Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the USS Warrior
Midnight had passed, but the top floor of the Vance Maritime International tower in downtown Chicago was ablaze with lights.
Armed Navy enforcers guarded every doorway and elevator bank. Shredders had been stopped mid-operation; hard drives had been seized; and forensic accountants brought in by the Department of Justice were working through mountain ranges of paper trails.
I stood in my father’s sprawling corner office, looking out at the glittering skyline of Chicago through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
I had replaced Master Chief Miller’s heavy coat with a tailored black service uniform brought to me from the naval base. The gold Captain's eagles on my collar caught the reflection of the city lights.
The office door clicked open, and Lieutenant Commander Sarah Lin—my trusted intelligence officer and a comrade who had served with me during the darkest days of my covert deployment—walked in carrying a tablet.
"Captain," Sarah said, standing at attention before handing me the device. "The initial forensic sweep of Arthur Vance’s private vault is complete. We found something you need to see."
I took the tablet. On the screen was a scanned copy of an old naval logbook, yellowed at the edges, stamped with a top-secret classification seal from six years ago.
"The logbook from the dockyards at Norfolk," I murmured, my eyes scanning the names.
"Look at the bottom entry, ma'am," Sarah pointed out. "Three months before the USS Warrior deployed to the Persian Gulf, Arthur Vance personally signed off on a shipment of high-grade titanium armor plating meant for the engine room hull."
I zoomed in on the signature. Arthur Vance’s handwriting was unmistakable. But right next to his signature was a second set of initials.
V.M.
My heart took a sudden, violent leap against my ribs.
"Vice Admiral Victor Mercer," I breathed.
Sarah nodded grimly. "Mercer was the head of the Naval Materiel Command six years ago. He was the one who certified the USS Warrior as sea-worthy despite the failed hull pressure tests. And two days ago... Mercer was nominated for the post of Deputy Secretary of Defense."
The picture was coming together with terrifying clarity.
Six years ago, my father and Vice Admiral Mercer had colluded to substitute military-grade titanium with cheap, defective alloy plates on naval vessels, pocketing over two hundred million dollars in the process. When I accidentally uncovered the discrepancy while working as a young civilian engineer at the naval yard, my father didn't try to reason with me.
He had me forcibly committed to a private psychiatric facility under a fake name, telling the world that his daughter had suffered a nervous breakdown and vanished.
He thought he had silenced me forever.
What he didn't know was that six months later, Admiral Marcus Thorne had personally pulled me out of that facility, recruited me into the Navy's most secretive intelligence unit, and given me a new identity. I underwent four years of brutal physical and tactical training, rising through the ranks while working under deep cover to track down the supply chain corruption that was killing American sailors.
Two years ago, I requested an assignment to the USS Warrior—the very ship my father had sabotaged.
When the Iranian torpedo struck our hull, it was precisely at the weak point where Arthur's cheap metal had been installed. The bulkhead collapsed like paper. The engine room exploded into a wall of thousand-degree fire.
I remembered the smell of burning jet fuel. I remembered the screaming of nineteen-year-old sailors trapped behind the jammed steel door. I remembered pressing my bare back against the red-hot iron lever to create leverage, holding the hatch open with my own flesh until every single one of my crew members crawled out alive.
The scars on my back were not marks of shame. They were the physical price I paid for my father's greed.
"Where is Mercer now?" I asked, handing the tablet back to Sarah.
"He's currently at his private estate in Lake Forest," Sarah replied. "He received news of your father's arrest an hour ago. Our intelligence indicates he is preparing to board a private jet to Geneva at 0400 hours."
I looked at my watch. It was 0145.
"He thinks he can run," I said softly.
"Should we issue an arrest warrant through the federal marshals?" Sarah asked.
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"No," I replied, a cold, ruthless smile touching my lips. "Mercer still believes he commands the Navy. He thinks Arthur was just a corrupt businessman who got caught. He doesn't know that the survivor of the Warrior engine room is coming for him."
I turned toward the door. "Assemble Squad Alpha. We're going to Lake Forest."
