10. The Ranch
TEN
THE RANCH
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.”
Mace was about to close his laptop when a high-priority, encrypted alert tone echoed through Picasso’s satellite comms on the table. It wasn’t Tex. It was a secure line from the East Coast.
Picasso snapped the unit up. “Waverly.”
The voice on the other end was clipped, authoritative, and familiar. Commander Rachel Bennett.
“Senior Chief, I’m looking at a USGS alert saying your vacation spot is sitting on a geological bomb,” Bennett said, Navy steel threading her tone.
“I also have a report from Naval Intel that two of our operators and a civilian asset are being held by a hostile PMF. Care to explain why I’m hearing about this from someone else? ”
Picasso’s posture stiffened, his jaw tightening as the weight of her words sank in. “Commander, that situation was not fully confirmed until recently. We’ve been focused on prepping a local-lead recovery. My apologies for the delay in communication.”
Bennett’s voice remained firm, edged with controlled impatience. “Apologies won’t cut it now, Senior Chief. From here on, I need full transparency.”
“The local lead just went global, Waverly. The Pentagon is trying to frame this as a natural disaster but we know better. This is a Vanguard operation. You and your team are officially recalled to active duty effective immediately. Consider the Adams Ranch a Forward Operating Base. I have already coordinated with the Governor. Naval Intelligence has assigned Mason and Logan Adams to work with you as your digital coordinators.”
“We will also be reaching out to Ronald Adams directly regarding the use of his property to ensure all clearances and support are in place.”
A faint hum of tension filled the room. Picasso’s eyes shifted toward Ronald, a questioning look passing between them.
The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken understanding.
Ronald gave a slight nod, his calm and steady expression betraying the weight of their earlier conversations about his armory and bunker.
The ranch was no longer just a home but a fortress prepared for what was coming.
“What about the gear, ma’am?” Picasso asked, glancing toward the bunker entrance. “We’re running sanitized hardware.”
“Wolf is currently over the Rockies,” Bennett replied, her voice carrying the authority of a seasoned leader.
“He’s carrying a specialized ordnance drop: high-heat tactical suits, suppressed weaponry, and enough C4 to make that hangar disappear.
If Vanguard wants a war in a volcano, give them one.
You have unrestricted authority to secure our men and the civilian asset.
Recover our men. Bring back the girl. And Picasso, don’t let that mountain catch you. ”
“Copy that, Commander. Moving now.”
Picasso ended the call and turned to the Adams brothers.
Mace and Logan shared a glance, their expressions a mix of awe and determination.
They had heard the stories. Commander Rachel Bennett wasn’t just a legend; she was the first female SEAL to rise through the ranks and lead a squadron.
She commanded respect effortlessly and knew every operator personally.
To have her green-light their mission was both an honor and a heavy responsibility.
“Change of plans,” Picasso announced, his voice edged with the full weight of Navy authority.
“We’re not just a rescue party anymore. We’re a sanctioned strike team.
Atlantic One, this is our show now. Wyatt, you’re our PJ and primary liaison for the Air Force drop.
Mace and Logan, you’ll stay here to work directly with Tex as our eyes and ears from command.
If Commander Bennett is giving us the sky, I want every satellite Tex can access locked onto that sector. ”
He glanced at Ronald, who nodded grimly, the burden of what lay ahead etched into his features.
“You heard the man,” Ronald said, his sergeant’s voice sharp and commanding. “Three hours until Wolf’s drop. Let’s get the trucks to the LZ.”