“Dive coordinates,” I said.

The air in the room felt cold, smelling of ozone and damp concrete.

“The specific transit corridors for the *Delaware* during her sea trials next week,” I added.

I pointed to the coordinate fields flashing in red on the map.

The blue line originating from our terminal was sending a steady stream of latitudinal and longitudinal points.

“They’re siphoning the exact depths and speed profiles,” I said.

“That’s classified TS-SCI,” Carter whispered from behind the rack.

“How is that possible without an administrative key?” Turner asked, his voice rising slightly.

He stepped toward me, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“The key was bypassed three days ago,” I said, pulling up the system log.

“That’s impossible,” Turner said. “The security logs are routed to my desk every morning at zero-eight-hundred.”

“Then you missed the override on junction seven-B,” I said, looking up at him.

Turner’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting toward the closed door of the server room.

He pulled at his collar, his fingers trembling slightly against the starch of his uniform.