The Resolute had never been running out of water.
I stood inside the hidden compartment on Deck Four, staring at enough bottled water to supply the entire ship for weeks.
Pallet after pallet disappeared into the darkness.
Cases were stacked shoulder-high in perfect rows, wrapped in clear plastic, each marked with military inventory codes.
Beyond the water were trauma kits, oxygen cylinders, antibiotic cases, field dressings, purification cartridges, lithium batteries, emergency radios, and sealed crates stamped with red medical priority labels.
Everything the crew had supposedly consumed.
Everything Colonel Victor Kane claimed we no longer had.
Lieutenant Commander Nathan Briggs closed the hatch behind us.
The lock clicked.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I finally whispered, “How much?”
Briggs looked toward the rows of supplies.
“Three million dollars in material, maybe more.”
I turned toward him.
“That doesn’t explain dehydration casualties.”
“No.”
“Or why Kane is deliberately starving the ship of medical supplies.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Briggs swallowed.
Under the dim emergency lighting, he looked older than he had twelve hours earlier.
His uniform was immaculate, but sweat glistened along his temples.
“Kane isn’t selling what’s in this room,” he said.
I glanced around.
“Then why hide it?”
“Because this is replacement stock.”
Something cold settled inside my chest.
“Replacement for what?”
Briggs stared at me.
“The supplies that already left the ship.”
For a moment, all I heard was the vibration of the engines through the deck.
I stepped closer.
“Where did they go?”
Briggs looked toward the hatch as though Kane might somehow be standing on the other side.
“There have been seven unauthorized transfers in the last five months.”
“To whom?”
“Ships that don’t officially exist.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Briggs pulled a folded sheet of paper from inside his uniform.
It was a handwritten list.
Dates.
Coordinates.
Cargo quantities.
Vessel identification numbers.
Three of the identification numbers had been crossed out.
Beside each one was the same notation.
NO REGISTRY.
“These coordinates are all in international waters,” Briggs said.
“The Resolute slows to six knots.
Navigation records show equipment checks.
Communications logs show maintenance blackouts.
Then a smaller vessel comes alongside.”
“And supplies are transferred.”
Briggs nodded.
“Medical equipment.
Water. fuel cells.
Military batteries.
Sometimes weapons accessories.”
“Weapons?”
“Not firearms.
Optics. thermal units. encrypted radios.”
“That’s still controlled equipment.”
“I know.”
“Who signs the paperwork?”
Briggs looked at me.
“I do.”
The answer came without hesitation.
That frightened me more than a denial would have.
“You’re part of it.”
“I was.”
My hand instinctively moved closer to the concealed recorder beneath my uniform.
Briggs noticed.
He gave a tired smile.
“You can record me, Mercer.
I deserve it.”
“You knew sailors were collapsing because Kane withheld water.”
“I knew.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Shame.
“Kane showed me photographs of my daughter walking home from school.”
The words stopped me.
Briggs reached into his breast pocket and removed a small laminated photograph.
A girl of maybe twelve stood beside a horse, grinning beneath a riding helmet.
“My wife died six years ago,” he said.
“Emily is all I have.”
I said nothing.
“He knew her school.
Her schedule.
Her riding instructor’s name.
He knew where my mother lives.
He knew which window is Emily’s bedroom.”
Briggs put the photograph away.
“Colonel Kane doesn’t threaten people, Mercer.
He gives them forecasts.”
That phrase stayed with me.
Forecasts.
Not threats.
Predictions of what would happen if you refused him.
“When did it start?”
“Five months ago.”
“What happened?”
“A casualty report came across my desk after a training operation.
Twelve trauma kits used.
Six oxygen cylinders consumed.
Forty emergency water cases deployed.”
“But they weren’t.”
“No.”
“Who ordered you to sign?”
“Kane.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
“Then the cargo disappeared.”
“Yes.”
I looked around the compartment.
“And this stock replaces it.”
