“We traced a data stream from the main admin server room directly to your comms suite,” I said, showing him the tablet.

The screen showed the active MAC address, still searching for its lost signal.

“That’s impossible,” Harris said.

“Check the terminal, Commander,” I said. “Right now.”

Harris looked at my tablet, then at Hayes’s face.

He set his clipboard on a ledge.

“Follow me,” Harris said, turning and walking fast down the narrow passageway toward the stern.

We moved past the tiny officers’ quarters and the galley.

The sound of the crew preparing for departure was everywhere—the clatter of metal, the drone of voices over the intercom, the steady thump of hydraulic systems.

We stopped outside a heavy steel door with a digital lock and a sign that read *RESTRICTED AREA – NO ADMITTANCE*.

Harris punched a code into the keypad.

The lock clicked.

He pushed the door open.

Inside, the communications room was cramped, filled with green-screen monitors and rack-mounted receivers.

A single sailor sat in the operator’s chair, his back to us.

He was wearing headphones.

He didn’t turn around when the door opened.