Free Breaking Through by D. Nichole King Page B

and head for the door.
    “Wait,” Haskal says, stopping me. “Come check this out.”
    I groan. “Can it wait?”
    “Just come here,” he says, and I reluctantly shuffle over.
    Standing beside him, I cross my arms. “What?”
    He points to the top page of a stack of military files he’s been filtering through. “This equation, right here. Does that look correct to you?”
    I squint as if by some miracle that will help me understand what he’s showing me. It doesn’t. “I give up.”
    “Here.” He points to an equation halfway down the page. “They squared the mass, but over here?” He turns the page. “They didn’t. See that?”
    I see something , but I don’t know what. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Can I go eat now?”
    “The formula is unstable,” Haskal says, leaning back against his chair and taking his glasses off.
    I frown. “The formula for what?”
    “Hydroplexasma under pressure.”
    “In English, please, Haskal.”
    “It means, sweetheart, that the North Koreans fucked up the formula. Whatever they used to make this stuff, it had to be done under extreme heat, then extreme cold, and back and forth until each molecule fused together into the perfect shape that resists change under pressure.”
    I stare at him. Blink several times.
    “Water pressure,” he tries, clearly frustrated he has to explain this. He digs through the stack of Navy documents and throws one of the files at me. “Open it.”
    I do. The file is filled with diagrams, charts, and more formulas. A few stand out to me, jumping off the page in bold letters, but I still don’t understand what I’m seeing.
    “At one thousand feet underwater, there’s fifty-six psi per gallon of water. These torpedoes are— were —designed to withstand a psi point at approximately ten thousand feet,” Haskal says.
    “Okay…”
    He stands up as if he’s proving a point. His voice rises two notches when he continues, “Nautia, this formula, if calculated correctly, says that’s bullshit. These torpedoes will collapse on themselves at just over six thousand feet underwater, not the ten thousand the North Koreans think. The hydroplexasma will deteriorate.”
    “And the torpedo will become visible,” I finish for him, finally understanding. “I guess that’s something, isn’t it?”
    “That’s a major something,” Haskal agrees, grinning.
    “Okay. So now what?”
    Haskal huffs. “Now, we hope the bastards haven’t figured out their mistake and plan to take out Japan before we arrive.”

    Riley. I love the way it sounds in my head.
    “Close your eyes,” Riley instructs from beside me. I’ve never called him by his first name to his face, but unless I’m training with the others, I’ve taken to thinking of him as Riley instead of Captain Barton.
    We’re on the top deck again tonight. With the direct access to the ocean, it’s the best place for me to practice control.
    I do as he asks, allowing my eyelids to fall.
    “Concentrate on the ocean,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice diving into the pit of my stomach, making his actual directive difficult. “It’s all around you. Alive, and waiting for you to command it.” His body is close to mine, and I can feel the heat pouring off his skin.
    The water , I remind myself. Focus on the water .
    I sense Riley next to me, but I block him out. I block everything out, except for the sound of the water beneath USS Triton . I let the soft voice of ripples rise up to my ears and filter through my veins like blood, filling me with life. And suddenly, I am alive. The world below and the heavens above open up to me. The thick, humid air releases its hold, allowing me to do with it as I please.
    “Got it?” Riley asks. He must see a physical change in me, because he always seems to know.
    I open my eyes. “Yes.”
    “Bring it up carefully.”
    I do it in reverse of nature’s laws because it’s more challenging. I raise one hand toward the sky and hold the other out over the ocean.