They handed a female Marine captain an obsolete rifle to humiliate her, until the Master Chief realized whose daughter was holding it.

The air inside the subterranean sanctuary was remarkably dry, preserved by an ancient, gravity-fed ventilation system that drew fresh air through hidden fissures in the cliff face overlooking the ocean.

The room was expansive, built like an operational command post from a bygone era.

Along the western wall stood heavy steel storage lockers filled with preserved field rations, medical kits, satellite communication gear, and rows of pristine, grease-packed infantry weapons. In the center of the room sat a massive oak map table, covered with acetate overlays depicting global shipping lanes, defense supply chains, and highlighted names of high-ranking corporate executives.

Suspended directly above the map table was a large wooden plaque bearing the raised brass insignia of the United States Marine Corps, flanked by two crossed combat k-bars.

Grace walked slowly toward the center table, her eyes scanning the handwritten notes pinned to the map board.

"He spent years building this file," Grace said, her voice filled with awe and heartbreak. "He tracked every illegal shipment, every compromised procurement contract, and every offshore account tied to Prometheus from nineteen-ninety-nine until the day he went dark."

Jack walked over to a heavy, fireproof steel safe bolted directly into the granite floor beneath the map table.

"This is what he died protecting," Jack said, pointing to the safe's dual-key locking mechanism. "The primary mainframe drive. It contains the raw, unedited master recordings of every illegal transaction made by Prometheus leadership—including the names of the three active flag officers in Washington who authorized the cover-up."

Grace pulled the small flash drive they had retrieved from Coronado out of her pocket, holding it beside the safe's secondary interface port.

"When we insert this drive," Grace said, looking up at Jack, "the entire archive will transmit via encrypted satellite to the Inspector General of the Department of Defense and every major intelligence oversight committee in D.C. There will be no hiding it. No sweeping it under the rug."

"And no turning back," Jack added grimly. "Prometheus will be dismantled within forty-eight hours, but the men who profit from it will burn every asset they have to stop that transmission from completing."

Before Grace could insert the drive, a low, metallic grinding sound vibrated through the granite floorboards above their heads.

The heavy blast door at the end of the entry tunnel began to creak.