Chapter 15 - THE POINT LOMA DEPOT
Rain had begun to fall over San Diego by the time Jack and Grace surfaced from the subterranean utility hatch half a mile north of the main naval base perimeter.
The dark Pacific Ocean churned violently against the jagged rocks of Point Loma, sending plumes of white sea spray fifty feet into the night air. Towering above the breaking waves sat the decaying, overgrown concrete bunkers of the historic naval ammunition depot—a relic of World War II long forgotten by the modern military establishment.
Jack drove a plain, unregistered civilian pickup truck he had kept stashed inside an off-base storage locker for emergencies. The windshield wipers slapped rhythmically against the glass as he navigated the narrow, unlit coastal road leading to the cliffside perimeter.
Grace sat in the passenger seat, her service pistol resting on her lap, her eyes scanning the dark treeline through the rain-slicked window.
"My father brought me here when I was twelve years old," Grace said quietly, her memory returning in vivid detail as the outline of the concrete watchtowers materialized through the fog. "He told me we were visiting a historical landmark, but he spent two hours inside the lower battery room while I waited in the car."
"He wasn't visiting a landmark," Jack said, turning off the truck's headlights as he coasted the vehicle into the thick shadow of a collapsed artillery bunker. "He was setting up his final safehouse. The Colonel knew that if Prometheus ever breached his primary records, Point Loma was the only place equipped with old-world mechanical security that couldn't be hacked by a satellite signal."
They stepped out of the truck, the cold coastal rain instantly soaking through their tactical jackets.
Jack carried the canvas rifle case flat against his side, while Grace held a high-intensity tactical flashlight, illuminating the rusting iron gate that sealed the entrance to Battery Ashburn—the deepest subterranean bunker on the peninsula.
The heavy iron padlocks securing the gate had been treated with heavy grease to prevent rust. Jack pulled a thick brass key from the lining of his tactical belt—a twin key to the one Colonel Thornton had carried on his dog tags for thirty years.
He inserted the key into the tumbler. With a heavy, metallic groan, the ancient lock turned.
The iron gate swung open, revealing a long, descending concrete stairwell that plunged down into the absolute blackness of the coastal granite cliff.
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"Keep your light low," Jack warned softly, stepping into the dark stairwell. "The humidity in these old bunkers holds fog. If anyone is monitoring this ridge with thermal optics, a high beam will silhouette us against the entrance."
Grace nodded, clicking her light to its lowest red-spectrum setting as she followed Jack down into the depths of her father's final secret.
