Page 83 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Communications package,” Rigel adds, testing radio frequencies and backup channels. His fingers dance across the equipment like a pianist warming up, each touch deliberate and practiced.
“Medical trauma kit,” Walt states, loading supplies that none of us want to think about needing. Bandages, surgical tools,morphine. The kind of gear that means someone’s coming home hurt.
“Insertion timeline?” Ethan asks, checking GPS coordinates and navigation equipment.
“Transport leaves in two hours,” Sam responds, consulting updated operational schedules. “Gets us on target during optimal weather and tide conditions.”
“Almost like it was planned,” I mutter, loud enough for Hank to hear.
His eyes meet mine across the equipment table. “What do you mean?”
“The timing,” I explain, trying to put my finger on what’s bothering me. “Quantum spike happens exactly when we’re ready to deploy. The weather window aligns perfectly. Tide conditions are optimal. The facility apparently is unprepared for an assault.”
“We know we’re walking into a trap,” Hank responds, but I catch something in his voice that suggests he’s thinking the same thing.
“I know, and the first step in avoiding a trap is knowing it’s there.” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s just, I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this.”
My words settle between us like an armed explosive device. Because the timing is convenient. Everything is aligning exactly when we need it to align.
The quantum spike is real, and if we don’t move tonight, we might lose our only chance.
“Pre-deployment briefing in thirty minutes,” Ethan announces. “Final coordination with air support and backup teams.”
I shoulder my gear and follow the team toward the briefing room, but the nagging feeling won’t go away. Something about this whole situation feels like a perfectly laid charge—all thecomponents in place, timing synchronized, just waiting for someone to trigger the detonation.
The question is whether we’re the ones setting off the explosion, or if we’re walking directly into the blast radius.
“Transport status?” Sam asks as we gather in the secure briefing room.
“Four helicopters standing by,” CJ responds. “Primary insertion with Charlie team. Secondary with air support and emergency extraction capability.”
“Weather confirmed optimal,” Rigel adds. “Clear skies, minimal wind, calm seas.”
“Gear up,” Sam orders. “Wheels up in thirty.”
The team disperses, each member moving to collect specialized equipment for the mission ahead. I check my demolition kit one final time—custom charges, remote detonators, the specialized breaching tools we might need to access secured areas of Malfor’s facility.
Ninety minutes later, we’re boarding Collins’s private G650, the kind of luxury transport that seems incongruous with our tactical gear and weapons. But the jet’s range and speed make it ideal for reaching our Pacific staging area without military attention.
“Any word from Cerberus?” I ask Sam as we settle into the leather seats that seemingly cost more than my annual salary.
He checks his secure comm device. “Blackwood confirms they’re mobilizing, but they’re dealing with a logistic issue. Their transport had mechanical problems in Singapore. They’re securing alternative transportation now.”
“Timeline?” Hank asks, the concern evident in his voice.
“They’ll be approximately four hours behind us,” Sam responds. “Not ideal, but not mission-critical either. Our primary objective is extraction of our people. Cerberus was always going to handle the secondary objective.”
The secondary objective—securing or destroying Malfor’s quantum network infrastructure—is important, but not as important as getting Ally and the others out alive.
“They’ll make it,” CJ asserts with quiet confidence. “Blackwood’s never let us down before.”
The flight across the Pacific passes in a blur of final preparations, tactical briefings, and equipment checks. When we finally touch down at a private airfield on one of the smaller Hawaiian Islands, the sun is just beginning to rise, painting the horizon in shades of gold and crimson.
Four Black Hawk helicopters wait on the tarmac, their rotors already spinning lazily in preparation for immediate departure. Collins arranged them through private channels—former military aircraft now owned by a shell corporation that can’t be traced back to him or Guardian HRS.
“Comms check,” Mitzy calls, distributing the quantum-shielded communication devices she’s been modifying throughout the flight. “These should resist any attempt by Malfor’s systems to intercept or jam our signals.”
“Any update on Cerberus?” Hank asks as we move toward the waiting helicopters.
