Chapter 13 - The Norfolk Junction
By 0300 hours the following morning, I was parked two hundred yards outside the perimeter of Sub-Pier 4 at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Rain lashed violently against the windshield of my unmarked rental car, matching the tempestuous churning of the Chesapeake Bay.
Norfolk was the beating heart of Atlantic Fleet operations, but Sub-Pier 4 was an old, decommissioned section primarily leased out to defense contractors for maritime testing. According to Bennett’s intel, a secure cargo container marked as surplus diving gear was scheduled for offloading from a Vanguard-chartered tugboat.
Through night-vision binoculars, I watched four armed guards in tactical gear patrolling the wet docks. They were not active-duty sailors. They were private security contractors—mercenaries operating with domestic clearances.
A heavy forklift rolled toward a standard shipping container painted dark green. As the container was lowered onto the flatbed of a semi-truck, a familiar figure stepped out from an observation booth.
It was Captain Michael Thorne, flanked by Miller, the man from the Pentagon corridor.
Thorne held a clipboard, signing off on paperwork with cold efficiency. Through the glass, I could see Miller opening the side hatch of the container. Inside were not surplus wetsuits or fins. Stacked from floor to ceiling were aluminum weapon crates bearing the markings of the Naval Surface Warfare Center Crane Division—advanced sniper weapon systems, thermal targeting optics, and experimental electromagnetic jammers.
These were prototype weapons intended for the next generation of special operators, being shipped out under the guise of scrap metal.
I activated my body-worn micro-camera, capturing high-resolution digital frames of Thorne signing the forged customs declarations. Every flash of the lens locked in evidence of federal treason.
Suddenly, the beam of an industrial floodlight swept across my car.
"Intruder at Gate Three!" a voice barked over a megaphone.
The guards drew their sidearms. Before I could throw the car into reverse, a heavy bullet shattered my driver’s side mirror. Gunfire cracked through the storm.
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I slammed my foot on the accelerator, ducking low as rounds stitched the hood and windshield. The tires spun on the slick asphalt, smoked, and then gripped, rocketing the sedan forward through the perimeter chain-link gate. Behind me, two dark SUVs roared to life, their high beams piercing the darkness as the pursuit began.
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