744 "Beneath the Classified Tides: How a Dead Man’s Ghost and a Stolen Cargo Triggered a Global Network Catastrophe"

“Down!” I screamed, shoving Brock to the side just as a heavy barrage of automatic fire erupted from the gloom, chewing up the steel containers around us in a shower of orange sparks.

Marcus ducked behind the reinforced frame of the open crate, a cold, mocking smile on his face as he vanished back into the shadows of the lower deck.

“Contact left! Multiple shooters!” Reed barked, returning fire with controlled, measured bursts from his carbine that lit up the dark corners of the hold like strobe lights.

I scrambled behind a stack of sealed aluminum crates, my heart hammering against my ribs. The men shooting at us weren't random mercenaries; they moved with the synchronized, overlapping fields of fire characteristic of Tier-1 operators—our own tactics, weaponized against us.

“Captain! We’re pinned!” Brock yelled from behind a rusted oil drum a few yards away, his rifle jammed as he frantically tried to clear a double-feed. “I can’t clear the chamber!”

“Stay down, Sullivan!” I shouted, peeking around the corner of the crate and squeezing off two rounds toward a muzzle flash in the darkness.

A sharp cry echoed from the gloom, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the metal deck. One down. At least three more active.

“Reed! Status!” I called into my comms headset.

“I’m good, but they’re moving toward the aft stairwell!” Reed’s voice came back, punctuated by the sharp crack of his rifle. “They’re trying to cover Marcus’s extraction to the inflatable boats!”

“We can’t let him reach the water with those files,” I said, making a split-second tactical decision. I looked over at Brock, who was still wrestling with his jammed weapon, sweat pouring down his face. “Commander! Can you use a sidearm?”

Brock fumbled at his hip, drawing his standard-issue Sig Sauer pistol with shaking hands. “Yes! Yes, I got it!”

“Cover my left flank. Reed and I are going to flank their position behind the generator housing. On my mark... three, two, one—move!”