Chapter 5 - THE PORT THAT WASN'T ON THE MAPThe Resolute changed course at 03:14.
No official announcement came.
No captain's order.
No emergency declaration.
Just a quiet alteration in heading.
The ship was moving toward a port that didn't appear on any public navigation chart.
Briggs pulled up the digital coordinates.
“What is this?”
Ward stared.
“Anchor Nine.”
I had never heard of it.
“It's not listed.”
“Exactly.”
We moved toward the bridge through a maintenance tunnel.
Every few minutes, the ship's loudspeakers crackled.
Then silence.
The crew had noticed.
Questions spread.
Rumors moved faster.
Then the first warning sounded.
ALL PERSONNEL REMAIN IN ASSIGNED AREAS.
A second announcement followed.
THIS IS A SECURITY EXERCISE.
Nobody believed it.
Briggs looked at Ward.
“What is Anchor Nine?”
Ward didn't answer immediately.
Finally:
“A logistics transfer facility.”
“Who owns it?”
“Officially, nobody.”
That was enough.
When we reached the bridge entrance, we found six armed men.
Not sailors.
Not Marines.
Private security.
They wore no insignia.
Briggs pulled me behind a wall.
Ward whispered:
“There are too many.”
“Then we need another route.”
I remembered Deck Four.
The hidden corridors.
The maze of supply pallets.
I pointed downward.
“They won't expect us there.”
We retreated.
Five minutes later, we were back inside the warehouse.
Ward opened another concealed door.
A staircase descended.
Cold air rushed up.
I stared down into darkness.
“How far?”
Ward said:
“Three decks.”
Briggs looked at him.
“The old transfer tunnel?”
Ward nodded.
I followed.
The tunnel was narrow.
Pipes ran overhead.
Water dripped from rusted seams.
After several minutes, we reached a room filled with communication equipment.
Banks of old radios.
Satellite terminals.
Encrypted systems.
Briggs found a console.
“Everything is routed through here.”
“Can we contact NCIS?”
“Maybe.”
I looked at the screens.
One monitor displayed hundreds of shipping records.
Another displayed bank transfers.
A third showed personnel records.
Then I saw a familiar name.
Tyler Webb.
His personnel file had been altered.
Medical history changed.
Disciplinary records inserted.
Performance reviews rewritten.
Briggs cursed.
“They manufactured a profile.”
“They were going to discharge him.”
Ward nodded.
“After he became inconvenient.”
I looked through the system.
Dozens of sailors had the same altered records.
Most were listed as medically unstable.
Some as unreliable.
Others as violent.
“They're building reasons to remove people.”
“Or make people disappear.”
A sound echoed from the tunnel.
Footsteps.
Ward shut off the monitor.
“Too late.”
The door opened.
I expected Kane.
Instead, a woman stepped through.
Mid-forties.
Civilian jacket.
Short dark hair.
A pistol at her side.
She looked at me.
“Hannah.”
I raised my weapon.
“Who are you?”
“Major Rebecca Shaw.”
“Active duty?”
“No.”
She reached inside her jacket.
Slowly.
Then tossed an NCIS badge onto the table.
I picked it up.
It looked genuine.
Ward shook his head.
“Don't trust the badge.”
Shaw smiled faintly.
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“NCIS sent you to find Deck Four.”
“Yes.”
“They knew this operation existed.”
My stomach tightened.
“What operation?”
“The Meridian Program.”
She pointed to the screens.
“Black Meridian isn't a company.”
“What is it?”
“A network.”
“Run by whom?”
Shaw hesitated.
Then:
“People who don't officially exist.”
Briggs stared at her.
“What about Adrian Vale?”
“He's not the head.”
I felt the room get colder.
“Then who is?”
Shaw looked directly at me.
“You.”
I laughed once.
“What?”
She stepped closer.
“Your father.”
The name struck me before she even said it.
“Thomas Mercer.”
My father's name.
Dead for twelve years.
Briggs looked at Ward.
Ward lowered his eyes.
Shaw continued.
“Thomas Mercer wasn't killed in an accident.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What are you saying?”
“Your father discovered the original Meridian contracts.”
“No.”
“He tried to expose them.”
“No.”
“He disappeared.”
I stared at her.
“Everyone said the crash killed him.”
“They found a body.”
She paused.
“It wasn't his.”
I felt the room tilt.
Shaw placed a photograph on the table.
A grainy image.
A man standing beside an aircraft.
Older.
Bearded.
Alive.
My knees weakened.
It was my father.
The man I had buried in my mind twelve years ago.
I picked up the photograph.
“When was this taken?”
“Six months ago.”
I looked at Shaw.
“Where?”
She answered:
“Anchor Nine.”
Then every alarm on the ship exploded.
Red lights flashed.
A speaker crackled.
Kane's voice thundered through the tunnel.
“Hannah Mercer Cole.”
A pause.
“You've been asking where the supplies went.”
Another pause.
“Now I'm going to show you who ordered them moved.”
The screen in front of me switched on.
A single live camera feed appeared.
A man sat in a chair.
Gray hair.
Beard.
Older than the photograph.
My hands went numb.
The man looked directly into the camera.
Directly at me.
And spoke.
“Hannah.”
I stopped breathing.
It was my father.
May you like
“Please don't trust anyone aboard this ship.”
Then the screen cut to black.
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