Chapter 9 - The Fortress on the Water
The Boston Whaler slammed into the rubber fenders of Pier Six with a bone-jarring impact that rattled every joint in my spine.
Master Chief Miller killed the engines just as two dozen armed Navy security personnel in body armor encircled the dock slip, their rifles pointed directly at our deck.
Standing at the head of the gangway, wearing his crisp dress whites with the stars of a rear admiral gleaming on his shoulders, was Knox Harlan.
He was not in handcuffs.
He was not in a detention cell.
He held a secure government satellite phone in his right hand, a look of cold, triumphant malice carved into his weathered features.
Beside him stood Senator Thomas Sterling, wearing a dark tailored overcoat that fluttered in the bay breeze, looking as untouchable and calm as a Roman emperor.
“Did you really think an administrative freeze would hold me, Evelyn?” Harlan called down from the pier, his voice booming across the water.
“Admiral Vance has been relieved of operational command by order of the Secretary of Defense pending an internal security inquiry.”
“Senator Sterling’s committee just flagged Vance for unauthorized intelligence collection against domestic political assets.”
Maya let out a soft, horrified cry, wrapping her arms tighter around Leo on the deck behind me.
Marcus Vance shrank back into the bottom of the boat, burying his face in his hands.
“It’s over,” Marcus whispered, his spirit completely broken.
“They turned the narrative.”
“They made my uncle look like the conspirator.”
I stood up slowly, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain in my shoulder where the bullet had torn the muscle.
Blood soaked the left side of my white service jacket, staining the silver oak leaves on my collar a deep, glistening crimson.
I didn’t reach for a weapon.
I didn’t shout.
I walked to the bow of the boat, looked up the twenty feet of steel gangway directly into Knox Harlan’s smiling face, and took a slow, deep breath.
“You moved fast, Knox,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet basin.
“You had a private hit team shoot up a civilian bank in broad daylight just to destroy the paper trail.”
Senator Sterling took half a step forward onto the gangway railing, resting his manicured hands on the steel pipe.
“There is no paper trail, Commander Hart,” Sterling said with smooth, chilling diplomacy.
“There is only an unhinged junior officer who suffered a psychological breakdown following the tragic death of her brother-in-law.”
“You hijacked a government vessel.”
“You assaulted civilian defense liaisons.”
“You kidnapped Marcus Vance, the nephew of the very admiral you claim to represent.”
“The press will have the full report within thirty minutes.”
Harlan signaled with two fingers to the security detail on the pier.
“Secure the vessel,” Harlan ordered the Master-at-Arms team.
“Take Commander Hart into custody under immediate armed guard.”
“If she resists, use whatever level of force is required to neutralize the threat.”
The security sailors began moving down the metal gangway, their boots clanging heavily on the grated steel steps.
“Wait!” a voice shouted from the boat deck.
It wasn’t Marcus Vance.
It was Maya.
My sister stepped up onto the bow bench, holding Jonah’s worn pilot wings high in her right hand so every sailor on the pier could see the tarnished gold metal.
Her eyes were red, but her posture was as rigid and proud as any flag officer on the fleet line.
“Look at these wings, you cowards!” Maya shouted at the young sailors descending the stairs.
The sailors hesitated, their steps faltering on the metal steps.
“My husband wore these wings for sixteen years!” Maya cried, her voice trembling with righteous fury.
“He flew search-and-rescue missions in hurricanes while you men were still in elementary school!”
“He died off the coast of Guam because this admiral ordered him to fly an aircraft with scrap-metal bearings so this politician could buy another house in Georgetown!”
“Silence that woman!” Harlan roared, his face purpling with anger as he saw the young sailors glancing uneasily at each other.
“That is an order! Move!”
“Stand down!” a thunderous voice boomed from the flight deck speaker system high above our heads.
The volume was so immense that it shook the metal plates of the gangway.
Every head on the pier snapped upward toward the towering bridge structure of the USS Titan.
Stepping out onto the starboard bridge wing, illuminated by the floodlights of the flight deck, stood a tall, lean figure with four silver stars gleaming on each collar point.
Admiral Arthur Vance.
May you like
The Commander of the Pacific Fleet.
And standing directly beside him, flanked by federal marshals in windbreakers bearing gold badges, was the Attorney General of the United States.
