Chapter 80 - The Ledger in the Storm
Inside the cargo hold of the Osprey, the crew wrapped me in a thermal blanket as the aircraft banked hard to the east, climbing out of the maritime storm toward the Oregon mainland.
Sitting on the aluminum bench, I placed the waterlogged pelican case on the deck between my boots. Using a combat knife, I pried open the heavy composite latches.
Inside lay not just the bearer bonds Arthur had bragged about, but an industrial-grade, military-spec solid-state drive encased in electromagnetic shielding.
Miller leaned over, his face illuminated by the green glow of the cabin lights. "Is that what I think it is?"
"The complete transaction ledger," I said, my voice hoarse. "Every bribe, every shell company, every defense contractor who turned their backs on the fleet to line their pockets."
I connected the drive to my ruggedized tactical tablet. The security bypass took three minutes using Fleet Command’s master decryption keys.
The directory opened, and a long list of classified files populated the screen. But it wasn't the stolen torpedo blueprints that caught my eye. It was an encrypted communications log dated just three hours ago—sent while Whispering Pines was falling into Lake Tahoe.
*SENDER: CLARA VANCE.*
*RECIPIENT: PROJECT OVERWATCH / CASPIAN TERMINAL.*
*MESSAGE: Marcus survived the Tahoe breach. The villa is destroyed, but the secondary node at Emerald Bay held long enough to transmit the coordinates. Arthur is a liability—let the Navy take him. I am already at the extraction point in the Juan de Fuca Strait. The real buyer is waiting on the seabed.*
My blood ran cold.
Arthur hadn't been the mastermind. He had been the distraction. Clara had used our father's pathetic greed and my confrontation at Whispering Pines to stage her own escape, leaving Arthur to draw the Navy's strike package while she headed north with the primary asset.
"Miller," I said, standing up and heading toward the cockpit, the fatigue in my bones vanishing in an instant. "Get Admiral Harris on the secure satellite channel right now."
"Marcus, you've been in continuous combat operations for thirty-six hours," Miller said, looking at the blood drying on my forehead. "You need medical clearance."
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"Clara isn't in Vancouver," I said, slamming the cockpit partition open. "She's in the Juan de Fuca Strait. And she didn't just sell plans. She has the acoustic trigger for the dormant Cold War abyssal warheads along the Cascadia fault."
***
