Chapter 11 - The Atlantic Phantom
The salty ocean breeze flowing through my open living room window suddenly felt freezing cold. I stared at the black screen of my secure military device, the glowing white coordinates burning themselves into my retinas. Phase Two was active. The salvage operation at Drydock Four had been nothing but an elaborate, multi-million-dollar sleight of hand. Nathan walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, a relaxed smile on his face that vanished the second he saw my expression. He dropped the towel on the counter and closed the distance between us in three long strides. “Evelyn, what is it?” Nathan asked, his voice instantly dropping back into his authoritative command register. I handed him the device without saying a word. Nathan’s eyes scanned the black-slate priority message, his jaw tightening so hard I could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Three hundred miles off the coast,” Nathan muttered, analyzing the pulsing GPS coordinates. “That is deep water, Evelyn.” “That is the edge of the Marianas Trench drop-off equivalent for the Atlantic ridge.” I stood up, the peaceful illusion of my Saturday afternoon shattering into a million jagged pieces. “Thomas Vance wasn't the mastermind,” I said, my mind racing through the tactical implications at lightspeed. “He was just the distraction, a sacrificial lamb meant to make us think we had won.” “Whoever sent this message wanted me to know that the real payload is already in the water.” I grabbed my keys and my leather tactical jacket from the hook by the door. “Get Command on the line,” I ordered, sliding into my boots. “I want a nuclear-powered stealth submarine prepped and waiting at the naval base in twenty minutes.” Nathan didn't hesitate, already dialing the encrypted emergency hotline on his own encrypted device. We drove back to the base in complete silence, the weight of the unknown pressing down on us like physical gravity. When we arrived at the underground command center, the atmosphere was absolute chaos. Technicians were running between server banks, shouting out sonar readings and satellite telemetry data. Agent Vance from NCIS was already there, pacing in front of the main holographic projection table. “Admiral Hart,” Agent Vance said, looking incredibly grim as I strode into the room. “We just pulled the interrogation footage from Admiral Thomas Vance’s holding cell.” “He hasn't stopped laughing for three hours.” “He keeps telling the guards that the ocean is going to swallow the eastern seaboard.” I stepped up to the projection table, my eyes locking onto the glowing red blip sitting stationary in the middle of the Atlantic. “It’s not just a salvage op,” I said quietly, the terrifying realization washing over me. “They didn't steal deep-sea recovery technology to bring something up.” “They stole it to take something down.”