“Temporarily.”
“What does temporarily mean?”
Briggs walked toward one of the pallets and sliced open the plastic wrap with a pocketknife.
He pulled out a bottle.
The label looked normal.
He handed it to me.
“Check the expiration date.”
I did.
Three years remaining.
“Now the serial number.”
I read it.
Then Briggs handed me another bottle.
Same manufacturer.
Same batch.
Same serial number.
I felt my pulse quicken.
“They’re duplicated.”
“Everything in this room is.”
I moved toward a medical crate and checked the inventory tag.
Another duplicate code.
“These aren’t legitimate replacement supplies.”
“No.”
“Counterfeit inventory.”
Briggs nodded.
“The packaging is authentic.
Some of the contents are authentic.
Some aren’t.”
I stared at the trauma kits.
“What’s inside?”
“Sometimes nothing.
Sometimes expired equipment.
Sometimes cheap civilian substitutes.”
My stomach tightened.
“The crew thinks these are emergency supplies.”
“Yes.”
“If something happens—”
“They’ll discover half the stock is useless.”
The cruelty suddenly became clearer.
Kane had not merely stolen supplies.
He was maintaining the illusion that they still existed.
The ship’s official records needed to show a shrinking inventory because legitimate supplies had been transferred elsewhere.
Meanwhile counterfeit replacements were hidden from ordinary access so no one could inspect them closely.
That explained why he rationed water.
Why medical personnel complained they could never access reserve stock.
Why emergency cabinets remained locked.
The shortages were theater.
And the crew were unwilling actors.
“How many people know?”
Briggs shook his head.
“Enough to make me afraid.”
“Names.”
“I don’t have them all.”
“Give me what you have.”
He hesitated.
That was when I heard the sound outside.
A metallic tap.
Then another.
Boots.
Briggs froze.
I killed my flashlight.
The compartment went black.
Someone stopped outside the hatch.
A key entered the lock.
Briggs whispered one word.
“Run.”
The hatch opened.
Light exploded into the compartment.
I moved before whoever entered could see me clearly.
Briggs shoved a pallet jack sideways, blocking the narrow passage, and I slipped between two towering stacks of bottled water.
A voice shouted.
“Commander!”
Briggs ran in the opposite direction.
Two Marines entered.
I recognized one voice immediately.
Staff Sergeant Nolan Price.
Kane’s personal security chief.
“Seal the corridor!”
I crouched behind a medical pallet.
Boots thundered across the deck.
Briggs shouted.
Something crashed.
Then came a grunt.
A body hit metal.
Silence.
Price said, “Where is she?”
Briggs coughed.
“I came alone.”
A punch landed.
I heard it.
“Where is Mercer?”
“I don’t know.”
Another blow.
My hands curled into fists.
Every instinct told me to move.
Every part of my training told me not to.
My mission was evidence.
Not revenge.
Then Price said something that changed everything.
“Kane said she doesn’t leave this deck alive.”
The compartment suddenly felt smaller.
I looked toward the rear wall.
No exit.
No ladder.
No visible ventilation passage wide enough to crawl through.
Only supplies.
And somewhere between the pallets were armed men searching row by row.
I slid my hand inside my blouse and activated the emergency transmitter hidden beneath my undershirt.
One vibration.
Signal sent.
The device was supposed to transmit a distress burst to an NCIS monitoring receiver whenever the ship moved within satellite coverage.
Supposed to.
I had never tested it aboard the Resolute.
Price shouted, “Check every aisle.”
Flashlights swept through the room.
I moved deeper between the pallets.
That was when I saw the crate.
It was smaller than the others.
Black.
No military markings.
No inventory tag.
Just white stencil lettering.
MERCY PROJECT.
Footsteps approached.
I had seconds.
I lifted the latch.
Inside were documents.
Dozens of folders.
Photographs.
Passports.
Shipping manifests.
And beneath them, clear plastic evidence bags filled with military identification cards.
