Rick woke to the smell of salt air and disinfectant. His shoulder was on fire, his head pounded, and his mouth tasted like old copper. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.
"Easy." A hand pressed him back down. Catherine's voice, but gentler than he'd heard it before. "You've been out for fourteen hours. Doctor said you'd probably wake up soon."
Rick forced his eyes to focus. He was in a small bedroom with faded wallpaper and a single window showing grey sky and the distant line of water. The bed was narrow but clean, and someone had stripped him to his undershirt and bandaged his shoulder properly.
"Where—"
"Crisfield. Maryland. Eastern Shore. Small fishing village, about as off-the-map as we could get." Catherine sat in a chair beside the bed. She looked exhausted—bruises on her face, her clothes still stained with his blood. "My contact came through. His name's Pierre, runs a crab boat. He's letting us use his house while he's out on the water."
Rick's memory was coming back in fragments. The Lincoln Memorial. The trap. Coleman's last stand. The chase.
"The others?"
"Webb's keeping watch. Rotates with Winters every four hours. We've got good sight lines here—can see anyone approaching from a mile off." Catherine paused. "The doctor Pierre brought in—he's French, doesn't ask questions. Says you'll live if you don't do anything stupid."
"That's my specialty. Doing stupid things."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I've noticed."
Rick tested his shoulder carefully. Painful, but functional. "How bad?"
"Through and through, like I said. Muscle damage, but no bone. You'll heal, but you need time. A week minimum before you should even think about strenuous activity."
"We don't have a week."
"We don't have a choice." Catherine's voice was firm. "You lost a lot of blood, Rick. You try to move too fast, you'll collapse. Or worse, reopen the wound and bleed out."
Rick closed his eyes, frustrated. Every hour they waited was another hour Hartley had to consolidate his position, another hour closer to Pearl Harbor.
"How long until—"
"Five days," Catherine said quietly. "It's December second. Five days until Pearl Harbor."
Five days. His father had died trying to prevent this. Coleman had died buying them escape. Reed had died trying to redeem himself. And Rick was lying in a bed on the Maryland shore, unable to move.
"We have to warn them," Rick said. "Find someone who'll listen. A congressman, a general, someone—"
"We tried." Catherine's voice was flat. "While you were unconscious, Winters made calls from a pay phone in town. Used every contact he still had in the Navy. They either didn't believe him or—" She paused. "Or they already knew."
Rick's blood went cold. "What?"
"Think about it. Hartley didn't create Prometheus Protocol alone. Morrison's involved. How many others? How high does it go?" Catherine leaned forward. "Winters talked to a rear admiral he trusted, someone from his Academy days. The man listened, then said—and I quote—'Son, some things are bigger than one man's conscience. Let it go.'"
"Jesus."
"They know. Maybe not everyone, but enough people in the right positions. They're letting it happen."
Rick stared at the ceiling, processing this. It was worse than he'd thought. Not just a conspiracy of a few rogue operators, but something woven into the highest levels of government and military.
"So we failed," he said.
"We're alive. That's not failure yet."
"Coleman's not alive. Reed's not alive."
"No." Catherine's voice was hard. "And we're going to make that mean something. But not by getting ourselves killed in some futile gesture."
Rick turned to look at her. Really look at her. There was steel in those eyes, but also calculation. She was already thinking ahead, planning the next move.
"What are you suggesting?"
"We can't stop Pearl Harbor. Even if we screamed it from every rooftop in Washington, Hartley's people would make us disappear before anyone listened. The machinery's in motion, and it's too big to stop." She paused. "But Prometheus Protocol didn't end with Pearl Harbor. That's just the beginning."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been thinking about what Hartley said. About Pearl Harbor being necessary to 'wake people up.' About guiding America through the war." Catherine's expression was grim. "Men like Hartley don't stop with one operation. They build systems. Networks. They plan for the long term."
Rick's mind started working despite the pain and exhaustion. She was right. Hartley hadn't just engineered Pearl Harbor—he'd talked about it like it was the opening move in a larger game.
"The war," Rick said slowly. "They're going to use the war."
