Chapter 7 - THE GHOST SHIP AT PIER 9
Climbing a vertical steel ladder in the freezing rain with cracked ribs is an exercise in pure mental detachment.
With every rung I pulled myself up, my vision blurred with white spots of pain. I didn't think about the forty-foot drop into the churning black water below, nor did I think about the cold steel in my holster. I focused only on the metal rung directly in front of my face.
One. Two. Breathe. Three. Four.
By the time my fingers gripped the wet non-skid deck of the Valkyrie, the ship had already detached from the pilings. The gap between the hull and the concrete pier widened to twenty feet, then fifty, as the tugboats guided the vessel out toward the channel.
The deck was slick with rain and oil. Cargo containers, painted in matte military olive drab with their serial numbers crudely ground off, were stacked three-high along the center line.
I stayed low in the shadow of a twenty-foot container, racking the slide of my weapon.
Footsteps echoed along the catwalk above.
"Secure the lower holds!" Sterling’s voice cut through the howling wind. "If the Coast Guard attempts to board before we clear the twelve-mile limit, scuttle the secondary ballast tanks. We do not get taken alive."
"Captain!" a crewman shouted from the bridge wing. "We have a transponder ping on the radar! Naval surface craft leaving Point Loma at thirty knots!"
"They're too late," Sterling replied coldly. "We'll be in international waters before they can establish intercept geometry. Where is Reed?"
"In the forward hold, securing the cargo."
I slipped along the narrow gangway between the containers, my boots making no sound against the wet steel. I reached the hatch labeled HOLD 3 - RESTRICTED ACCESS. The heavy wheel lock had been turned, but not dog-latched.
I eased the hatch open an inch and peered inside.
The interior of the hold was lit by harsh halogen work lights. Suspended in the center of the bay were six titanium shipping containers marked with yellow radiation hazard symbols—the stolen advanced guidance cores from the Navy’s classified drone program.
Sitting on the floor, tied to structural steel stanchions with heavy zip-ties, were seven civilian engineers from Naval Air Systems Command. Their faces were bruised, their clothes torn.
Standing over them, holding a roll of heavy industrial tape with a fresh field dressing taped crudely to his bleeding shoulder, was Chief Walker Reed.
"Look at you all," Reed sneered, kicking the shin of a young female engineer who flinched in terror. "A bunch of six-figure nerds who thought they could play with weapons of war without getting their hands dirty. When this boat hits the open sea, you're going to teach our buyers how to configure these guidance packages. And if you refuse... well, the ocean is very deep, and nobody knows you're here."
"They know," I said, stepping through the hatch and letting the heavy steel door slam shut behind me.
The loud CLANG echoed like a gunshot through the cavernous hold.
Reed spun around, his eyes wild with disbelief and murderous fury.
"You really don't know when to stay down, do you, office girl?" Reed spat, drawing a combat knife with a eight-inch serrated blade in his left hand.
May you like
"I told you before, Reed," I said, holstering my sidearm and dropping into a balanced, low-center combat stance despite the agony in my chest. "I pay attention. And right now, I'm going to teach you what happens when you underestimate the person holding your file."
***
