After spending $110,000 supporting my family, I returned from a 21-day Navy mission to find my father giving my $4 million Lake Tahoe villa to my sister—but one message from my attorney was about to turn their champagne celebration into a nightmare.

The flashbang disoriented them, but their point man was seasoned. He rolled across the steel deck, firing blindly toward the doorway.

A 9mm round tore through the meat of my left shoulder, spinning me against the tactical console. The pain flared hot and vicious, but muscle memory took over. I raised my carbine with my right arm, centered the reticle on his chest plate, and squeezed the trigger twice. The mercenary collapsed against the gyrocompass, motionless.

To my right, Reynolds tackled the second operative into the primary missile sequencing rack, disarming him with a brutal strike to the throat before securing him with zip-ties.

The lead contractor—the man who had spoken—was slumped against the central steering pedestal, clutching a shattered femur where shrapnel had caught him. His tablet computer was hardwired into the sub's master guidance console, code streaming across the screen in green hexadecimal characters.

I limped forward, blood soaking through my tactical vest, and smashed the tablet off the console with the butt of my rifle.

"It's too late, Commander," the mercenary wheezed, spitting blood onto the deck. "The automated sequence has already reached the thermal phase. The rocket motors are warming their solid fuel. In six minutes, this sub will fire, whether you enter your codes or not."

On the master terminal, a row of twelve analog gauges flickered wildly. High-pressure steam hissed through the overhead ducts as the primary launch tubes flooded with seawater to equalize firing pressure.

*COUNTDOWN TO SALVO: 04 MINUTES, 18 SECONDS.*

"Reynolds, secure the prisoners and prep the team for emergency extraction!" I commanded, stepping up to the main terminal.

"Sir, we can't leave you here!" Reynolds shouted over the roar of the venting steam.

"If I don't abort this system manually, none of us are making it back to the surface anyway!" I yelled back. "Get them up to the sail! That's an order!"

Reynolds hesitated for half a second, then saluted grimly and dragged the wounded mercenary toward the ladder.