Chapter 12 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
By sunrise, two federal investigators and a Navy security officer had visited our apartment.
The packages were photographed, collected, and logged as evidence. Our building's security footage was preserved, and Ethan received a temporary protective arrangement through the appropriate authorities.
None of that made me feel particularly safe.
Because whoever had sent the threats knew our schedule.
Our address.
And the location of classified photographs that should have been secured behind government-controlled systems.
At nine that morning, I reported to the naval liaison office in Alameda.
Commander Sarah Whitcomb, an intelligence officer assigned to review the security breach, waited inside a windowless conference room.
She was forty-two, with dark hair tied tightly behind her head and the expression of someone who didn't waste words on unnecessary reassurance.
"Commander Peterson," she said, indicating the chair opposite hers. "Before we begin, understand that this investigation is compartmentalized. You will receive information only as authorized."
"Understood."
She opened a folder.
A photograph appeared on the screen behind her.
Nathan Cole.
My throat tightened.
The man in the picture looked older than I remembered. His beard was longer, his face thinner, and a pale scar ran from his left eyebrow toward his temple.
But there was no mistaking him.
"Where was this taken?" I asked.
"Oakland. Forty-three days ago."
"Has it been authenticated?"
"The image shows no obvious manipulation. Identity confirmation remains pending."
"Then why wasn't I informed earlier?"
Whitcomb folded her hands.
"Because your name appeared in a separate investigative lead."
I stared at her.
"My name?"
She pressed another key.
A financial transfer appeared on the screen.
Fifty thousand dollars.
The same amount Richard Peterson had paid Douglas Harland to humiliate me at that dinner.
The payment date was different.
The recipient was a limited liability company called Harbor Crest Advisory.
Whitcomb watched my reaction.
"Have you heard of this company?"
"No."
"Your father-in-law's former investment firm transferred nearly eight hundred thousand dollars to entities associated with it over eighteen months."
My thoughts began moving faster.
"Richard was involved with defense technology investments."
"Correct."
"Douglas Harland was his procurement consultant."
"Also correct."
"And Douglas is under federal indictment for defense contracting fraud."
Whitcomb nodded.
"There's another connection. Harbor Crest Advisory leased warehouse space near the terminal where Cole was photographed."
The words settled between us like heavy machinery.
Richard's financial collapse had uncovered Douglas's criminal dealings.
But apparently, those dealings led somewhere far more dangerous than fraudulent consulting fees.
"Does Richard know Cole?" I asked.
"We haven't established that."
"Does Douglas?"
"We're investigating."
Then Whitcomb showed me something else.
A recovered electronic message, partially redacted.
Only one sentence was visible.
THE VALKYRIE PROBLEM MUST BE RESOLVED BEFORE THE RECOVERY SYSTEM GOES OPERATIONAL.
I leaned forward.
"The autonomous carrier recovery project?"
"That's our concern."
Six months earlier, I'd accepted Mercer's invitation to help develop technology designed to improve carrier landings in dangerous conditions.
It was work I believed could save pilots' lives.
Now someone apparently considered my involvement a problem.
"Who sent the message?"
"We don't know."
I looked at Whitcomb.
"Then why show it to me?"
"Because you might recognize the terminology."
I read it again.
The Valkyrie problem.
Not Commander Peterson.
Not Avery.
Valkyrie.
The writer knew my callsign.
Possibly my mission history.
And almost certainly my current assignment.
After the briefing, I called Ethan.
He answered immediately.
"How bad is it?"
"Worse than yesterday."
"Are you coming home?"
"After I finish a few things."
There was a pause.
"Avery, promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't decide that protecting me means shutting me out."
I closed my eyes.
"I won't."
"You don't have to carry everything alone."
For a moment, I forgot about the investigation.
The threats.
The dead operator who might be alive.
I remembered the man who had chosen me when choosing me cost him everything his parents could offer.
"I love you," I whispered.
"Love you too, Commander."
When I returned to my office, an unfamiliar number appeared on my government phone.
The caller asked to speak to me by name.
"Commander Peterson?"
"Speaking."
His voice sounded rough, strained, and frighteningly familiar.
"You need to stop looking for me."
My pulse quickened.
"Who is this?"
A long silence followed.
Then the man spoke again.
"You flew through a missile envelope to bring us home, Valkyrie."
My fingers tightened around the receiver.
Only one person had said those exact words to me after Operation Night Lantern.
"Nathan?"
His breathing changed.
"They lied about what happened that night."
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you."
"Are you safe?"
"No."
A faint metallic sound echoed through the line.
Then Nathan whispered something that made my blood run cold.
May you like
"Your husband's new employer is sitting on the evidence."
Before I could answer, the connection died.
