I flipped the heavy brass toggle switch: CLACK.
The digital display illuminated in bright, unyielding emerald phosphor:
JSOC ADMIRALTY RELAY // SECURE CARRIER LOCK
AUTHENTICATING: CHANCELLOR CLARA ELEANOR MERCER
COMMISSION: DIRECTOR OF SPECIAL INFRASTRUCTURE INTERDICTION (ACTING)
TARGET TELEMETRY: FLIGHT 482 // AIRBORNE OVER ALLEGHENY CORRIDOR
DESTINATION: CHICAGO O’HARE // TERMINAL 1 // GATE B-12
I pressed the single pre-programmed red emergency button:
hummm… hummm.
On the second pulse, the line opened with an airtight, clinical snap.
A deep, gravelly baritone—the voice of my maternal grand-uncle, Vice Admiral David Mercer, Chief of Naval Operations and Surgeon General Emeritus of the United States Navy—answered across the encrypted channel:
*“Admiral Mercer’s flag desk.
Authenticate.”*
“This is Chancellor Clara Eleanor Mercer,” I spoke into the microphone, my voice flat, level, and carrying forty decibels of compressed naval iron:
“Authentication code: USN-44-MERCER-CONDUIT-TEN.”
A sharp, violent intake of breath hissed across the secure line:
*“General on deck!
