Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw the large figure of Commander Thomas Henry enter the room. He wondered if his commanding officer cared or was feigning requisite concern. As morphine saturated him, he accepted Henry’s image as the Angel of Death.
Jake awoke again on the wardroom table. Pillows canted him toward his uninjured left side, and an intravenous tube fed him fluid.
“Don’t move, Mister Slate,” a medical technician said. “There’s still metal in you.”
“I can feel it,” Jake said.
“I’m calling the corpsman. Don’t move, sir.”
“Holy shit, Jake,” a man said. “You look like crap.”
“Thanks, Riley. You don’t look much better,” Jake said while craning his neck to see his friend, Lieutenant Riley Demorse.
Demorse’s chestnut hair was disheveled. Green eyes beamed through dark circles painted over olive skin.
“I had the midnight watch. Dude, you’re so lucky Walker is our corpsman. He says you’re still low on blood, but you should be okay until we can evacuate you.”
Jake trembled at the thought of his mortality, and metal shards heightened his sensations as the Colorado vibrated at its top speed.
“Feels like we’re running at a flank bell.”
“Yeah, to get you out of here. We’re dumping you off in Bermuda, you son of a bitch. You get a free ride off this pig via helicopter. We’ve already relinquished nuclear target coverage to the Maryland so we can dump your ass off. I’m so jealous except—”
“Except what?”
“Well,” Demorse said. “I’ve got bad news — or maybe it’s good news — depending on your sense of humor.”
Demorse recounted the story of how the ship’s corpsman and volunteers from the crew rallied to save him. Jake’s sense of humor was dark, and it had helped him stomach plenty of bad news in his life. But during the moments of silence that followed his friend’s tale, he wished he had died on the wardroom table.
A month passed, and Jake’s flesh had recovered from his injuries on the Colorado, but he was only beginning to understand how the accident would continue to destroy him.
He tried to clear the accident from his mind by riding his dirt bike in a power line clearing outside the naval submarine base in Kings Bay Georgia. The Colorado had returned, and his friend Riley Demorse, joined him.
Jake shielded his eyes from the sunlight reflecting off Demorse’s helmet. Foam helmet pads flipped tufts of chestnut hair as Riley took off the helmet. Steam rose from Demorse’s Honda four-stroke XR-250 dirt bike.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not going to do it?” Demorse asked.
Jake pointed his motorcycle at a ramp that rose above the sage grass. He revved his Kawasaki KX-500 two stroke monster — a beast that few riders dared push to its mechanical limits.
“You’re nuts!” Riley said.
Jake bent forward and gunned the green monster’s single piston engine. The motor howled a chainsaw chorus. Blue-gray smoke from the black muffler wafted over him. Leather-gloved hands gripped rubber handles.
Jake kicked the gear shifter down straight into second gear. He relaxed his fingers and popped the clutch shut. The drive train clicked. The chain snapped taut. A knobby tire spewed earth.
Jake’s head snapped, and moist air whipped over his mouth guard and abraded his cheeks. He pulled the twist-throttle back and ripped the bike through second gear. He tapped the clutch and kicked the Kawasaki into third.
Engine howling, the Kawasaki hit the ramp. The handlebar jerked upward, jammed Jake’s arms, and stunned him.
He awoke in ballistic flight and felt his stomach ten feet below. He looked down and tried to align the bike, but the front wheel swung high. He tapped the brake pedal, and the wheel lowered but slanted as it hit the ground. The landing tore the bike from under him and catapulted him over the handlebars.
His shoulder hit the ground and his helmet slapped hard earth. Sprawling on the dirt, Jake felt numb. As he began to feel his body, he performed a self-assessment. All limbs were attached and working, but he throbbed everywhere and his wrist burned. Nothing felt broken, and he judged the rush worth the pain.
“That was awesome,” Demorse said. “You’re a lunatic!”
“Hey, if you’re not biking above your abilities, you’re not biking,” Jake said.
“Let me help you up, dude,” Riley said.
“Just get the fuck away!”
Jake felt horrible the second he snapped. The accident at the Colorado’s hydraulic plant had turned every waking moment into a battle to control his anger.
“Easy, killer,” Demorse said. “What’s wrong?”
“Look, Riley, I didn’t mean to take it out on you, but I’ve got some serious shit on my mind.”
“Like what?”
Jake stood and limped to his bike. Oozing oil glistened on the engine. He grabbed the handlebars and walked the Kawasaki back to Demorse.
“Like I’m trying to figure out how to beat our commanding officer to death and get away with it.”
“Shit, Jake,” Demorse said. “I hate him, too, but I wouldn’t kill him. What’s going on?”
“There’s more wrong than you know,” Jake said. “And it wasn’t all an accident.”
CHAPTER 3
Ten years ago, Pierre Renard had retired as one of France’s most decorated submarine commanders. The French Navy’s top brass had pegged him for flag rank, but Renard found the political and administrative constraints of the admiralty too confining. He had greater plans.
Using his retired officer network, he had become a director for the French shipbuilder DCN International in its Agosta submarine program delivery to Pakistan. While succeeding with the Agosta delivery, Renard had established relations with senior Pakistani military officials. After impressing them with recommendations on military planning, he had met with then-General Pervez Musharraf himself.
Renard’s French nationality had brought a detached objectiveness that the Pakistani leader valued. By the time Renard had explained a fraction of his analysis of the Pakistani defense structure, Musharraf had offered to quadruple his salary to leave DCN and join his staff. Renard had accepted the job on the spot.
Renard had addressed gaps in Pakistan’s ability to integrate their military operations. He had convinced Musharraf to coordinate his air defenses with his ground and naval forces and had urged him to accelerate the Super-7 aircraft’s production before the United States could pressure China to terminate delivery. As conflict in the Kashmir region validated Renard’s counsel, a grateful Musharraf had showered the Frenchman with bonuses. Then he had sent him to Algeria.
In Algiers, Renard had used his brokering skills to prevent Russia from adding delays and surcharges to their agreement to deliver their Kilo class submarines — as they had done with Iran. After helping Algeria acquire its foremost naval weapons, Renard had assisted with training its crews, developing its tactics, and transferring knowledge about the Kilos to Musharraf’s admirals to use against the Kilos of the Indian fleet.
Success in Algeria garnered an invitation from an Iranian admiral to upgrade his Kilo fleet tactics, and then an Iranian general asked him to outline and acquire the means to improve his anti-air defenses. By the time he had left Iran for his subsequent client, Renard had become a renowned international military consultant and arms dealer.
As the money flowed into his personal coffers and his ego grew with the demand for his services, Renard had developed a power base, network, and reputation among many countries dotting the map between his first two Pakistani and Algerian clients. But after a decade of strengthening the militaries of former-soviet states and countries across Africa, Renard had felt himself trapped.