"No."
Whitmore turned.
"Why?"
"Because someone inside your security structure installed that antenna."
Silence.
Whitmore looked around.
His own people.
Academy officers.
Staff.
Who?
Then a voice came through the plaza speakers.
They should have been offline.
Yet the voice was clear.
Male.
Older.
Calm.
"Admiral Whitmore."
Ethan froze.
Sloane went rigid.
Whitmore looked toward the speakers.
"Identify yourself."
The man laughed softly.
"Ethan already knows."
Ethan whispered:
"Mercer."
Noah looked at him.
"Who?"
Ethan's eyes hardened.
"Captain Adrian Mercer."
Former Phantom Anchor intelligence officer.
Officially killed nineteen years earlier.
Whitmore almost laughed from disbelief.
"Another dead man?"
Ethan responded:
"Apparently we're having a reunion."
Mercer's voice continued.
"Commander Blackwood."
Ethan looked toward the administration building.
"Adrian."
"Twenty-two years and you still sound annoyed."
"You tried to drown me."
"Technically, the submarine did that."
"Who sabotaged it?"
Silence.
Whitmore stared.
Ethan had never known.
Mercer answered:
"I did."
Noah looked at his father.
The entire original disaster.
The explosion.
The pressure failure.
The twelve men almost killed.
Not enemy action.
Sabotage.
Mercer had engineered the accident to steal Meridian.
But Ethan's decision to remain behind ruined the plan.
He stabilized the submarine long enough for the crew to escape.
Then hid the seed.
Mercer spent two decades searching.
Sloane whispered:
"We thought he died in Manila."
Mercer's voice replied:
"You should really stop believing your own reports, Margaret."
Sloane's face hardened.
Ethan shouted:
"What do you want?"
"Nothing from you."
A pause.
"Not anymore."
Noah's tablet, shattered on the ground, suddenly emitted a tone.
Still active.
Ethan stared.
The biometric module inside had survived.
AUTHORITY HANDSHAKE: 82%.
Ethan grabbed it.
Mercer said:
"Your son is much more useful."
Noah's face drained.
Ethan smashed the device against the pavement.
Again.
Again.
Until the casing split.
The display died.
Mercer laughed.
"Physicality was always your solution."
Ethan looked at Whitmore.
"We need the server now."
Whitmore nodded.
He turned toward six academy officers.
One stepped forward.
Rear Admiral Charles Wren.
Commandant of Harbor Point.
Whitmore trusted him.
Had known him fifteen years.
Wren said:
"I'll take you."
Ethan looked at him.
Then at his wrist.
Nothing.
No tattoo.
No obvious clue.
Still, something bothered Ethan.
Wren had not looked surprised when Mercer spoke.
Everyone else had.
Ethan said:
"How did you know the server is in the west administration wing?"
Wren stopped.
Whitmore looked at him.
Wren smiled faintly.
"Because I'm commandant."
Reasonable.
Too reasonable.
Ethan stepped closer.
"Then why did you move your right hand when Mercer said eighty-two percent?"
Wren's face did not change.
Noah did not understand.
Whitmore did.
A trained habit.
Preparing to draw a concealed weapon.
Wren's hand moved again.
Vincent? no irrelevant.
Ethan reacted first.
He drove his shoulder into Wren.
A pistol appeared.
Security shouted.
Whitmore grabbed Noah.
Wren fired.
The shot hit a stone column.
Ethan twisted his wrist.
The gun fell.
Two officers tackled Wren.
He screamed:
"You have no idea what you're stopping!"
Ethan pinned him.
"I've heard that line before."
Whitmore stared at his own commandant.
"Charles."
Wren laughed.
"You think this is about power?"
"What is it about?"
"Survival."
Sloane stepped closer.
"Whose?"
Wren looked at her.
"Everyone's."