The utility tunnel was a tight, foul-smelling space, built for maintenance drones rather than fully grown men. The smell of stagnant water and rust filled Wallace’s nostrils as he scrambled forward on hands and knees, the USB drive and the satellite phone secured tightly in his jacket pockets. Behind him, the sounds of combat intensified—a sharp command, a flurry of gunfire, and Kaelen’s pained grunt.
Then, silence. A heavy, final silence that spoke volumes.
Wallace didn't stop. He pushed deeper into the guts of the facility, the low hum of the habitat now a deafening resonance in the confined metal space. He was guided only by a faint emergency light strip along the tunnel floor and the rough directions Kaelen had given him.
The tunnel branched several times. He made quick, instinctual choices, always trying to move downward and toward the outer hull of the structure, where the submersible bay should be. The fear of the agents behind him was a potent motivator, pushing his exhausted body beyond its limits.
After what felt like an hour, the narrow tunnel opened into a large, cold, and damp bay area. It was the submersible dock. The space was enormous, a cylindrical chamber bathed in eerie green light, filled entirely with water save for a narrow catwalk running along the upper perimeter. Two sleek, deep-diving submersibles were moored at the far end.
The heavy pressure door leading back to the main habitat was on the catwalk level. He scrambled up a maintenance ladder and checked the seal. Locked from the outside, just as Kaelen had implied. He was trapped in the bay, but maybe, just maybe, the enemy hadn't secured this exit yet.
He needed to get to a sub. The catwalk was the only way across the cavernous bay.
He took his first step onto the catwalk, only for the bright white beam of a high-powered flashlight to pin him to the railing.
"Freeze, Mr. Thorne."
Agent Kaelen stood ten feet away, blood streaming down his face and suit, his side wound heavily bandaged with a ripped piece of uniform material. He was leaning heavily against the railing, his sidearm pointed directly at Wallace's chest.
"Kaelen?" Wallace felt a wave of relief and confusion. "I thought they got you."
"They tried," Kaelen gasped, wincing in pain. "We need to move. They're sealing the bay doors now. They figured out where we went."
Kaelen pushed off the railing, stumbling slightly but quickly regaining his balance. He waved the gun toward the subs. "The 'Triton' is the fast one, the one on the right. We need to prep it for launch manually"
They sprinted along the catwalk, Kaelen leading the way, staggering but moving with surprising speed. The deep thrum of the facility was changing, shifting in pitch—the sound of the base being pressurized for an intentional flood of this section. The other faction wasn't just trying to capture them; they were trying to drown them.
They reached the 'Triton,' a compact two-man submersible that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Kaelen input a code on the access panel, and the small hatch hissed open.
"Get in the pilot seat! We have to run diagnostics manually," Kaelen ordered, shoving Wallace into the tiny, cramped interior.
Wallace slid into the uncomfortable seat, immediately overwhelmed by the sheer density of dials, screens, and switches. "I'm a data analyst, Kaelen! I don't drive subs!"
"Figure it out!" Kaelen climbed in after him, sealing the hatch with a loud clang. He collapsed into the co-pilot seat, breathing heavily, clutching his side. "Main power is the big red switch. Diagnostics are the three green buttons underneath it. Hurry, they're flooding the bay."
A sudden cascade of water began pouring into the bay from vents high up in the ceiling. The green light of the chamber turned into a churning, frothing nightmare.
Wallace hit the red switch. The sub’s internal lights flared, a comforting hum replacing the external thrum. He hammered the three green buttons. Screens flickered to life.
"Pressure integrity check... nominal," Wallace read from a screen, his hands shaking. "Battery levels... good. External camera feed... check."
He looked at Kaelen, who was pale and focused, monitoring the water level rising rapidly outside the thick plexiglass viewport.
"We need to release the mooring clamps and open the outer bay door," Kaelen said, pointing to a panel on the ceiling. "Top left switch is the clamps, bottom right is the door cycle."
Wallace flipped the clamps switch. A heavy clunk vibrated through the hull. He reached for the door cycle switch just as the water level hit the bottom of the submersible.
Thwump, Thwump.
Two spear-like projectiles hit the hull, pinging off the reinforced titanium shell. The sub was armored, but it couldn't take that indefinitely.
"The pressure is almost equalized!" Kaelen grimaced, watching a gauge intently.
Thwump. The sub rocked violently.
"Now!" Kaelen shouted.
"Forward throttle, minimum power," Kaelen instructed.
They were in the open ocean, kilometers deep, in a tiny metal sphere. Wallace looked at Kaelen, the weight of the situation crashing down on him again.
"Okay," Wallace said, trying to steady his voice. "We’re out. Now what? We have alien contact warnings and a massive organization chasing us."
Kaelen leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a second. "Now, we find a way to broadcast that message to the world. And we find out where Robert Thorne is truly buried."
The Triton continued its slow, silent ascent toward the surface, leaving the secrets of Project Maelstrom behind in the darkness of the deep.
"Wait!" Kaelen yelled, grabbing his arm. "If we open that door while the bay is still pressurizing, we'll implode! The pressure has to equalize with the outside ocean first!"
