“Hovering tank’s full, though. Right?” Jake asked.
“It’s the only thing keeping us under.”
“That’s what I want. We can’t risk pumping air into our ballast tanks. There’s no quiet way to get air into them, and I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”
Ten minutes later, Jake took in residual sunlight through the periscope. A green running light twinkled on the Custom Venture’s silhouette. He ordered the Taiwanese commandos to release the stern and fairwater planes and McKenzie to drain the hovering tanks half way.
Swiveling the periscope optics downward, Jake watched bioluminescence and whitewash skim over the rising missile deck as the Colorado inched to the surface.
Straining his eyes against the setting sun of the mid-Atlantic, Captain Chu saw the rectangular silhouette of the Colorado’s sail. He entered the cargo ship’s superstructure, climbed four decks, and watched Ding apply his tools to a locked door that read ‘Officers Only’.
With Ding behind him, he ascended another flight of stairs and pushed open a door to the captain’s quarters.
The captain reclined in his bed reading a copy of Newsweek.
“What’s this about?” Captain Eduardo Martino asked in Portuguese.
Chu brandished his pistol. Martino lowered his magazine and placed his reading glasses on a table.
“I have no intent of arguing with armed men,” Martino said. “What do you want from me?”
“Stop the ship and prepare your crew for crane and line handling work,” Chu said.
Chu escorted Captain Martino to the bridge and took control of the four-man piloting team.
“Stop the ship,” Chu said.
“This is a large ship,” Martino said. “This will take time. Do you want me to sound a backing bell?”
“No, coast to a stop as if you had suffered an engineering casualty. If you receive radio contact from another vessel, that is what you will say has happened.”
“I must tell you that there is a vessel six hours behind us in the transit lane.”
“That poses no problem.”
“Why am I slowing my ship?”
“Off your starboard beam you will see a surfaced submarine in the moonlight.”
Martino raised binoculars to his eyes.
“A submarine? Whose?” Martino asked.
“You will know soon enough.”
The first mate, Hector Verdugo, had been on the bridge when Chu arrived with the captain as his prisoner. Verdugo’s brown eyes flashed.
“What makes you think we will obey you blindly? You are two men with pistols against an entire crew.”
Sergeant Ding leveled his pistol at the first mate. Chu grabbed his arm and shouted for control. He then withdrew a list from inside his coverall pocket.
“Hector Verdugo,” Chu said. “Your wife is Isabella and your sons of three and five years are Javier and Luis. You live with them at 37 Rancho Palos Verdes in Sao Paulo.”
“You bastard!” Verdugo said.
“Captain Martino,” Chu said, “I have similar data for most of the men on board. If you value the safety of your wife and four children, you will do as I tell you.”
Martino nodded reluctantly.
“Stop the ship,” Chu said. “Cycle your starboard running light every thirty seconds. Make a skiff ready and prepare for crane operation and rigging.”
Two miles behind the Custom Venture, the Colorado slid through the ocean’s surface and glided to a stop. Through the periscope, Jake spied the spotlight of the approaching skiff and barked at McKenzie.
“I’m going up to the bridge. Get some tools ready for topside cleats. And bring a rope.”
Climbing through the sail, Jake felt the crisp sea breeze that blew through the bullet holes. Reaching the moonlit bridge, he examined the damage caused by the jet fighters.
A missile had dented the starboard side inward and cleaved the outer tip of the right fairwater plane. Reflecting moonlight, explosive residue caked the bent and severed plane.
McKenzie placed a rucksack of tools on Jake’s shoulder and tied a rope to a welded handle. Jake heaved his leg over the bridge, descended ladder rungs down to the fairwater plane, and caught a rope McKenzie had tossed. Hand over hand, he scaled to the deck.
When his sneakers reached steel, he looked for the approaching skiff. The small boat’s light caught his eye, and he waved his arms.
“Over here! Toward the bow!” Jake said.
Jake heard the whir of an outboard engine as the skiff circled, slowed, and backed down beside the Colorado.
“I have been instructed to offer assistance,” the third mate said. “I have a mooring line, wireless telephones, and a bridge-to-bridge radio.”
Jake heard Kao land with a clunk behind him. Kao helped him turn over a half-submerged cleat and tie the skiff alongside the Colorado.
Jake hurled the coiled end of the rope dangling from the fairwater plane to the mate. Holding the rope, the mate braved the rope-assisted jump and climbed onto the rounded bow of the Colorado. Jake helped him to the deck, and the third mate offered a waterproof bag.
“No thanks,” Jake said. “My associate goes first.”
Kao grabbed the bag, rifled through it for a wireless phone, and disappeared behind the sail. When the commando returned, he handed Jake the phone.
“I have confirmed with my associates that the mission is proceeding per plan,” Kao said. “There is a text message containing codes to ten accounts totaling forty million American dollars.”
Jake felt revitalized.
CHAPTER 20
From the bridge, Renard watched the skiff roll in the light seas as it dragged a meandering nylon line toward the Custom Venture. Jake startled him by speaking through a mouthpiece to Kao below.
“Mister Lion, right five degrees rudder,” Jake said.
“Coming to starboard may be too shallow,” Renard said. “If you overshoot the Custom Venture, it will take half an hour to circle back.”
“I won’t miss.”
“I suppose you have it all figured out.”
“Something wrong?” Jake asked.
As Renard grabbed his Marlboro, a crisp breeze blew amber cinders onto his olive parka.
“I’ve bitten my tongue more than once on this mission.”
“Just stick to my plan,” Jake said.
“Your plan failed to account for the Miami.”
Jake grunted.
“I do not mean to criticize,” Renard said. “I’m simply trying to begin a dialogue. What must a man do to earn your confidence?”
“You want to know?” Jake asked.
Renard felt Jake’s finger poke his sternum.
“In high school, Grant Mercer hardly left my side for three months after my mother died so that I wouldn’t kill myself. Riley Demorse and I traded duty responsibilities whenever one of us was too exhausted to stand watch. John Brody gave me a family. What the hell have you done?”
“I offered you liberation,” Renard said.
“You’re only doing it because I’m giving you a Trident full of warheads. These guys, they…”
“Yes? These guys?” Renard asked.
“They were real friends.”
“Ah, yet you may never see your real friends again.”
“So what’s your point?”
Renard tossed his Marlboro over the side and raised a fresh one to his lips.
“Men like you — like us — desire control. That’s why you’ve trusted so few men in your life, and then only in situations of dire need. But when you lose those friends, you feel a gap that’s not so easily filled. Loneliness, I believe it is called.”