Gala Dinner. My Dress Slipped. "She's Half A Woman At Best." The Table Burst Into Laughter. The Decorated Four-Star Admiral Dropped His Glass And Walked Straight Toward Me. The Room Went Dead Silent. "Babe, Sit Down. He's Coming To Reprimand Her!" The 78-Year-Old War Hero Dropped To One Knee. / Chapter 46 / 50

Chapter 46 - Into the Belly of Hull 00

The water was black as ink, illuminated only by the faint green phosphorescence of our dive displays. The SDV cut through the turbulent current, fighting against the massive suction created by Hull 00’s intake turbines.

"Approaching dorsal sail," Liam's voice sounded through my underwater comms headset. "Ten yards out. Releasing tow harness!"

We disconnected from the submersible, our magnetic boots clamping onto the slick, faceted skin of the dreadnought with a heavy, muffled clunk. The vibration of the colossal vessel beneath our boots was terrifying—it felt like standing on the back of an enraged prehistoric beast.

I dropped to my knees, scraping away the bio-absorbent coating with a carbide scraper until the faint outline of the emergency intake seal appeared. My hands were numb from the freezing water, but muscle memory took over.

I inserted the pneumatic wrench into the bypass socket and slammed my weight against it.

The seal resisted. Eighteen years of salt, pressure, and neglect had seized the mechanical dog-latches.

"Liam, help me!" I shouted through the comms. "The launch sequence is entering its final cycle! We have ninety seconds!"

Liam locked his arms around mine, throwing his entire combat weight into the lever. Together, with a violent screech that reverberated through our boots, the bypass mechanism cracked open.

The hatch swung upward on hydraulic dampeners, revealing a flooded airlock tube leading straight into the dreadnought’s primary superstructure.

Water roared into the tube as we dropped inside, pulling the heavy outer hatch shut behind us. I slammed the manual emergency blow valve. Compressed air hissed violently into the chamber, forcing the seawater out through the lower scuppers until we fell gasping onto the grated steel deck.

We ripped off our diving masks. The air inside Hull 00 smelled of stale freon, ozone, and burnt oil.

The ship was alive with an eerie red glow. Klaxons were blaring in an irregular, rhythmic pulse: *LAUNCH PROTOCOL: T-MINUS 60 SECONDS.*

"Move!" Liam led the way, his carbine raised, sweeping the narrow, titanium-clad passageway.

We weren't met by a platoon of sailors. Hull 00 was automated to an unholy degree—monitored by centralized fiber-optic nodes and automated defensive turrets recessed into the ceiling.

Before the first automated sentry gun could swivel toward us, I hurled an electrostatic disruption grenade down the corridor. The blast flashed bright white, sending sparks cascading from the ceiling and neutralizing the automated sensors in a ten-yard radius.

We sprinted through the smoking corridor, bursting through the double blast doors into the central Command Information Center.