His plan had taken on new life in the passion of the young naval officer, but could this be a ploy? Was the American working with authorities to entrap him?
He poured himself a Hennessy. As the drink’s warmth relaxed him, he convinced himself that his fears were baseless. The situation had unfolded per his desires.
Even if Jake tried to back out or turn on him, Renard thought, he had influence with the Taiwanese Minister of Defense. He would control all Taiwanese assets involved with the theft of the Colorado. That would serve as an insurance policy. He would deliver warheads to Taiwan and alter the course of history.
CHAPTER 10
Renard had convinced the Taiwanese Minister of Defense to pay Jake’s one hundred million dollars in installments during the stolen Trident’s voyage. He also negotiated twenty million in commission fees for himself.
With mainland China nearing implementation of its blockade-reunification plan, the Minister of Defense had little strength to turn down Renard’s demand for a ten percent down payment. The Frenchman banked his two-million-dollar commission fee for the down payment and returned to Jacksonville, Florida.
The fatigue of transoceanic travel reminded Renard of the long hours commanding the Amethyst. Feeling his age, he wondered if he had enough energy to carry out the plan. He hoped that Jake would provide a much needed spark.
He watched Jake enter his hotel room and lay an attaché case on a table.
“I’ve got the drawings of the ship and the Kings Bay nautical charts,” Jake said.
“Do I have to strip? I wore a thong for you.”
“We’re beyond that. Can you meet my terms?”
“Yes. Ten million up front. Forty million at your midway maneuver, the remaining fifty million upon delivery.”
“When do I get the ten million?”
“It’s in an account now. After I hand you the account number and access code, the money is yours. However, once you change the code, you’re committed. If you run with the money, you will be hunted down and killed.”
“I’m going through with this as long as you remember whose ship it is,” Jake said. “The warheads are yours, but the ship is mine. Even after the warhead transfer, it’s mine. I’ll need it to get away.”
“The ship itself is only a delivery vehicle to me.”
“So we agree. I’m in command?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. I don’t want to have this conversation when we’re at sea. I know the ship much better than you ever will, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve if you test me.”
“It will be a twenty-year step backward, but I must concede command. You know the Colorado much better than I do, and you also know the men you’ve recruited. I assume you’ve recruited them?”
“I talked to them a few days ago. They’re with us.”
Renard wanted to learn what he could about Jake’s men.
“Tell me about them,” he said.
“First guy is Machinist Mate Second Class Scott McKenzie, a crack mechanic. He can operate or repair any non-nuclear system on the boat. He ran into a little trouble with someone else’s wife. I’d planned to get him transferred, but his ten-million cut changed that.”
“Ten million?” Renard asked. “You’re giving each of your men ten percent and keeping seventy for yourself?”
“Keeping fifty. I have a land-based guy taking another twenty percent.”
Renard believed that the way one deals with money reveals much about one’s character.
“It may be none of my business how you share your funds, but I appreciate your candor,” he said. “And of the other two who will deploy with us?”
“The Navy was a mistake for both, and they want out. They hate their jobs and they’re both in debt up to their eyeballs. Electrician Mate Third Class David Bass is McKenzie’s counterpart in the electric world, plus he’s qualified to handle most reactor control stations. He needs the money to help save his family’s business.”
“And the third man?”
“Machinist Mate Second Class Michael Gant is the expert on reactor mechanical systems. He’s greedy, and he lost everything in the stock market. He started drooling when I mentioned the money. All three of my guys are friends. They helped talk each other into it.”
“Their qualifications and motivations seem appropriate. I have no choice but to trust your judgment about their loyalty.”
“No, you don’t,” Jake said.
“Shall we review the details one last time then?”
“The Colorado just moved to the explosive handling wharf,” Jake said. “Our timeframe is still good.”
“Excellent. Humor me with a final walk through.”
After listening to the tight chain of events that were to culminate in the theft of the Colorado, Renard watched Jake move toward the door. He surveyed Jake’s body language. He moved fluidly and appeared relaxed. His gaze was neutral, neither afraid nor filled with bravado. Renard liked what he saw.
“So that’s it,” Jake said. “Next time I see you, you’re wearing a wetsuit. This is your last chance to ask for anything.”
“Ah, yes. Your ship does not permit smoking, does it?”
“No, but some guys carry cigarettes for port calls.”
“Just in case — could you smuggle aboard a carton of Marlboros?”
“Only one carton?”
“Make it two,” Renard said. “Just to be sure.”
Jake grabbed a black and teal Jacksonville Jaguar football gym bag. Silencers for M-16 military rifles and nine-millimeter pistols clanked. Renard noticed a wry smile.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you got these?” Jake asked.
“Just make sure you smuggle them onto the ship. And do not forget my Marlboros, or I shall be an unpleasant shipmate.”
Alone at the dojang studio, Jake bounced on the balls of his feet. He stood before the kicking bag and envisioned a crippled Commander Thomas Henry lying before him.
He controlled his breath after having mock-pummeled Henry, adjusted the black belt around his waist, and pulled up the white pants of his dobak martial arts uniform.
Jake let the imaginary Henry stand again for another whipping. The top of his bare foot struck padded vinyl, and as the thump echoed, Jake felt his anger subside.
A sensation he had not felt in weeks came over him. He felt peace. He envisioned a Frenchman with a cigarette in his mouth promising that revenge would be his.
He drove home, showered, and slept soundly for the first time since the accident.
The next evening, moonlight beamed through Jake’s riding goggles. He straddled the leather seat of his Kawasaki KX-500 two-stroke dirt bike. His irises expanded as he stared at the ramp’s silhouette. Bending forward, he gunned the green monster’s single piston engine.
He kicked the gear shifter and released the clutch. The drive train engaged, and the chain snapped. Jake ripped the bike through second gear and kicked it into third.
The bike’s rpm hit the stratosphere as the ramp smacked the knobby front tire. Jake reached an unprecedented height. He tried to gage his landing but saw only darkness. Instinct alone governed his landing.
The ground surprised him, riveted foot pedals into his boots, and slammed the handlebars into his wrists. The bouncing Kawasaki tried to buck him, but he held.
Jake inhaled and brought frozen lungs back to life. He relaxed his arms as the Kawasaki came to rest.
Cutting the ignition, Jake hopped off the machine. Letting the bike fall, he ripped the chinstrap from his neck, hurled his helmet into the sky, and raised his index fingers to the night.