MISRIAH SHIPYARDS, CALIDIA
AUGUST 12, 2018 (42 DAYS SINCE SENTINEL INCIDENT)
0330 HOURS
The trucks came in under the cover of night, down the largely deserted roads towards the concrete behemoth that was once Drydock E. Many of the others outside the small exclusion zone that had been set up around the USS Sentinel's final resting place.
Jacob Maxwell hadn't been told much about why he was going there. A skilled naval architect, Maxwell had graduated with honors from the prestigious Alanson Institute of Technology and worked a stable job at Orion Heavy Industries. He had worked on the Endurance-Class, and he knew each of the stealth carriers like the back of his hand; the seaworthiness of the hydrodynamically painful radar-dispersing shaping of the hull had largely been because of him. But the small team he led had been contacted by someone from the Office, and when the Office came knocking, every engineer at Orion knew that you'd better answer.
A few weeks later, earlier this morning, an unmarked car had shown up at his house and a stranger had knocked on his door. He had been driven to a military base, along with many of his colleagues and several people he didn't know, and they had gotten in the trucks and headed out to the shipyard.
They said it wouldn't be dangerous. But the news said it was still an exclusion zone. Irradiated. Off-limits to anyone but the Coasties' CBRN specialists. Oddly, the Coast Guardsmen in the orange-and-white hazmat suits were nowhere to be seen as they disembarked. All he saw before him was a barbed-wire fence marked with radiation trefoils and "IONIZING RADIATION - KEEP OUT" signs in the legally-mandated bilingual Dolphik and Ithakan style. The mob of engineers and specialists shuffled towards the fence, escorted by armed men carrying rifles and wearing midnight as a cloak, with not even a flag to distinguish their uniform from the night sky. Jacob couldn't see any of their faces. But he heard them tell the half-asleep crowd to wait.
They unlocked the gate on the secure fence and led the engineers towards the sarcophagus. Some asked why they were here. Their questions went unanswered. Others tried to bolt from the exclusion zone, realizing where they were. They were merely intercepted and dragged along by the soldiers. But Maxwell had heard stories about the Office, and so he kept his head down and shuffled along.
They led them inside the concrete monstrosity that concealed the carrier. Banks of massive lights flickered on from the ceiling, revealing the angular, futuristic form of the USS Sentinel. Strangely, as they laid eyes on the ship, it appeared largely undamaged.
How?
It had gone through a reactor leak and set ablaze. It should have been far worse off than it was. But miraculously, the ship appeared unharmed.
On the other side of the once-dockside overhang, a man sat at a desk. There was no name placard, but there was an air of importance to the man.
"If you're wondering why the Sentinel looks fine, that's because it is." The lighting, for all the illumination it provided the carrier, did nothing to show his face from the shadows. "Under the Official Secrets Act of 1956, disclosure of this fact is punishable by up to life imprisonment, or, for military personnel, death."
"Who I am is unimportant. Just know that I'm with the Office of Strategic Research and I'm your boss right now. You will not tell anyone a thing about this project you are about to work on. But you can tell by now that the Sentinel incident was, in fact, a cover-up."
Jacob shuddered. Yep, he thought. The stories about the Office? They're all true.