Krieger leaned forward, placed his hands on his desk, and laced his fingers. He spoke calmly. “Admiral, the Seventh Fleet has been giving preferential treatment to Core F Services. That will no longer fly.”

“Not sure I care for your tone, son,” Tighe said, coming about. “However, I’m not familiar . . .”

Krieger looked at Mapes. His expression said, I have to put up with this?

“Core F, Admiral.”

Tighe’s expression remained blank.

Krieger pinched the skin between his eyes. “I will indulge you because this involves embarrassing issues for you. Anthony Gatt. Fat Anthony.”

Mapes placed a photograph of Tighe and Gatt standing together in a grip-and-grin in front of the Terror Club in Singapore, the British Navy’s watering hole.

“Husbanding?” Tighe said through his cigar. “You’re talking about husbanding contracts, Terry? Chit? I didn’t realize Perseus was in that sector.” He picked a flake of tobacco from his tongue. “That’s oh-fives, oh-sixes. Your people should know that.” He looked at Mapes. “But I can tell you, if you have a beef with one of our contractors, one of your competitors, you file a bid awards protest with FLC Yoko. Off the record, in case you’re thinking of filing such a challenge, I’ll advise you that it’s my understanding Core F has provided the Navy excellent product, soup to nuts.”

Tighe looked for a place to ash his cigar ash. He ignored the crystal ashtray Mapes had set before him and ashed his cigar on one of Lady Justice’s scales.

As Tighe performed his little display of power, Krieger smiled to himself. Gatt had indeed come through. It was some twenty-five companies deep, but Krieger now owned Mindanao City Port. He would present the port to China, along with a rather sizeable bill. Another pearl for your string, Mr. President.

“Admiral, I don’t care about you and your officers overpaying for port services in order to take a skim. Your men protect the Pacific flank of the Western Hemisphere. You offer your life to your country. I recognize that. I don’t care about a little graft. What I do care about is the national security of the United States.”

Tighe set down his coffee cup and got to his feet, motioning for Mapes to open the door. “You’ve been in the sun too long, Terry. We’re done here.”

“Sit down, Admiral. You’ve been passing Fat Anthony fleet movements, transit maps. Advising him in advance of your schedules, and those of our allies, in the Seventh AOR.”

Tighe paused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Admiral,” Mapes said, stepping forward to take over, as planned. “You have a first-class petty officer emailing classified ship movements directly to Fat Anthony for you.” She placed printed copies of the emails on the desk next to Tighe’s coffee cup. Tighe ignored them, still standing.