Chapter 7 - Breach at the Pier
The rain slicked the asphalt of Gate Four as we cleared the checkpoint, leaving behind three empty tactical vests and a smoking flatbed, but no bodies. They had slipped back into the shadows of the base’s drainage tunnels before Reed’s second magazine could find their marks.
“They’re heading for the southern pier,” Reed panted, slamming the passenger door of our bullet-riddled Suburban as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “The Coast Guard cutter hasn't docked yet, but those inflatable interceptors we saw on the thermal feed are already swarming the slipway.”
“Step on it, Sergeant Major,” I ordered, wiping rainwater from my eyes as I checked the data feed on my tactical tablet.
The civilian cargo ship—the Orion’s Star, a vessel that officially did not exist on any commercial registry—was less than a mile off the southern docks now. Its hull sat low in the water, heavy and menacing, cutting through the choppy gray swells of San Diego Bay.
Beside me in the backseat, Brock Sullivan finally found his voice again, though the arrogant swagger was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, hollow compliance. “If that ship carries unauthorized cargo, the port authority should have intercepted it ten miles out. Why didn’t local command flag it?”
“Because local command doesn't have clearance for Blackthorn-level asset recovery, Commander,” I replied coldly, keeping my eyes fixed on the darkening horizon ahead. “And neither did you, despite all those shiny ribbons on your chest.”
Brock opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, swallowing hard.
When the Suburban screeched to a halt near Pier 12, the scene waiting for us was pure chaos. Federal security agents in rain gear were scrambling behind concrete bollards while floodlights from a Coast Guard cutter swept across the choppy water. In the center of the slipway, two black, unmarked inflatable boats had already rammed against the pier pilings, and men in dark, unbadged wet suits were scaling the wooden ladders with grappling hooks.
“They’re boarding the ship before we can secure the manifest,” Vance said, stepping out of the car and pulling his wet cap down tight. “Avery, if those files get into the wrong hands—if the public finds out what was buried in the Indian Ocean—every senior official from here to the Pentagon will be facing a military tribunal.”
“Then we don’t let them touch the files,” I said, drawing my sidearm and stepping out into the freezing rain. “Reed, secure the perimeter. Admiral, coordinate with the Coast Guard cutter to cut off their escape route by sea. Commander Sullivan...”
I turned and looked directly into Brock’s eyes.
“You wanted to prove you belong on this deployment? Grab a rifle from the armory trunk and watch my six. If you flinch, stay behind.”
May you like
Brock stared at me for a long, silent second, then reached into the back of the Suburban, racked the bolt of an M4 carbine, and nodded once. “Lead the way, Captain.”
---
