Chapter 6 - The Ghost of Obsidian Shield
The wind off the Elizabeth River whipped my hair across my face, but I didn't blink. I stared at Miller, feeling the world tilt on its axis.
"Explain," I commanded, my voice dropping into the icy, flat tone that brooks no argument.
Miller let out a harsh, bitter breath that misted in the damp air. He leaned his back against the brick parapet, keeping a wary eye on the street below where the contractors were currently swarming out of the Suburbans, surrounding the front of my clinic with weapons drawn.
"Seven years ago, Operation Obsidian Shield was compromised from the inside," Miller began, his eyes unfocusing as he stared into the memory. "Command gave the order to burn the site. They called in an airstrike to erase every asset, every file, and every operative attached to the biometric tracking initiative. They wanted us dead because we found out what the funding was really being used for."
"I know," I whispered, gripping the edge of the sat-com. "I monitored the drop. I heard the strike coordinates."
"You heard what they wanted you to hear," Miller corrected grimly. "Ethan knew the burn order was coming ten minutes before the comms went dead. He didn't run. He locked himself in the lower sub-level with three specific assets, including Ghost. He gave me the encrypted drive, ordered me to exfiltrate through the drainage tunnels, and told me to hide in plain sight until someone with the clearance to decode the file woke up."
"And you stayed hidden for seven years?"
"I didn't just hide, Dr. Cole. I waited," Miller said, stepping closer, his gaze locking onto mine with fierce intensity. "For seven years, I watched the intelligence reports. I watched men who were supposed to be dead get quietly reassigned or quietly buried. And then, three weeks ago, Ghost started acting strange. He stopped eating standard rations. He started pacing toward the eastern perimeter of our safehouse in Northern Virginia, staring down the highway toward the coast."
Miller paused, swallowing hard.
"And then yesterday morning, he dug up an old steel ammunition box buried beneath the floorboards of our safehouse. Inside was a set of coordinates. And a single handwritten note in Ethan’s handwriting."
My breath caught in my throat. "What did the note say?"
Miller reached into his tactical fleece pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed piece of weather-beaten paper, handing it to me.
My fingers trembled as I took it. The handwriting was unmistakable. Sharp, angular, drafted with the precision of a man who spent his life mapping enemy territory.
If you're reading this, the vault in Norfolk is open. Rook is still there. Protect the dog. Find the truth. — E.C.
Before I could process the words, the sat-com in my hand suddenly let out a sharp, rhythmic series of digital beeps. The green LED light flickered rapidly, transitioning from a standard broadcast signal to an incoming encrypted data stream.
Incoming transmission. Secure channel verified. User ID: OBERON-01.
May you like
My blood ran instantly cold.
OBERON-01 was Ethan’s secure operational call sign. A call sign that had been deleted from every military database on earth seven years ago.
