So I took a steadying breath and forced myself to set my brother’s reports side by side.
Everything matched until I came across one log entry stating the flight was aborted before takeoff due to a mechanical anomaly, with no injuries. If only that were true, my brother would still be alive.
The second report listed a redacted crash record, pending review. But it was marked for deletion. And it listed the flight as complete.
I stared at the words until they blurred. Neither report made sense. The only indisputable fact about flight Bravo-X was that Carson died piloting that plane.
My mind tried lining up explanations. Something administrative like a clerical error.
Neither report aligned with the mechanical failure explanation the Navy had given us. But the military protected classified information. They told families what they could live with.
Maybe Carson’s work had been top secret. It was possible that even with my dad’s clearance, he hadn’t been entitled to the full truth.
But that still didn’t explain two conflicting logs. Or why the one referencing a redacted crash report was marked for deletion. It would’ve made more sense for the other to be in error.
Leaning back in my chair, I pressed my lips together. I knew what was expected of me as a civilian working for a defensesubcontractor. I needed to run this up the flagpole, but I wasn’t ready to ask Jim about these reports. Not until I could look at these reports without seeing Carson instead of the data.
When the clock in the corner of my screen crept toward five, I knew I’d run out of time. I stared at the two Bravo-X logs one last time. Protocol said I should escalate discrepancies—clean data in meant clean data out.
I stood and walked down the short hallway to Jim’s office. His door was open, and he glanced up before I said anything. “Need something?”
I stepped just inside the doorway and did my best to keep my tone light. “Yes, do you happen to know which log I should keep for Bravo-X? These two versions don’t match.”
If I hadn’t been looking directly at him, I might’ve missed his reaction. His hand paused mid-motion over a stack of folders, and his expression tightened just slightly.
“Bravo-X?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. One says aborted before takeoff. The other lists the flight as complete with a crash report pending review,” I explained. “The latter version is marked for deletion, but I wanted to confirm.”
“Must’ve been an oversight. Give the reports back to me.” His gaze moved toward his monitor. “I’ll handle it.”
“Okay, sir.” I had no reason to deny his request, but I could buy myself a little time. “I have a small stack left to scan, then I'll be ready to head home. It should only take five minutes tops, so I’ll drop them off on my way out. If that’s okay with you?”
He nodded. “That’ll do.”
I stepped back into the hallway, biting my lower lip as I made my way to my cubicle. My father had raised us to trust our instincts, and something felt off. My gut said that when I handed those paper copies over to my boss, I might never see eitherversion again. And that didn’t feel right to me. Not when they were about the flight that killed Carson.
I couldn’t have stumbled onto something this big related to his death. That seemed impossible. I was probably overthinking the whole thing, and it was just an administrative error that didn’t warrant extra scrutiny.
Or Jim had requested the copies because he planned to look into it.
Either way, I included both versions in the small stack of reports I scanned, making a mental note of where they were saved. I had scanned thousands of pages today alone, so it was easy to bury these inside a folder nobody would ever look twice at. Except me.
Then I packed up my things and stopped at Jim’s office to drop off the reports. “Here you go.”
He took the documents from me, scanning the one on top before lifting his carefully blank gaze to me. “Holbrook.” It was a statement, so I wasn’t sure how to respond.
Before I could reply, he waved toward the door and turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing me.
I stopped by the employee break room to grab my lunch leftovers before heading out to my car, wondering about his use of my last name since he'd only ever called me Linden before.
The parking lot lights hadn’t fully kicked on yet, and halfway down the second row, I felt a subtle prickle between my shoulder blades. The unmistakable awareness of being watched.
I kept going, forcing myself not to look until I reached my car. A man stood near the far edge of the lot, partially obscured by a truck. All I could make out was that he had his phone in his hand.
He could’ve been waiting for someone or scrolling through emails. There were a dozen reasonable explanations.
But that didn’t stop me from getting in my car faster than usual, locking the doors right away, and driving ten over the speed limit all the way home.
