The safehouse in Lewes, Delaware, was even smaller than Pierre's fishing cottage—a converted boathouse that smelled of old wood and brine. But it had electricity, running water, and most importantly, no neighbors within shouting distance. Pierre's friend, an aging longshoreman named Dutch, had asked no questions when they'd arrived at 3 AM on December third. He'd simply handed Catherine a key, pointed to the icebox with some basics, and left.
Rick spent the first two days mostly sleeping, his body demanding rest to heal. The doctor's antibiotics were working—the wound wasn't infected, just angry and painful. By December fourth, he could sit up without his vision swimming. By December fifth, he could walk to the bathroom without Catherine's help, though she hovered nearby anyway.
It was December sixth when they made their last attempts.
Catherine sat at the small table, a pay phone number written on a scrap of paper in front of her. She'd spent the morning in town, making calls from different locations. Now she was back, her expression carved from stone.
"The Washington Post," she said flatly. "The New York Times. The Baltimore Sun. I told them I had evidence of a conspiracy to allow a Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Gave them enough details to prove I wasn't a crank."
"And?" Rick asked, though he could read the answer in her face.
"Two of them hung up immediately. One reporter listened, said he'd look into it. Then called back an hour later and told me to never contact him again—someone had gotten to him. His editor, probably, or someone above his editor." Catherine's hands were flat on the table, very still. "Hartley's network reaches into the press. Or maybe the press just doesn't want to believe the government would do something like this."
Webb came in from his watch position, his face grim. "Radio just reported increased Japanese diplomatic activity. Everyone's talking about negotiations breaking down. The whole country knows something's coming, they just don't know what or when."
"Did you reach your Navy contacts?" Rick asked.
Webb nodded slowly. "Got through to the communications office at Pearl. Told them I had intelligence suggesting an imminent attack. The duty officer took my name, took my information." He paused. "Then I heard him repeat it to someone else in the room. Not urgent-like. More like 'here's another nut warning us about the Japanese.' They get a dozen calls like that every day now. Everyone's jumpy, everyone's seeing threats. Real warnings get lost in the noise."
"Did they believe you?"
"No." Webb's voice was hollow. "Or if they did, they didn't care. The duty officer thanked me for my patriotism and hung up."
Rick felt something cold settle in his chest. They'd tried. God knows they'd tried. But Hartley's people had prepared the ground too well. Even legitimate warnings would be dismissed as panic or paranoia.
"What about the telegram?" Rick asked Catherine.
"Sent three, different routing offices, all marked urgent." She shook her head. "If they reached Pearl Harbor, someone intercepted them. Or filed them as more noise. Either way, no response."
Winters was pacing, had been pacing for hours. He stopped now, his hands clenched into fists. "There has to be something. Someone. We can't just sit here and let it happen."
"We've exhausted every option," Catherine said, her voice gentle but firm. "Unless you want to try hijacking a plane and flying to Hawaii yourself, there's nothing left to do."
"Then we go to Congress. Burst into a congressional office, demand they listen—"
"And we'd be arrested within minutes," Webb cut in. "Assuming Hartley's people don't just shoot us on sight. We're wanted fugitives, remember? Dead fugitives, if anyone believes the official story."
Rick watched Winters struggle with it—the helpless rage of knowing what was coming and being unable to stop it. He understood. He felt it too, a churning fury in his gut that mixed with the pain in his shoulder.
"Tom," Rick said quietly. Winters stopped pacing, looked at him. "Coleman and Reed didn't die so we could get ourselves killed in a futile gesture. They died to give us time. To let us survive long enough to actually win this fight."
"But those sailors—" Winters's voice cracked. "Those men at Pearl. They're going to die. Thousands of them. And we're just going to let it happen?"
"We're not letting anything happen," Rick said. "Hartley's letting it happen. The people who ignored our warnings are letting it happen. This isn't on us."
But even as he said it, Rick didn't quite believe it. The weight of foreknowledge was crushing. His father had died trying to prevent this. Coleman had died buying them time. And now, with hours left, they were hiding in a boathouse while the clock ran down.
Catherine was watching him, reading his expression. "Rick's right. We can't stop Pearl Harbor. But we can make sure Hartley doesn't profit from what comes after."
"How?" Winters demanded.
"By surviving. By documenting everything. By building a case that won't disappear when we die." She pulled out her notebook, now thick with entries. "I've reconstructed forty percent of what was in your father's files. Webb and I have been cross-referencing names, organizations, financial connections. We're building a map of Prometheus Protocol."
"A map nobody will ever see if we're dead," Webb added. "That's why staying alive matters more than dying heroically."
Winters looked between them, his jaw working. Finally he nodded, deflated. "So we just... wait? Listen to it on the radio?"
