Chapter 5: Taking the Bridge
The bridge of the Nautilus IV was a cathedral of glass, glowing instrument panels, and digital navigation maps. The autopilot was engaged, holding the vessel steady on a direct heading toward international waters near the Mariana Trench, where evidence disposal was traditionally convenient. Through the reinforced windshield, the endless horizon blurred into the dark sky.
The helmsman sat in the oversized leather pilot's chair, staring intently at a radar screen, completely unaware of the shift in power that had just occurred three decks below.
I pushed the heavy glass door open. It slid back on silent pneumatic rollers. The helmsman didn't turn around immediately, assuming it was Montgomery coming up to check the coordinates.
"We’re maintaining twenty knots, sir," the helmsman said, his voice flat and bored. "Should cross the trench marker by 0300 hours."
"Change the heading," I said.
The helmsman froze. His hands hovered over the digital throttle levers for a fraction of a second before he spun the chair around, his expression shifting from casual indifference to absolute shock as he saw me standing there with the metal bat resting casually across my shoulder.
"You—how did you—"
"Set a course for San Diego naval station," I interrupted, my tone level and unyielding. "Or I can help you find out how well you swim in freezing water."
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the emergency alarm button embedded in the armrest of his console. I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. I didn't wait for him to make the choice. With a short, sharp flick of my wrist, I tossed the metal bat across the control deck. It struck the panel precisely beside his hand, shattering the plastic casing of the alarm button and embedding itself firmly among the toggle switches.
The helmsman jerked his hands back as if burned, staring at the weapon with trembling wide eyes. The psychological dominance was absolute. He knew that physical resistance was futile against someone who moved with the cold, calculated efficiency of a ghost.
"Hands on the console where I can see them," I commanded, stepping forward to retrieve my drive from the clutch.
May you like
I plugged the secure data siphon directly into the ship's primary navigation and communication array. The screen flickered as the downloaded files interfaced with the military-grade satellite transmitter built into the bridge's comms suite. A secure ping went out, piercing the atmospheric interference and connecting directly to the Pacific Fleet operations center.
The transfer status bar appeared on the central monitor: Transmitting classified manifests. Secure channel established.