"To expand their power. To build something permanent." Catherine nodded. "Your father's files mentioned 'Thunderbird' as a specific operation. But what if that's just one piece? What if Prometheus Protocol is about using the entire war to reshape American government?"
"Into what?"
"A security state. Permanent intelligence agencies. Classified budgets. A military-industrial complex that answers to people like Hartley instead of elected officials." Catherine's voice was intense now. "Democracy, but controlled. Managed. Guided by people who think they know better than the voters."
It made horrible sense. Pearl Harbor would traumatize the nation, make them willing to accept anything in the name of security. And in wartime, with enemies at the gates, who would question expanded government power? Who would audit black budgets or challenge intelligence agencies?
By the time the war ended, the structures would be in place. Permanent. Unaccountable.
"We need evidence," Rick said. "Not just about Pearl Harbor—that'll be yesterday's news once it happens. We need evidence of the larger plan. The network. The people involved."
"Agreed. But that means we can't just strike back in anger. We need to be smart. Patient." Catherine met his eyes. "Can you do that? Can you watch Pearl Harbor happen and not try to die stopping it?"
Rick thought about his father. About Coleman's last stand. About Reed's final moment of redemption. They hadn't died for nothing—they'd died to give Rick a chance to finish this.
But finishing it didn't mean a glorious suicide charge. It meant surviving. Planning. Winning.
"Yeah," Rick said finally. "I can do that."
Catherine nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because we've got a lot of work ahead. Starting with figuring out what Prometheus Protocol really is, and who else is involved."
"And how do we do that from a fishing village in Maryland?"
"We start with what we know. Your father's investigation. What Scott told Reed before he died. The pieces of files we saw before Hartley took them back." Catherine pulled out a small notebook. "I've been writing down everything I remember. Webb and Winters too. Between the three of us, we recovered maybe forty percent of what was in those files."
"Forty percent isn't enough."
"It's a start. And you know what else we have?" Catherine's smile was cold. "We have something Hartley doesn't expect."
"What's that?"
"We're dead. Officially dead. By now, the story's probably hit the papers—a shoot-out at the Lincoln Memorial. Fugitives killed resisting arrest. Maybe they even planted bodies."
Rick considered this. She was right. If Hartley thought they were dead, he'd let his guard down. The network would continue its operations without looking over their shoulders.
"So we stay dead," Rick said.
"For now. We heal, we plan, we rebuild. Then, when they've forgotten about us—" Catherine's expression was fierce. "—we come back."
A knock at the door. Webb stepped in, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked relieved to see Rick awake.
"Boss is conscious. Good. We've got a problem."
"What kind of problem?" Catherine asked.
"The kind where someone in town recognized Winters from his Navy days. Started asking questions." Webb's expression was grim. "We might need to move again."
Rick tried to sit up, ignoring the pain. "How long do we have?"
"Unknown. Could be nothing. Could be someone makes a phone call to Washington." Webb looked at Catherine. "Pierre says he can get us on his boat tonight, take us up the coast to Delaware. He's got another friend there, someone who can hide us longer term."
"Do it," Catherine decided. Then to Rick: "Can you travel?"
Every part of Rick's body was screaming no. But he thought about Coleman, about Reed, about the five days left before Pearl Harbor.
"I can travel."
"That's what I thought you'd say." Catherine stood, all business now. "We leave after dark. Webb, tell Pierre we accept. Winters, pack everything we brought. Nothing left behind."
As they moved to execute her orders, Rick realized something: Catherine had taken command. Not officially, not explicitly, but in the way soldiers in the field recognized effective leadership. Webb and Winters were following her decisions without question.
And Rick was grateful for it. Because right now, with his shoulder on fire and his father's murder still unavenged, he needed someone who could think clearly.
"Catherine," he said as she turned to leave.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For pulling me out."
She gave him a long look. "Your father saved my life once, in Paris. Before the war. I told him if I ever had the chance, I'd repay the debt." A pause. "Consider it paid."
Then she was gone, leaving Rick alone with his thoughts and the distant sound of seabirds.
Five days until Pearl Harbor.
And after that, a long war. Both the public one everyone would know about, and the private one that Rick was only beginning to understand.
He lay back on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, and began to plan.