“Epic?” Salem said. “You see my actions from my perspective and without disdain. And you do this naturally. I can tell when a psychologist is forcing an effort to gain my perspective, such as the redheaded lady who has been attempting to dissect me.”
“She told you I was coming?”
“Yes. She’s brilliant. I almost find myself willing to trust her, but a deeper part of me knows better.”
Jake shifted in his seat.
“You’ll trust me,” he said.
“Because you have no agenda other than learning about yourself?” Salem asked.
“You’re starting to understand why I’m here.”
“Perhaps. You said you intended something epic. Did you fail?”
“I stopped at the last minute,” Jake said.
“I see. You seem the type of person to succeed when committed. I assume then that you lost your motivation.”
In a flash, doubts of his visit’s appropriateness evaporated. Salem understood him. Better than Renard. Better than anyone. The feeling excited and sickened him.
“I was angry… vengeful… even proud,” he said. “Then I realized that these reasons didn’t justify my actions.”
“I see immediate differences between us,” Salem said, his face darkening. “My motivation was selfless. I sought to shock a nation for the greater sake of the world, and I didn’t care if I lived or died. Because of this, my motivation was solid as bedrock.”
“You’re saying I’m selfish?” Jake asked.
“The evidence supports it, based upon what you have shared with me.”
Jake swallowed the concept as truth.
“So, I was selfish,” he said. “Maybe I still am. But I don’t see why I should risk my life for strangers.”
“The most noble purposes involve serving others,” Salem said. “Whether you know them or not is irrelevant. You are the only interviewer I expect to understand why this was the inspiration for my deeds.”
“You called it divine inspiration when I was here last time,” Jake said. “Now you’re calling it servitude.”
Salem stood and approached the glass. His glare surprised Jake and clutched his soul.
“When you can see that these are one in the same, Jake, you will have resolved your inner dilemma.”
CHAPTER 20
John Brody stormed into Secretary Rickets’ office and slammed the door.
“It’s over,” he said.
Rickets slouched in his chair behind a thick mahogany desk. He appeared wounded but resilient.
“It’s not over,” Rickets said.
“Suao Harbor is on fire. Two frigates are damaged — one a mission kill, the destroyer Ma Kong is on the bottom, and God knows how many patrol craft survived, if any.”
“I know,” Rickets said. “Renard just texted me.”
“You’re making national security decisions based upon an unsecure text from an international criminal?”
“There’s plenty of security protecting my cell phone,” Rickets said. “And he texted me all I need to know with cryptic information.”
Rickets stood and walked around his desk.
“Well?” Brody asked.
“Fourteen or fifteen. Proceeding,” Rickets said.
“That’s it? That’s all he texted?”
“I assume it’s the number of patrol craft that survived the air attack and are available for the egress.”
“Why are we speculating?”
“We don’t have to,” Rickets said. “I just got another text from him. He’s asking for a teleconference.”
Rickets sat in his chair and turned on the monitor.
“Are you going to sit?” he asked.
“I’ll stand,” Brody said.
The screen brought the Frenchman’s visage into form.
“Gentlemen,” Renard said.
“What the hell’s going on?” Brody asked.
“The Chinese launched a surprise anti-shipping attack from the air, but the convoy survived.”
“Define ‘survived’,” Brody said.
“Fourteen vessels are untouched or sustained minor strafing damage. A fifteenth is operational on one diesel engine and will continue on the mission. Two are damaged beyond use without major repairs, and one was sadly lost.”
“Fourteen or fifteen,” Brody said. “Your ranks are dwindling, and you haven’t even started yet.”
“The convoy will survive the minefield with enough integrity to provide anti-submarine coverage at the choke points.”
“You can’t assure that,” Brody said.
“No,” Renard said, “But within a matter of hours I expect to share with you news of our success.”
Brody judged a matter of hours too long for the Seventh Fleet to wait. He excused himself, and as he closed the door to Rickets’ office, he decided to lower his head, charge, and impale his enemy.
He marched through the hallway to give the order to mobilize a strike group in Hawaii to begin steaming towards Taiwan.
Renard swallowed saliva, accentuating his hunger. The Chinese interruption threatened his hunt, but his resolve remained. He would adapt his tactics to the changing wind, redirect his tracks, and outfox his prey.
“Admiral Brody remains pessimistic,” he said.
Rickets’ image moved with slight latency across the laptop monitor.
“His opinion doesn’t matter,” Rickets said. “All that matters is that you succeed.”
“He had an air about him of quiet defiance.”
“I’ll keep Brody in check.”
“Please do. I fear he may send American ships to places where they could only complicate matters.”
Renard inhaled the calming taste of his cigarette.
“Other than the loss of patrol craft,” Rickets asked, “have you made any adjustments to your plans?”
“Timing has slipped forty minutes as the surviving ships assess damage and regroup, but this is hardly a concern as we have forfeited any element of surprise. The Chinese learned of our egress and have certainly already dedicated every asset to it they see fit.”
“Submarines,” Rickets said.
Renard exhaled smoke into a cloud that rose into the Keelung command center’s high ceiling.
“That’s all they have left other than the aircraft they’ve already expended and the mines they’ve already dropped. Taking a skewed perspective, the Chinese air attack at least proves that they fear the patrol crafts’ capabilities.”
“You can do this without Slate?”
“I’ve planned for it all along.”
Renard glanced over his shoulder at the empty seat from which he would command the Hai Ming submarine. Duty called, and he looked back at the webcam.
“Secretary Rickets,” he said, “I have business to which I must attend.”
“Get it done, Renard. I’ll be watching.”
Renard logged off the laptop and stamped out his Marlboro in a tray.
He brushed by the Taiwanese flag that served as his teleconference backdrop, bringing the panorama of the buzzing control center into view.
Adrenaline carried him across the carpet, and he stopped to look over shoulders at the navigation chart.
Outside Suao Harbor, a complete squadron of F-16 aircraft protected the sky against a potential second wave of assailants.
Fourteen patrol craft formed two columns of seven, their beams separated by a quarter mile with a half mile separating their sterns and bows. A fifteenth, the lead vessel, drifted in front. It pointed toward the minefield, represented by slashed red lines four miles wide inside the twelve-mile territorial boundary.
Within the center of the screen’s focus, a narrow corridor showed green hashes interlaced between the minefield’s lines of red. Renard recognized it as the route the patrol crafts would run.