“You won’t find it,” Gordon said. “It’s memorized.”

I looked at the pages in the binder, my eyes scanning the handwritten notes in my mother’s elegant script.

The progress bar reached 89%.

Suddenly, the terminal screen flickered, and a completely different alert box popped up, overriding the wipe.

A red warning light on the desktop server began to flash, accompanied by a steady, high-pitched chime.

My personal government-issued phone vibrated violently in my pocket.

I pulled it out and saw a flash message from the National Military Command Center.

The screen lit up with red text.

*CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE: USS OREGON.*

My breath caught in my throat as the phone began to ring.

I pressed the receiver to my ear, my knuckles turning white.

“Admiral Hart,” I said, my voice tight and level.

The line crackled with static, the background noise in the command center a low roar of shouting voices.

“Ma’am, we have a primary coolant loop isolation failure on the *Oregon*,” the watch officer said.

“What is their depth?” I asked.

“Four hundred feet and dropping,” the officer replied. “They are executing an emergency main ballast tank blow.”