No digital hack could touch them.
No satellite override could blind them.
They were physical, un-hackable, eternal.
Captain Garrett Stone and I walked down the central gangway, our hand-welted leather field boots ringing clear against the diamond plate.
Garrett supported my right side, his arm steady around my waist, his dark naval coat unbothered by the subterranean draft, while I held Arthur Mercer’s brass surveying level firmly against my ribs, holding the four-inch titanium keyway securely in my left hand.
Barnaby walked at my right heel, his amber eyes reflecting the soft tritium light.
Vice Admiral David Mercer stood beside Cylinder Number One.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and brushed his fingers across the engraved brass plaque welded to the titanium casing:
CONDUIT TEN // THE BEDROCK ARTERY
SURVEYED & CONSTRUCTED BY CWO ARTHUR MERCER SENIOR
& ADMIRAL DAVID MERCER // USN // 1944
"BUILT PLUMB. HELD TRUE."
Admiral Mercer looked at Garrett and me, tears glistening in his flint-gray eyes:
