Page 20 of Love for Thea

TEN

THE RANCH

00:45 Hours (Day 2) (Time Elapsed: 08 hours, 15 minutes)

The china in Marjorie’s cabinet rattled softly, a rhythmic, low-frequency vibration pulsing through the very soles of Mace’s boots. In the ranch house, the air felt electric, charged with a tension that usually preceded a summer super-cell, but this was something far heavier.

Mace and Logan were hunched over a dual-monitor setup, their fingers flying in a synchronized dance across the keys. They had Tex on an open, encrypted channel, but for the first time, the Ghost in the Machine sounded like he was actually working up a sweat.

“I’m hitting a wall with the USGS,” Tex’s voice crackled through the speakers, sounding like gravel being ground in a digital blender. It was punctuated by the rapid, staccato clicking of his keyboard. “The government geologists can’t agree if this is a seismic shift or a thermal event. They’re caught in bureaucratic peer review while the mountain is just minutes from a phreatic burst, which is an explosive steam eruption caused when groundwater is suddenly heated by magma and forces the rock apart. I need ground-truth data, Mace. I need someone who knows the soil.”

“I’m on it,” Mace replied, his eyes scanning a localized database. “I’m pulling Thea’s uploaded field logs from the ranch’s cloud server. She’s been tracking pH shifts and root-zone temps for months. If I can overlay her last three days of data onto your thermal satellite feed, we can cut through the USGS red tape.”

“Do it,” Tex urged. “Logan, I know this means pushing outside the usual boundaries, but are you willing to dig into the Vanguard servers off the books? We need to know who is really pulling the strings. There is a name on the manifest called ‘The Principal,’ but his digital footprint is a flatline. He has no social media presence, no tax records for ten years, and no paper trail.”

Logan hesitated, the weight of the request pressing down on him. Operating in the gray area meant exposure to risk, not just from the target but from his own superiors in Naval Intel. Any misstep could end his career, or worse. Yet the urgency in Tex’s voice was undeniable. This was not just protocol; it was survival.

Tex’s voice softened, becoming steady and reassuring. “I will fly high cover for you, son. Your job will be safe.”

Logan let out a dry chuckle and shook his head, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Alright, I’m in. But if this all goes sideways, I guess I’ll be updating my resume.”

Logan’s eyes were sharp and unblinking as his fingers danced across the keyboard. He muttered softly under his breath, sifting through tangled webs of company registrations and encrypted communications. “Shells within shells… proxies rerouting funds… Cayman front… no, dead end… wait, here it is.”

The glow from the monitors cast cool, blue shadows across his focused face. His jaw tightened, the weight of what he was uncovering settling into his gut.

Beside him, Mace worked in tandem, examining independent data feeds with calm intensity. “Overlaying Thea’s field logs onto the satellite thermal scans,” Mace said. “There’s a massive hotspot forming under the ribs. Pressure’s building.”

The air in the room grew taut, the only sounds the rhythmic clicking of keys and the steady hum of the cooling fans.

Finally, Logan’s voice broke the quiet. “Got him. Elias Thorne. Ex-COO of a deep-crust drilling firm out of Houston. Disappeared after that catastrophic rig failure in the Gulf. He buried his past and went mercenary.”

His gaze flicked toward the icon representing Tex. “He’s not after the minerals. Look at this: equipment manifest lists acoustic resonators, liquid nitrogen injectors.”

Tex swallowed, his voice husky with unease as he read aloud. “He’s trying to harvest geothermal kinetic energy directly from the volcano’s cap. He wants to bottle the volcano itself. If he pulls this off, he controls the entire Pacific Northwest power grid.”

Mace glanced at his brother, the gravity settling deep in their bones. “And if he fails…”

Picasso paused, his hands stilling over the gear he was packing in the corner of the office. “I’ve read about the supervolcano beneath Yellowstone. Is there truth to the stories? How volatile is this underground system we’re walking into?”

Mace glanced up from the data, meeting Picasso’s gaze. “The pressure pockets are enormous and critically unstable, Senior Chief. This is a ticking time bomb, a system ready to erupt if pushed too hard.”

The room fell heavy with the weight of that reality, each man feeling the full scope of the danger ahead.

“Wait,” Logan interrupted, his screen flashing amber. “I’ve got a hit on Thorne’s personal logs. He’s got an extraction plan for himself. A private VTOL craft hidden on the north ridge of the Ribs. He’s planning to ride out the initial blast and vanish in the chaos of the evacuation.”

Across the room, Picasso was cinching his combat belt, his expression darkening as he listened to the twins dismantle The Principal’s life. “He’s going to leave my men and Dr. Wynn at the epicenter?”

“He’s leaving everyone,” Logan said. “Including his own contractors. He’s a scorched-earth player.”

“Tex,” Mace said, his fingers hammering out a final command. “I’m sending you the Thea-logic overlay now. It’s showing a massive pressure pocket forming under the hangar’s sub-floor. The drill has created a vacuum. If they pull that drill bit out now without a counter-pressure injection, the whole thing goes.”

“I see it,” Tex said. “The experts are finally catching up, but it’s too late for the red tape. FEMA is officially moving. Wolf is being ordered to the West Entrance, but I’ve redirected his flight path just enough. He’s going to ‘overshoot’ the Stone Ribs. You’ll have a window of exactly four minutes to catch the drop.”

Mace looked at Logan, then toward his father. Ronald stood in the doorway of his office, a tray of food and drinks steady in his hands. Watching his boys work, the retired Army Sergeant felt a quiet, iron pride.

“We have the data,” Mace said, standing up. “We have the target. And we know exactly who Elias Thorne is.”

“Then stop talking,” Ronald commanded, his voice a low rumble of authority. “Tex has given you the map. Now go find your brother before that mountain decides the argument for us.”