Chapter 52 - The Swiss Cipher
The air in the subterranean bunker beneath Berth Nine smelled of damp salt, rusted iron, and stale gunpowder. We had descended through a gravity-operated escape tube behind the penthouse hearth, landing four floors below the harbor's water line.
The concrete walls vibrated steadily. Every few seconds, the deep, muffled thump of offshore naval artillery reverberated through the earth. Helena von Berg’s destroyers were systematically shelling the outer perimeter of Silas’s automated sea-defenses.
In the center of the command room, six men stood around an illuminated tactical map table. They were the survivors of Silas’s personal guard—scarred, silent men who looked at Silas not as a mobster, but as a commanding general.
"Status, Miller," Silas ordered, shedding his tailored wool coat and strapping on a black tactical vest.
"Berths One through Seven are completely suppressed, Major," the lead guard replied, his voice strained. "The Consortium’s destroyers are flying sovereign flags from neutral ports. The Coast Guard and federal authorities can't touch them without triggering an international incident. They’ve established a naval blockade three miles wide. Nothing enters the Hudson. Nothing leaves."
Silas leaned over the digital map, his eyes tracing the red blips encircling the bay. "They brought eight Arleigh Burke-class destroyers into private hands. Helena bought them through shell corporations in Zurich and Singapore. But she made one critical mistake."
"What mistake?" I asked, carrying Clara to a cot in the corner of the bunker. I pulled a wool blanket over her shoulders, but her big, terrified eyes never left Silas.
"She thinks Berth Nine is just a shipping dock," Silas said, looking up at me. The harsh neon light cast deep, predatory shadows across his face. "She thinks Arthur built this harbor to move shipping containers. But Arthur didn't build Berth Nine. *I did.* While I was still running black-ops for the maritime defense sector."
He pressed his thumb against a rusted brass panel set into the concrete wall. A concealed locker opened with a hiss of pressurized air. Inside hung several heavy ceramic plates, assault rifles with sound-suppression systems, and a series of black transponder keys.
"What is Berth Nine really, Silas?" I whispered.
"It’s a scuttling trap," Silas answered, chambering a round into his rifle with a metallic clack that made the guards snap to attention. "A harbor-sized graveyard designed to drag any invading armada to the bottom of the ocean. But to activate the bedrock sea-valves, someone has to board the flagship."
He looked directly at the center red blip on the radar screen: the flagship *Archon*.
May you like
"And I’m going to tear Helena von Berg off that bridge with my bare hands."
***
