His voice was sixty decibels of mountain quarry explosive, reverberating through the passenger cabin like heavy naval artillery:
“Dr. Adrian Arthur Mercer.”
“Master Trustee, The 1944 Mercer Sovereign Lineal Charter.”
“And Sole Lineal Custodian of Conduit Ten.”
he words detonated through the pressurized cabin of Flight 882 with the concussive, hydrostatic shock of an eighty-pound iron depth charge rupturing an armored bulkhead.
Chancellor on deck.
Two hundred and eighty international passengers sat frozen in their seats, their faces illuminated by the red-and-blue high-intensity tactical strobe lights flashing through the acrylic windows from the tarmac below.
Melissa Vance shrank three inches into the synthetic fabric of seat 15B, her manicured fingers clawing at the armrests, her diamond earrings trembling against her jawline as she looked up at the four silver stars gleaming on Admiral Mercer’s midnight-blue shoulder boards.
“David Mercer…?” Melissa choked out, her vocal cords shredding into an airless, high-pitched gasp:
