I slipped into the freezing Severn River, the cold biting through my gear, and swam toward the stern, staying out of the floodlights.

I found the aft escape trunk — a small maintenance hatch near the rudder. A risk, but unguarded. I held a magnetic descrambler against the electronic lock until the light flashed green, wrenched the heavy steel wheel, slipped into the dark airlock, and secured the hatch behind me.

The interior smelled of machine oil, recycled air, and sweat — a metallic labyrinth of narrow corridors, exposed pipes, and low ceilings. The ship was alive with activity, klaxons giving short muted blips as the crew prepared to depart.

I moved like a ghost, bypassing two crew members in the engine-room corridor by pressing myself flat against a nest of steam pipes.

I needed the Command Center.

As I crept down the main passageway, the ship lurched. The deck vibrated beneath my boots.