at me.
“Yes.”
The room fell silent.
The torn book on the table wasn’t the only physical record.
There was another volume.
And now that one was missing too.
The duty officer ordered every exit from the service section covered.
He also ordered the electronic deletion logs copied to an isolated system.
Nobody was allowed to use Ward’s administrative credentials.
Not Ward.
Not Vale.
Not anyone from his office.
Then a sailor’s voice came over the radio one more time.
“We found something.”
“What?”
“A uniform jacket.”
Ward’s face drained.
“Identification?”
The sailor answered.
“Lieutenant Vale.”
The duty officer looked at Ward.
“Is Vale still unaccounted for?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the monitor.
The corridor was empty again.
The hatch remained open now, secured by the search team.
We still didn’t know who had crossed it when the camera briefly went dark.
We still couldn’t say who had deleted the electronic record.
Vale’s missing jacket wasn’t proof that he had done either.
And Ward’s order to review the maintenance files didn’t establish that he had ordered them destroyed.
But the shape of the problem had changed.
Someone had copied a credential issued through Ward’s office.
Someone had used it from the service terminal.
Someone had deleted the original file at the exact moment its timestamp was being challenged.
A second physical logbook had vanished.
And Ward’s aide—one of the people with access to the authorization—could no longer be found.
I looked down at the wet book I had dropped onto the table.
When I brought it into operations, Ward had treated it like a document I had no right to see.
Now it was something else.
It was the physical record that had survived.
The electronic version was gone.
Its companion logbook was missing.
And the man Ward had sent to find the remaining records had disappeared somewhere beyond the same hatch we had watched closing on the screen.
