Page 76 of The Captain
Marcus’s grin faded a fraction. “Above my paygrade, Jake. EM pulse might knock out their comms, maybe their systems. If they’re lucky, they’re just dazed. If not …” He trailed off, his shrug saying the rest.
I wasn’t squeamish about taking lives—battle had hardened me to that—but the thought of men suffocating in a metal can,trapped by some experimental tech, didn’t sit right. I pushed the image down. This was a mission, not a morality debate.
“Comms,” I said. “Will the pulse screw with ours?”
“Don’t think so,” Marcus said. “Navy rigged the yachts with jammers to keep the Russians from phoning home. Our gear’s shielded. Should be fine.”
“Should,” I muttered, my confidence unshaken but my caution sharp. Military “should” was a gamble, and I’d learned to cover my ass on those bets. Satisfied this wasn’t the most fucked-up op I’d ever run, I nodded. “All right. Let’s do it.”
The helo lifted off, the second chopper trailing us, their rotors thumping like a heartbeat. The night was a void outside, the Charleston Harbor Approach Channel a black expanse below. We flew low, the water close enough to smell through the open door—brine and diesel, the ocean’s raw pulse. My gear was tight: wetsuit, fins, mask, rebreather, and a waterproof pack with the mooring couplings—clamps designed to lock onto the submersible’s hull.
The plan wasn’t a boarding in the classic sense. We’d attach the couplings at precise intervals, link them to cables, and tow the vessel to a secure facility for interrogation and inspection. Clean, surgical, if the tech worked.
The pilot’s voice crackled through the headsets. “Approaching drop zone, two minutes. Water’s calm, vis decent. You boys ready?”
“Born ready,” Marcus said, his grin audible, his eyes glinting in the helo’s dim light.
“Ready,” I said, my voice steady, my focus razor-sharp. I checked my gear one last time, my hands moving on autopilot, the familiar ritual of an op settling my nerves. The diver across from me gave a thumbs-up, his face half-shadowed but eager. The chief spat into his bottle, his smirk saying he’d seen crazier shit than this.
“Thirty seconds,” the pilot said.
The helo hovered low, the downdraft rippling the water below. I pulled my mask down, the world narrowing to the green glow of my heads-up display. Marcus slapped my shoulder, his grin all teeth. “Time to swim, Captain Dane.”
We dropped, the water hitting like a cold fist, swallowing me whole. The black was absolute, no stars, no horizon, just the coordinates blinking on my HUD and the faint hum of the rebreather. I kicked, orienting myself, the team’s beacons pulsing in my peripheral—Marcus to my left, the diver to my right, two others from the second helo trailing.
We swam by numbers, the channel’s currents pulling but predictable, our training kicking in like muscle memory. The radio chatter was sparse, clipped, professional. “Blue-Three, in position,” I said, my voice steady through the comms. “Closing on target.”
“Copy, Blue-Three,” Sector replied, their voice calm but tight. “Blue team, confirm drop.”
“Blue-One, in,” Marcus said. “Blue-Four, in,” came the diver. The others checked in, their voices a low hum in my ears.
The water was a void, the kind that makes you feel like you’re swimming through a dream. My HUD blinked—100 meters to target. I kicked harder, the current pushing against my fins, my body cutting through it with clean strokes.
At 50 meters, I felt it—a faint vibration, like the water itself was holding its breath. My HUD flickered, the coordinates steady but the signal grainy. “Blue-Three, contact,” I said, my voice low. “Feeling something. You got eyes?”
“Negative,” Marcus said. “No visual. Keep closing.”
I reached out, my gloved hand brushing something solid, cold, and wrong. The hull. Not smooth, not rough—a strange, matte texture, like it was designed to shrug off light. I pressed my palm to it, half-expecting a pulse, a heartbeat, somethingalive. It was dead quiet, no hum, no vibration, just a silent predator in the dark.
“Blue-Three, on hull,” I said, my voice steady despite the chill crawling up my spine. “Starting couplings.”
“Copy,” Marcus said, his voice close, his beacon a faint glow to my left. “Blue-One, on hull. Let’s make this quick.”
I pulled the first coupling from my pack, a heavy magnetic clamp that would drill itself in, and snapped it onto the hull, the click reverberating through the water. Precise intervals, they’d said—every meter, locked tight, ready for the cables. I swam forward, attaching the second, my movements smooth, practiced. The team’s chatter was a low hum—Blue-Four confirming his clamp, Blue-Two calling his position. I grabbed the third coupling, kicked forward, and?—
A surge hit, not a current but a pulse, like the water itself had been electrified. My HUD flickered, then died, my comms clicking out cold. Static roared in my ears, then nothing. The current yanked at me, hard, trying to tear me from the hull. Instinct kicked in, and I did something I’d regret in a moment—I tethered myself to the second coupling, the line snapping taut as I clipped it to my harness.
The regret came fast. The hull vibrated under my palm, a low, bone-deep hum, like the submersible was waking up. I reached for the tether, my fingers fumbling, but before I could unclip, the vessel surged, moving faster than I thought possible. It tore through the water, the electromagnetic net be damned, dragging me with it as it aimed straight out to sea.
33
CAMILLE
The sound that wasn’t a sound—the little pop a radio makes when the line gives up—stayed inside my skull like a light left on in an empty room.
“Kill the feed,” the gray suit said. Not loud. Final.
A tech looked at Langford. The admiral didn’t nod. He also didn’t stop it.
