Chapter 6 - THE SILICONE CURTAIN
Hacking the HarborThe plan was not to launch a frontal assault on the Morozov compound; that was what the Russians expected. Instead, Dante intended to cut the throat of their operation from within the nerve center of the Port of Portland.
"Morozov’s main revenue stream isn't drugs or guns," Salvatore explained, spreading a digital schematic across the table. "It’s human trafficking and high-value smuggling through Pier 42. He uses a shell company called Vostok Logistics to bypass customs. Everything is automated through the port’s central mainframe. If we control the mainframe, we control his cargo. And if we freeze his cargo, his investors in Moscow will kill him for us."
"And how do we get into the mainframe?" Faye asked, her new tactical vest feeling heavy against her ribs.
"The port has a hard-wired security terminal located in an old lighthouse three miles north of the main pier," Dante said, walking over to stand beside her. He was dressed in black utilities, his head bandage replaced by a low-profile black beanie. "It’s lightly guarded because nobody knows it exists. It’s an old Cold War redundant system. We go in by water, upload a virus Salvatore’s technician prepared, and lock Morozov out of his own life."
"Why do you need me?" Faye asked, looking up at him. "You have men for this."
"My men look like soldiers, Faye," Dante said, using her first name for the first time. The sound of it sent a strange, cold thrill through her chest. "The lighthouse is surrounded by shallow reef flats. My men don't know how to navigate the coastal shoals in the dark during a gale. You do. You're the best pilot on this stretch of the Pacific."
Faye looked at the schematic of the reef. She knew every rock, every hidden bar, every place where a boat could be torn open like a tin can.
"The wind is coming from the northwest at forty knots," she said, her finger tracing the line of the channel. "If we hit the reef at the wrong angle, the surf will capsize us before we even see the lighthouse."
"Then don't hit it at the wrong angle," Dante said simply.
Two hours later, they were back in a boat—not her small aluminum skiff, but a massive, triple-engine rigid-hull inflatable boat (RHIB) painted a matte, non-reflective black. The engines were muffled, producing nothing more than a low, wet growl as they slipped out into the storm.
Faye was at the helm. The waves were towering walls of black water, rising ten feet above the boat before crashing down over the plexiglass windshield. The rain felt like needles against her exposed skin.
Beside her, Dante stood rigid, his hand braced against the radar arch, his eyes fixed on the dark outline of the coast ahead. He didn't look back at the safety of the harbor. He only looked forward, into the teeth of the storm.
"Two minutes to the outer marker!" Faye yelled over the roar of the wind. "Hold on!"
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The boat lifted over a massive roller, its hull slamming down into the shallow water of the reef with a bone-jarring impact. Faye spun the wheel hard to port, missing a jagged spire of black basalt by mere inches. The spray from the rock washed over them, tasting of salt and danger.
Ahead, through the blinding sheet of rain, the single, unblinking yellow eye of the old lighthouse appeared.
