Chapter 17 : Cover Story
The interrogation room aboard Nathan James was just a converted storage space with a table and two chairs.
Corbin sat across from Margaret Chen, former cruise ship purser, current reluctant spokesperson for the Celestial Dream survivors. Her hands wrapped around a coffee cup that had been empty for twenty minutes, the warmth long since faded into memory.
"Tell me about the coastal settlements."
"Which ones?" Chen's voice carried the flat exhaustion of someone who had repeated this story before. "There were four that we know of. Three are gone now."
"Gone how?"
"Men with guns. They called themselves 'the Immune.' Said the virus couldn't touch them, so they were meant to inherit what was left." She set down the cup. "They didn't inherit. They took. Everything they wanted — food, medicine, weapons. Women."
The system pulsed with data Corbin didn't need to see to understand.
[INTELLIGENCE VALUE: HIGH]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: IMMUNE WARLORDS — SIGNIFICANT]
[GP OPPORTUNITY: INTELLIGENCE CONTRIBUTION]
"What about Guantanamo Bay?"
Chen's expression flickered.
"We heard rumors. A functional base, military presence, maybe even government remnants." She paused. "We were heading there when the storm hit. Three weeks ago. Lost our navigation, half our crew, most of our hope."
"It's functional?"
"The rumors said it was. Said they had power, defenses, maybe even medical facilities." Her eyes met his. "Is that where we're going? Is that where you'll take us?"
Corbin couldn't answer that question.
But he filed the intelligence for his briefing.
---
The wardroom was full when Corbin delivered his report.
Captain Chandler sat at the head of the table, flanked by XO Slattery and the senior officers who had become the de facto government of humanity's last hope. Rachel was present in her capacity as chief scientist, her expression carrying the weight of cure development that had resumed despite the refugee crisis.
"Survivors from both vessels confirm: Guantanamo Bay Naval Station remains operational." Corbin pulled up his assessment on the display. "The base has power, defensive capability, and medical infrastructure. It also has something we need — facilities large enough to support mass cure production."
Chandler's expression remained unreadable.
"And the threat assessment?"
"Immune warlords control significant coastal territory between our current position and Guantanamo. At least three organized groups, possibly more. They've been raiding settlements, building power bases, consolidating resources."
"Quincy's people."
The name came from Slattery, carrying weight that suggested the XO knew more than Corbin had reported.
"Likely related, sir. The survivors described tactics consistent with organized military training. Former soldiers, law enforcement, people who knew how to take and hold territory."
"And they're between us and Guantanamo."
"Yes, sir."
Silence stretched through the wardroom.
"The hidden cache." Walsh's voice broke the quiet. "The supplies Calloway found in cargo hold three."
Every eye turned toward the supply officer.
"They saved ninety lives yesterday. But they also appeared at a very convenient moment from a very convenient place." Walsh's tone wasn't accusatory, just careful. "I've been on ships for fifteen years. Supply caches don't appear from damaged equipment."
"Here it comes."
Corbin's throat tightened around explanations that couldn't exist.
"The Russian salvage was mixed with materials we didn't properly catalogue during the initial assessment." The lie formed as smoothly as the first one had. "Combat confusion, damage control priorities, the rush to get tactical intelligence analyzed. Things got overlooked."
"Overlooked supply containers?"
"Overlooked everything. The salvage bins were supposed to be sorted after the immediate tactical crisis. That never happened because we had other priorities." Corbin met Walsh's eyes. "I went looking because we needed to find something. Lucky for everyone, something was there to find."
Walsh didn't look convinced. But he didn't push further.
"The supplies are legitimate?" Chandler's question cut through the undercurrent.
"Functional, sir. The rations have some unusual qualities — probably storage degradation — but they're edible and nutritious. The medical supplies are standard issue."
Chandler nodded slowly.
"Then we accept the explanation and move on. We don't have time for supply audits when ninety survivors need feeding."
The briefing continued. Corbin exhaled silently.
---
Jeter intercepted him in the passageway outside the wardroom.
"Walk with me, Calloway."
The Master Chief's voice carried no particular emphasis, but the request wasn't optional. Corbin fell into step beside him, matching the older man's measured pace through corridors that had become familiar over two weeks of impossible living.
They reached an empty section near the damage control stations.
"Hidden caches don't appear from damaged equipment."
Jeter's words landed like stones.
"Lieutenant Commander Walsh already made that observation."
"Walsh made it in a briefing where the Captain was present and needed the matter closed." Jeter turned to face him. "I'm making it privately, where I want an actual answer."
The speech block pressed against Corbin's throat like a physical barrier. He couldn't explain the system, couldn't describe the synthesis, couldn't offer the truth that would make sense of everything.
"I have..." The words fought their way through restrictions he didn't fully understand. "I have certain capabilities that I can't fully explain. They help me find resources, identify patterns, anticipate problems. I don't know where they come from or why I have them."
Jeter's eyes narrowed.
"You're telling me you have abilities you don't understand."
"I'm telling you the truth about what I can say. There are things I physically cannot explain, Master Chief. Not won't — can't. The words don't come."
Silence stretched between them.
"Are you a spy?"
"No."
"Saboteur?"
"No."
"Threat to this crew?"
"Absolutely not. Everything I've done has been to help this ship and these people survive."
Jeter studied him with eyes that had seen through better liars over thirty years of Navy service.
"I believe you. God help me, I believe you." He turned to walk away, then stopped. "Whatever you're doing, it's helping. Don't make me have to report it."
He left Corbin alone in the passageway, the weight of conditional trust settling like armor and liability combined.
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