Page 70 of The Captain
My blood was up, my confidence a steady blaze. This was no longer just Camille’s fight for the animals; it was national security, a mission that sang to every instinct I’d honed as a Marine Raider.
Camille was out before I killed the engine, her hair catching the light as she strode toward the facility doors. I followed, my senses dialed in. I expected to see her team—Tamika, Miguel, Becca—huddled over monitors, tracking the underwater harmonics they’d been chasing for weeks. Instead, the facility was crawling with Navy personnel. Uniforms moved with purpose, setting up equipment like they owned the place—laptops, sonar screens, comms gear, the works. A petty officer was barking orders near a bank of monitors, and a tech wasrigging a hydrophone feed that looked straight out of a war room.
This wasn’t Camille’s operation anymore. It was a military takeover.
Her shoulders stiffened, her jaw tightening as she took it in. I could see the fire building, her instinct to take charge and push back against the Navy’s intrusion. She was about to storm in, probably ready to rip into the nearest sailor, when I caught her arm, my grip gentle but firm.
“Camille,” I said, my voice low, steady. “We’re on the same side here. They’re not the enemy.”
She shot me a look, her eyes blazing, but she didn’t pull away. “They’re in my facility, Jacob,” she said, her voice sharp, her French lilt clipped. “This is my team’s work, and they’re acting like it’s theirs.”
“I know,” I said, keeping my eyes on hers. “But they’re here because of what you found. Let’s see what they’ve got.”
She exhaled, her shoulders easing a fraction, but the intensity didn’t leave her eyes. “Fine,” she said, her tone grudging. “But I’m not standing on the sidelines.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. Her fight was one of the things I loved about her, but I needed her focused, not at war with allies.
We stepped inside, and Lieutenant McGuire spotted us, her uniform crisp, her face all business. She waved us over to a makeshift command station, where a cluster of Navy techs was hunched over screens.
“Dr. Allard, Captain Dane,” she said, her voice professional but warm. “Glad you made it. We’re setting up to monitor the corridor in real-time.”
To their credit, the Navy didn’t hold back. McGuire walked us through the setup—hydrophones synced to a live feed from theCharleston Harbor Approach Channel, passive sonar mapped to a 3D grid, and a comms link to a Coast Guard cutter offshore.
She pointed to a screen showing a faint, angular shadow, the same kind we’d seen from the helo. “This is what you caught,” she said to Camille. “We’re tracking it now, but it’s fast. This will be tricky.”
Camille leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she studied the data. “What’s the range?” she asked, her voice sharp, all scientist. “And why didn’t you pick this up before?”
McGuire didn’t flinch. “It’s stealth tech. Impressive. Our standard sonar wasn’t calibrated for it. Your data and the helo footage gave us the edge we needed.”
Camille nodded, her jaw still tight, but I could see her processing, her mind already working the problem. I stayed quiet, my focus split between the screens and the room, cataloging the Navy’s setup, the techs’ efficiency, the stakes.
This was more than top secret—it was military and intelligence gold. If we could nab a never-before-seen Russian submersible, heads at the CIA, NSA, and ONI would either roll for missing it or swoon at the coup.
I knew Camille was thinking about the animals, the strandings, the cost to her whales. But I saw the bigger picture: national security, a threat in our waters, a mission that could shift the balance. My blood sang with it.
The door swung open, and Marcus and Admiral Langford walked in, their presence cutting through the room like a scythe. Marcus’s grin was all warrior, his black polo and jeans a stark contrast to Langford’s starched uniform. Langford’s ribbon rack told a story of wars I’d only read about, and his eyes carried the weight of a man who’d sent others into them.
They headed straight for us, Marcus’s gaze flicking to me, a nod that felt like a challenge.
“Captain Dane,” Langford said, his grip firm as he shook my hand again. “Ready to get to work?”
“Always, sir,” I said, my voice steady. But my eyes kept drifting to Marcus.
No Caleb. Where the hell was he? Was he out there, running some side play for the Charleston Danes?
But I shoved those questions down. I was here for the mission, for Camille, not to chase my brother.
Langford turned to Camille, his tone professional but warm. “Dr. Allard, we’re moving fast on this. We need to act before that vessel slips away.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening. “I’m going in, too,” she said, her voice sharp. “I want to be part of this.”
Marcus cut in before Langford could respond, his grin sharp but not unkind. “You scuba-certified to military spec, Doc? Expert in weapons, threat detection, covert ops?”
Camille’s jaw tightened, and I could see the fight rising in her again. “No,” she said, her voice low, almost pleading. “But the admiral promised I’d be involved.”
Langford gestured to the Navy’s setup—screens, techs, hydrophones. “What do you think this is, Dr. Allard? We don’t roll out a command post like this every day. You’re involved. Your work got us here.”
Camille’s eyes flashed, but she backed down, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine,” she said. “But I want to listen in, if possible.”
