CHAPTER 6: THE PORTSMOUTH TRANSIT
The steel deck of the Ford Econoline utility van didn’t vibrate; it shuddered, transmitting the grinding friction of an ungreased differential directly through Evelyn’s tailbone. The air inside the windowless cargo bay was stagnant, saturated with the bitter stench of burning diesel oil and the damp, organic smell of mud-cured canvas.
Every three seconds, a rhythmic thump-thump rattled the chassis as the rear tires hit the rusted expansion joints of the James River bridge.
Evelyn’s wrists were bound behind her back with standard-issue naval security zip-ties. The thick plastic had already sliced through the white fabric of her dress gloves, biting into the skin over her radial arteries until her fingers felt like cold, numb sausages. Next to her, wedged between a stack of secured oil drums and the reinforced steel partition separating the cab, Edward Harris sat with his chin tucked into his chest. His white service shirt was ruined, smeared with the dark iron-filing grime from the Norfolk annex floors.
“The bridge is three miles long,” Edward whispered, his teeth clicking together as the van hit a deeper pothole. His voice was a thin rasp, stripped of any authority it had held twenty-four hours ago on the patio. “If they take the secondary turnout toward the shipyard annex, we’re inside a tier-three military brig before the morning watch shifts. The database update will lock our status as ‘unauthorized absence’ by 0600.”
Evelyn didn’t look at him. She was focused on the heavy iron latch of the van’s rear utility doors. The lock mechanism was old—an outdated civilian handle reinforced with a bolted steel hasp on the exterior. But through the narrow, rusted gap where the rubber seal had rotted away from the metal frame, she could see the wet reflection of sodium streetlights bouncing off the river fifty feet below.
“Briggs isn’t taking us to the brig,” Evelyn said, her voice pitched below the low drone of the tires. “Hauer’s signature was on the confinement order, but the driver is wearing a logistics command patch, not master-at-arms brass. They’re moving us to the fuel docks.”
Edward’s head snapped up, the muscles along his jaw tightening. “The fuel docks? The Carney’s sister hull is scheduled for a dead-tow to the breakers at dawn. It’s sitting at the auxiliary pier.”
“Exactly,” Evelyn said. She shifted her weight, the friction of her wool trousers scraping against the bare iron of the floorboards. She began to working her bound hands against the sharp, square edge of a loose steel tie-down ring bolted to the deck. The metal was pitted with orange rust, acting like a coarse file against the heavy plastic binding her wrists. “They don’t need a cell, Edward. They just need us on a vessel that’s already certified as an unmanned salvage risk.”
In the front cabin, the muffled squawk of an encrypted tactical radio cut through the engine hum. The words were obscured by heavy static, but the driver’s response was clear, delivered with the flat, unblinking compliance of a low-level operator: “Roger, Command. Approaching the mid-span turnout now. Perimeter is clear.”
The van decelerated hard, the heavy smell of scorched brake pads flooding the cargo bay through the ventilation slats. The vehicle veered to the right, the tilt of the frame indicating they had left the main bridge lanes for the industrial access ramp that led down to the water’s edge—a desolate stretch of decommissioned piers where the old fleet hulls were left to rot until the scrap contracts were cleared.
Evelyn ignored the burning pain in her wrists as she dragged the plastic tie-tie across the rusted iron ring with increasing velocity. The fibers of her white gloves tore away in gray clumps, mixing with the iron filing dust on the floor.
Snap.
The tension gave way instantly, the severed plastic whipping against her skin. Evelyn didn’t make a sound. She immediately brought her numbed hands forward, her fingers fumbling with the heavy, salt-crusted canvas straps of the nearest equipment bag bolted to the side rack.
Inside, her fingers closed around an object that didn’t belong in a standard logistics kit—a heavy, corroded iron master key stamped with the deactivated hull classification number of the Carney’s decommissioned division. It was cold, smelling strongly of old oil and bilge scale, its teeth worn flat by decades of manual labor. It wasn’t an explosive or a file; it was a physical piece of the old navy, a tool built before the command structure became an automated network of deniable signatures.
“Edward,” she whispered, her fingers finding the lock mechanism of his constraints as the van bounced off the uneven gravel of the pier road. “When the doors open, don’t look for the gate. The river is the only lane they haven’t encrypted.”
The van came to a sudden, jarring halt, the tires spitting gravel against the underside of the wheel wells. The engine died, leaving only the high-pitched shriek of the cooling fan and the heavy, rhythmic slapping of dark water against the creosote pilings outside.
A heavy, iron latch clicked on the exterior of the door. The steel panels began to pivot outward, revealing the cold, gray expanse of the Atlantic mist and the looming, skeletal silhouette of a dead-tow cargo hull rising like a black cliff against the dawn sky.