"We wait," Rick confirmed. "We listen. We remember. And then we act."
The rest of December sixth crawled by. Rick tried to sleep but couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father's face, Coleman's last stand, the files in Hartley's hands. Around 8 PM, Catherine made them eat—canned soup and stale bread, tasteless but necessary.
"You need your strength," she insisted when Rick pushed the bowl away. "Tomorrow starts the war. The real war, not just the one we've been fighting."
"Tomorrow I listen to men die," Rick said bitterly.
"Yes. And then you decide what you're going to do about it." Catherine's eyes were hard. "Wallow in guilt, or make their deaths count for something."
She was right, of course. But that didn't make it easier.
As midnight approached, Webb took first watch. Winters tried to sleep but Rick could hear him tossing in the other room. Catherine sat by the window, smoking one of Dutch's cigarettes, staring out at the black water of the Delaware Bay.
Rick joined her, moving slowly to favor his shoulder.
"Can't sleep either?" she asked.
"Didn't try." Rick looked at the cigarette. "I didn't know you smoked."
"I don't. Usually." She took a drag, exhaled slowly. "My father smoked these. French cigarettes, but Dutch's American ones will do. I smoke them when I need to remember why I'm fighting."
"Your father?"
"Killed by the Nazis in 1940. He was in the Resistance, early days, before it was even organized. They caught him distributing pamphlets." Catherine's voice was matter-of-fact, but Rick could hear the steel underneath. "He knew the risks. Did it anyway. Because some things are worth dying for."
Rick was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He made his choice." She looked at Rick. "Like your father made his. Like Coleman made his. You can honor them by surviving, or dishonor them by giving up. Those are the only options."
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. Not easy, but simple." Catherine stubbed out the cigarette. "Get some rest, Rick. Tomorrow is going to be long."
December seventh dawned grey and cold. Rick was up before sunrise, his shoulder aching but manageable. Webb was still on watch, nursing coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
"Anything?" Rick asked.
"Quiet. Too quiet." Webb glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 6:47 AM Eastern time. "In Hawaii, it's 1:17 in the morning. Everyone's asleep."
Rick did the math in his head. Five hours difference. If Hartley's intelligence was accurate, the attack would come at dawn Hawaiian time. That would be around noon or early afternoon on the East Coast.
Catherine emerged from her room, already dressed, her hair pulled back in a practical bun. "Have you got the radio working?"
"Yeah." Webb gestured to an old Philco in the corner. "Picks up most of the major networks. CBS, NBC, Mutual. We'll hear about it the moment it breaks."
Winters joined them, looking like he hadn't slept at all. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands shaking slightly. "What time?"
"We don't know exactly," Rick said. "But probably around noon our time."
The morning stretched out, interminable. They took turns monitoring the radio—regular programming, music, news updates about diplomatic negotiations with Japan. Everything normal. Everything oblivious.
At 11:30 AM, Catherine made sandwiches that nobody ate. The radio played swing music, cheerful and incongruous. Rick found himself watching the clock, counting down minutes he couldn't stop.
11:45 AM.
12:00 PM. Noon. Nothing yet.
12:15 PM. A soap opera on CBS. An advertisement for Lucky Strike cigarettes.
12:30 PM. Rick's hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. His shoulder throbbed in rhythm with his pulse.
12:47 PM.
Then the music cut off abruptly.
"We interrupt this program for a special bulletin from CBS News in New York."
Everyone froze. Webb turned up the volume.
The announcer's voice was shocked, struggling for professional composure: "The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air, President Roosevelt has just announced. The attack was also made on naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu."
Rick felt the world tilt. He'd known it was coming. Had counted down the hours. But hearing it spoken aloud, made real—
"We now return you to Washington for further details."
Another voice, urgent and clipped: "The White House announces that Japanese bombs have fallen on United States territory in Hawaii. A Japanese attack is also reported on Manila. We are awaiting further details. Stand by for more information as it becomes available."
Winters made a sound—half sob, half groan. Webb's face had gone grey. Catherine stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable.
Rick couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Somewhere in Hawaii, right now, men were burning. Ships were sinking. Planes were exploding on the ground. Thousands dying in the attack his father had tried to prevent, that Coleman had died trying to stop, that Rick had been helpless to warn anyone about.
Hartley had won.
The radio continued, fragments of information coming in chaotic bursts:
"...heavy casualties reported..."
"...the battleship Arizona is believed to have been hit..."
"...multiple waves of Japanese aircraft..."
"...the President is preparing to address Congress..."
Rick stood abruptly, ignoring the protest from his shoulder, and walked outside. He made it to the edge of the dock before his legs gave out. He sat heavily on the weathered wood, staring at the grey water of the bay.