I pulled out the first handful.
Most belonged to sailors.
Some were Marines.
Some names I recognized.
Men and women listed as transferred.
Others listed as medically evacuated.
Then I found the ID card belonging to Petty Officer Daniel Ruiz.
Ruiz had fallen overboard two months before I joined the ship.
Officially, his body had never been recovered.
The card had been punched through the corner.
A red line crossed his photograph.
I grabbed several folders and shoved them beneath my uniform.
A flashlight beam passed across the end of the aisle.
I ducked.
Price’s voice came closer.
“You can’t hide forever, Mercer.”
I recognized the tactic.
Say the target’s name.
Make them feel seen.
Make panic do the searching for you.
I stayed still.
Price continued.
“You think Briggs is helping you?”
A pause.
“He helped us first.”
My eyes shifted toward where Briggs had been captured.
No response.
Price laughed softly.
“He signed everything.”
Still nothing.
“He gave us personnel schedules.”
My breathing slowed.
“He told us which sailors were asking questions.”
I closed my eyes.
That would explain the transfers.
Maybe Briggs had not simply been coerced into signing manifests.
Maybe he had done more.
“He even gave Kane your name.”
That sentence nearly pulled me out of hiding.
My name.
Briggs had identified me?
Before or after discovering my investigation?
I heard Price step closer.
“He knew you were NCIS before you ever reached Deck Four.”
Silence.
Then Briggs said quietly, “That’s not true.”
Price laughed.
“You still trying to save yourself?”
Another impact.
Briggs groaned.
I shifted my weight.
A bottle under my boot compressed with a faint crackle.
The flashlight stopped moving.
Price said, “Aisle seven.”
Boots approached.
I moved.
Fast.
I climbed.
The plastic wrap surrounding the pallet gave me just enough grip to pull myself onto the lowest crate.
Then another.
Then another.
The entire stack wobbled.
Below me, Price entered the aisle.
His flashlight swept left.
Right.
I was directly above him.
I jumped.
My boots hit his shoulders.
We crashed to the deck.
His flashlight spun away.
I drove my elbow into his jaw.
Price was bigger than me by at least seventy pounds, but surprise bought me two seconds.
Two seconds can save a life.
I took his sidearm.
A Marine rounded the corner.
I aimed.
“Don’t.”
He froze.
Price grabbed my ankle.
I kicked backward and caught him across the nose.
He fell.
I moved toward Briggs.
He was on his knees, blood running from his lip.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Then move.”
We ran.
Behind us, Price roared for security.
The corridor outside Deck Four was empty.
Briggs led me toward an auxiliary maintenance passage.
Alarms suddenly sounded.
Not general quarters.
Security lockdown.
Red lights began flashing.
Bulkhead doors started closing.
“We won’t make the main stairwell,” Briggs said.
“Alternative?”
“Maintenance lift.”
“Controlled by the bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll disable it.”
“Eventually.”
We ran harder.
The first bulkhead dropped behind us.
Another started descending ahead.
Briggs slid beneath it.
I followed.
The steel door dropped so close to my boots I felt the air move.
On the other side, Briggs reached the maintenance lift.
He punched the call button.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
“Dead,” he said.
Footsteps echoed behind the bulkhead.
Price’s men were coming.
I looked up.
Access ladder.
“Where?”
Briggs followed my gaze.
“Deck Two.”
“Good.”
“That shaft opens beside Kane’s administrative office.”
“Less good.”
He gave me a humorless smile.
We climbed.
The alarm continued pulsing.
My arms burned by the time Briggs pushed open the Deck Two access hatch.
He emerged first.
I followed.
The corridor was empty.
For perhaps ten seconds.
Then Kane’s voice came across the ship’s announcement system.
“Attention all personnel.
Petty Officer Hannah Mercer Cole has assaulted a superior officer and stolen a service weapon.”
Briggs looked at me.
