Chapter 24
I stepped up to the keypad of the server room.
My grandfather's layout, my father's service number.
It all came down to this.
I punched in the numbers from memory—the digits I had seen engraved on my father's honorary military watch since I was a boy.
The keypad beeped green.
The heavy glass door slid open with a violent rush of air.
The lack of oxygen outside caused the pressure to equalize instantly, drawing a thick fog into the room.
I stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind me.
The air inside was freezing, instantly fogging the visor of my mask.
I wiped it frantically with my sleeve.
The sound of my own breathing echoed inside the rubber mask—heavy, loud, and terrifyingly fast.
Huuu-paaa. Huuu-paaa.
Every breath consumed the precious, limited oxygen from the old yellow tank.
I hurried down the central aisle between the glowing blue server towers.
The ambient temperature was dropping rapidly, ice crystals already forming on the metallic surfaces.
At the very end of the row stood the primary mainframe terminal.
A single, glowing green screen with a prompt that read: ENTER ARCHIVE ENCRYPTION KEY TO INTERRUPT PURGE.
I reached out to insert the silver flash drive into the open port, but my hands were shaking violently from the intense cold.
The drive slipped from my fingers, clattering against the grated steel floor.
"Damn it!" I screamed, the sound muffled inside my mask.
I dropped to my knees, frantically searching the dark shadows beneath the server rack.
The visors on my mask were fogging up again.
My chest felt tight.
The air coming from the tank was growing thin, the pressure dropping.
The tank was failing.
I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me, my vision blurring at the edges.
Not now, I prayed, my fingers sweeping across the cold steel floor. Please, not now.
Finally, my fingers brushed against the cold metal of the drive.
I grabbed it, forced myself up, and slammed it into the port.
The screen flashed violently.
INPUT DETECTED. PROCESSING EXECUTION.
ENTER AUTHORIZATION PHRASE:
I stared at the prompt.
Authorization phrase? Vance didn't tell me an authorization phrase. He only gave me the service number.
The countdown timer on the screen was down to less than thirty seconds.
28...
27...
My mind raced through everything my father had ever said to me.
Every letter, every memory.
Then, I remembered the final sentence of my grandfather's letter.
The sentence that brought us to this house.
I reached out and typed the words into the vintage keyboard with frozen, clumsy fingers.
May you like
Every soldier deserves a place where war cannot follow him home.
I hit Enter.
