Page 71 of The Captain
Langford nodded, glancing at Marcus, who gave a quick thumbs-up. “We’ll patch you into the comms where we can,” Langford said. “Some of it’s need-to-know, but you’ll get the feed we can share.”
I knew there’d be things Camille wouldn’t hear or see—comms channels locked to TS/SCI clearance, operational details she didn’t need to know. And that was fine with me. My mindwas already shifting to ops mode, my focus narrowing to the mission. A secret Russian sub in our waters? I was ready to hunt it down, to be the tip of the spear. Skewer it and take it home. Camille’s fight was for the animals, and I’d make sure she got her due, but this was my world now—enemy detection, neutralization, victory.
I caught her eye, a quick goodbye before the rush.
“Be careful,” she said, her voice soft, her eyes holding mine with a mix of worry and trust.
“I’ll try,” I promised. I meant it, but my blood was already pumping with the fight.
Marcus clapped my shoulder, Langford gave a curt nod, and we moved for the door, the Navy techs parting like water. An SUV was waiting outside, black and unmarked, the kind of vehicle that screamed covert. We climbed in, Marcus taking the front passenger seat, Langford in the back with me, the driver a silent shadow who didn’t bother with introductions.
As the engine roared to life, Marcus turned, his grin sharp. “Think your Coast Guard buddies would chip in with a chopper or two?”
I leaned back, my confidence a full blaze now, and matched his grin. “If I can borrow a yacht for a few days—say, enough gas to get to Bermuda and back—I’d bet money on a yes.”
“Done,” Marcus said, his eyes glinting with that warrior’s hunger. “Let’s go catch us a Russian sub.”
The SUV peeled out, the facility fading behind us, and I felt the old rhythm take over—mission prep, target lock, the clarity of a fight worth winning.
I was ready, and I wasn’t alone.
31
CAMILLE
War had moved into my house of water.
Banks of monitors where we usually kept coolers. Headsets lined up like syringes. A printer spitting maps that smelled faintly of ink and tide. Navy boots careful on our wet concrete, as if the floor might take offense.
McGuire set a headset on my head herself, palm brief and grounding against my hair. “You’ll get the open channel,” she said. “Not everything.” A warning and a kindness.
Nearby, with a wall between us, the pens breathed. Pumps kept their promises. In the quiet room, the little Kogia took her small, even breaths like a metronome. Becca called numbers without looking up. Miguel’s knuckles were split at the second joints—canvas rub from hours of sling work—and he still looked like he wanted more to hold. Tamika wore the radio like a spine. I could feel her listening even when she wasn’t on our net.
In another one of the smaller rooms, my father stood at the back wall with his hands in his pockets. He had changed shirts but he hadn’t changed faces.
My people were nearby. That was enough.
It was time to begin.
McGuire tipped her chin at a chair no one else had taken. I didn’t sit. I braced a hip against the table and put my hands flat where I could feel them.
“Dominion Hall, this is Sector,” the speaker crackled. No drama. A coastal accent. “Confirm assets in position.”
A chorus of yachts answered, their names eaten down to call signs: Blue-One, Blue-Two, White-Lead. Someone said “Golden.”
The gray-suited man I didn’t like was a shadow at Langford’s shoulder, polite as a knife in a drawer.
“We’re dropping,” someone said. “Devices away.”
They didn’t say what the devices were. The words on my headset were careful—net, gate, line. The shape of a trap without its teeth named.
On a second screen, a ring of icons blinked into a pattern across my corridor like a necklace laid flat on blue. I knew that water the way you know the inside of your own mouth. Sandbar here. Channel there. Place where tide turns mean sixteen minutes before the hour when the river’s sulking. They were hanging something in it. Listening. Waiting.
We were good at waiting, in my work. We were not good at waiting when the waiting was for something we never asked to move.
“Blue-One, steady at mark,” came through, warm and unbothered. Marcus, probably. “Noise floor’s clean.”
“Copy,” said Sector. “Hold. White team, shift ten starboard. Give me shadow coverage on the outer bar. Net’s shy.”
