Part 11: The Black Water Transition
The crossing from the mainland dock to the unlisted island coordinate took exactly forty-five minutes to initialize.
The specialized diesel launch cut through the sub-zero chop of Lake Superior, its hull spray freezing instantly against the glass.
I sat in the forward radar cabin, the green glow of the marine terminal illuminating the old cloth pouch on my knees.
Arthur stood right beside the pilot's bench, his heavy wool coat turned up against the freezing window draft.
"The satellite alignment is completely blind over this sector, Ethan," Victoria reported, adjusting her field tracking array.
"Someone has established an active analog jamming frequency right on the island's central topography block."
"The signals match the original electronic encryption protocols used by the organization during the winter sweep of 1998."
Daniel folded his arms, his posture tall and unyielding as the dark outline of the cliffs appeared through the mist.
"They didn't just build a lighthouse here to guide shipping freight lines thirty years ago, Arthur," Daniel stated flatly.
"This was the primary administrative collection hub Michael Ross established before his tracking sequence went dead."
The vessel slammed hard against the rotten timber pillars of the abandoned southern supply dock layout.
Arthur stepped onto the ice-covered planks first, his flashlight beam cutting clean through the dense northern fog.
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"Keep the launch engine idling on the low frequency, Daniel," Arthur ordered, his jaw setting into iron.
"If Eleanor’s final voice transmission carries an accurate tracking metric, we have less than twenty minutes before the perimeter closes."
