It bounced off the polished mahogany desk and fell to the floor, but she didn't notice. Her jaw hung slack, her eyes wide with uncomprehending shock. Down on the courtroom floor, Deputy Frankie Boyd took a stuttering step back. His right hand instinctively dropped toward his gun belt and muscle memory born of local dominance. In a fraction of a second, an MP immediately leveled an M4 carbine directly at Boyd's chest, the red dot of the laser sight burning brightly against the tan fabric of his uniform shirt.
"Keep your hand away from that weapon, Deputy." The MP ordered. His voice was completely devoid of emotion, the cold sound of professional violence held on a tight leash. "Step away from the prisoners. Step away now."
Boyd raised his hands slowly, his fingers trembling. The blood completely drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly pale gray. He looked from the laser sight painting his chest to the open double doors at the back of the room. Through the doorway strode Vice Admiral Robert Cole. He was a towering, imposing figure.
His navy dress whites gleaming brilliantly under the dull, flickering fluorescent courtroom lights. The heavy gold braiding on his shoulders and the three silver stars pinned to his collar caught the light. But it was his chest that drew the eye. Row upon row of colorful ribbons, combat action medals, and the gold trident of the Naval Special Warfare Community pinned proudly above them. He did not walk.
He marched with the unmistakable fury of a man who commanded entire fleets. Flanking him were two federal agents in sharp, dark suits. Their FBI badges prominently displayed on their belts. Admiral Cole stopped at the low wooden gate separating the public gallery from the judge's bench. He did not look at Judge Higgins.
He did not look at Deputy Boyd. His steely, tempestuous gaze locked onto the two men sitting in the defendants' chairs bound heavily in iron chains. Cole's jaw muscles flexed, grinding together. The silence in the courtroom was absolute, suffocating. Broken only by the fading mechanical whine of the helicopter engines idling outside the building.
Chief Hayes, Petty Officer Miller. Cole said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that commanded immediate obedience. Report. Jackson stood up.
The heavy chains rattling loudly against the wooden chair. Despite the shackles binding his wrists and ankles, his posture was flawless military bearing. Sir. Detained at 1400 hours yesterday. False pretense traffic stop.
Unlawful vehicle search. Sensitive equipment remains intact, but was compromised by local law enforcement attempts to breach the containers. Held overnight without federal notification or counsel. Cole nodded slowly, processing the tactical briefing. He finally turned his attention to Deputy Boyd, who was sweating profusely, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths.
"You must be the local talent." Cole said, stepping through the wooden gate. He closed the distance until he was mere inches from Boyd, towering over the terrified deputy. "I have fought cartels in the jungles of Colombia, insurgents in the deserts of Fallujah, and pirates in the Gulf of Aden. And yet, I have never seen an act of staggering stupidity quite as profound as the one you have committed in the last 24 hours."