Chapter 95 - Scramble over Cold Waters
The twin turbine engines of our modified MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter beat a relentless rhythm through the freezing rain, cutting east-southeast across the gray, violent swells of the North Atlantic.
Below us, civilization had vanished into a desolate expanse of whitecaps and storm clouds. Beside me sat Harris and six former naval combat specialists, fully geared in sterile black tactical kits devoid of insignias or serial numbers. They were armed with suppressed carbines, sub-aquatic breaching gear, and electronic warfare jammer arrays.
"Approaching international waters in six minutes," the pilot crackled over the intercom. "Radar shows a massive stationary contact ahead. It's listed on commercial navigational charts as a decommissioned semi-submersible drilling rig, but thermal imagery paints a different story. That thing has enough onboard generator power to run a small city."
"The *Tartarus*," Harris said, adjusting his night-vision goggles. "It’s a floating sovereign state. Outside any coastal nation's jurisdiction, armed with point-defense cannons and helipads. Brian, going onboard is madness. If they take the ring from you, they’ll dump you into the Atlantic trench and trigger the EMP batteries anyway."
"They won't take the ring," I replied, checking the chamber of my customized sidearm before holstering it beneath my wet-weather assault jacket. "They don't understand how it works. My mother’s letter explained the fail-safe. This ring doesn't just grant access—it houses an offline transponder that mirrors the League's primary control mainframe. Once it docks with their primary terminal, Arthur’s old access codes will overwrite their central hub."
"And if the Council anticipates that?" Harris asked grimly.
"Then we make sure none of them leave the rig alive," I answered.
The pilot’s voice cut back in, sharp and hurried. "Visual contact! Twelve o'clock! My God... look at the size of that monstrosity."
I leaned toward the cabin window. Rising out of the churning sea like a jagged iron mountain was the *Tartarus*. Giant steel legs anchored it against the turbulent deep, illuminated by harsh halogen floodlights that cut through the pouring rain. Armed sentries were stationed along the perimeter catwalks, and mounted autocannons tracked our incoming vector with lethal precision.
Our radio hissed. "Unidentified aircraft, you are entering private maritime coordinates. Identify authorization or be engaged."
I keyed the headset, speaking the code sequence inscribed on the inner rim of the signet ring: "Eagle and Anchor. Fourth Gate Custodian requesting landing clearance."
A tense, five-second silence hung over the frequency.
"Clearance granted, Brian Harrington. Helipad Alpha. Land, and proceed to the central bridge alone. Any accompanying personnel will be eliminated immediately."
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"We stick to the plan," I told Harris quietly, unbuckling my harness as the skids touched down against the wet steel platform. "Give me ten minutes to reach the central terminal. Then breach the lower generator decks."
***
