Chapter 7 - The Satellite Uplink
We didn't wait for base security to answer our distress calls; on a base where the logistics command had been subverted, trusting an unknown voice on the radio was a fatal gamble.
Leaving the two incapacitated mercenaries secured with heavy zip-ties inside the wrecked conference room, Sarah, General Vance, and I sprinted through the labyrinth of back service tunnels toward the naval station’s dry docks at Pier Four.
The sea breeze hit us like a physical blow as we burst out from a maintenance hatch near the water’s edge. The massive concrete pier stretched out into the dark Pacific waters, illuminated by harsh overhead security floodlights. Moored at the end of the slipway was a sleek, unpainted civilian cargo freighter riding low in the water—its communication mast bristling with heavy satellite dishes that hummed with high-frequency data transmission.
“That’s the mobile uplink vessel,” Sarah panted, clutching her ruggedized laptop to her chest as we ducked behind a stack of empty shipping containers. “They aren't just erasing files locally. They’re dumping terabytes of classified Department of Defense logistics records into an offshore cloud server located in international waters.”
“If they finish that transfer, every audit trail we built vanishes into thin air,” I said, checking the magazine of my pistol. Seven rounds left. Not nearly enough for a direct assault on a heavily armed ship.
General Vance pulled a heavy, encrypted tactical radio from his belt, punching in a rapid sequence of override codes. “I’m calling in the Coronado Quick Reaction Force. A platoon of real SEALs who answer to the Pentagon, not to Marcus’s payroll.”
He spoke rapidly into the receiver, giving our coordinates and authentication tokens. But the only response from the earpiece was a harsh, rhythmic burst of electronic static.
Hiss. Click. Hiss.
“Jamming frequency,” Vance cursed, throwing the radio down onto the concrete. “They’ve erected a localized EMP signal blocker around the pier. We are completely isolated.”
“Then we do it the old-fashioned way,” I said, looking up at the rusted steel access ladder bolted to the side of the container crane overlooking the freighter’s deck.
May you like
Before Vance or Sarah could argue, I grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder and began climbing into the cold salt wind, leaving the safety of the ground behind.
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