Thousands of innocent people will die.
As his sorrow swallowed him deeper and deeper, he felt more and more like the helpless boy at the bottom of the abandoned well. He’d used his belt buckle to scratch off a tally of each day. After three days, he’d still had no food or water, becoming so feeble that he’d known he was near death. He’d prayed to be rescued, but when he’d received no answer, he’d scratched a message on the wall telling his parents that he loved them.
Then he’d heard something that sounded like a voice coming from above. He had looked up. The night sky had seemed lighter, but no one had been there. But he’d heard the voice again. It had been a small, mild voice that shot to his heart like a diamond bullet, making his body tremble. In an instant, he’d known it must’ve been the voice of an angel. Or God. He’d feared that he might melt in the presence of such a holy being or be struck by lightning. And although he’d wanted to crawl under a rock and hide, there had been nowhere to go. The voice had spoken again, and that time Chris had understood: Fear not. On the morrow, when the night cometh, you will be saved. The sky had become darker after that, and the voice hadn’t returned.
During the next day of captivity, Chris had barely had enough energy to think about the voice. Although he’d thought he might’ve been hallucinating, he’d believed his experience had been real. Weakening further, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. In the evening, he’d tried to stay awake, but he’d realized that his salvation might be death. He’d fallen asleep waiting to be saved, only to be awakened by the sound of the air being beaten. For a moment, he’d thought it was angels, but when he’d heard gunshots and machine gun fire, he’d realized it was helicopters. Minutes later, a light had flashed down on him, and a voice had called to him, “Chris Paladin, are you down there?”
He’d tried to cry out and wave, but his voice had come out faint, and he’d barely been able to lift his arms.
“Chris, I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m here to rescue you.” A shadow had descended the well, and when it had touched bottom, the man had strapped Chris into a harness, hooked them together, and then they’d ascended.
Chris sat in the mall trying to make sense of it all. He remembered his sermon before leaving Dallas, how the man who’d wavered between belief and unbelief had finally sided on belief, which resulted in the healing of his son. On the mission to stop Mordet, Chris had wavered, too — struggling to be both a minister and a SEAL. His sermon had been more for himself than it had been for his congregation, he realized now. Since childhood, his personal relationship with God was always his key to overcoming doubt. Once again, it was time for Chris to believe. It was time to save those thousands of people.
His phone rang then, and he glanced at the screen. Young. Chris answered.
“Just did another cross-data check, and one word was significant,” Young said.
“One word?” Chris asked.
“Aegis. In the IT world, the Aegis handles a computer network’s authentication, but I can’t figure out how they’ll use that to blow up the game.”
Chris was quiet for a moment as he thought. In Greek mythology, Zeus and Athena carried a shield called Aegis. But what does that have to do with the stadium?
He thought some more. Then the realization hit him. He swallowed. “Jim Bob said that he believed the Department of Defense weapons systems were vulnerable and that if Mordet obtained the black box on the Switchblade Whisper, he could use the crypto, security, and authentication to hack into the Department of Defense. The Navy developed a missile guidance combat system called Aegis. It’s all computerized.”
“So Mordet needed the Switchblade Whisper in order to hack into Aegis,” Young said. “Wouldn’t he have to pilot the ship within missile range of the Redskins’ stadium?”
Chris stood and hurried to the nearest exit. “Naval Station Norfolk has plenty of ships capable of carrying missiles that can strike the Redskins’ stadium or beyond. I’m on my way there right now. We’ve only got a few hours. Let me know if you get anything new.”
“Will do.”
Chris arrived at the rental car, only to remember that Hannah had the keys.
Damn.
At least he knew how to pick a lock and hotwire a car.
40
Chris sped south on I-95, anxiously checking his side and rearview mirrors, looking for police who might try to pull him over or slow him down. If only they could slow down his thoughts, instead.
Is Hannah okay? Am I going in the right direction? Will I make it in time to stop Mordet? I can’t let those eighty-five thousand people die. I’m losing my mind.
“Shit. Shit-shit. Shit, shit-shit…” He repeated the same words aloud over and over. The repetition gave him a sense of stability and took his mind off losing his sanity.
Chris’s phone rang again, and he answered it.
“Norfolk just experienced a cell phone outage in areas that include the Naval Station,” Young said.
“Shit,” he said again. “If Mordet hits a ship’s quarterdeck, communications and armory all at the same time, no one can call for help, and the security team will have no access to their weapons.”
He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
Three hours and two hundred miles south later, Chris arrived in Norfolk.
Most of the naval station’s security faced inland, and their training centered on planned exercises at scheduled dates and times that seemed more of a dog and pony show than a true test of security. It often left the water unwatched, or at least not watched by careful eyes. Once when he was in the Teams, he’d forgotten his military ID card, and he’d actually swum onto base. He hoped to do the same today at Naval Station Norfolk.
Chris parked his car on the north shore of Willoughby Bay and studied the base across the water. Although it would be a shorter swim to the heliport, that was a restricted area and probably more difficult to infiltrate, so he chose to swim to the Navy’s recreational marina, nearly a kilometer away.
He left his rifle and Little Kale’s things in the vehicle, but he kept his pistol in its concealed holster. Both the pistol and holster could take the water, but his cell phone couldn’t. He pulled out a waterproof bag, and before he sealed his cell phone in it, he checked to see if he had a phone signal. He did. Good. The utilities must’ve already fixed the cell phone outage. He placed the phone in his bag, sealed it, and returned it to the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.
Chris slipped into the water and swam a combat sidestroke, which gave him a low profile without splashes. Nobody on the base seemed to notice him yet, and as he expected, there was no visible security facing the bay. He swam until he reached a mound of rocks that formed a seawall protecting the marina from being eroded by small waves in the harbor. His pace had been fast; it had only taken him eighteen minutes. He wasn’t the same kid who had walked off the street into the Navy, that was for sure. And now the stakes were infinitely higher.
Chris stepped out of the water scanning the area for onlookers. He didn’t see any, so he walked inland across the wall of rocks and stepped onto the base.
Here I am. Now what?
He set the timer on his watch: T-minus sixty minutes until missile launch. He took off his shirt, wrung the water out of it before donning it again, and walked past a family in civilian clothes. They gave him an odd look as if wondering why his clothes were wet. Then a pair of sailors passed, paying him little attention, if any. They either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. He continued south along the wharf. After passing nearly three kilometers of piers with ships tied to them, he still had three more kilometers of piers to go. Not knowing exactly what he was looking for, he felt lost.