The little boy pounding on my Ferrari window couldn’t have been older than five, but the terror in his eyes stopped me colder than any gun ever had. “Mom is dying… please help!” 9360

Across the mahogany conference table sat Vice Admiral David Mercer, Chief of Naval Operations, his service bridge coat unbuttoned, his four gold stars gleaming against the bulkhead lights.

Beside him sat United States Attorney Marcus Cooper, Chief Federal Prosecutor for the Eastern District of Virginia, and Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Bennett, Chief Trial Counsel for the Military District of Washington.

“Look at the subterranean telemetry on monitor two, Ethan,” Marcus Cooper said, his gravelly baritone slicing cleanly through the rhythmic thrum of the main rotor gearbox.

He touched a mechanical toggle on the ruggedized Panasonic Toughbook:

CLACK.

A high-resolution, four-thousand-pixel satellite LiDAR survey resolved across the dual displays.

The screen illuminated a subterranean topographical cross-section of the District of Columbia, penetrating one hundred and forty feet beneath the foundations of One First Street Northeast. Red vector lines pulsed through the pre-Cambrian crystalline schist and reinforced granite bedrock, tracing an unbroken, twenty-foot-wide reinforced concrete-and-titanium artery running from the deep command bunkers beneath the Pentagon straight under the National Mall into the subterranean foundations of the Supreme Court of the United States:

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