Page 79 of The Captain
JACOB
The vessel surged, dragging me through the black water like a rag doll, my body slammed against its hull, the tether biting into my harness.
My first thought wasn’t the mission, the net, or even Camille—it was my father, Byron Dane, on a Montana afternoon, teaching me to ride a horse. I was eight, terrified, the mare bolting across the field, her hooves pounding like gunfire. Dad whooped, his voice sharp with joy, yelling, “Hold on, Jake!” I’d clung to the reins, my knuckles white, my heart hammering, until the mare slowed, and I found her rhythm, my body moving with her when my mind couldn’t.
That lesson wasn’t going to help me now, pinned to a Russian submarine tearing through the Charleston water at a speed that made my mask rattle against my face.
The water was a void, cold and relentless, the current a fist trying to rip me free. I braced my legs, angling my head into the flow, my body plastered to the hull’s strange, matte surface. My HUD was dead, the green glow gone, but my radio crackled, a lifeline in the dark.
Marcus’s voice cut through, sharp and less smartass. “You still with us, Blue-Three?”
I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t fighting to keep my mask on. “Yeah,” I grunted, my voice strained. “But I’d like a word with my congressman about that fucking net system.”
Marcus’s chuckle was a low hum. “You’ll have your day. Hold tight, cavalry’s coming.”
“Cavalry?” I said, my breath ragged.
The Danes’ yachts were fast, but no way they could match this beast. The vessel powered on, impossibly swift in the pitch black, my fins useless against its pull. I gripped the tether, my fingers aching, my eyes straining into the water ahead. Nothing but darkness, the kind that swallows you whole.
Then, a blast of light exploded above, like the heavens cracked open and poured pure fire into the sea. The vessel shuddered, slowed, and stopped, its hum fading to a low whine. My stomach dropped as it started to sink, dragging me down with it.
“Oh, shit,” I muttered, my hands fumbling for the tether’s clasp. The metal clicked free, and I kicked hard, watching the vessel’s angular shadow vanish into the depths, a ghost swallowed by the black.
I swam upward, slow, controlled, my rebreather steady despite my pounding heart. When my head broke the surface, the night was alive—lit from every angle, a circus of power. Two Coast Guard cutters loomed close, their spotlights carving the water. Three Navy destroyers flanked them, their silhouettes sharp against the horizon, with a pair of cruisers and tenders idling nearby, their decks bristling with gear and sailors. Overhead, the two Coast Guard helos hovered, their rotors thumping, their beams sweeping the channel like searchlights hunting a fugitive.
I tried my radio, but it was dead, the pulse from the net or whatever had killed the submersible frying it for good.
A splash nearby, and the Coastie diver surfaced, his grin wide as he swam toward me. “We gotta stop meeting like this, Captain,” he said, his voice carrying over the waves.
I laughed, relief flooding me. “Opposite, man. This is the most fun you’ve had in months.”
He pointed to the nearest helo, its harnesses already lowering. “Damn right. Let’s get you out before you make us chase you again.”
The harness bit into my arms as the helo winched us up, the wind cool against my wetsuit. Onboard, the chief slapped my back, his grizzled face split with a grin. “Even jarheads find a nut every once in a blue moon,” he said, handing me a headset.
I pulled it on, the familiar hum grounding me. Marcus’s voice crackled through. “You okay, Jake?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline still spiking my blood. “What about the vessel?”
“Salvage divers are on it,” Marcus said. “They’ll have it out before anyone’s the wiser.”
“The crew?” I asked, my gut tightening at the thought of men trapped in that metal coffin.
“No crew,” Marcus said, his tone matter-of-fact. “All indications point to autonomous. A big fucking underwater drone.”
I exhaled, the tension easing. Just a machine. “When’s the debrief?”
Marcus chuckled, low and sharp. “No debrief, officially. Tonight was just a training exercise between the Coast Guard and Navy, in case anyone asks. Which they won’t.”
I grinned, leaning back against the helo’s bulkhead. “That how things roll at Dominion Hall?”
“Pretty much,” Marcus said. “You could get used to it.”
I laughed, the sound rough but real. “Yeah, I could.”
The helo banked, the cutters and destroyers shrinking below, their lights a constellation on the water. I knew I’d never see that Russian drone again. That’s how earth-shattering national security works. It’d be towed to some black-site facility, torn apart, studied, maybe reverse-engineered if it was worth a damn.
The Russians would know we had it—spies talk, signals leak—but a phone call to remind them to stay on their side of the world was pointless. Diplomacy and détente, in my experience, were just polite ways of sayingwe caught you, now behave. The game would go on, silent and sharp, like always.