"They're going to shoot us before that happens!" Wallace pointed to the camera feed screen. On the catwalk above, two agents had appeared, aiming heavy-duty underwater weapons down at the sub.
Wallace flipped the door cycle switch. A mechanical groan signaled the massive outer bay door sliding open, revealing the immense, crushing blackness of the deep ocean just outside the facility.
Wallace pushed the throttle lever forward, gently at first. The Triton hummed, slowly gliding out of the bay and into the open sea, escaping the immediate threat of the agents on the catwalk. The bright floodlights of the facility rapidly disappeared into the inky blackness.
The fog was a blessing, thick as cotton batting, obscuring everything beyond a hundred feet. The red and green lights of the cargo freighter were a silent beacon in the gloom. The Triton pitched in the rising swell, the ocean suddenly feeling vast and unforgiving after the secure confines of the deep.
"Hand me the flare gun, bottom of the storage locker," Kaelen instructed, his voice tight with pain. He was sitting on the edge of the sub's hull, facing away from the approaching ship, scanning their perimeter.
Wallace fumbled in the cramped locker and pulled out a bright orange plastic flare gun. He handed it to Kaelen, who took careful aim at a patch of fog high above the freighter’s bow and fired. The flare streaked upward, bursting into a brilliant red star against the gray sky.
They waited. The sound of the freighter's massive diesel engines grew louder, the ship itself a shadow moving through the mist. Time seemed to stretch. Had they seen the flare? Or just dismissed it as fishing debris?
A horn blasted, a deep, resonant sound that shook the water around them.
"They see us," Kaelen breathed, a flicker of relief crossing his face.
The massive cargo ship began to slow, turning slightly to approach their position. A few minutes later, a smaller utility boat was deployed from the freighter's side, churning through the water toward the Triton. Two figures in orange safety vests and hardhats were in the boat, peering through the mist.
"Ship's officers of the MV Triton's Call," one shouted over the water, his voice gruff. "Who are you?"
Kaelen raised a weary hand. "Survivors of a marine accident. We need medical assistance and safe passage."
The officers hesitated, suspicion clear on their faces. Two men in tactical gear on a high-tech mini-sub in the middle of the Atlantic were far from a normal distress call. But maritime law dictated rescue.
They were hauled onto the deck of the freighter minutes later. The warmth of the ship and the scent of oil and cooking food were overwhelming. Kaelen was immediately attended to by the ship's medic, his side wound a messy, serious affair.
Wallace was directed to the captain's bridge, a warm, well-lit room buzzing with radio communication and the faint glow of radar screens. The captain, a woman with weather-beaten hands and sharp eyes, looked him over.
"A hell of a night for a swim, eh?" she said, offering him a hot cup of coffee. "We've alerted the nearest port authorities about your 'accident'."
"Thank you, Captain," Wallace said, the warmth of the coffee a small comfort. He glanced at the radio console. The captain was talking to the Coast Guard. He needed to get the message out before any official government body arrived, specifically the one that the other faction controlled.
He looked around the bridge. The comms system was a standard, sturdy maritime unit, but it could connect globally. He reached into his pocket and subtly touched the USB drive.
"Captain," he began, "I have some extremely sensitive data regarding the nature of our 'accident'. It needs to be sent to a very specific news organization immediately. I can pay you handsomely."
The captain paused, her eyes narrowing. "That sounds like trouble, son."
"It's the most important story in human history," Wallace insisted, his gaze intense. "People are trying to kill us for it. The people in that facility that just tried to drown us."
Just then, a voice crackled over the radio console, interrupting the Coast Guard conversation. It was a clear, synthesized voice:
“MV Triton’s Call,” the voice commanded. “This is a United States Homeland Security transmission. You are harboring two fugitives and a stolen government asset. Hold them. A US Naval Destroyer is inbound to your location. Do not transmit any data. This is a federal order.”
The captain’s eyes widened. She stared at Wallace, then at the radio console, her decision made for her. "Federal order. I can't help you with a private transmission now, son."
She reached for the security alarm switch, but Wallace was faster. He pulled the USB drive from his pocket and jammed it into a data port on the navigation console, a civilian input used for loading map data. He didn't need the global comms; he just needed a network connection.
"I am a fugitive, but they are the real threat!" Wallace yelled, his fingers flying across the input screens, initiating his data-mirroring protocol again, this time pushing the file onto the freighter's satellite internet connection. The upload bar appeared instantly.
"Stop that!" the captain shouted, lunging for him.
Wallace dodged her, watching the screen
The door to the bridge burst open. Two burly crewmen stared at the scene.
Wallace ripped the USB drive from the port. The data—the alien message, the coordinates, the warning—was out. It was floating on the global network, soon to be picked up by news agencies, academics, and governments everywhere. The secret was out.
The captain glared at him, furious but perhaps understanding the gravity of his actions. Wallace looked at the radio console as the Homeland Security voice continued to shout orders.
"It's too late," Wallace whispered, smiling faintly. "The world knows."
Chapter Five ended as the Triton's Call sailed into a future that had just become very uncertain, the truth of humanity's place in the universe now an open secret
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