I picked up the phone and went through the heavy inner door into the supply container next door.

The supply container held stacks of dusty metal transport cases and smelled of canvas webbing and gun oil.

Rows of green ammunition crates were piled three high against the back wall.

I sat on a spare metal folding chair in the corner and unlocked my phone.

The lone overhead bulb threw a harsh white circle onto the steel floor plates.

“I’m here,” I typed.