Resting inside, nestled in eighty-year-old green baize felt, was an antique, four-inch rectangular keyway constructed of solid, non-magnetic brushed titanium, stepped with fifty-six analog cryptographic notches along its lower edge:
KEY IDENTIFIER: MERCER-ARTHUR-010
CLASSIFICATION: STRATEGIC SOVEREIGN ESCROW // TITLE 50 CONTINUITY
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TITLE: CONDUIT TEN // THE PACIFIC RIM COMMAND APERTURE
CLINK.
I lifted the heavy titanium keyway, feeling eighty years of inherited sovereign steel bite into my palm.
“Nathan,” I said, turning to my attorney, my voice carrying forty decibels of compressed, sub-zero naval diamond:
“Alert Task Force Caduceus. Tell Admiral Mercer that the predators have stepped inside the wire.”
Nathan Brooks adjusted his earpiece, his jaw set in pure, immovable granite:
“Red Squadron is already airborne out of Whidbey Island, Chancellor. They are three minutes out.”
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I slipped the titanium key into the inner breast pocket of my wool coat, pulled on my leather field gloves, and walked out the heavy timber doors of the lodge into the driving Pacific rain.
