“It’s a calibration issue,” Turner snapped.

“It is a foreign insertion,” I corrected.

I reached into my inner coat pocket.

I pulled out a small, velvet-lined case and opened it.

Inside sat a solid silver insignia, an anchor wrapped in a double helix of fiber-optic wire.

It was the classified emblem of the Triton Design Group.

Turner stared at the silver metal, his arrogance faltering for a fraction of a second.

“You’re Triton One,” he whispered.

“I wrote the code you are currently running,” I said.

I closed the case and slipped it back into my pocket.

“Now, get out of my way so I can look at my machine.”

Turner stepped back, his face turning a dark shade of red.

Chief Hayes took a half-step forward, his expression changing to one of quiet respect.

“What do you need, Doctor?” Hayes asked.

“Access to the primary mainframe terminal,” I said.

I opened my briefcase and pulled out a ruggedized diagnostic tablet.

I connected the cable directly into the console interface.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing Turner’s administrative blocks.

The screen flickered, lines of green code scrolling down the display.

I ran the integrity scan on the secure database.

The system did not show a simple calibration lag.

A string of unauthorized data packets was transferring out of the secure network.

The destination IP address was masked behind three layers of ghost servers.

“Someone is inside your system right now,” I said.

“That’s impossible,” Turner said, stepping forward.

“The records room is completely air-gapped.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

On the main wall monitor, a single line of red text appeared.

It was followed by a pulsing, crimson warning light.

An active file-extraction protocol was underway.

The terminal keyboard began to lock up.

“It’s just a system glitch from your diagnostic tool,” Turner said, his voice rising as he reached for the console’s main power switch.