Page 66 of The Captain
I stayed quiet, my hands loose at my sides, but my senses were dialed in, cataloging every detail: the polished wood desk, the faint scent of gun oil, the way the Charleston Danes moved like they owned the air. They were too comfortable, too familiar with this place, with each other.
The door opened at exactly 1400, and Lieutenant Leanne McGuire walked in, her uniform crisp, her face all business. She wasn’t alone. A two-star admiral followed, his presence filling the room like a storm front, and behind him, a nondescriptman in a gray suit, his eyes flat, taking in everything and giving nothing back. I snapped to attention on reflex, my spine locking, heels clicking together, but the admiral waved a hand, his voice professional, not condescending. “At ease, Captain.”
I relaxed, but my eyes stayed on him—Admiral Bob Langford, as Marcus introduced him, his surface warfare pin glinting on his chest, his ribbon rack a fruit salad of been-there-done-that campaigns. He shook my hand, his grip firm, his eyes sharp. He had the look of a man who’s seen a thousand storms and chased them all off the horizon.
“Captain Dane,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Pleasure to meet you. If you’re here with Marcus and his brothers, you’re probably in trouble or close to it.”
The room laughed, a dutiful chuckle, but McGuire, Camille, and the man in the gray suit stayed stone-faced.
Marcus clapped the admiral’s shoulder, grinning. “Bob and I have fought our share of battles together, haven’t we?”
Langford laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and I caught the ease between them—first-name basis, no solemn chatter. The Charleston Danes didn’t pop to attention, didn’t flinch under the admiral’s rank. They knew him, trusted him, and that set my nerves on edge. Who was this guy to them? And where the hell was Caleb?
Camille stepped forward, her posture cool but professional, her wrap dress hugging her like a verdict. “Admiral Langford,” she said, her voice steady, her French lilt clipped. “What are you doing here?”
Langford raised an eyebrow, not used to being questioned, but he took it well, his smile thin.
“Dr. Allard, your reputation precedes you. Before we start, let me say I have great respect for your father. He’s done impressive work for me in the past. He’s an artist, truly.”
I saw Camille’s shoulders ease, just a fraction, her eyes softening but still wary. “Thank you,” she said. “But why are you here?”
Langford’s smile didn’t waver, but his tone sharpened. “I’m here to support Lieutenant McGuire and ensure everyone’s playing nice.”
Camille’s eyes flashed, her jaw tightening, and I could feel her gearing up to unload. Before she could, I stepped in, my voice calm but firm.
“The Navy’s been accommodating, Admiral. Dr. Allard’s just looking for answers.”
Camille shot me a look, then added, her voice edged, “Accommodating, but late. And redacting.”
Langford glanced at McGuire, who nodded, her face unreadable.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I misspoke. I’m here to make sure we’re all on the same page. And if what I’ve heard from the Danes is correct, I’d very much like to see the video and photos you took on that Coast Guard flight, Dr. Allard.”
Camille’s gaze flicked to me, sharp, like I’d gone behind her back. I hadn’t said a word to Marcus or his brothers about the helo ride, and the accusation in her eyes stung. I shook my head slightly, my eyes cutting to the man in the gray suit. He stood there, silent, watching everything but caring about nothing.
Who was he? The admiral’s civilian counterpart? A Navy watchdog? A politician? His blank stare gave me nothing, but my gut screamed he was trouble.
Camille pulled out her phone, her movements deliberate, and handed it to Langford. He played the video, his face a mask, no hint of emotion as the dark shadow moved across the screen. He passed it to McGuire without a word. She watched, her eyes narrowing, curiosity breaking through her professional veneer. Langford asked, “Is it ours?”
McGuire shook her head. “No, sir. It’s not.”
Langford took the phone and, without asking, handed it to the man in the gray suit. The guy watched the video, tapped through a few photos, then passed it back to the admiral, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange that set my teeth on edge.
What was that? Was Langford taking orders from this guy, or was it just permission to keep going? I couldn’t tell, and it pissed me off.
Langford’s face went serious, his voice low. “What I’m about to say stays in this room. Dr. Allard, are you good with that?”
Camille didn’t back down, her eyes locked on his. “As long as it leads to animals being safe, I can keep my mouth shut.”
Langford grunted, glancing at the gray suit, who nodded. My paranoia spiked again. Who the hell was this guy?
The admiral leaned forward, his hands clasped. “For the past year, we’ve heard rumors of a Russian program designed to disrupt American shipping lanes. Evidence has been spotty, and I can’t go into details, but we’ve been looking at the West Coast, assuming Los Angeles would be their first target for recon. So, no, Dr. Allard, that shadow you saw is not U.S. Navy property. We believe it’s Russia’s newest shallow-water submersible or submarine. Fast. Silent. Virtually undetectable. Until now, we didn’t think they’d gotten past the blueprint phase. We were wrong.”
The room went still, the air heavy. A Russian submersible in American waters? My mind reeled, my instincts surging into overdrive. We’d stumbled onto something massive, something that could shift the board. The odds were insane, but here we were.
The Charleston Danes leaned forward, their eyes lit with the same hunger I felt—the pull of a fight, the kind of mission that makes your blood sing. Even Camille’s face was alight, her jaw set, ready to tear into it.
“What’s the Navy going to do about it?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence.
