A decorated commander slapped a female officer in front of a thousand troops, completely unaware her classified record outranked his entire career.

The lower hangar bay of the *USS Abraham Lincoln* was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint blue lights of maintenance lanterns.

Sitting in the center of the bay was the modified C-2 Greyhound. Its gray naval paint had been stripped and replaced with a matte-black radar-absorbent coating. The standard twin-turboprop engines were flanked by two streamlined auxiliary rocket pods mounted under the wings—solid-fuel boosters designed to kick the transport plane into high-subsonic velocity at forty-five thousand feet.

Master Chief Cross was already in the cockpit, running the pre-flight checklists on the glass instrument panel. He looked up as Avery climbed through the rear cargo ramp, wearing an all-black high-altitude pressure suit without rank insignia or nametag.

"Fuel is topped off, Boss," Cross said, his voice coming through the suit’s internal comms. "The catapult crew on Cat Three is briefed. They think this is a priority black-box delivery to Guam."

"Good," Avery said, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat and strapping the five-point harness across her chest. "Keep it that way until we clear the outer radar net."

"And if the Raptors intercept us?" Cross asked, flipping the master avionics toggles.

"The Raptors won't see us until we’re five miles behind them," Avery replied, plugging her datapad into the aircraft’s mission management system. "The carbon skin will scatter their phased array, and we’re riding the squall line until we reach twenty thousand feet. By the time they realize we aren't an authorized courier, we’ll already be in their blind spot."

Behind them, the massive hangar bay doors slid open with a metallic shriek. The howling wind of the typhoon rushed into the cavernous space, carrying sea spray that hissed against the hot exhaust nozzles of the jet engines on the deck above.

The yellow-shirted flight director signaled with his illuminated wands, guiding the black C-2 onto Catapult Three.

The steam shuttle locked onto the front landing gear with a heavy, jarring clunk.

Outside, the green launch light flickered to life.

"Three seconds to stroke," Cross said, his hands firm on the flight yoke. "Hold onto your teeth."

*BANG.*

The catapult fired with monstrous power. The C-2 was flung forward from zero to one hundred and sixty knots in two seconds, the immense G-force pinning Avery back into her seat. The nose cleared the edge of the angled deck, dropping for a terrifying fraction of a second toward the churning whitecaps before the twin turboprops bit into the thick storm air, clawing the transport upward into the raging black sky.

"Positive rate of climb," Cross reported, pulling back on the yoke. "Gear up. We’re in the soup."

Avery looked out the cockpit window. Below them, the *Abraham Lincoln* and its escort cruisers were rapidly shrinking into tiny specks of gray steel in a boundless, foaming ocean.

She turned her attention to the mission display.

Eighty miles ahead, cruising at forty-two thousand feet above the storm clouds, was the glowing radar signature of the Boeing E-4B *Doomsday Plane.*

"Engage booster sequence at twenty-five thousand," Avery commanded. "Target acquisition in six minutes."

"Understood," Cross replied, his thumb hovering over the guarded booster ignition switch. "Boss... if we breach that hatch and Sterling’s detachment has the interior covered, we won't have anywhere to retreat."