“It’s a military surplus unit,” I continued. “Pierce Meridian bought them at auction to save a few pennies during the acquisition. I know, because I personally managed forty of those exact units in Kandahar under 120-degree heat. I know their wiring intimately.”

I leaned over the table, right into Owen’s face. “The TX-900 has a fatal design flaw. Run it overloaded for more than twelve hours and the external sensor freezes over, creating a micro-climate of ice on the thermometer probe.”

“The computer reads a perfect thirty-eight, while the actual room temperature climbs past seventy. A false positive. You’re looking at a dead spreadsheet, Mr. Rusk. I’m telling you the reality on the ground.”

Owen’s face flushed purple. “You arrogant little—”

“I don’t play games with logistics,” I snapped, my military bearing taking control. “You’re running this company like men playing chess on paper. But I know the smell of a system failing. I know the cost of bad intel.”

“If you let that truck leave, children in that hospital die. Under my watch there are no acceptable casualties. Shut down the dock.”