Admiral Olsen did not ask what happened.
That was the first thing David noticed, and the first thing that frightened him.
Commanders usually ask questions when they enter chaos. Who fell? What happened? Is the sailor armed? Who saw it? Olsen asked none of that. He raised one hand, stopped the rifles along the rail, and spoke into the deck channel with a calm that made the panic look amateur.
“Recovery team proceeds. No one approaches Petty Officer Ward with weapons raised. EOD standby. Medical on the starboard ladder. Security, separate Lieutenant Commander Cross from the deck crew.”
David’s face tightened. “Sir?”
Olsen did not look at him. “Step away from the rail.”
“She has a grenade.”
“I can see that.”
“She pulled it from her own vest.”
Olsen turned then, slowly.
“And you saw that very clearly from behind her?”
The question was soft.
It landed like steel.
David stopped.
Lexa was still in the water, fighting to keep herself above the chop. The grenade remained raised in her hand, but her other arm was weakening. The rescue swimmer entered the water from the recovery craft, approaching carefully, palms visible, voice low. The entire ship watched a scene that could still become tragedy if one person misunderstood one movement.
Lexa shouted something, but the sea broke the words.
The swimmer got closer.
She shouted again.
This time the deck microphone caught part of it.
“Not mine!”
Then again.
“Not mine!”
David shook his head. “She’s lying.”
Olsen’s eyes stayed on the water. “You should stop talking.”
The rescue swimmer reached Lexa, but she would not immediately release the grenade. Not because she meant to use it. Because she had spent enough years around investigations to know the second it left her hand without witnesses, someone might call it hers forever.
She turned it slightly so the swimmer could see the serial marking.
The swimmer froze.
Then shouted up to the deck.
“Serial visible! Marking intact! She says it was in her vest!”
Olsen looked at the master-at-arms beside him. “Record that.”
David’s jaw tightened.
The swimmer secured Lexa’s wrist, keeping the object stable while the recovery craft moved in. The whole process took less than three minutes, but everyone who watched felt like the ship had aged around them. When Lexa was finally pulled onto the rescue platform, coughing seawater, shivering, still glaring upward toward the deck, Olsen gave the order that changed the entire incident.
“Secure Lieutenant Commander Cross.”
David turned fully now.
“Sir, she was armed.”
Olsen looked at him.
“No, Commander. She was framed.”
The word spread across the deck faster than the alarm.
Framed.
David’s mouth opened, but no defense came out.
Because somewhere above them, the carrier’s aft camera had recorded more than he knew.