The morning sun had completely crested the horizon, transforming the choppy Atlantic waters outside into a vast, shimmering sheet of beaten gold. Inside the EML Operations Center, the frantic clatter of mechanical keyboards had slowed to a steady, rhythmic pulse. The air, which had spent twelve hours thick with the metallic tang of overheating processors and raw, desperate sweat, now carried only the crisp, unadorned scent of ozone and freshly brewed coffee.
"Federal maritime data is populating the public wires," Tunde announced, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly timbre that carried the immense weight of his relief. He stood before the central wall projection, watching as the red maritime transponder representing Julian Vance’s command vessel vanished from the live satellite map, re
