Chapter 85 - The Ghost Protocol
"You always were short-sighted, Julian," I said, letting the heavy pouch swing slightly in my right hand.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed, his arrogant smirk twitching for a fraction of a second. "Short-sighted? I control the defense network of this entire eastern seaboard, Eleanor. I have your carrier trapped against the pier like a wounded whale. In ten seconds, you either surrender that drive or I burn this harbor to ash."
He raised his thumb over the glowing red detonator pad on his screen.
"Chief Miller," I spoke softly into my throat mic, ignoring the mercenaries whose finger-knuckles were whitening on their triggers. "Mark."
From beneath the concrete pier, a low, mechanical hum began to vibrate through the soles of our boots. It wasn't the sound of an electronic relay; it was the heavy, thudding crunch of high-voltage industrial contactors snapping into place inside the harbor master's underground bunker.
Fifty yards away, the massive automated defense turrets along the seawall—twin 57mm rapid-fire naval cannons mounted on hardened concrete bastions—suddenly hissed as their hydraulic seals broke. They didn't boot up with their customary digital chimes. They squealed under raw, uninhibited pneumatic pressure, their barrels swiveling with violent speed and locking dead onto the conning tower of the surfaced submarine.
Sterling’s face went pale. He stabbed frantically at his tablet. "What is this? The network is bypassed! That’s impossible!"
"You forgot one detail from the archives you stole from Dayton," I said, taking two steps forward. The laser dots on my chest remained, but the mercenaries holding the weapons were now looking nervously over their shoulders at the twin cannons aiming directly down their throats. "Admiral Henderson didn't wire this harbor with software. He wired it with heavy copper and pneumatic air lines back in 1984. Your digital virus can't hack a physical knife-switch."
"Kill her!" Sterling screamed, dropping his cigar and stumbling backward. "Shoot her and secure the drive!"
Before his contractors could pull their triggers, the deck of the *Dauntless* erupted with deafening thunder.
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Admiral Henderson had not stood idly by. A squad of forty combat-ready Marines lined the flight deck bulwarks, their heavy rifles cracking in unison. A hail of precision fire tore through the pier, shattering the engine blocks of the black SUVs and kicking up concrete chips around the feet of Sterling's security team.
Two of the contractors fell instantly, wounded, while the other two dove for cover behind the heavy cargo containers. Sterling tripped over his own expensive coat, sprawling hard against the greasy harbor asphalt, his tablet skittering across the pier and landing directly at my boots.
