Page 21 of Love for Thea

Mace was about to close his laptop when a high-priority, encrypted alert tone echoed through Picasso’s satellite comms on the table. It wasn’t Tex. It was a secure line from the East Coast.

Picasso snapped the unit up. “Waverly.”

The voice on the other end was clipped, authoritative, and familiar. Commander Rachel Bennett.

“Senior Chief, I’m looking at a USGS alert saying your vacation spot is sitting on a geological bomb,” Bennett said, Navy steel threading her tone. “I also have a report from Naval Intel that two of our operators and a civilian asset are being held by a hostile PMF. Care to explain why I’m hearing about this from someone else?”

Picasso’s posture stiffened, his jaw tightening as the weight of her words sank in. “Commander, that situation was not fully confirmed until recently. We’ve been focused on prepping a local-lead recovery. My apologies for the delay in communication.”

Bennett’s voice remained firm, edged with controlled impatience. “Apologies won’t cut it now, Senior Chief. From here on, I need full transparency.”

“The local lead just went global, Waverly. The Pentagon is trying to frame this as a natural disaster but we know better. This is a Vanguard operation. You and your team are officially recalled to active duty effective immediately. Consider the Adams Ranch a Forward Operating Base. I have already coordinated with the Governor. Naval Intelligence has assigned Mason and Logan Adams to work with you as your digital coordinators.”

“We will also be reaching out to Ronald Adams directly regarding the use of his property to ensure all clearances and support are in place.”

A faint hum of tension filled the room. Picasso’s eyes shifted toward Ronald, a questioning look passing between them. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken understanding. Ronald gave a slight nod, his calm and steady expression betraying the weight of their earlier conversations about his armory and bunker. The ranch was no longer just a home but a fortress prepared for what was coming.

“What about the gear, ma’am?” Picasso asked, glancing toward the bunker entrance. “We’re running sanitized hardware.”

“Wolf is currently over the Rockies,” Bennett replied, her voice carrying the authority of a seasoned leader. “He’s carrying a specialized ordnance drop: high-heat tactical suits, suppressed weaponry, and enough C4 to make that hangar disappear. If Vanguard wants a war in a volcano, give them one. You have unrestricted authority to secure our men and the civilian asset. Recover our men. Bring back the girl. And Picasso, don’t let that mountain catch you.”

“Copy that, Commander. Moving now.”

Picasso ended the call and turned to the Adams brothers. Mace and Logan shared a glance, their expressions a mix of awe and determination. They had heard the stories. Commander Rachel Bennett wasn’t just a legend; she was the first female SEAL to rise through the ranks and lead a squadron. She commanded respect effortlessly and knew every operator personally. To have her green-light their mission was both an honor and a heavy responsibility.

“Change of plans,” Picasso announced, his voice edged with the full weight of Navy authority. “We’re not just a rescue party anymore. We’re a sanctioned strike team. Atlantic One, this is our show now. Wyatt, you’re our PJ and primary liaison for the Air Force drop. Mace and Logan, you’ll stay here to work directly with Tex as our eyes and ears from command. If Commander Bennett is giving us the sky, I want every satellite Tex can access locked onto that sector.”

He glanced at Ronald, who nodded grimly, the burden of what lay ahead etched into his features.

“You heard the man,” Ronald said, his sergeant’s voice sharp and commanding. “Three hours until Wolf’s drop. Let’s get the trucks to the LZ.”

ELEVEN

THEA

01:15 Hours (Day 2) (Time Elapsed: 08 hours, 45 minutes)

The sub-level of the Vanguard facility carried no hint of fresh mountain air. Instead, it was thick with the sterile tang of recycled ventilation, the sharp bite of heated metal, and the electric crackle of machines straining under relentless pressure. Dim, flickering fluorescent lights cast pale pools of light over humming consoles, while the low drone of cooling fans and distant alarm bells filled the enclosed space with an uneasy urgency.

“You’re wasting time, Dr. Wynn.”

The voice was like a scalpel: cold, precise, and devoid of empathy. Thea looked up from the glowing monitors to the reinforced glass of the observation deck. The Principal stood there, a silhouette of tailored silk against the harsh industrial lighting. He didn’t look like a mercenary or a criminal; he looked like a man who believed he had bought the laws of physics.

“The acoustic resonators are drifting,” The Principal continued, his voice amplified by the intercom. “My engineers tell me the granite cap is resisting the frequency. I don’t pay for resistance. I pay for results. Fix the curve, or I’ll have my men pull the drill bit out without a counter-pressure sweep. You know what happens to the valley if the vacuum isn’t filled.”

Thea’s right hand found her left wrist. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Data point, she thought, staring at The Principal’s reflection in the glass. The Principal is a narcissist with a God complex. Probability of him listening to a geological warning: 12 percent.

“If you pull that bit now, you’ll burst a pressure pocket the size of Manhattan,” Thea said, her voice sounding thin and small in the cavernous room. “The pressure in the cavity is already at 92 percent of the cap’s structural integrity. You just think we are‘fixing a curve,’ Mr. Thorne. We’re actually holding a lid on a pressure cooker that’s about to explode.”

Thorne didn’t blink. “Then I suggest you get to work, Doctor. Miller!”

Miller, the lead engineer, flinched at the sound of his name. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week: his skin a sallow gray, his hands trembling as he hovered over the resonator controls. He looked at Thea with a mixture of resentment and desperate, hollow-eyed hope.

“You heard him,” Miller rasped, his voice raw from the sulfur in the air. “The feedback loop is hitting 400 hertz. Every time we try to dampen it, the resonance spikes. Tell me what to do.”

The floor beneath Thea’s feet suddenly buckled. It wasn’t a sharp snap, but a long, rolling groan that resonated in her teeth. On the catwalk above, a mercenary stumbled, his rifle clanging against the steel, a tiny, discordant data point in the seismic event.