Chapter 58 - The Scuttling Protocol
Four flashbang grenades detonated in rapid succession, turning the wet pier into a disorienting haze of white phosphor and concussive thunder.
Through the smoke, Special Agent Vance and a tactical squad of FBI Hostage Rescue operators swept onto the dock like wraiths. Suppressed gunfire spat in rhythmic, controlled bursts. The four mercenaries dropped to the wet boards before their weapons could even discharge, their rifles clattering across the timber.
Von Stauffen spun around, reaching inside his coat for a heavy ceramic pistol, but Vance was upon him in two strides. Vance drove the butt of his tactical carbine squarely into von Stauffen’s jaw, knocking the billionaire flat onto his back across the rain-slicked dock.
Blood welled from von Stauffen’s aristocratic mouth as Vance pinned him down with a heavy combat boot pressed into his sternum, the barrel of the carbine resting directly between his eyes.
"Heinrich von Stauffen," Vance said through gritted teeth. "You are under arrest for maritime terrorism, high treason, and the destruction of a United States military vessel."
I walked over, looking down at the broken man lying in the puddle. The wind whipped my hair across my face, but my eyes never left his.
"The forty billion dollars you came to claim," I said softly, "was liquidated seventy-two hours ago by court order under the Maritime Recovery Act. It has been transferred into the United States Treasury to compensate the families of the merchant mariners your grandfather murdered in 1944."
Von Stauffen coughed, a desperate, choking laugh escaping his lips. "You... you think it's over, Eleanor? Look at the boat! Look at tube six!"
I snapped my head toward the harbor.
Out in the shallows, the submarine had listed ten degrees to starboard, its enormous hull grinding against the newly elevated granite caissons. But high on the conning tower, the automated combat override lights had shifted from yellow to a pulsing, ominous crimson.
The vertical launch hatch behind the sail was slowly grinding open against the ocean spray.
"The scuttling protocol," Vance breathed, his face draining of color. "If the command link is severed, the automated combat computer fires the failsafe warhead at the harbor coordinates to prevent capture!"
"Can we jam the frequency?" Julian yelled, pulling out his field radio.
"No!" Vance shouted. "The launch computer is hardwired! It’s operating on an internal mechanical timer! We have four minutes before that missile leaves the tube!"
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"There is another way," I said, my voice cutting through the panic like an iron bell. "The manual override in the old lighthouse vault."
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