Chencang
However, danger always comes unexpectedly. On the afternoon of the third day, Elaine was alone at a public observation deck about one kilometer from the "fortress," pretending to measure the light to prepare material for a business report.
Suddenly, a black SUV without license plates silently pulled up nearby. Three casually dressed but athletic men got out and walked straight towards her. The leader, with a menacing look in his eyes, asked curtly in heavily accented English, "Miss, stopping and taking pictures are prohibited here." Elaine was startled, but maintained a composed and feigned confusion. She replied, "Excuse me, I'm here to inspect the environment. This is a public area." She showed Moreau company identification.
The other person checked her camera; it only contained landscape photos. But he clearly didn't believe her, suddenly taking a step closer and pressing her with rapid, harsh questions in Russian, trying to find a flaw in her quick reactions.
Elaine was startled, then perfectly timed a look of bewilderment and a hint of panic: "I don't understand! I only know English and a little bit of French!" Her palms were slightly sweaty.
The atmosphere instantly tensed. Just as the other party was about to exert further pressure, a steady voice broke in: "Gentlemen, is there a problem with my wife?" It was Keegan. He strode over as if he had just come to pick up his wife, a businessman's smile both polite and firm. He first negotiated fluently in French, but seeing the other party's cold gaze, he immediately switched seamlessly to fluent and authentic Russian, his tone becoming cold and hard: "I am her husband, Leo Moreau. Our business activities are completely legal. If you represent a department, please show your identification. Otherwise, for harassing a legitimate businessman, I can contact your country's commercial attaché directly." His tall figure blocked Lynn's path, the confidence and subtle threat in his tone catching the other party off guard.
Keegan's Russian was not only fluent but also carried a slight St. Petersburg accent, which clearly put him beyond the realm of ordinary businessmen, leaving the other party unsure of his background. They carefully checked Keegan's documents, exchanged a glance, and finally left with a warning: "Don't go near private areas," before turning and getting into their car and driving away.
Keegan's tense shoulders relaxed slightly only after the SUV disappeared from sight. He turned around, took Elaine's cold hand, and asked in a low voice, "Are you alright?"
Elaine shook her head, leaning against him, feeling the strong heartbeat in his chest, and the tension from before slowly dissipated. She knew this was just the beginning.
That evening, in her hotel room, Elaine analyzed the data gathered from various sources: the unusual control measures Keegan had learned about, the unusual underground structures detected by Logan, the tight patrols photographed by Hesh, the rumors about the "medical team" heard by Ajax, and the suspicious fragments of radio signals she herself had captured... All the clues, like threads, ultimately pointed to that sinister "fortress" deep in the bay.
Late at night, Keegan stood on the balcony, gazing at the scattered lights of the "Fortress" in the darkness, like the eyes of a lurking beast. Elaine walked to his side and whispered, "Price has sent word that besides us and the possible NATO cover-up team, there are third-party signals active. The waters here run deeper than we thought."
Keegan paused for a moment, then slowly spoke: "The conventional methods are no longer working. We need a reason they can't refuse to go in and take a look." A bold and dangerous plan gradually took shape in his mind—a meticulously planned "accident at sea."
The morning fog in Kotor Bay was so thick it seemed impossible to disperse, turning the distant mountains and the nearby sea into a blurry gray-white. Under the cover of this natural curtain, a small white research vessel, the "Sea Breeze," was making what appeared to be an ordinary voyage along the coastline.
Keegan steered the ship, his gaze, beneath his hat brim, calmly sweeping across the radar screen and the tranquil sea. Elaine sat beside him, a tablet on her lap displaying hydrographic data, but her peripheral vision remained fixed on the ever-approaching coordinates on the GPS map—S-3 area, the starting point of the operation.
“The current is stronger than expected,” Elaine said calmly.
Keegan grunted and adjusted the steering wheel. He tapped the communicator twice—a preparatory signal to Hesh on the distant high ground and Logan submerged in the water. Everything was ready.
A few minutes later, the Sea Breeze's engine emitted an ominous coughing sound, the tachometer needle swung violently, and then a realistic plume of white steam hissed out from the gaps in the engine room. The ship's speed rapidly decreased, and it eventually drifted helplessly on the tranquil sea.
"Damn it!" Keegan cursed under his breath in perfectly timed frustration, quickly grabbing the VHF maritime radio. He took a deep breath, making his voice urgent, and called for help: "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is the private research vessel 'Sea Breeze'... We have lost power near the northern estuary of Kotor Bay and request assistance!"
The call was answered immediately. The Coast Guard confirmed the location. Almost simultaneously, another calm English voice with a Slavic accent switched on, the signal source very close: "'Sea Breeze,' this is 'Neptune Dock.' We have received your signal and can provide towing assistance."
The bait has been cast, and the fish have taken the bait as expected.
Keegan and Elaine exchanged a knowing glance. "Thanks for the response, 'Neptune Dock'! We accept your assistance!"
Less than ten minutes later, a gray rigid-bottomed assault boat emerged from the fog. Two lean men in matching dark blue uniforms nimbly boarded the boat and threw out the mooring lines. Their movements were professional, but their eyes were unlike those of ordinary boatmen or crew members; they subtly scanned Keegan and Elaine, as well as every detail of the "Sea Breeze."
