Lieutenant Carter scrambled after us, his boots skidding on the greasy steel grating.

We hit the heavy crash bar of the outer door.

The cold Connecticut night air hit my face like a wet towel.

Groton was freezing in November.

The wind off the Thames River carried the smell of low tide and diesel fuel.

Yellow sodium lights flickered above the concrete pier, casting long, vibrating shadows across the black water.

Ahead of us, docked in Pen Three, lay the black hull of the submarine.

The vessel was five hundred feet of specialized steel, sitting low and silent in the dark water.

The thick mooring lines were already humming with sudden tension.

“The main hatch is still open,” Hayes shouted over the rising whine of the pier generators.

“They haven’t cleared the brow yet.”

We ran down the wooden-planked gangway.

My boots slipped on the frost-coated wood.

Hayes caught my elbow, keeping me upright.

Behind us, Lieutenant Carter was shouting into his radio, his voice cracking with panic.

“Base security, this is Carter! We have an unauthorized departure in Pen Three!”

Only static answered him.