Chapter 2 - The Ghost Protocol
I pressed my back against the cold, damp bulkhead of the unmapped compartment, my lungs burning as I regulated my breathing in the cramped space. Kane’s orders hung in the air like a death sentence. He had committed to total annihilation; if I was found alive on this ship, his career wasn't the only thing on the line—a massive, illicit international arms pipeline involving classified naval munitions would be exposed.
My fingers brushed against the tactical radio clipped securely inside the waterproof lining of my utility trousers. It was a secure, encrypted NCIS beacon, modified to transmit data packets rather than voice chatter to avoid local interception.
If I transmitted now, the Resolute’s electronic warfare suite would pick up the ping within three seconds, alerting Kane’s comms officer that an intelligence asset was still active inside the hull.
I had to move.
I cracked open the maintenance hatch a fraction of an inch, peering out into the dimly lit engineering corridor of Deck Four. The bilges hummed with the steady, rhythmic vibration of the ship's primary diesel generators. Through the gaps in the overhead grating, I could see the heavy boots of two armed master-at-arms patrolling the catwalk above, their assault rifles slung casually over their shoulders.
They were sweeping the lower decks on Kane's direct orders, assuming I would try to crawl back up through the primary access trunks.
They weren't looking down.
Sliding out of the concealed compartment, I dropped silently into the shadowed drainage trench running parallel to the secondary cooling lines. The water here was ankle-deep, oily, and reeked of sulfur, but it offered complete cover from the thermal scopes the security details carried during sweep operations.
I crawled forward, muscle by muscle, ignoring the sharp bites of rust and jagged metal cutting into my palms. My target was the central communications conduit junction beneath the bridge—the only place on the entire ship where I could tap into the encrypted data logs and upload the serial numbers of the hidden cylinders directly to NCIS headquarters in Pearl Harbor before Kane wiped the local servers.
As I reached the junction box and pulled my multi-tool from my belt, a sudden, metallic clatter echoed directly above my head, followed by the sound of a familiar, arrogant voice stopping dead in its tracks.
"Wait," someone hissed on the catwalk. "Look at the seal on that maintenance hatch. It’s been turned."
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My heart hammered against my ribs. It was Lieutenant Commander Vance, Kane’s second-in-command, and he was standing directly above the unmapped compartment I had just vacated.
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