I reached the electrical distribution panel, my fingers searching for the latch on the metal cover.

The door was rusted shut, sealed by years of neglect and saltwater exposure.

“Hayes, I need the crowbar,” I said, my voice shaking.

He didn’t answer.

I turned around to look for him.

His flashlight was pointed toward the far end of the corridor, near the forward bulkhead door.

A figure was standing there in the shadows, holding a heavy steel wrench.

The light caught the gold insignia on the man’s wet sleeve.

“You should have stayed on the pier, Sarah,” a voice said from the darkness.

“Miller,” I said, my teeth chattering from the cold water.

The beam of Hayes’s flashlight shivered against the damp bulkheads, illuminating the gold stripes on the lieutenant’s sleeve.

Lieutenant Miller, the chief communications officer, did not lower the heavy steel wrench.

His face was pale, his eyes wide and fixed on us.

“You weren’t supposed to be down here, Sarah,” Miller said.

“The boat is drifting into the channel, Lieutenant,” Hayes said, his voice flat and steady.

“Put the wrench down.”