“Kestrel?” I repeated, my hand gripping the edge of the terminal.

They were one of our primary electronics suppliers for the new sonar array.

“He said they would release her if I got the telemetry,” Vance said.

“He gave me a transmitter key.”

“Where is it?” Hayes asked, increasing the pressure on Vance’s neck.

“In the side port,” Vance said, his voice cracking.

“The blue USB drive.”

I looked down at the terminal chassis.

A small, unmarked blue drive was plugged into the maintenance port.

A red LED on the end of the drive was blinking rapidly, indicating data transfer.

The progress bar climbed to eighty-three percent.

“How much did they pay you, Vance?” Hayes asked, his voice cold.

“Nothing yet,” Vance whispered.

“They promised five million after the transmission cleared.”

“You sold out the entire Atlantic fleet for a promise,” Hayes said.

He pulled Vance’s arms behind his back and clicked a pair of steel zip-ties around his wrists.

“Get him up,” I said, my attention fully on the monitor.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.