Chapter 10 - The Countdown
The digital timer on the laptop screen flashed in harsh, glaring red numbers: 01:42... 01:41... 01:40...
“You fool,” I gasped, looking from the screen up to Vance’s smug, unrepentant face. “You’re not just leaking files to a competitor—you’re broadcasting active combat deployment data to a foreign relay! Do you have any idea how many lives you’re putting in danger?”
“Collateral damage, my dear,” Vance wheezed, a pathetic, manic grin stretching across his lips as Alexander kept him pinned against the shattered bookshelf. “By the time sunrise hits, your husband’s entire command will be under federal investigation for gross operational negligence. And I’ll be halfway across the Atlantic.”
“Alexander, stop him!” I cried out, stepping closer to the desk. “Can you override the transmission?”
Alexander didn't hesitate. He released Vance with a violent shove that sent the older man crashing into the desk chair, then vaulted over the mahogany wood, dropping his heavy frame into the rolling chair before the laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard with blinding, mechanical speed, bringing up a command-line interface.
“Firewall protocols are locked,” Alexander muttered under his breath, sweat beading slightly along his forehead. “He’s using a multi-node cryptographic tunnel. Standard override won't work.”
“**00:54... 00:53... 00:52...**” the timer ticked down mercilessly.
My father stood frozen near the door, staring at the screen in mounting, absolute horror. “My God... David, what have you done? You said this was just about embarrassing the general! You said nobody would get hurt!”
“Shut up, you old coward!” Vance snarled, wiping blood from his lip where he had hit the desk, glaring at my father with pure contempt. “You thought you were protecting your precious family name while I used your stupid, arrogant son as a patsy! You’re just as guilty as I am!”
“Alexander, use the backdoor override code from the Pentagon server!” I shouted, leaning over his shoulder, my eyes locked on the glowing red numbers.
“**00:28... 00:27... 00:26...**”
Alexander didn't answer. His face was a mask of total, absolute concentration. His fingers hammered a sequence of complex cryptographic keys into the terminal, bypassing the primary interface and cutting directly into the local router hardware.
“**00:14... 00:13... 00:12...**”
“Come on... come on,” Alexander breathed, hitting the master kill-switch command.
The screen flickered violently. The red timer stuttered, froze at 00:03, and then suddenly snapped into a solid, brilliant green screen bearing the federal seal: TRANSMISSION ABORTED. NODE PURGED.
Silence descended on the study, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of everyone in the room.
Alexander leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, slow breath, though the dangerous edge in his eyes had not faded one bit. He looked across the desk at Vance, who sat frozen in his chair, his color entirely drained as he realized his master plan had just disintegrated in front of his eyes.
“Transmission terminated, Vance,” Alexander said quietly, standing up to his full height. “And your encryption tunnel has just pinpointed your secondary servers to a warehouse in Arlington. Federal marshals are already breaching the location as we speak.”
Vance’s face twisted in pure, unadulterated panic. He lunged for the laptop, desperate to smash the screen, but before his fingers could even touch the plastic, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
The study door was kicked open a second time—not by us, but by four heavily armed military police officers led by Alexander’s senior colonel.
“General! Perimeter secured, and we have eyes on Vance’s secondary associates downtown,” the colonel reported crisply, snapping a salute.
Alexander returned the salute sharply, pointing down at Vance, who was now being yanked out of his chair and slammed against the wall by two MPs.
“Arrest David Vance for high treason, espionage, and conspiracy against the United States,” Alexander ordered.
As Vance was dragged out of the room, kicking and screaming obscenities, my father collapsed heavily into the armchair, burying his face in his hands, completely broken.
I stood by the window, watching the first pale streaks of dawn begin to break over the Virginia horizon. The wedding day had arrived. My brother was in a military detention cell, my family’s world had completely collapsed, and the dark shadow of treason had been lifted from my husband’s career.
I thought the nightmare was finally over.
Then my phone buzzed again with an incoming notification.
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It wasn't a text. It was an automated emergency broadcast alert from the base hospital where I was scheduled to lead the morning trauma rotation.
A mass-casualty incident had just been reported inbound from a civilian aviation accident near the capital—and the primary emergency surgical lead listed on the manifest was me.
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