Chapter 12 - The Breach at South Gate
The klaxon alarms inside the naval secure compound did not scream; they pulsed in low, vibrating thrums through the reinforced concrete foundations, shaking the dust from the fluorescent light fixtures overhead. Red emergency lamps bathed the steel-reinforced corridors in bloody twilight.
Master Chief Hayes had his sidearm drawn before the radio receiver even cleared his shoulder harness. His stance shifted instinctively—feet planted shoulder-width apart, center of gravity lowered, eyes scanning the exits of the subterranean brief room.
"Condition Red across all sectors," Hayes said, his voice flat, stripped clean of any trace of panic. "South gate sensors indicate a heavy-duty ramming vehicle. Blacked-out civilian transport, modified armor plating. They bypassed the outer tire spikes using Kevlar-lined track runs."
My pulse hammered against my temples, but fifteen years of naval service, combat commands in the Persian Gulf, and high-threat boarding operations seized control of my nervous system. I was no longer the wounded girl thrown out onto the curb at eighteen with a black garbage bag full of second-hand clothes. I was Rear Admiral Evelyn Vance, Commander of Naval Special Warfare Development Group's logistics and strike interdiction.
"Where is Patricia?" I asked, stepping toward the communications console mounted on the bulkhead.
"She’s in holding cell Charlie-Four, two levels down," Hayes answered, cycling a round into the chamber of his Sig Sauer P226 with a metallic snap. "Under guard by two Master-at-Arms personnel. If this strike team was hired by the Romanian syndicate to retrieve Derek, they might be here to silence her before she corroborates the toxicology report."
"Or Derek told them she holds the offshore keys to the three hundred thousand dollars," I countered. I reached into the steel locker beneath the desk, pulling out my combat vest and an issued service pistol. I slapped a magazine into the well, racked the slide, and thumbed the safety on. "They didn't just break Derek out to let him run. Derek is a liability to an international arms ring unless he still has something they need."
A muffled shockwave echoed through the ceiling. The heavy blast doors at the end of the corridor shuddered.
"They're inside the secondary perimeter," Hayes warned. "Admiral, with respect, protocol requires you in the hardened tactical shelter. You’re flag-rank personnel."
"Protocol assumes my command post isn't currently under direct assault by the mercenaries who poisoned my father," I replied cold and razor-sharp. "Secure the central stairwell. Sound the lockdown for Level Two and Level Three. Get the Quick Reaction Force on the horn. If anyone wearing unmarked tactical gear takes one step into this subterranean block, eliminate the threat."
"Understood, ma'am," Hayes nodded. A dark, predatory grin touched his weathered face. "Let’s see if these bastards know what happens when you kick a hornet’s nest full of trident-wearers."
We moved into the main hallway. The air was already thickening with the sharp, acidic tang of burnt propellant and cordite filtering down through the ventilation ducts. Footsteps clattered on the iron grated stairs above us—heavy, rhythmic, tactical boots descending rapidly.
May you like
I raised my weapon, tucking tight behind Hayes’s shoulder as the steel door at the top of the stairwell buckled inward under the impact of a breaching charge.
***
