Chapter 55 - The Midnight Inquest
The *Sovereign Shadow* lunged forward with a violent, spine-snapping jolt as the twin jet turbines ignited, lifting the hull onto its carbon-fiber foils.
The three torpedoes were wake-homing, tracking the cavitation of our propellers through the freezing shoals. Nicholas didn't run for the open ocean; instead, he banked hard to starboard, throwing the interceptor directly into the jagged, shallow waters of the Devil’s Teeth—a labyrinth of half-submerged granite reefs where even commercial fishing boats dared not enter.
"Nicholas, the rocks!" I yelled, watching the red terrain-proximity alarms flash frantically across the cockpit display. "Depth is under twelve feet!"
"These foils draw seven!" he shouted back over the deafening scream of the turbines. "Hang on!"
He whipped the helm back and forth with surgical, mad precision. The interceptor skimmed over the jagged black teeth of the reef at fifty-five knots. Behind us, the first torpedo lost its acoustic lock, slammed into an underwater granite outcrop, and detonated with a thunderous roar.
A forty-foot geyser of white foam and pulverized rock erupted into the night sky, throwing our stern sideways. The second torpedo detonated against the reef shelf fifty yards behind it, the shockwave vibrating through the aluminum hull like a sledgehammer strike.
The third weapon, skimming too close to the surface, broached the water, skipped off a granite ledge, and skipped wildly into the empty dark, detonating harmlessly against the open sea.
We cleared the reef line, plunging into the deep, turbulent swells of the open North Atlantic.
Behind us, the lights of Boston were a distant, smoky amber smear on the horizon. Ahead was nothing but an endless, pitch-black expanse of freezing ocean, churning beneath a ceiling of bruised, starless clouds.
"We lost them," I panted, wiping cold sweat from my eyes, my muscles shaking from adrenaline.
"We lost their vanguard," Nicholas corrected, his hands steady on the controls as he set the autopilot to a northern high-speed intercept trajectory. "The primary fleet is already twelve hours ahead of us. They sailed from Halifax before the strike on the manor even began."
He reached beneath the center console and pulled out a battered, non-networked military satellite transponder. He slammed it into the cradle, dialing a twelve-digit encrypted frequency.
"Who are you calling?" I asked. "You said the Harbor Council was compromised."
"Not the Council," Nicholas said grimly. "The Council is made up of politicians, bankers, and paper kings. When a dynasty falls, you don't call bankers. You call the Iron Vanguard."
The line clicked. A gruff, weathered voice answered after a single ring, speaking in Norwegian-accented English.
*"Nicholas? We saw the fire on the coastal satellite sweeps. Is it true?"*
"Captain Lindqvist," Nicholas said, his voice hard as tempered steel. "The bluffs are gone. Arthur is dead—has been dead for a decade. The man moving toward Site 9 is an operative of the Northern Tribunal. He has the master key."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the transponder. When Lindqvist spoke again, his voice was thick with dread. *"Dear God. If they breach the Sixth Vault, the Tribunal controls every undersea communication cable, every oil platform grid, and the sovereign debt ciphers of nine nations. What are your orders, Sovereign?"*
"Scramble the Svalbard wolfpack," Nicholas commanded. "Authorize deep-water engagement rules. No quarter. No survivors. And Lindqvist?"
May you like
*"Sir?"*
"Tell the crews that my wife is aboard my flagship. If a single Tribunal hull attempts to escape the fjord, they are to ram them into the ice shelf. We will meet you at the mouth of Scoresby Sound at dawn."
