Chapter 26 - Chaos in the Harbor
The massive pneumatic pressure seals hissed with hydraulic finality as the hatch slammed shut above them, plunging the airlock into a momentary red twilight. The deafening roar of the exploding island was instantly replaced by the terrifying, pressurized silence of the deep.
"Dive! Dive! Dive!" a voice bellowed over the interior comms system. "Angles on the bow! Take us down to six hundred feet! Full silent running!"
The deck tilted violently downward at an acute fifteen-degree angle. Michael braced his boots against the non-skid deck plating, his hands gripping the bulkhead conduits to keep from sliding. Through the thick hull, the muffled, concussive thuds of depth charges and exploding munitions vibrated through his bones—the dying gasps of Harrison Cross’s island fortress being obliterated by the Pentagon’s airstrike.
Inside the *Tartarus*, the environment was unlike any naval vessel Michael had ever commanded. There were no narrow, claustrophobic corridors lined with exposed hydraulic lines and grease-stained valves. The command corridors were wide, illuminated by cool, low-lux blue LED strips recessed into dark composite bulkheads. The air smelled of medical-grade ozone, scrubbed free of moisture and human scent.
Two operators in black combat rigs hauled Lucas through the secondary bulkhead. Lucas struggled, breaking free from their grip with a furious snarl, backing against a bulkhead with his fists clenched.
"Don't touch me!" Lucas spat, his breathing heavy, his uniform soaked in sea water and blood. He looked wildly around the high-tech interior, his gaze finally locking on Eleanor as she stepped out of the airlock, calmly removing her soaked bridge coat.
"Take them to the medical bay," Eleanor ordered without looking at the guards. "Treat their lacerations. Run a full biometric workup."
"I am an active Rear Admiral in the United States Navy!" Lucas roared, his voice echoing through the metallic corridor. "You have kidnapped a flag officer! You are committing an act of high treason!"
Eleanor stopped. She turned slowly, her face impassive.
"The Navy you belong to ceased to exist twenty-four years ago, Lucas," she said chillingly. "The uniform you wear is a costume provided by men who are currently transmitting a press release stating that you and your father died in a terrorist explosion on a private research station. You don't have a rank anymore. You don't have a commission. You are a ghost, just like your father."
"You did this!" Lucas lunged forward, but Michael stepped between them, placing a firm, heavy hand on his son’s chest.
"Easy, son," Michael said quietly, though his eyes never left Eleanor. "Conserve your strength. In an iron coffin six hundred feet down, shouting doesn't change the depth gauge."
Lucas stared at his father, his chest heaving, before looking away in bitter disgust.
Michael turned his full attention to the woman he had loved more than life itself. "Where are you taking us, Eleanor?"
Eleanor pulled a small keycard from her pocket, sliding it into the security console of the primary blast door leading toward the central bridge.
"To the place where our lives were stolen, Michael," she said, the doors parting with a pneumatic hiss to reveal a command deck that looked more like the bridge of a spacecraft than an attack submarine. In the center of the room, a three-dimensional holographic projection of the Pacific Ocean rotated slowly in the gloom.
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"We are going to the bottom of the world," she said. "To the wreckage of the *USS Acheron*."
***