Kane continued.
“She is believed to be experiencing an acute psychological crisis and should be considered armed and dangerous.”
I almost laughed.
It was elegant.
Efficient.
Within twenty seconds, Kane had transformed me from investigator into threat.
“Any personnel encountering Mercer will report her location immediately.
Do not approach.”
Briggs whispered, “He’s isolating you.”
“I know.”
“If NCIS contacts the bridge, Kane will tell them you became unstable.”
“I know.”
“And Price will corroborate it.”
“So will medical records they haven’t written yet.”
Briggs stared at me.
“You’ve seen this before.”
“Different ship.
Same playbook.”
We moved through a service corridor.
A sailor appeared ahead.
Seaman Alvarez.
He stopped.
His eyes widened when he saw the pistol in my hand.
I lowered it immediately.
“Alvarez.”
He backed away.
“Ma’am…”
“You heard Kane.”
“Yes.”
“He’s lying.”
“I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Neither did Tyler Webb when he collapsed.”
That stopped him.
“Remember that?”
Alvarez nodded.
“The water shortage is fake.”
His expression changed.
“There’s enough reserve water on Deck Four to fill every shower on this ship.”
He stared at Briggs.
Briggs nodded.
Alvarez whispered, “I knew something was wrong.”
“Then help me.”
“What do you need?”
“The communications room.”
His eyes widened.
“They locked it down.”
“Secondary transmitter?”
“Maintenance comms.
Deck Three aft.”
Briggs shook his head.
“Kane will guard it.”
Alvarez looked at me.
“Not the old signal compartment.”
I turned toward him.
“What old signal compartment?”
“Decommissioned radio station.
They stopped using it after the refit.”
“Can it transmit?”
“If the antenna coupler still works.”
“Take us.”
Alvarez hesitated only one second.
Then he led us through the ship.
That was when I realized Kane had made his first mistake.
He thought fear belonged to him.
But fear changes ownership quickly when people discover the truth.
We passed two sailors who pretended not to see us.
Then a chief petty officer quietly opened a maintenance hatch and pointed us through.
A corpsman handed Briggs a gauze pad without asking questions.
Nobody openly joined us.
Nobody openly resisted Kane.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.
The crew was watching.
Listening.
Choosing.
We reached the old radio compartment seventeen minutes after escaping Deck Four.
Alvarez forced the door.
Dust covered the consoles.
Several panels had been removed.
I found the emergency transmitter.
“Power?”
Alvarez checked the breakers.
“Maybe.”
He flipped three switches.
Nothing.
Then a fourth.
The console hummed.
A green light appeared.
I almost smiled.
“Can we reach NCIS?”
“Not directly.”
“Coast Guard?”
“Maybe.”
“Do it.”
Alvarez adjusted frequencies while I removed the documents hidden under my uniform.
Briggs saw the black folder.
His face drained of color.
“Where did you get that?”
“Deck Four.”
“Mercer…”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the door.
“That isn’t inventory fraud.”
I opened the folder.
Inside were photographs.
Men standing on foreign docks.
Cargo being transferred at night.
Military equipment loaded into unmarked trucks.
One image showed Kane shaking hands with a man whose face had been partially obscured.
Another photograph showed Briggs beside them.
I looked up.
“You said you didn’t know who received the supplies.”
Briggs’s voice cracked.
“I didn’t know at first.”
“At first?”
He sat down.
“I was supposed to meet you last night.”
“You didn’t.”
“Kane intercepted me.”
“What happened?”
“He showed me something.”
“What?”
Before Briggs could answer, the radio hissed.
Alvarez raised one hand.
“I’ve got somebody.”
Static filled the compartment.
Then a voice.
“Unidentified station, identify yourself.”
I grabbed the microphone.
“This is Petty Officer First Class Hannah Mercer Cole aboard USNS Resolute.
Emergency transmission.
Request secure authentication.”
A pause.
“Resolute, repeat designation.”
