“Thank you, President Gomez. I mentioned that my submarine is being towed by a ship. That ship is filled with sea mines, which will be your primary weapon. Of course, this is why I am using very long cables to tow my submarine and have staffed my submarine with a bored but well-paid emergency skeletal crew. I could ill afford losing my submarine in transit to an accidental mine detonation.”
“Mines?”
“With timers,” Renard said. “Each mine is set to become inert within six months. Mines, as treacherous as they are, historically make for excellent deterrents. But you must take care to use them wisely to allow diplomacy after achieving your military goals. You will surround the Malvinas with mines as part of your action to retake them, but you want to show restraint as well.”
“If this takes more than six months?”
“Then we will lay more mines,” Renard said. “They are relatively cheap.”
The president shifted in his chair and lit a fresh cigarette, spurring Renard to withdraw a fresh Marlboro. After lighting up, he offered one to his defeated adversary. The chief rolled his eyes but accepted.
“Cheap, I agree,” Gomez said. “But who will lay them? British air and sea power is modest at the Malvinas, but it is a vigilant force supported by a surveillance network of merchant and fishing vessels. I do, however, have just enough attack aircraft to soften their defenses. Such action, of course, is brute force. You don’t appear to be a brute force sort of man.”
“Correct,” Renard said. “I am planning to avoid brute force, wanton destruction. You will take temporary control of the air and sea around the Malvinas, long enough to lay the mines.”
“Really? How?”
“Through the most delicate and risky stage of the plan,” Renard said. “You shall have temporary control of a British Type 45 destroyer. Specifically, six weeks from now, the HMS Dragon will relieve the HMS Dauntless of patrol duties in the Malvinas operational areas. Since I have already recruited a key member of the Dragon to lead a small team of mutineers, you shall have access to that vessel for at least three days where you shall control the skies over the Malvinas to lay mines — and to also soften the air defenses on the islands.”
The president tightened his lips, and his eyes narrowed.
“Impossible.”
“I would agree with you, President Gomez, except that recruiting traitors is also one of my key skills.”
“You claim to be a man of many skills,” Gomez said. “Give me an example.”
“The commanding officer of my submarine,” Renard said. “Eight years ago, I turned him against the United States. He’s since earned his clemency with a select few government leaders by taking part in the operations that have also earned me favor with the Americans, but I turned him nonetheless. And he wasn’t the first, nor will he be the last.”
“Even if I grant you that a British mutiny is possible, you cannot possibly base your entire plan for my success upon making a Brit turn on his countrymen.”
Renard exhaled smoke.
“No,” he said. “But should this mutiny aboard the Dragon fall short, we may have to resort to the artless brute force that you correctly surmised I detest.”
“Such is warfare, Mister Renard. I trust you know how to deal with the unplanned.”
The Frenchman’s thoughts drifted to images of a crippled Trident missile submarine, its bow crumpled by a wall of ice, its missile compartment charred by fire, and its conning tower peppered by aircraft gunfire. Ever since he accomplished his intent with that doomed vessel, bringing its nuclear warheads to Taiwan, he knew he could adapt to all circumstances.
“I’m sure you know that I have,” he said. “Like you said, President Gomez, such is warfare. Plans don’t always survive contact with the enemy, and I’ve had my share of occasions to adapt. But, of course, I prefer to develop plans that beget victory.”
“I have just one last question, and then I will take your plan to my military leaders for review.”
“Excellent,” Renard said. “I am more than happy to answer.”
“Why, Mister Renard?”
“Excuse me? I don’t understand.”
“Why me? Why Argentina? The fees you request for your services would alter the life of the average man, but you are no average man. You’re not doing this for the money. Why are you doing this?”
Renard’s tail bristled with the thrill of a successful hunt completed.
“I enjoy empowering my clients to achieve what they can only otherwise imagine without my intervention.”
“I believe you, Mister Renard. I truly do. But there must be more to it. Ego, perhaps?”
“You see much, President Gomez. If I had to put it in words, I would be challenged.”
“Humor me. What does this mean to you, personally?”
Renard inhaled, pondered, and then exhaled smoke.
“I get to play God again,” he said. “At least one more time.”
CHAPTER 2
Jake Slate gulped fire. It strung his throat, and sweet vapor burned as the aftertaste.
“Bacardi dark,” a man said over pounding house music.
When sober, Jake hated loud music and crowds, but alcohol’s haze had drowned sobriety a dozen drinks ago. His head bobbed with the throbbing bass beat.
His new drinking companion and his younger, quiet sidekick had tipped their Detroit Tiger ball caps in response to Jake’s request to share a table. Their broad shoulders filling flannel shirts, the duo introduced themselves as union welders. Consistent with his witness protection-like cover, Jake mentioned that he managed retail liquor distribution.
Nick, Jake’s older but smaller brother, mentioned his unemployed state, a believable story a decade after the Great Recession’s nuclear blast had devastated the city. Jake had warned Nick to avoid mentioning his career in deciphering psychic premonitions and helping people with his supposed healing energies.
Jake surveyed the room and admired its ethnic mix. To him, economic troubles, musical history, and automotive roots united Detroiters more than race divided them. What both irked him and enticed him was the smog of testosterone. Body odor and cologne hung in the air, daring the first bravado-fueled drunkard to throw a punch.
Against his failing wisdom, he wanted to be that first drunkard.
He scanned the bar for worthy prey. Something within his pseudo-fake life had snapped and turned him into an isolated, angry lion, and his inner animal tensed for rage.
He remembered a wild rage eight years earlier that a French arms dealer named Pierre Renard had exploited. With the promise of fortune and revenge, Renard had convinced him to hijack his Trident missile submarine. But stealing the submarine provided a short-lived distraction for Jake’s deep and perpetual anger. A bar fight, he rationalized, was an acceptable way to vent.
“Chaser!” the welder said.
Jake swallowed a draft beer, and the coolness soothed his throat. His brother leaned in and whispered.
“I don’t like it here, Jake.” Nick said.
“You don’t like it anywhere.”
Jake noted that Nick had refused shots and nursed a diet coke, claiming designated driver rights.
“That’s not the point,” Nick said. “There are tons of bars closer to home, but you dragged me here looking for trouble.”
“So what? You’re not pulling your psychic shit on me are you? You know how that crap bothers me. You think you can foretell the future. Are you getting a bad omen here?”