Chapter 46 - The Tombs of the Acheron
The air inside the monolithic subterranean chamber was dry, stale, and smelled of ozone, copper, and ancient dust that had settled before mankind ever drew breath. Gravity here felt heavier, pulling at Michael's boots with unnatural density.
Before them lay a causeway of dark, seamless obsidian stone leading toward a central cavern the size of three aircraft carriers placed end to end.
And resting in the center of that impossible expanse was the shattered, rusted carcass of the *USS Acheron*.
Michael stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
The submarine was split down its midsection, propped up against alien pillars of basalt. Across its black hull, the faded white lettering was still visible under decades of brine and rust: *SSN-760 USS ACHERON*.
"There she is," Michael whispered, his hand reaching out unconsciously toward the ghost of his former life. "My ship."
"Look at the reactor compartment, Dad," Lucas said, his weapon raised, sweeping the shadows.
A web of heavy industrial cables had been spliced into the submarine's auxiliary hull. Powerful commercial generators were humming, feeding power into hydraulic jacks that were slowly pulling the reactor containment sphere out of the sub's belly.
Working on the scaffolding above the reactor were six heavily armed mercenaries, led by a man in an immaculate naval dress uniform—not a mercenary, but an officer wearing the stars of a United States Vice Admiral.
"Vice Admiral Sterling," Michael muttered, his eyes narrowing to slits. "The Chairman’s insider in the Pentagon."
Sterling stood on the platform, an encrypted satellite relay tablet in his hands, barking orders to the engineers below. "Faster! The surface fleet is dropping depth charges to disperse the automated drones! We have less than twenty minutes before Vance sends an armed strike team down here!"
"You won't need twenty minutes, Sterling," Michael’s voice boomed across the obsidian chamber, echoing like thunder against the ancient walls.
Every mercenary on the scaffolding whipped their weapons toward the entrance.
May you like
Sterling turned slowly, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his thin lips. "Commander Michael Mercer. The Ghost of Newport himself. I must admit, Michael... when Vance told the Joint Chiefs that you had drowned in Chesapeake Bay, I almost believed him. But you just couldn't stay dead, could you?"
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