Chapter 36 - The Second Key
"The yacht is scuttling?" Graham yelled over the rising roar of seawater rushing into the lower compartments.
"Julian never planned on taking this ship to Europe," I said, cold horror dawning on me. "If he couldn't get the eleven billion, he was going to drown every witness, the hardware, and the evidence at the edge of the continental shelf. The ship goes down three thousand feet, and the council claims the entire fund through casualty insurance and sovereign default!"
"Not while I'm breathing," Graham growled. He keyed his tactical radio mounted on his shoulder harness. "Bravo One to Cutter *Reliance*—target vessel has initiated internal scuttling protocols! We need immediate evacuation via the stern platform! Prepare extraction lines!"
Static crackled through his headset, drowned out by the metallic groan of the ship’s hull twisting under the immense pressure of flooding ballast tanks. The floor pitched downward at a terrifying ten-degree angle. Water—frigid, black Atlantic brine—began bubbling up through the floor grates at the end of the corridor, rising past our ankles in seconds.
"The bridge controls can override the ballast pumps," Graham shouted, grabbing Lily and swinging her onto his broad shoulders. "We get to the bridge, neutralise the helm, and hold the vessel level until the cutter can lash alongside!"
"We can't get to the bridge from inside!" I pointed toward the bulkheads ahead. "The fire doors have sealed every vertical stairwell. Julian locked the interior compartments!"
"Then we go outside," Graham said, his jaw setting like concrete. "Up the exterior maintenance ladder to the upper promenade. Claire, stay on my belt. Do not look down."
He kicked open a watertight hatch leading out onto the starboard exterior deck. The moment the hatch flew wide, the Atlantic storm hit us like a physical blow. Wind-driven rain whipped across our faces at fifty miles per hour, stinging like needles. Below us, black, violent waves crested with white foam smashed against the yacht's leaning hull, churning into a terrifying vortex.
The ship was sinking by the bow. The sleek, multi-million-dollar vessel was groaning, metal stress shrieking against metal as the forward compartments filled with hundreds of tons of seawater.
"Up!" Graham ordered, guiding my hands to the rungs of a stainless-steel ladder welded to the superstructure.
I climbed, my fingers numb and slippery against the wet metal, fighting the violent gale that threatened to rip me off the wall. Above me, Graham climbed with terrifying power, his left arm locked tightly around Lily's legs while his right hand hauled them up rung by rung.
"Mommy! I dropped my shoe!" Lily cried out.
"Don't worry about the shoe, baby! Hold on to Graham's neck!" I screamed into the wind.
We hauled ourselves over the railing onto the bridge deck. Through the panoramic storm windows of the wheelhouse, I could see two figures struggling over the helm controls—the ship's captain and a mercenary in body armor trying to engage the automated scuttle valves.
Graham didn't hesitate. He raised his carbine, aimed through the reinforced glass, and fired three rapid shots. The glass spiderwebbed, then blew inward. Graham vaulted through the opening like a tempest, tackling the armed mercenary into the navigation console.
The struggle was brief, brutal, and lethal. Graham used the butt of his weapon to neutralize the guard, while the captain threw his hands into the air, screaming for quarter as the ship shuddered violently beneath another massive surge of water.
"Override the pumps!" Graham shoved the barrel of his weapon under the captain's chin. "Cancel the scuttle sequence, or I leave you handcuffed to this helm while the Atlantic fills your mouth!"
"I can't!" the captain wept, his hands shaking violently over the console. "It's an encrypted dead-man protocol! Mercer initiated it from the Master Suite terminal! Only the secondary master code can cancel the scuttle once the valves blow!"
Graham turned to me, his face pale in the green glow of the navigation displays. "Claire... the drive."
"The drive is locked," I said, my heart slamming against my ribs as water began sloshing across the bridge floorboards. "It requires the mnemonic sequence Arthur gave Lily!"
Graham looked at the eight-year-old girl shivering in her soaked yellow cardigan. "Lily. You have to sing it. Now."
Lily looked at the glowing terminal, her lips trembling with cold and terror. "I... I can't remember the last part, Mommy. Grandpa only sang it when the fireplace was on. It was too long."
Behind us, the heavy steel door connecting the bridge to the upper observation deck suddenly groaned.
A shadow moved against the rain-streaked exterior glass.
May you like
Julian Mercer stood there, his face half-covered in dried crimson, his tailored suit torn, holding a black tactical submachine gun in his hands.
***
