Chapter 27 - The Iron Gate
The red strobe light pulsed across the concrete ceiling of the underground bunker. Vance burst through the heavy security door, his sidearm drawn, his expression tighter than I had ever seen it.
"General! We have an emergency priority transmission from Post!"
"What is it?" I snapped, standing up, Abigail instantly moving behind me.
"A rogue convoy of three unmarked heavy transport haulers just breached the secure perimeter of the Letterkenny Army Depot in Pennsylvania. They used biometric credentials registered to deceased military personnel—Richard Gardner's credentials."
A cold wire coiled through my gut. Richard's old service codes, dormant for twelve years, had been activated to unlock the deep-storage subterranean vaults at Letterkenny—a facility that held decommissioned nuclear-capable guidance systems and advanced classified avionics slated for destruction.
"They're not running abroad," Abigail said, her eyes flashing with instant clarity as she looked up from the decrypted files. "They’re not fleeing the country. They’re extracting the prototype targeting modules Richard impounded in 2011 before he was killed. Those modules can bypass the automated missile defense grid of every allied nation in NATO."
"If those reach the black market," Vance said, his face pale, "the balance of power in Eastern Europe ceases to exist overnight."
I looked down at Vance-Keller. He was chuckling—a dry, rattling sound that sounded like dead leaves blowing across concrete.
"Too late, Eleanor," he whispered. "The shipment is moving. The extraction team is the best private military outfit money can buy. Former SAS, former Delta, former Spetsnaz. You can't catch them. They'll be across the Canadian border and into the Arctic shipping lanes before your bureaucracy can hold a single meeting."
I leaned down until my lips were an inch from his ear.
"David," I said quietly, "you spent twelve years living in air-conditioned offices learning how to play politics. You forgot what happens when you wake the wolves."
I straightened up and turned to Vance. "Assemble Strike Team Alpha. Alert the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment at Fort Campbell. I want two MH-47 Chinooks with aerial refueling capability prepped on the tarmac in fifteen minutes."
"Mom," Abigail said, stepping forward, unhooking her tactical holster from her belt and checking the chamber of her Glock with ruthless efficiency. "I’m going with you."
I looked at my daughter. The bruised cheek, the stitches on her brow, the dark shadows under her eyes—and behind them, an unshakeable, terrifying resolve that matched my own.
May you like
"Get your kit, Abby," I said. "We're going to finish your father's work."
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