Building 47 was a three-story brick structure that had been old when Teddy Roosevelt was president. It sat near Dry Dock Number 3, surrounded by newer buildings that had sprung up during the war, looking like a grandfather surrounded by energetic grandchildren. The windows were narrow, the doors were heavy, and the whole place smelled like old paper and older secrets.
Sal arrived at 1:55, because that's when you arrived when the Navy told you to be somewhere. A young sailor guarded the door, checked his ID, and waved him inside.
The corridor was narrow, lined with doors that had no windows and labels that made no sense. "Project Rainbow." "Thermal Division." "Section F-7." Sal passed them all, heading for the room number Muldoon had given him.
Room 112 was at the end of the hall. The door was open.
Inside, Lt. Commander Hollister sat at a desk covered in papers. He looked worse than he had that morning—more tired, more rumpled, more haunted. His jacket was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie hung loose around his neck. A fresh cigarette burned in an ashtray piled with stubs.
On the other side of the desk sat a man Sal didn't recognize. Older than Hollister, with silver hair and spectacles and the kind of face that looked like it had been thinking hard for a very long time. He wore civilian clothes of good quality—a nice suit, a proper tie—and held a pen in his hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it.
"Mr. Lombardi." Hollister stood, a little too quickly. "Thank you for coming. This is Dr. Franklin. He's... consulting on the project."
Dr. Franklin looked at Sal over his spectacles. "You're the plumber who noticed the cable configuration."
It wasn't a question, but Sal answered anyway. "Yes, sir."
"And you've worked with Westinghouse generators before?"
"Last year. On a project in Norfolk. They were testing some new degaussing equipment. I was there to fix the plumbing in the testing facility, but you see a lot when you're running pipes. The generators were impressive. Bigger than standard. The engineers liked to talk about them."
Dr. Franklin nodded slowly. "Observant. That's good. Observation is underrated." He set down his pen. "Tell me, Mr. Lombardi. What do you know about electromagnetism?"
Sal thought about it. "I know it's why my radio works. I know it's why the lights turn on. I know that if you wrap a wire around a piece of metal and run electricity through it, the metal becomes magnetic. My nephew showed me that once. He was ten. He's an engineer now."
"Close enough." Dr. Franklin glanced at Hollister. "I like him."
Hollister looked relieved. "I thought you might."
Sal looked between them. "Somebody want to tell me why I'm here?"
Dr. Franklin leaned forward. "Mr. Lombardi, we have a problem. A theoretical problem that is rapidly becoming a practical problem. We're running an experiment on the Eldridge. A very complex experiment involving electromagnetic fields. The theory is sound—I've checked the math myself. But the execution is... producing unexpected results."
"What kind of results?"
Hollister answered. "Fluctuations. Instability. The field we're generating should be uniform, but it's not. It's pulsing. Building and releasing. Like..." He trailed off, searching for the right words.
"Like pressure in a pipe," Sal said.
Hollister's eyes lit up. "Yes. Exactly. Like pressure in a pipe. It builds, it builds, and then it releases. But we don't know where it's releasing to. Or what happens when it does."
Dr. Franklin nodded. "The instruments show the energy disappearing. Just... vanishing. It doesn't dissipate. It doesn't convert. It's there, and then it's not."
Sal considered this. "Where does it go?"
"That's the question." Dr. Franklin picked up his pen again, tapped it on the desk. "That's the question we can't answer. Our instruments are good, but they're not good enough. We need another perspective. Someone who thinks differently. Someone who understands systems—how things flow, how they connect, where they get stuck."
"Someone who deals with pipes," Sal said.
"Someone who deals with pipes," Dr. Franklin agreed.
Sal looked at the two scientists—Hollister with his tired eyes and forgotten cigarettes, Franklin with his silver hair and thoughtful face. They were smart men. Really smart. The kind of smart that won wars and changed the world. And they were asking him, a plumber from South Philadelphia, for help.
"What do you want me to do?"
Hollister leaned forward. "Come back to the ship. Tonight, after the crew is asleep. Walk through it. Touch things. Listen to things. Tell us what you feel. Tell us what doesn't feel right."
"The ship's guarded. I can't just—"
"We'll clear it." Dr. Franklin waved a hand. "You'll have authorization. Full access. Engine room, bridge, below decks, everywhere. Just... walk. And observe. And tell us what you notice."
Sal thought about the hum. About the vibration in his teeth. About the way the ship had felt that morning—alive in a way that ships shouldn't be alive.
"I'll do it," he said.
ns216.73.216.1da2
and then Add to home screen.