Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in Candlelight
Admiral Harrison slowly leaned forward, his massive palms pressing flat against the edge of the mahogany table. The candlelight illuminated the deep trenches carved into his forehead, but the stern, untouchable arrogance that usually defined his presence had vanished entirely. In its place was a naked, harrowing dread.
He stared through the wavering flames at Samantha’s face, searching every line of her fair skin, looking at the smooth, undisturbed curve of her cheek, the deliberate set of her shoulders, and the deep, bottomless blue of her eyes.
"You're not dead," Harrison whispered, his voice trembling so violently that the medals on his chest rattled faintly against his uniform.
The guests around the table exchanged terrified, bewildered glances. Mark’s father looked at his brother-in-law as if the Admiral had suffered a sudden neurological stroke. "William," he said softly, "what are you saying? Dead? Who is dead?"
"Be quiet, Arthur," Harrison breathed, never taking his eyes off Samantha.
Samantha’s right hand moved slowly. Her slender, manicured fingers wrapped around the base of her crystal water glass. She did not drink; her fingers simply tightened, her knuckles showing the faint, pale outline of tension beneath the skin. The muscle memory was unmistakable to Harrison—it was the exact grip of an aviator holding a flight-stick neutral while waiting for the catapult shuttle to fire.
The Admiral swallowed, the sound dry and loud in the silent room. He had to know. The bureaucratic machinery of the United States government had certified her destruction with five levels of executive classification. If she was alive, then the entire architecture of that mission—and the lies told to cover it—was standing in front of him.
Harrison leaned further across the table, his deep voice dropping into an urgent, grave register that made Chad instinctively lean back in his chair.
“What was your call sign, Commander?” Harrison asked.
May you like
The question hung in the air like the click of a cocked pistol.
Mark turned to Samantha, his heart in his throat. He saw a microscopic change in her face—a fractional tightening of her jaw, a sudden, piercing chill that settled into her gaze. For the first time since he had met her, the polished, gentle woman he knew was slipping away, replaced by the terrifying, lethal silhouette of an operator who had looked into the abyss and survived it.