“The engine is overheating, possibly due to a cooling system malfunction,” Keegan explained, his face showing a businessman’s pragmatism mixed with a hint of embarrassment. “We hope to borrow your dock for an emergency repair, regarding the cost…”
The other party raised their hand to interrupt, gave a brief report over the radio, and said curtly, "We can take you in, but you can only move around in the designated maintenance dock and are not allowed to wander around freely." Their attitude was wary and distant.
The "Sea Breeze" was towed slowly through the heavily guarded lock. Inside was another world: towering gantry cranes, silent berths, and the air thick with the salty smell of seawater, rust, and a faint, almost imperceptible, hospital disinfectant odor. Cameras were everywhere, and occasionally, people in uniform or plainclothes would walk by silently, their gazes sweeping over the vessel with an unconscious scrutiny.
They were placed in a simple lounge by the dock to wait. The man "accompanying" them was the same petty thug who had questioned Elaine at the observation deck a few days earlier. He wore a perfunctory smile, but his eyes were devoid of warmth. "Mr. Moreau, Mrs. Moreau, you've been frightened. The mechanic needs a little time," he said, handing them two glasses of water.
“Thank you very much,” Keegan said, taking the water and shaking hands naturally. The other man’s hands were rough and strong. “Mr. Moreau, these hands of yours,” the foreman suddenly said in Russian, his gaze falling on the web of Keegan’s hand, “are not just for handling documents and steering wheels, are they?”
The air in the lounge seemed to freeze. Elaine's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't understand what he was saying, but she could sense his probing. Keegan chuckled and opened his palm. "Good eye. In Marseille, contracts aren't enough. Sometimes you have to let certain people know I'm not someone to be trifled with. I used to box when I was younger, and later I got a gun license to transport valuable goods. Of course, I've also spent a lot of time pulling fishing nets and fiddling with engines over the years." He spoke casually, attributing it all to the necessary precautions of a businessman and the marks of his maritime career.
The foreman stared at him for a few seconds, his scrutiny softening slightly, and he forced a smile. "I understand. However, please rest here." He emphasized "here," implying a restriction on their area of activity. He was utilizing their limited "freedom."
Elaine excused herself to use the restroom and, "accompanied" by a security guard, walked down a corridor. Seemingly casually, she used a miniature camera hidden in her long hair to photograph a metal door requiring a palm print password for authentication. What alarmed her even more was a discarded medicine box in a trash can next to the door—a cryopreservative used for storing high-end biological samples. She subtly took a picture of it while adjusting her hair.
Shortly after returning to the lounge, the boat was declared "repaired." The junior manager politely but firmly saw the passengers off. Ajax arrived at the opportune moment, handling the aftermath as the company coordinator.
Keegan and Elaine thanked them repeatedly and slowly sailed away in the "Sea Breeze." As the dock gates closed behind them, revealing the vast ocean and sky, both of them secretly breathed a sigh of relief. "A brief, high-intensity encrypted signal handshake pattern has been detected, matching the 'Ark' server mode by 80%," Elaine said in a low voice, unable to hide her excitement. "And that medicine box is specifically designed for transporting virus strains!"
“And then there are those ‘UN observers,’” Keegan said, his gaze deep. “They seem to be just going around on the periphery, not like insiders.”
Back at the safe house, the team gathered their information. Elaine's discovery confirmed Makarov's existence. Meanwhile, Ajax delivered news that a certain UN Environment Programme observer seemed a bit off; the experienced soldier suspected the observer carried the aura of a secret agent.
“Perhaps,” Elaine’s eyes gleamed, “we can ‘help’ those observers out. Let them ‘accidentally’ discover something interesting.”
Keegan immediately understood her intention: "Use them to stir up a hornet's nest like Makarov?"
The plan was quickly formulated. Hesh tracked down the "observer's" schedule. The next day, "Mrs. Lynn Moreau" "happened" to be having coffee in the café next to them and "accidentally" dropped a document. A page with a sketch of "Neptune Dock" and notes about "abnormal water sampling" was picked up and "inadvertently" seen by a "kind" observer.
Mrs. Lynn Moreau hurriedly put it away, complaining about the "strange smell" of the dock. That evening, it was confirmed by wiretapping that a secret NATO communication channel had sent a message to the hotel where these "observers" were staying, and the observer group intensified its surveillance of the dock starting the next day.
A few days later, Price's voice came from the deep sea: "NATO's attention has been successfully diverted to Kotor. There are indications that higher-level personnel have intervened. Makarov's side also seems to be on alert. You've lit the fire; it's time to get out."
"New intelligence indicates that Makarov's network is linked to the upcoming global energy summit in Vienna. That's the next key juncture."
"Ghost Squad, evacuate immediately and head towards Vienna." Keegan and Elaine stood by the window, gazing at Kotor Bay under the night sky. The Neptune Shipyard in the distance was still dimly lit, but the undercurrents beneath the water were already surging. They had successfully drawn the trouble to the enemy, then vanished into the darkness like ghosts, heading to the next battlefield.
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