“I’m not sure how.”
“Would you be willing to recite any of these prayers and just see how it feels?”
Kalabat withdrew a pocket-sized paperback from his desk drawer and extended it. Jake accepted it and flipped through its pages. The submission, praise, and gratitude to an unseen, unprovable entity bothered him, and he lowered the book to the priest’s desk.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“That’s fine. Try talking to God, out loud or silently. He’ll hear what you say.”
“Just like a conversation?”
“Sure.”
“Can I say anything I want?”
“Sure. Biblical heroes did. The best example is Job. God worked him over hard, and Job told God everything he felt about it. God understood and kept Job in his grace. Don’t hold back.”
“I can do that,” Jake said.
“I can’t always predict how God will react, but in general, you’ll find answers slow to come. Be patient.”
“That’s not my strong suit, although I’m getting better with age. At least I think I am.”
“Age brings wisdom and patience.”
Jake felt no less lost than when he entered Kalabat’s office, but he sensed a dead end for the day’s progress.
“That’s it then, right? I’ve got my homework assignment. Talk to God?”
“That’s it. I trust God to give you just enough feedback to encourage you along in seeking Him. That’s how it works.”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll be here if you need me, whenever you’re ready to come back. And if you look for Him, God will be with you all the time.”
The holy man stood, and Jake found himself caught in a goodbye hug, wondering if he was wasting his time seeking a faith.
As he marched by the rectory’s receptionist, the elderly lady turned from her musty desk, and her eyes offered a peaceful sparkle.
“How was your meeting with the bishop?” she asked.
He thought about disregarding her inaccurate question, but within his heart, decorum triumphed.
“You must be thinking of someone else, ma’am,” he said. “I was talking to Father Frank.”
She smiled and tilted her head, excusing his ignorance.
“Nobody’s calling Bishop Francis that name anymore,” she said. “He doesn’t mind if old friends call him Father Frank, but he’s going to be instated as the Eparch next month. He must consider you dear to him, if he didn’t correct you.”
The revelation flustered Jake. He thanked the woman for straightening him out, and he drove home to talk to his wife.
Knowing that she hated his pending departure, Jake tried to downplay the dangers.
He had told Linda that it was a routine training exercise and that he’d be back within two weeks. In truth, he hoped to be home in ten days, but he hesitated to bank on victory over a British Astute-class submarine, no matter how elegant the trap. He knew she sensed his doubts about his survival. Worse, he knew she sensed his indifference.
She had professed love to him in a way nobody had before — she needed him, and his death would ruin her. He couldn’t process the responsibility, nor could he believe it. His role since the cradle had been the expendable survivor.
As part of his glorified witness protection plan, he drove a two-year old blue Ford Fusion. Despite being a mid-grade high-volume car, the vehicle felt like luxury to him since he preferred simple surroundings.
As he cranked the engine to drive to Detroit Metropolitan Airport, Linda threw herself onto the hood and extended her limbs across it.
Whereas weaker women might crumble under fear of her husband’s safety, Linda had worked through her suffering with prayer. She would send her husband off with a show of strength. Her smile radiated enough joy in being his wife that it drowned out her fear and sadness.
“Don’t go!” she said.
The windshield absorbed her words, but he recognized them. He smiled, tapped the horn, and revved the engine.
“Get off the car, silly.”
“Don’t go!” she said.
He rolled down the window.
“Give me a kiss,” he said.
She rolled off the hood and moved in front of him. Her face resembled a heart with wide, ruddy cheeks that highlighted her swarthy Iraqi tan. Dark soulful eyes conveyed a deep love while trying to hold back a tide of sorrow.
He kissed her and started down the driveway before she had time to breakdown.
Through his rear-view mirror, he thought he saw sunlight glinting off tears on her cheeks, but he hoped the parting vision of his wife was an illusion of suffering.
As he turned onto his street, he realized that he had the perfect wife. But he also digested his incapacity to appreciate her. The greatest gift that fate, divine providence, or even God had bestowed upon him had fallen on his iron heart.
He cursed himself for being unappreciative, but then he remembered a line from C.S. Lewis claiming that the inability of humanity to have all its desires satisfied in this world served as proof of an afterlife. The thought would linger in his mind as he traveled.
Jake arrived in the Argentine beach resort town of Mar del Plata two days ahead of his scheduled deployment on Renard’s submarine.
On the chartered flight from Detroit, he had studied everything public about the British Astute-class nuclear-powered submarine, and he also had private insight into its capabilities based upon Renard’s intelligence network. But he conceded that he knew too little about this frontline adversary to overcome it in a clean battle.
So he would fight dirty.
Although Renard’s vessel awaited him, Jake drank away his first day in solitude on the beach. He told himself he would have plenty of clean and sober time cramped with other men on Renard’s submarine, and he needed to blow off steam.
As countless South American vixens pranced by in skimpy beach ware, Jake appreciated that many of them returned his lustful stare. Of course, he constantly reminded himself of his commitment to his wife and later relieved himself of his frustrations in the privacy of his luxury hotel room.
The next day, he met Renard for lunch at an outdoor bar with a view of the harbor, cursing himself for poisoning himself with alcohol’s toxins the prior day. The Frenchman appeared vibrant, mocking Jake’s hangover.
He smelled his friend’s light and fresh cologne as they exchanged cheek-to-cheek air kisses.
“You smell like used rum, my friend,” Renard said.
“With body odor and bad breath, I imagine,” Jake said. “I’m still recovering.”
“I trust you’ll follow your American naval tradition of keeping alcohol off the submarine.”
“Don’t worry,” Jake said. “I’m not stupid enough to drink and drive, much less drink and go up against the target you’ve picked for me.”
“We’re not in a safe place to talk. I appreciate you sticking to generalities. You’ve read the mission brief, did you not?”
A curvaceous waitress in a shoulderless sundress brought water and took their lunch orders. Jake copied Renard and requested a medium rare hamburger with fries, plus bread to settle his stomach. He gulped water to rehydrate himself.
“Yeah, I read your mission brief. It’s dangerous.”
“Everything I’ve ever asked you to do is dangerous,” Renard said. “This mission is no more risky than the others.”
“That’s debatable, given the target.”
“Your target is the most predictable you’ve ever faced. The ruse will work, and you will enjoy the element of surprise and have complete control of the scenario.”
A pang of nausea reminded him of his frailty, and the thought of a British torpedo vaporizing him flashed through his mind. The concept of a quick and painless passing seemed enticing to him, and he coughed to clear his head of such thoughts.