Chapter 13 - Black Water Extraction
Michael immediately reached for his holster, but Callahan gripped his wrist. "Wait. Look at their shoulders. Those aren't Vanguard mercenaries."
On the right sleeve of each diver's drysuit was a subdued patch: a trident pierced by a lightning bolt, bordered by nine discreet stars.
"DEVGRU Black Squadron," Callahan breathed, relief washing over his weathered face. "The personal maritime protection detachment. My direct signal from the pier must have triggered the secondary contingency before Sterling jammed the base."
One of the operators turned, weapon instantly coming up, tracking the shadows behind the rusted iron bars. "Identify!" the operator hissed through his throat mic, his voice low, sharp, and razor-focused.
"Admiral Arthur Callahan, Service Number 041-88-2901," Callahan responded loudly through the grate. "Authorization code: Trident-Seven-Omega."
The operator lowered his weapon instantly, gesturing to his partner. With a battery-powered hydraulic cutter, the second diver sheared the rusted padlock off the grate in less than six seconds, kicking the iron frame open. "Sir, we have an active perimeter breach! An unidentified stealth vessel has entered Narragansett Bay and is firing heavy kinetic rounds on Fort Adams. We have to clear the littoral zone immediately!"
"We have wounded," Callahan said, stepping aside to reveal Michael, who was now barely standing, his face ghost-white, his hand soaked in dark arterial blood.
The lead operator stepped forward, his eyes suddenly catching the faded anchor and sea dragon tattoo on Michael’s forearm—the same tattoo that had started this entire nightmare on the pier three hours ago. The operator looked up at Michael’s face, then at Callahan, his eyes wide behind his ballistic goggles.
"Commander Carter?" the young SEAL whispered, stunned into utter disbelief. "Sir... my father served under you on the *John F. Kennedy*. They gave him a memorial coin with your name on it when you were lost."
"Then honor your father's memory, son," Michael rasped, his knees buckling, "and get my boy out of this kill zone."
The operators moved with flawless precision. Within seconds, Michael was wrapped in a thermal foil blanket and hoisted aboard the zodiac. Lucas leaped over the gunwale, grasping his father’s cold hands, while Callahan took the front seat beside the pilot.
The operator opened the throttle. The twin four-stroke outboards growled beneath the water, and the zodiac shot out from the shadow of the crumbling fort, skimming over the black Atlantic chop at forty knots.
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Behind them, the bay exploded.
The stealth warship had fired its full secondary battery. A barrage of thermobaric missiles struck Fort Adams simultaneously, turning the historic stone fortifications into an incandescent volcanic pyre. The shockwave chased the zodiac across the water, the deafening roar drowning out the screams of sirens across Newport.
