Around the open entrance of the old brick pumphouse—the primary surface cover for Valve Station Ten—eight private paramilitary contractors in sterile charcoal tactical nylon stood guard, their suppressed carbines held at low-ready!
From the depths of the concrete cellar, the deafening, bone-shattering scream of industrial diamond-tipped core drills chewed through four feet of reinforced granite:
SKRRRRR-ROAR-GRIND.
Thick plumes of gray pulverized slurry and freezing liquid-nitrogen vapor swirled across the asphalt in blinding white clouds!
Standing beside the drilling controls beneath a portable halogen work light, holding an open satellite terminal in his hand…
Was eighty-year-old Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance!
Wrapped in an eight-thousand-dollar vicuña greatcoat, leaning on a solid-gold-headed walking cane carved in the likeness of a coiled serpent, Arthur Vance checked his platinum Patek Philippe chronometer as the midnight deadline ticked down!
Beside him stood three Swiss factoring litigators, clutching leather briefcases:
“SEVER THE SECONDARY CRYOGENIC NITROGEN COUPLING!” Arthur Vance roared over the deafening noise of the drill motors, his cultured, appellate baritone cracking into pure, terrified mania:
