Chapter 55 - THE VAULT OF PORPHYRY
The crypt of John Paul Jones was a circular chamber of classical marble and gold leaf, illuminated by the harsh, utilitarian glare of four portable halogen work lights. In the center of the circular room sat the great sarcophagus—a massive, sculpted block of deep purple-red porphyry resting on bronze dolphins.
Tied to a heavy iron stanchion against the eastern curve of the wall sat General Sterling. His service blouse was torn, his jaw bruised, but his head was held high, his pale blue eyes staring with pure contempt at the man standing over the portable command desk.
Admiral Alistair Vance looked every inch the patrician prince of the defense establishment. Tall, slender, with silver hair brushed back from a severe, aristocratic brow, he wore a tailored dark navy overcoat over his formal uniform. His gloved hands rested delicately on the edge of a ruggedized field terminal that was connected via thick black cables to a deep bore-hole drilled directly into the base of the stone sarcophagus.
Around him, four heavily armed private military operators stood with their weapons leveled at the circular entrance.
"You should appreciate the symmetry of this, Sterling," Vance was saying, his voice smooth, musical, and completely unbothered by the storm above. "Your precious Emma Carter thought she was saving the country by breaking Davies's radio. She was merely clearing the board for us. Once this data clears the satellite buffer, the entire operational history of Pale Horse will be deleted from every database on Earth. And you, my dear Arthur, will be buried right here as the tragic victim of a rogue archivist's rampage."
"You always were an arrogant coward, Alistair," Sterling spat, blood speckling his white collar. "Thomas Carter took three bullets in the pass to save your supply lines in seventy-two. And you shot him in the back like a dog."
"Thomas was a peasant with an eye for wind," Vance replied coldly, looking at the glowing progress bar on the screen: 91%. "He didn't understand that nations are not governed by honor. They are governed by ledgers."
"Then read the last entry, Admiral," a voice murmured from the archway.
The four operators spun in unison, their carbines coming up to their cheeks.
Emma Carter stood in the doorway. She was covered in mud, soot, and frozen river spray, her faded uniform torn at the shoulder, holding the heavy, wooden-stocked Aegis II loosely at her hip.
Vance didn't flinch. A slow, condescending smile spread across his thin lips. "Specialist Carter. How theatrical. But you are too late. The data is already in flight. And you have one round in an antique hunting rifle against four submachine guns."
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Emma did not raise the rifle to her shoulder. She looked directly into Alistair Vance’s eyes with a stillness that caused the four operators to hesitate, their fingers pausing on their triggers.
"The rifle isn't an antique, Vance," Emma said softly. "And I didn't come to stop the transmission."