I gave my NCIS operation code.
Silence.
Then:
“Petty Officer Cole, authentication accepted.
State emergency.”
Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly weakened.
“This vessel is compromised.
Command personnel involved in theft and unauthorized transfer of military supplies.
Possible assault, attempted murder, falsification of inventory, obstruction of federal investigation.”
Alvarez stared at me.
Briggs closed his eyes.
The voice returned.
“Copy.
Maintain transmission.”
Then the lights died.
Everything went black.
Alvarez cursed.
Kane’s voice came through the corridor outside.
“Open the door, Mercer.”
I froze.
He was already there.
“Your transmission didn’t go where you think it did.”
I looked at Alvarez.
He stared at the dead console.
Kane continued.
“The communications systems aboard this ship belong to me.”
Briggs whispered, “He rerouted it.”
I stepped toward the door.
“You afraid of NCIS, Colonel?”
Kane laughed.
“No.”
“Then open the door yourself.”
Silence.
Then a metallic click.
Something rolled beneath the door.
Alvarez shouted, “Grenade!”
We dove.
But it wasn’t fragmentation.
Flashbang.
White light swallowed the room.
Sound disappeared.
For several seconds, the world became pressure and brightness.
Hands grabbed me.
I fought.
Someone twisted my wrist.
The pistol vanished.
A knee drove into my back.
My vision returned in fragments.
Boots.
Uniforms.
Blood from Briggs’s mouth.
Kane’s polished shoes.
He crouched beside me.
“You are extraordinarily inconvenient.”
I tried to rise.
Price forced me down.
Kane lifted the folder I had taken.
“The Mercy Project.”
He smiled.
“You always were going to find that eventually.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
“Of course.”
“You let me onto Deck Four.”
Kane tilted his head.
“Finally.”
Briggs muttered, “Mercer…”
I looked toward him.
He seemed terrified.
Not of Kane.
Of me learning something.
Kane stood.
“Bring them.”
We were taken to the flight deck.
The same deck where Tyler Webb had collapsed.
But this time, nearly five hundred sailors and Marines had been ordered into formation.
The Pacific stretched black around us.
Wind whipped across the ship.
Floodlights illuminated the deck.
Kane walked us toward the rail.
Briggs stumbled beside me.
Price followed.
The entire crew watched.
Kane wanted witnesses.
That was obvious.
What I didn’t understand was why.
He stopped in front of the formation.
“Petty Officer Mercer has accused command staff of criminal misconduct.”
Murmurs moved through the sailors.
Kane continued.
“She has fabricated evidence, assaulted personnel, stolen classified records, and attempted to transmit restricted operational information.”
I shouted, “Deck Four!”
The murmurs grew.
Kane looked at me.
I shouted louder.
“Ask him what’s on Deck Four!”
Price grabbed my arm.
Kane smiled.
“There is nothing on Deck Four.”
“Open the hatch!”
A voice came from the formation.
“Open it.”
Everyone turned.
Chief Petty Officer Hall stepped forward.
Another sailor joined him.
Then another.
Kane’s smile disappeared.
Hall said, “Open Deck Four, Colonel.”
For the first time since I met him, Kane looked uncertain.
Only for a second.
Then he recovered.
“Return to formation.”
Hall stayed where he was.
Kane glanced toward Price.
That was when Briggs whispered to me.
“He needs this.”
“What?”
“The confrontation.”
I looked at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Kane knew NCIS would eventually send someone.”
Wind whipped his words away.
I leaned closer.
Briggs said, “The shortages were bait.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“He wanted an investigation.”
Cold moved through me.
Kane was shouting orders now.
Sailors were refusing to move.
The deck was slipping toward mutiny.
Briggs continued urgently.
“He wanted someone to find Deck Four.”
“Why?”
“Because the Mercy Project isn’t theft.”
I looked toward Kane.
Then back to Briggs.
“What is it?”
