He turned to her. “Talk to me.”
“They’re in the system. Not fully. But enough to trigger a conflict.” Her eyes flicked to a diagnostic tree. “Which means we’re not the only ones talking to the clamps.”
The picture locked into place, and he didn’t like the shape of it. “They’re cracking it.”
“Yes.” She exhaled slowly. “Halfway through. They don’t have full authorization, but they’ve got access somewhere—legacy credentials, a compromised node maybe, physical access at the bay level. Something.”
An enemy halfway through a door didn’t stop. They doubled down.
“What happens if you force it?”
Jen met his gaze. “If I push a hard override remotely, the system could interpret it as a release command instead of a lock.” Her mouth flattened. “The clamps fail open in certain scenarios. Fire. Structural stress. Rapid depressurization.”
She spread her hands against her thighs, knuckles white. She was scared. Not of the terrorists or the danger—scared of making the wrong call and handing those missiles over herself. The same fear in combat when the decision was yours and every option led to someone dying.
“And that would hand them the missiles.”
“Yes.” A beat. “Or brick the system entirely. Either way, once the clamps disengage, they don’t need me or any of the crew anymore.”
Wyatt’s eyes slid back to the missile bay feed. Caro paced in tight, frantic lines. “So, remote’s off the table.”
“The only safe way now is a manual lockdown. Local interface. Physical access.” Her voice fell. “From inside the missile bay.”
Wyatt processed the shift. One objective had just split clean down the middle into two—secure the missiles, get Caro out. And they’d have to do both under fire. And judging by how fast the terrorists were burrowing into the system, they were running out of time to do either.
He glanced around the room, instinctively checking the door and the vents before refocusing on the screen. “Of course it is. Would’ve been suspicious if this stayed easy.” He drained the last of his coffee and set the mug down. “Looks like we’re going downstairs.”
Wyatt unhooked the radio from his hip, already knowing he wouldn’t like what he heard. He turned it on before lifting it to his ear.
Voices spoke Russian. Clipped and urgent. He caught fragments—enough to know it was operational coordination, the tone of men moving into the final phase.
“…bay teams moving… be ready…”
He gritted his teeth. They were confident. Talking about when, not if.
Another voice cut in, sharper, with authority. A longer sentence he couldn’t fully parse.
He lowered the volume. “Something about a vessel. Four hours.”
Jen stilled. “Cargo vessel.”
She caught his look and gave a tight shrug. “My Russian’s terrible, but I know some technical vocabulary. They’ve got a ship coming for the missiles.”
“Four hours?” He checked his watch. “The ship’s arrival will push them to breach the bay so they can get the missiles prepped.” The extraction was planned, coordinated, and ready for execution.
“Then we don’t have much time.” Lines grooved down from the corner of her mouth.
“No. Show me the schematics.”
Her head bent. “Hang on. The missile bay is here.” She tapped her screen with a pencil.
Wyatt scanned the routes, already discarding corridors that would get them killed. “That’s three levels down and across the station. Through corridors they’re actively patrolling.” He pointed at the security feed. “We’d be walking straight into them.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what do you suggest?” She gave a heavy sigh, her hands flat on the console. “We can’t stay here. We can’t leave Caro. And if they get those missiles?—”
“I’m not saying we don’t go.” His eyes met hers. “I’m saying we need a plan that doesn’t get us all killed.”
