My own father called me a “worthless soldier” and tried to have me locked away after six soldiers died on my mission—but when I rolled into a Senate hearing with scars covering my back, one recording played over the speakers that made the decorated colonel realize his lies were finally catching up with him.

At 0400 hours, the bunker's perimeter motion sensors screamed.

Red strobe lights flashed across the concrete ceiling. Petty Officer Miller racked the bolt of his rifle, instantly moving to the door's observation port.

“Multiple vehicles on the beach,” Miller announced, his voice flat, icy. “No markings. Suburban chassis, raised suspension. Six... no, eight men in full tactical kit deploying behind sand berms.”

“Is it Orion?” Alvarez asked, instinctively clutching her briefcase.

“Worse,” Foster said, looking through the bunker’s digital scope feed. “HRT. FBI Hostage Rescue Team, accompanied by Pentagon Criminal Investigation Division agents.”

Foster’s secure phone rang. He put it on speaker.

“Admiral Foster,” a smooth, bureaucratic voice spoke over the line. “This is Deputy Attorney General Marcus Vance. You are harboring a fugitive—David Chen—who is wanted for high treason, theft of classified defense property, and espionage. Furthermore, an emergency military arrest warrant has been issued for Lieutenant Maya Leair under Article 104 of the UCMJ: aiding the enemy and publishing classified operational software.”

“Vance, you corrupt piece of trash,” Foster spat. “I know who pays for your wife’s charity foundation. You’re working for Orion’s parent lobby.”

“My motives are immaterial, Admiral,” Vance replied calmly. “You have fifty federal agents surrounding that bunker. You have five minutes to exit with your hands raised, or we deploy thermal breaching charges. You know as well as I do that accidents happen during tactical breaches in remote locations. Don't be a hero, James. You're an old man with a comfortable pension.”

The line went dead.

Miller looked at me, then at Foster. “Sir, I have three hundred rounds of armor-piercing ammunition. I can hold the blast door for twenty minutes.”

“No,” I said, stepping between Miller and the entrance. “That’s what they want. If we shoot federal agents, the story becomes about a rogue, unstable Navy lieutenant who went full terrorist. The truth dies in this sand dune.”

“Maya, if Vance’s people take that drive, it will be incinerated before sunrise,” Alvarez protested.

“They aren't going to take it,” I said, turning to Chen. “David, can you link this bunker's satellite uplink to a commercial broadcast transponder?”

Chen looked up, his eyes widening. “I... I can route it through the public PBS broadcast array on the Salisbury relay tower. But it will burn the transmitter out in three minutes.”

“Three minutes is all we need,” I said.