Before he could answer, Price seized him.
Kane stepped toward me.
“You want everyone to know what’s on Deck Four, Mercer?”
“Yes.”
His smile returned.
“Good.”
He raised his radio.
“Open compartment four.”
Across the flight deck, a cargo elevator began rising.
Everyone turned.
I expected pallets.
Water.
Medical supplies.
Instead, six people emerged.
Three men.
Two women.
One teenage boy.
Their hands were bound.
Their faces bruised.
They wore civilian clothes.
A woman stumbled as guards pushed them forward.
The crew went silent.
I stared at Kane.
“What the hell is this?”
He walked beside me.
“The people your precious government prefers not to acknowledge.”
I looked at Briggs.
He whispered, “Witnesses.”
“To what?”
Kane answered.
“Something much larger than stolen water.”
He stepped closer.
“You thought I was selling supplies.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“Then where are they going?”
“To keep these people alive.”
I stared at the civilians.
Kane continued.
“Three months ago, a covert operation failed in the South Pacific.
No uniforms.
No official deployment.
No rescue authority.
The men who planned it abandoned everyone involved.”
My mind raced.
The ships with no registry.
The medical transfers.
The falsified records.
“You’ve been supplying a covert force.”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Kane looked toward the bound civilians.
“Survivors.”
The teenage boy raised his head.
His eyes found mine.
He looked terrified.
Kane said, “Those people witnessed an operation that officially never happened.”
“Whose operation?”
He smiled.
“That is the question that gets people killed.”
I suddenly understood why Briggs was afraid.
Not because I had found evidence against Kane.
Because Kane might not be the top of the chain.
A helicopter appeared in the distance.
Lights moving toward us across the ocean.
Sailors began pointing.
Price touched his earpiece.
Kane didn’t seem surprised.
I felt hope anyway.
“NCIS?”
Kane looked at me.
“No.”
The helicopter came closer.
Black fuselage.
No visible markings.
Kane said softly, “Those are the people your transmission summoned.”
Briggs went pale.
“You rerouted it to them.”
Kane shook his head.
“I didn’t reroute anything.”
He looked directly at me.
“Your authentication code did.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“My code belongs to NCIS.”
Kane leaned close.
“Does it?”
The helicopter circled the Resolute.
No navigation lights except the minimum required.
No markings.
No callsign broadcast across the deck.
The rear door opened before it landed.
Four armed men jumped onto the flight deck.
They wore black uniforms without insignia.
A fifth man followed.
Gray hair.
Civilian clothes.
Calm expression.
My heart stopped.
I knew him.
Special Agent Martin Vale.
My NCIS handler.
The man who had recruited me for the Resolute.
The man who had given me the instructions.
Observe.
Document.
Discover what was happening on Deck Four.
Vale walked across the deck as though he owned the ship.
Kane straightened.
For the first time, there was something almost like hatred in his face.
Vale stopped ten feet away from me.
“Hannah.”
I could barely speak.
“You sent me here.”
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“What is the Mercy Project?”
Vale looked at Kane.
Then at the civilians.
Then back at me.
“It’s the reason Colonel Kane was supposed to die six weeks ago.”
Nobody moved.
Kane laughed softly.
“There it is.”
Vale ignored him.
He stepped closer to me.
“Your assignment was never to investigate missing supplies.”
My mouth went dry.
“Then what was it?”
Vale’s eyes held mine.
“To find out whether Kane still had the witnesses.”
I looked toward the bound civilians.
My pulse hammered.
“You used me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Kane knows every agent on my task force.”
Vale’s expression never changed.
“But he didn’t know you.”
I thought about Deck Four.
The suspicious transfers.
The sailor who whispered to me.
The records.
My cover.
Kane humiliating me publicly.
Everything suddenly rearranged itself.
“You expected me to find them.”
Vale nodded.
“And once I did…”
“We would retrieve them.”
Kane said, “Retrieve.”
