I took the high-gain satellite transceiver handset from the galley bulkhead, entering my five-digit presidential priority cipher: 4-4-1-0-8.
The line chimed once: BEEP.
Through the receiver came the deep, thunderous baritone of my late father’s younger brother, my grand-uncle, Vice Admiral David Mercer:
“Adrian! This is Task Force Caduceus! We have radar lock on Flight Eight-Eight-Two! We monitored your telemetry from the trans-thoracic decompression—outstanding work, Doctor!”
Admiral Mercer’s voice hardened into pure, unyielding military steel:
“We intercepted Arthur Sterling-Vance’s private factoring communications out of Zurich twenty-four minutes ago!”
“Arthur Vance didn’t wait for Melissa’s plane to land!”
“The moment he realized his daughter had been interdicted over the Pacific, Arthur Vance deployed three armored drilling rigs and sixteen private paramilitary contractors from Apex Strategic Demolition to force the physical breach of Valve Station Ten beneath the Calumet slips!”
“Their objective is to sever the secondary liquid-nitrogen cooling flange before midnight tonight!”
