Chapter 44 - The Global Blackout
In Alexandria, Virginia, the rain fell with the steady, cold monotony of early winter.
Major General Thomas Vance, my father's younger brother and the commander of the Marine Corps Security Force Regiment, stood in the center of his command office at Henderson Hall, watching the television mounted on the wall.
Every major news network was broadcasting the identical headline: *ADMIRAL ETHAN VANCE WANTED FOR HIGH TREASON. AUDIO EVIDENCE PROVES DECADES-LONG SHADOW NETWORK.*
The telephone on his desk had been ringing non-stop for two hours. Outside his office, three heavily armed agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, escorted by federal marshals, waited in the hallway with a federal detainer.
The door swung open without a knock. Master Chief Petty Officer Marcus Brody stepped inside. Brody was seventy-one years old, a legendary veteran of the early SEAL teams who had stood directly behind me in the ballroom three weeks ago when my brother Bradley slapped me.
Behind Brody stood thirty retired and active-duty operators, all wearing civilian clothes with concealed sidearms, their faces like carved granite.
"General," Brody said, his voice flat and steady. "The NCIS suits in the hall want to search the Admiral’s personal residence. They’ve got a warrant signed by a FISA judge in Arrington’s pocket."
General Vance slowly turned from the screen. His medals glinted beneath the fluorescent bulbs. He picked up his officer’s cover from the desk and set it firmly upon his head.
"Did my nephew sound like a traitor to you when he cleared out that terrorist compound in Yemen, Brody?"
"The boy is blood and iron, General," Brody replied without hesitation. "He bled for this country while the bastards issuing that warrant were drinking single malt scotch at country clubs. Four hundred of us stood up for him in that ballroom. Four thousand more are waiting on my signal across Norfolk, Coronado, and Little Creek."
"Then tell those agents in the hallway," General Vance said, walking toward the door, "that Henderson Hall is currently under an executive counter-espionage quarantine. If they take one step toward Ethan’s quarters, they will be detained under the Uniform Code of Military Justice for aiding an active foreign intelligence operation."
Brody smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin. "With pleasure, sir."
Meanwhile, eight hundred miles away in an undisclosed federal detention facility in West Virginia, Eleanor Vance sat on the edge of a steel cot.
She wore orange prison scrubs that hung loosely from her frail, aged frame. The arrogant, untouchable matriarch who had laughed when Bradley threw my clothes out of the house was gone. In her place was a broken, terrified woman whose foundation had turned to sand.
The steel hatch clattered open. A guard shoved a small television on a rolling cart into the hallway outside her cell, turning the volume all the way up so it echoed off the cinderblock walls.
The news anchor’s voice rang clear: *"...Sources confirm that the late Arthur Vance was kept in an unregistered covert black site in Europe for over two decades. The conspirators allegedly diverted billions in defense appropriations to fund the private network..."*
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. Her bloodshot eyes widened with a horror so profound she couldn't scream.
"Arthur..." she gasped, stumbling to the bars, her trembling hands gripping the cold steel. "No... Sterling said Arthur was vaporized at sea... Sterling told me he was dead! He said if I took the money and kept Ethan down... he said Arthur died instantly!"
A voice came from the cell across the corridor. Bradley Vance sat with his face pressed against the mesh, his bruised cheek still bearing the faint yellowing remnants of the slap that had ruined his life.
"Shut up, Mother!" Bradley wailed, tears streaking his gaunt face. "They're going to execute us! Don't you hear them on the radio? They’re charging us with treason against the United States! Ethan was an Admiral! He was an Admiral the whole time, and you made me treat him like a dog! You destroyed us!"
"I did it for your inheritance!" Eleanor shrieked back, her manic voice echoing down the cellblock. "I did it so we wouldn't end up penniless! Sterling promised me we would own everything!"
"Sterling used you to bury his crimes," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the security door at the end of the corridor.
Eleanor fell silent, trembling. A tall man in an expensive dark suit walked into the corridor, flanked by two armed guards whose badges had been removed. It was Jonathan Crane, the managing director of the Sovereign Trust that had financed Crestview Drive.
"Mr. Crane!" Eleanor sobbed, falling to her knees. "Tell them! Tell them I followed every instruction! I kept Arthur’s letters locked away! I never let Ethan see the naval academy nomination from his father! I burned it just like you asked!"
Crane stopped outside Eleanor’s cell, looking down at her with the cold detachment one might show to a cockroach on a kitchen floor.
"You're very loud, Eleanor," Crane said softly. "Arthur held out for twenty-six years. He only died this morning. Do you know what his last words were before his heart gave out under the sodium pentothal?"
Eleanor stared up at him, her lips trembling, unable to form words.
May you like
"His last words were: *'Ethan will come for you all.'*" Crane smiled faintly, pulling a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and sliding them over his fingers. "And unfortunately for you, Eleanor... the Admiral is already on his way."
***
