Chapter 5 - The Bridge and the Broadcast
We reached the heavy steel fire doors leading to the ship’s Forward Command and Navigation Deck.
Two more Vanguard operatives were stationed outside the reinforced bridge doors, armed with tactical sidearms and zip-tie cuffs. When they saw us rounding the corner—me in a torn wedding dress holding an aluminum bat, and Mason sobbing behind me—they instinctively reached for their holsters.
“Freeze! Hands where we can see them—”
I didn't wait for them to finish their pre-scripted tactical warnings.
Years of muscle memory took over. I threw the aluminum bat like a javelin, catching the lead operative squarely in the chest and knocking the wind out of him with a explosive oof. As his partner drew his sidearm, I closed the distance in less than a second, driving my palm upward into the base of his chin, sending him crashing backward against the steel bulkhead where he slid down unconscious.
I caught the bat as it rebounded off the floor, turned to the gasping lead operative, and pinned him against the wall with the shaft pressed firmly against his throat.
“Open the bridge door,” I commanded, my voice dropping into a tone that brooked zero argument. “Now.”
The guard, gasping for air, reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a magnetic keycard, and swiped it against the digital scanner beside the heavy steel door.
Click.
The lock released with a pneumatic hiss. I shoved the guard into the corner, hauled Mason inside by his collar, and slammed the heavy door shut behind us, engaging the manual deadbolt.
We were inside the ship’s bridge.
The vast, semicircular room was bathed in the dim, emerald glow of dozens of navigation screens, radar arrays, and digital instrument panels. The duty officers turned around in their rolling chairs, staring in absolute shock at the sight of a bride holding a baseball bat and a weeping man in a ruined tuxedo bursting into the command center.
“What the hell is going on here?” the senior watch officer demanded, standing up from his console. “Who authorized you to enter the bridge?”
“I did,” I said, walking straight up to the master communications console. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, connected it via USB to the bridge’s main auxiliary port, and tapped the screen twice.
The massive, floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows overlooking the dark ocean suddenly flickered. On every auxiliary screen across the bridge—and automatically mirrored across every stateroom TV and public monitor on the entire cruise ship—a digital folder popped open.
Montgomery Logistics: Fraud, Asset Laundering, and Extortion Evidence.
“Excuse me, ma’am, you cannot broadcast personal files over the ship's public network—” the officer started, reaching for the master disconnect switch.
I placed the heavy barrel of the aluminum bat directly across the console, right over his hand.
“You might want to check page four of that PDF file before you touch that switch, Captain,” I said smoothly. “It details how Montgomery Logistics has been using this specific cruise line’s cargo holds to transport unregistered, high-risk industrial chemicals under false manifests. If you cut this broadcast now, I’ll transmit the entire cache directly to the United States Coast Guard and federal maritime authorities via satellite relay before you can clear the next harbor.”
The captain froze. His hand hovered an inch away from the switch. He looked at the screen, where bank routing numbers, offshore shell company registries, and signed confessions by Arthur Montgomery scrolled past in crisp, undeniable high definition.
May you like
“My God,” the captain whispered.
“Indeed,” I said, turning to face Mason, who was slumped against a navigation console, completely broken. “Now, Captain, if you’d be so kind as to patch me through to the ship’s public address system. I have a brief wedding announcement to make to the rest of the passengers.”
