Chapter 5 - The Trap Is Sprung
The pier smelled of diesel exhaust, brackish seawater, and oncoming rain. The gray silhouette of the USS Benton, a guided-missile destroyer docked alongside the medical complex, cut through the descending fog like a jagged razor.
Gordon Price stepped out of the black government sedan, flanked by two armed naval guards. His wrists were free, but an electronic monitoring cuff rested under his sock. His suit was rumpled, his hair unkempt, but his arrogance had returned in full force.
"I told you this was a colossal mistake, Commander," Price sneered at Dietrich, who walked behind him in stony silence. "Whitaker realized he couldn't afford the political fallout. When Vance Sterling hears about how I was treated, half the officers on this pier will be reassigned to Alaska."
"Keep moving, Price," Dietrich muttered, though he kept his head down, expertly selling the illusion of a defeated command staff.
They boarded the Benton’s quarterdeck, moving quickly into the vessel’s auxiliary tactical briefing room. Inside, the lights were dimmed. A single drafting table sat in the center, flanked by two large digital status boards.
Sitting on one side was Minister al-Mansuri, looking stern and aristocratic, with Tariq holding the signature treaties.
Price puffed out his chest, stepping forward with an oily smile. "Your Excellency. I must apologize for the uncivilized disruption caused by that unstable nurse earlier. The Navy has resolved the issue, and Admiral Whitaker is prepared to concede to your revised command parameters immediately."
"Is that so, Mr. Price?" a woman’s voice rang out from the shadows near the tactical displays.
Price turned. His breath caught in his throat.
Walking into the pale light was Hannah Cole.
She wasn't wearing wrinkled blue scrubs. She wore the sharp, immaculate service dress uniform of an Army Captain, complete with a gold parachutist badge, combat infantry insignia, and the ribbon of the Bronze Star with Valor pinned to her chest. Her dark hair was pinned back in a regulation bun, and her posture radiated lethal, undeniable authority.
"You..." Price choked, his face draining of all color. "What is this? What is she doing here?"
"I'm here to ensure the translation is accurate this time, Gordon," Hannah said coldly.
Before Price could take a step backward, the steel bulkhead door slammed shut behind him. Heavy mechanical latches engaged.
Admiral Whitaker stepped out from the adjacent communication annex, accompanied by four heavily armed Navy Shore Patrol officers with rifles slung across their tactical vests.
"Sit down, Price," Whitaker commanded.
"This is an ambush!" Price yelled, his voice cracking into panic. "You have no right to detain me on a warship! I am a private citizen under direct contract to the Department of Defense!"
"You are an enemy combatant operating an espionage and sabotage ring on sovereign military soil," Hannah declared, walking up until she was inches from his face. She set a rugged tactical tablet onto the table and tapped the glass.
The screen lit up with live audio feeds, synchronized video logs, and decoded communications.
"We tapped your satellite phone, Gordon," Hannah whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "We listened to your zero-nine-thirty call to Vance Sterling aboard the Zephyr. We know about Convoy Alpha. We know about the twenty-four anti-ship missiles concealed inside Tanker Three. And most importantly, we know that five minutes ago, your boss Vance Sterling brought the Zephyr into sovereign US territorial waters to oversee the departure."
Price collapsed onto the metal folding chair as if his spine had been severed. "You... you couldn't have cracked that cypher. The keyphrase changes every sixty seconds!"
"You made the mistake of using the dialect of East Amman," Hannah said, leaning down, her eyes burning directly into his soul. "The same dialect your handlers used when you sold out my reconnaissance unit three years ago. I know your language better than you know your own soul, Gordon."
The room’s main tactical screen flickered to life. A massive radar sweep displayed a bright red transponder flashing four miles off the coast.
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"Admiral," the ship’s tactical action officer announced over the intercom. "The Zephyr has entered Harbor Approach Zone Charlie. She is within intercept range."
Whitaker smiled—a cold, terrifying grin. "Sound general quarters. Let's welcome Mr. Sterling to the party."
