Above my head ran a thick pipe painted bright yellow — the high-pressure steam line for the secondary turbines. I drew my combat knife, gripped it two-handed, and slammed the pommel into the emergency release valve.

With a deafening shriek, the valve gave way.

A massive cloud of scalding white steam blasted into the corridor, blinding the three advancing sailors. They screamed and dropped their weapons as the boiling vapor scorched their skin and fogged their goggles.

I moved through the steam like a phantom. I didn’t shoot; I struck. A knee to a sternum, a palm to a jaw, a sweeping kick to the back of a knee. In under ten seconds all three were unconscious on the deck.

I stepped into the comms room.

Admiral Blake cowered in the corner, hands up in surrender. But Adrian stood in front of the terminal, a heavy service revolver pointed at my chest.