Chapter 85 - Wheels Down on the Razor
The Sikorsky slammed onto the concrete tarmac of Portsmouth Naval Shipyard with a bone-jarring crash that shattered the left landing gear. The pilot pulled the fuel cutoff valves just as the main rotor struck a steel perimeter light pole, sending shards of carbon-fiber shrapnel screaming across the rain-swept apron.
Harris and I kicked the sliding door open, tumbling out onto the slush-covered asphalt before the bird could tilt into a fire.
The base was eerily silent. No emergency sirens blared; no tactical response trucks rushed our position. Arthur Sterling’s infiltration team had executed an internal blackout with surgical precision. The main security building stood dark, its exterior surveillance cameras dangling by severed wires.
"Thermal signatures in the administrative foyer," Harris hissed, peering through a handheld tactical optic as rain lashed against our faces. "At least eight private contractors. Heavy armor, submachine guns. They've established a kill zone across the central elevator shaft."
"The maintenance shaft," I said, remembering the structural blueprints Marcus had hoarded in his offshore files. "The dry dock drainage connects directly beneath the testing basin into Ward Four. If Arthur is breaching from the upper concourse, the drainage route is our only blind angle."
We moved low, cutting through the shadows of the decommissioned submarine hulls lining Dry Dock 2. The air was thick with the scent of salt spray, wet rust, and burning chemical fuel.
Ahead of us, near the grated drainage intake, lay the first signs of violence: two black-clad contractors had been dragged into the shadows, their bodies limp. Standing above the grate, holding an empty service sidearm with hands shivering from pure adrenaline, was Miller.
"Brian!" Miller gasped, recognizing my face from the security badges. "They blew the main vault door twenty seconds ago! Your wife... she wouldn't leave through the pipe. She refused to retreat while they had the corridor blocked!"
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The sound of three distinct shotgun blasts tore through the subterranean concrete beneath our feet, followed by the dull, rapid chatter of automatic fire.
My vision flashed white with pure rage. Without waiting for Harris or tactical support, I seized a dropped assault rifle from the wet pavement and dove headfirst into the open intake hatch.
