“Jake, you know the odds. It’s a coin toss if you ever see a woman after the first night. It just seems worse because you thought you had a connection.”
Still stone.
“Let’s get out of here. Maybe we can talk about it outside,” Mercer added.
On the sidewalk, Mercer zipped his Timberland jacket.
“Look, man, I know how you feel,” he said.
Mercer felt himself being pulled at his shoulders and spun like a top. He flailed his arms and dug his fingers into Jake’s biceps. Expecting his knees to smack the sidewalk, Mercer was surprised when Jake caught him by his jacket.
“You do not know how I feel! You don’t have a fucking clue. The Navy ruined my life.”
Mercer let Jake hold him.
“What the fuck do you say about that?” Jake asked.
“All I want to do is to help you.”
The hold loosened as Jake’s voice trailed to whisper.
“You don’t know how I feel.”
Jake relaxed his grip. Mercer staggered backward and pulled Jake into a hug while stabilizing himself.
“I’m here for you, buddy,” Mercer said.
Jake’s chest expanded with shallow breaths. Tears filled Mercer’s eyes. He remembered the day nine years ago when Jake was orphaned. It was the only time he remembered seeing Jake cry.
From an upstairs patio of Trolleys Food and Spirits, a favorite watering hole in St. Marys, Jake watched the sun touch the horizon over a southern Georgian tributary of the St. Marys River. Around him, a dozen Colorado shipmates gorged themselves on hot wings and beer during a warm spring day. He poured a beer for Scott McKenzie, the Colorado’s adulterous mechanic.
“Done like a pro, sir,” McKenzie said.
“I am a pro. Pass me some wings. I’m starved.”
“I’ve seen you eat, sir. Just save us some. There’s only fifty on that plate.”
Jake devoured three wings. The fourth slithered through the barbeque sauce on his fingers and hit the table. He wiped his hands and mouth.
“You know I’ve talked the executive officer into transferring you off the ship, right?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, I’m going to call my detailer to argue about it though, because he’s going to send me to Groton. It’s too damn cold in Connecticut,” McKenzie said.
“It’s not so bad up there. Plus I can talk to the commanding officer of the Miami to see if he could use you. He’s my mentor.”
“Yeah, well I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“You’re not still attached to our shipmate’s wife, are you?” Jake asked.
“She still calls me. I just hang up, but I still love her,” McKenzie said.
“The stars aren’t aligned on this one. If you stick around here, you’re going to slip up and get caught. Trust me. You’re going to have to start over somewhere else.”
McKenzie grunted.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’ll do like you said and just get as far away from this mess as I can. I guess I owe you one, you know, for talking to the executive officer for me.”
Jake emptied his glass. Through the corner of his eye, he spied a figure on the street below. A woman in a green and yellow dress stood there. Dark hair framed a face hidden behind sunglasses.
Marie? Jake thought.
As if she had heard him, the woman looked up.
Jake pushed his way through the bar’s double doors. Standing in the empty street, he watched the mystery lady glance at him before slipping under the waterfront’s covered pier.
He jogged to the dock and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s reflection. A silver-haired man in a gray blazer sat between him and the woman who was descending stairs at the dock’s far end.
The man lowered his ‘USA Today’.
“Marie will not be joining us, Lieutenant Slate.”
Jake looked into eyes of blue steel. The stranger closed his newspaper and lit a Marlboro with the flame from a gold-plated lighter.
“Who are you?” Jake asked.
“Pierre Renard, your agent of revenge.”
“How the hell do you know my name?”
“I know a few things about you, but I cannot say how. I asked Marie to contact you.”
“You sent Marie after me? Like a spy?”
“More like a recruiter.”
“Recruiter for what?”
“A project that will enable you to take revenge upon those who have wronged you.”
“How did you know about… Marie told you everything?”
“I apologize for my methods, but I wanted to be sure that I could offer you what you needed before flying half way across the world to meet you.”
“Meet for what? Get to the point!”
Renard exhaled smoke.
“I need your assistance in acquiring warheads from your submarine.”
Jake stepped back as if Renard had shape-shifted into a rattlesnake. He pushed a hand through his hair.
“Who put that idea in your head?” Jake asked.
“You did.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you all but admitted to Marie that you’re in the market for revenge. And I know more than you admitted to her. I know, for example, that your commanding officer is at least partially responsible for your condition, and given the extent of your injury, I would not blame you for holding the United States Navy and its bureaucratic leadership responsible.”
Jake was as shocked by the man’s understanding of his state of mind as his knowledge of his secrets.
“Okay,” he said. “If that were true, then so what?”
“I’m sure you’ve pondered taking the situation into your own hands, but you’re too smart for wanton aggression. This leaves you in a quandary.”
Jake said nothing.
“Take warheads from the Navy that destroyed you — that will quiet your inner demons.”
He hungered to join Renard in whatever scheme he was concocting, but he wanted to test the Frenchman’s sincerity.
“You’re a government agent trying to entrap me. Do you think I would turn my back on my country?”
“I intend to arm Taiwan with nuclear warheads to improve their position against China,” Renard said. “You can help me.”
He held out an envelope.
“Ten thousand dollars. I insist. This should allay your fears that I work for your government. If I did, then I’ve just ruined my case with entrapment.”
Jake shook his head.
“Lieutenant,” Renard said, “I would not be here if I were not certain that I could help you. Our interests are aligned, and I understand you more than you may know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I can see how your patriotism has been betrayed, and I know how militaries can destroy the finest men. You see, I commanded the French nuclear submarine ‘Amethyst’.”
“So you’re Marie’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“Prove that you really were a French submarine commander. Tell me where you earned your commission.”
“L’Ecole Navale near Brest. I graduated in nineteen eighty-two with seventy-six other Aspirants.”
“Name every class of Russian surface combatant you know. A submarine captain would still know them.”
“The real Russian names or the NATO nicknames?”
“Spit it out.”
“Very well. Kresta, Kynda, Konin, Kashin, Krivak, Kara, Kirov… that’s it for the K’s that I can think of off the top of my head. There was, of course, that hideous helicopter carrier Moskva that looked like it might capsize at any moment.”
Jake nodded.
“I did a summer exchange at L’École Navale. Tell me about your graduation party. The one I saw made my academy’s Ring Dance look like geriatric bingo.”