“You don’t have the authority, Chief,” Turner said, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

The heavy metal door at the end of the corridor groaned as it was thrown open.

Heavy boots clicked rapidly against the linoleum.

Three men in dark windbreakers entered the room, followed by two armed shore patrol officers.

The lead man had a leather folder in his left hand and his right hand resting on his holster.

“Federal investigators,” the lead man said. “Identify yourselves.”

“Special Agent Harris?” I asked.

The man looked at me, his eyes cold and gray.

“Dr. Mitchell,” he said. “We received your transmission from the *Providence* diagnostic link.”

“Captain Turner is attempting to wipe the secondary server,” I said.

Harris stepped forward, his boots leaving wet tracks on the gray floor.

“Captain Mason Turner,” Harris said, his voice flat. “Stand down.”

Turner pulled his hand back from the desk.

“This is a highly classified naval operation, Agent,” Turner said, straightening his uniform jacket. “This civilian is interfering with base security.”

“We have a warrant signed by the Secretary of the Navy,” Harris said.