Chapter 9 - The Infiltration of Dock 4-9
By 06:00 hours, the rain had tapered off into a dense, freezing fog that hung thick over the grey waters of the Chesapeake Bay. The heavy scent of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet rust filled the air as Jackson guided the truck into an abandoned seafood packing warehouse situated directly across the channel from Norfolk's Sub-Surface Dock 4.
Through a pair of high-powered tactical binoculars, I observed the target location.
Dock 4 was a massive, subterranean concrete submarine pen constructed during the Cold War. It extended deep under the naval station's northern bluffs, partially submerged in the dark water. A heavy, black-hulled private attack submarine—completely devoid of any national markings or naval hull numbers—was docked inside the open cavern, its diesel generators humming with a low, bone-rattling vibration.
Heavy security was visible everywhere. At least twenty private contractors in grey tactical uniforms and military-grade body armor patrolled the perimeter, carrying short-barreled automatic rifles. High-definition thermal cameras mounted on steel towers scanned the water and the surrounding terrain every five seconds.
"It's a fortress, Samson," Jackson said, adjusting the rangefinder on his spotter scope. "Even with Admiral Miller opening the outer sea wall, we can't swim across that channel without hitting their underwater sonar net. The second we breach the surface, those automated turrets on the dock will cut us in half."
"We aren't swimming," I said, turning to look at the rear of the warehouse.
Parked inside the rusting facility was an old, commercial harbor tugboat—the Chesapeake Trader—which Jackson’s local contacts had secured three hours earlier. It looked like an obsolete piece of floating junk, its red paint peeling and hull covered in barnacles, but its heavy steel hull and massive diesel engine were fully operational.
"You want to ram a civilian tugboat into a private military dock?" Jackson asked, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.
"Not ram it," I corrected. "We're going to use it as a Trojan horse. Admiral Miller just transmitted the dock's private logistics manifest. The Chesapeake Trader is scheduled to deliver three industrial fuel bladders to Dock 4 at 06:30. Vance’s contractors are expecting this boat."
"And Chloe?" Jackson asked, his smile disappearing as he looked back at my daughter, who was sitting on a wooden crate in the corner of the warehouse, quietly drawing a picture on the back of a tactical map with a yellow highlighter.
"She stays in the hidden sub-deck compartment beneath the tugboat's wheelhouse," I said, walking over and kneeling down in front of her.
"Chloe," I said softly, taking her small hands in mine. "Uncle Jackson and I have to go finish a very important job inside that big building across the water. I need you to be the bravest girl in the world for just half an hour."
She looked at me with her clear brown eyes, her lips trembling slightly, but she didn't cry. "Are you coming back, Daddy?"
"Always," I said, pulling my silver dog tags off my neck and placing them over her head, tucking them safely inside her shirt. "As long as you hold onto these, I will always find my way back to you. No matter where I am. Do you understand?"
She nodded tightly, hugging me around the neck with all her strength. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you more than life itself, sweetie," I whispered, kissing her cheek before gently carrying her down into the tugboat's armored lower deck, securing the hatch above her.
I walked back up to the main deck, picking up my primary tactical rifle and checking the magazine. Jackson was already standing at the helm, his hand resting on the heavy throttle lever.
"Comms are locked," Jackson reported. "Admiral Miller has disabled the automated harbor defense grid for our approach corridor. We have twenty minutes before Vance realizes the fuel delivery isn't carrying fuel."
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"Cast off," I ordered, stepping out onto the wet deck as the heavy diesel engine of the tugboat coughed to life, spewing a plume of thick black smoke into the cold morning fog.
The boat glided silently out of the warehouse slip, cutting through the choppy, dark waters of the bay, heading straight into the jaw of the dragon.
