“Why the hell not?” Hayes barked.

“Captain Turner issued a direct order,” Carter said, his face pale.

“No one stops that boat without his personal clearance.”

“Turner is protecting his own career,” I said.

“He knows the system failed, and he’s trying to get the boat out of port before the Pentagon finds out.”

“I’m calling him,” Carter said, reaching for his radio.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “He won’t stop it.”

I looked at Hayes.

“We have to go down there ourselves.”

“I’m with you, Doctor,” Hayes said.

He pulled a pair of heavy zip-ties from his tactical vest.

He secured Miller’s wrists behind the chair frame with a sharp, plastic click.

“Carter, watch him,” Hayes said. “If he moves, pin him.”

Carter nodded, his eyes wide as he looked at the bound technician.

We left the communications room, our boots hammering against the metal stairs.

The air outside was cold, smelling of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet asphalt.

The gray afternoon sky of Groton was heavy with low-hanging clouds.

We ran across the asphalt toward the concrete piers of the submarine pens.