He laughed.
“That’s what he calls it.”
I looked at Vale.
“What happens to the witnesses?”
Vale did not answer.
That was answer enough.
I stepped backward.
Price still stood behind me.
Kane stood to my left.
Vale’s team blocked the helicopter.
The crew watched from formation.
Five hundred people caught between versions of the truth.
I turned to Briggs.
“You knew.”
His eyes filled with something like apology.
“I found out yesterday.”
“That’s why you missed the first meeting.”
“Yes.”
“What did Kane show you?”
Briggs looked toward the teenage boy.
“His identity.”
The boy stared at us.
“Who is he?”
Briggs swallowed.
Before he could answer, Vale drew his pistol.
Kane moved.
Fast.
He kicked me squarely in the chest.
The force threw me backward.
My spine struck the rail.
For one impossible second, I balanced there.
Then I went over.
Five hundred faces disappeared above me.
The Pacific rushed up.
And I heard Kane shout something that made no sense until much later.
“NOW!”
The water hit like concrete.
Cold swallowed me.
I sank.
Down.
Down.
My chest burned.
My ears roared.
I fought toward the surface.
When I emerged, choking, the Resolute was already moving away.
Floodlights glowed against the darkness.
People crowded the rail.
Kane stood above them.
Hands on his hips.
Exactly as I remembered.
His voice carried over the water.
“Problem taken care of.”
Then the ship kept moving.
No life ring.
No rescue boat.
No alarm.
Nothing.
I treaded water, stunned.
Vale had come for the witnesses.
Kane had thrown me into the ocean.
Briggs was still aboard.
The Resolute was disappearing.
For several minutes, I believed Kane had finally decided to kill me.
Then something bumped against my leg.
I recoiled.
A black flotation case surfaced beside me.
Military issue.
Waterproof.
A small green light blinked on top.
I grabbed it.
My fingers shook as I opened the latch.
Inside were three things.
A compact emergency breathing system.
A satellite beacon.
And my sealed NCIS evidence packet.
The same packet that had been hidden beneath my bunk.
The packet I had never told Kane existed.
Across the front were the words:
DECK FOUR.
I tore it open.
Inside was a photograph.
Not evidence.
Not documents.
A photograph.
It showed Colonel Victor Kane standing beside Special Agent Martin Vale.
The image was dated eleven years earlier.
Behind them stood six men wearing black uniforms without insignia.
One was Nathan Briggs.
Another was Staff Sergeant Price.
And the fifth man was my father.
Commander Samuel Mercer.
The man I had been told died in a helicopter crash when I was fourteen.
My hands began trembling.
Something was written on the back of the photograph.
I turned it over.
Four words.
KANE IS NOT THE ENEMY.
A second line appeared beneath it.
TRUST THE MAN WHO THREW YOU OVERBOARD.
Then the satellite beacon activated by itself.
A screen lit inside the case.
Coordinates appeared.
Distance: 1.4 nautical miles.
A vessel was approaching me.
I looked into the darkness.
At first I saw nothing.
Then a shape emerged.
Low.
Black.
Silent.
The same kind of unregistered vessel Briggs had described.
A light flashed once from its deck.
Then twice.
Then once again.
A signal.
Someone aboard was expecting me.
As the boat drew closer, a man stepped into the dim red light near the bow.
Gray hair.
Broad shoulders.
A scar across his cheek.
For a moment, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.
Then he spoke.
“Hannah.”
My entire body went cold.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it in old birthday recordings.
In family videos.
In dreams I stopped admitting I still had.
The man aboard the black vessel looked exactly like the man in the photograph.
Exactly like the father I had buried twelve years ago.
Commander Samuel Mercer extended his hand toward me.
“We don’t have much time,” he said.
“Vale knows you’re alive now.”
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Full Story:
FULLSTORY : HE THREW ME OFF A NAVY SHIP TO KILL ME – T218
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thanh Thanh
