David crossed Perimeter Road and saw the University House sitting atop a squat hill, its ornate wooden door still cloaked in the early morning shadow. He paused at the bottom and pulled out his phone to place a call he was loath to make. It was answered after one ring.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was trying to reach Donna.”

There was a pause on the other end. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t six four two one?”

“Six four two two,” the woman replied.

“My mistake.”

He ended the call, satisfied he had notified Mantis of the danger to her operative. Whether she chose to warn the girl or simply cut her off was none of his concern. His only concern was to analyze the information contained on the memory card and fix whatever errors had caused his waveform to fail.

But first, it’s time for tea.

He tucked the phone in his pocket and started up the hill to begin his day.

16

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72)

Colt barely slept a wink that night. It wasn’t because they had stuck him in a crowded stateroom and forced him to sleep in a three-high bunk with only eighteen inches of clearance, because they hadn’t. As a guest pilot, they had assigned him to one of the two-person staterooms on the port side of the ship close to the dirty shirt wardroom. He had the entire room to himself and hadn’t been forced to suffer the intolerable snoring or bodily gas expulsions that had defined each of his previous experiences aboard an aircraft carrier. But still, he barely slept.

He rolled out of his rack just before six in the morning and let his bare feet cool on the worn linoleum floor while he held his head in his hands. As fresh as the memory was, the fear was already receding. He was embarrassed at being forced to leave the ship early but consoled himself by remembering he had a copy of the squadron’s maintenance data, and that if he got it into the right hands, he might avert a disaster.

With a groan, Colt stood up from the rack and crossed the short distance to where his towel hung on the open locker door. Other than the large parachute bag containing his flight equipment, he had only brought a small duffel with the essentials, including a week’s worth of fresh underwear and socks, clean T-shirts, and workout gear. He threw on one of his powder-blue TOPGUN T-shirts, slipped on his shower shoes, and grabbed his toiletries before tossing the towel over his shoulder and opening the door.

The hallway was still darkened, bathed in a faint red glow from the previous night, but before he had taken two steps, that changed. Bright white lights flickered on to replace the soothing red, and Colt squinted against the offense.

The 1MC confirmed what he had already suspected. “Now reveille, reveille, all hands heave out and trice up. Give the ship a clean sweep down fore and aft. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces.”

With eyes barely more than slits, he shuffled along the passageway to the officer head located a short distance from his stateroom. There were only two shower stalls in the smaller head, but for most air wing officers, reveille was often a clue that it was time to put the Xbox controller down and go to sleep, not get up and prepare to leave the ship in disgrace. He felt confident he wouldn’t have to wait for an empty stall.

Colt turned the corner with his gaze lowered and saw a pair of black leather boots just in time to avoid a collision. Startled, he looked up and saw his wingman from the night before.

“Hey, Colt,” Smitty said.

“You’re up early.”

“You know, early bird and all that bullshit.”

Colt nodded and waited for the Marine pilot to move aside, but Smitty just stood there with a concerned look on his face. He felt his waning anxiety return and wondered if he would ever regain his confidence.

“So, Colt…”

Here it comes.

Smitty’s voice lowered into a conspiratorial tone. “Did you get it?”

He felt his face flush with sudden fear that his theft was about to be unveiled. It took a second for Colt to brush aside the cobwebs and remember that it had been Smitty’s idea to steal the maintenance data in the first place. But still he struggled with the idea of letting the Marine in on the secret. If he was discovered, the last thing he wanted to do was drag someone else down with him.

When Colt didn’t answer, he stepped closer. “Did you?”

Colt shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Smitty recoiled as if slapped. To a Marine, the motto Semper Fidelis was an eternal and collective commitment to the steadfast loyalty to those they served alongside. Colt knew he had probably offended Smitty by intimating that he didn’t trust him to have his back, but he couldn’t bear the thought of making Smitty complicit in his crime.

“Yeah. I do. Besides, I think I have an idea that might help.”