Hayes stepped through the threshold first, his weapon raised.

The water ended at the door frame, leaving only a thin, greasy sheen on the linoleum tiles of the forward passageway.

I followed him closely, my boots squeaking loudly against the wet floor.

The phone on the bulkhead rang a second time, a loud, metallic clatter that echoed off the steel ribs of the hull.

“Ignore it,” Hayes whispered, his voice barely a breath.

He kept his back to the starboard bulkhead, moving toward the blue glow of the terminal.

The air in this section was warm and smelled of old coffee and hydraulic fluid.

I checked the overhead cable runs, tracing the thick bundles of shielded data lines that fed into the radio shack.

“The main comms trunk is still active,” I said, my voice low.

“He’s using the auxiliary satellite uplink.”

Hayes nodded once, his eyes fixed on the door to the radio shack.

The door was metal, painted haze gray, and sat half an inch ajar.

Through the crack, I could see a shadow moving against the blue light of the monitor.