John R. Monteith
Rogue Enforcer
CHAPTER 1
Pierre Renard stifled the familiar adrenaline rush of another world-shaping deal. Through eyes that had reflected steel blue radiance during his last check in a mirror, he watched the Argentine president pass before his nation’s blue and white standard and then stride across his office’s hardwood floor. As he circled the polished meeting table that filled his office, his would-be client stopped behind the white leather-padded armchair at the room’s opposite end and appeared to wrestle for his next thought.
Renard’s hunting snout sensed that the president’s bravado had yielded to edginess. Allowing his clever arguments in favor of bold military action to befuddle his victim, he salivated behind his vulpine fangs and perked his pointed fox ears to listen for an opportunity to pounce on his prey.
“I knew you would convince me this is the proper course of action,” the president said in English. “It’s what I want to do, and I knew it was the right path to follow ever since our first conversation about it. But now you must convince me it will work.”
As he lowered his cognac tumbler to the cherrywood desk, Renard accepted that his victim required additional convincing. He twisted to project his French-accented voice across the office.
“You know my reputation,” he said. “I have a distinguished track record of keeping regimes intact.”
“Yes, I am aware,” the president said, his words echoing off framed paintings of Argentine heroes past. “Your recent success in Taiwan is why you have my attention. But Taiwan has advanced naval and air forces while I have thirty-year-old destroyers and secondhand aircraft.”
“I agree,” Renard said as he turned and reached for his cognac. “But with Taiwan’s modest numbers, I held off China’s equally advanced and numerous forces. It’s not about the raw firepower. It’s about setting up the rules of engagement in one’s favor and planning for victory with the available assets.”
Renard heard the president’s approaching footfall as he lowered his tumbler again.
“Your work in Taiwan was impressive,” the president said as he moved into the Frenchman’s field of view. “You showed cunning using seaborne hydrophone arrays and restricted nuclear warfare to defeat one of the world’s largest submarine forces with a squadron of patrol craft.”
“This is what I do, President Gomez. I advise leaders how to preserve their rule, I plan the campaigns that lead to success, and I broker the arms deals to assure that my clients are equipped for victory.”
As Gomez returned to his chair, Renard noticed that the president stood at average height. It made sense, he realized, that a former A4 Skyhawk aviator would fit inside the cockpit of a small jet.
“Then I assume you have a plan already defined that will bring me success in the Malvinas?” Gomez asked.
“Of course,” Renard said. “I not only urge you to take military action against the British Empire, but I’ve already taken the liberty of setting the plan in motion on your behalf.”
“You haven’t placed me at risk, have you?”
“Of course not. I am merely repositioning my submarine into the South Atlantic.”
“You have a submarine of your own?”
“Indeed,” Renard said. “After decades of building wealth, domain expertise, and trust with key allies, I was finally able to broker a deal for myself where I have my own vessel.”
The president raised thick, dark eyebrows as Renard blew smoke into the air.
“Impressive, Mister Renard.”
“I share this with you in strict confidence, of course,” Renard said. “But I must also be candid about this asset that I intend to dedicate to your cause. It is a French-designed, Taiwanese-built Scorpène-class submarine. State of the art electronics, weapons, and quieting supported by the MESMA air-independent-propulsion system. As the Taiwanese have built two additional submarines, they agreed to sell me mine with just one stipulation.”
“Stipulation? Just one?”
“Training,” Renard said. “I must train Taiwanese sailors. As part of the Cross-Straits ceasefire, the mainland Chinese have agreed to stop submerged operations within twelve miles of the Taiwanese coastline. The mainland fleet complies since it prefers to extend its operations and military influence hundreds of miles from its coast anyway, and it has no immediate intent to attack Taiwan.”
The president nodded as he brushed the flame of a lighter under a cigarette.
“You claim responsibility for this victory?” he asked as small clouds rose in front of his face.
“Indeed. This is, of course, a tactical win for the Taiwanese, but it hinders their ability to train their submarine sailors for their primary duties. They are strained to their limits finding staff for the submarines they have. They, therefore, agreed to let me purchase my submarine from them at a modest discount in exchange for training more of their sailors. Since my crew had already used this very vessel against the mainland and was comfortable with it, I thought it an excellent opportunity.”
The silent man seated next to Renard, the president’s chief of staff, cleared his throat. The tall, lithe man had become an afterthought to the conversation, and the Frenchman hoped he would remain so, but that the shadows on the man’s face revealed a potential adversary.
“Training new sailors from a foreign navy sounds like a liability,” Gomez said.
“I must carry a dozen of their sailors aboard for training purposes,” Renard said. “This, however, is a win for both parties. I don’t have to pay for the extra hands, and I’ve already had great success thus far mixing my crew with Taiwanese professionals. They are a capable people.”
“This worked for you in Taiwan, this hybrid crew?” Gomez asked. “In live combat against the Chinese?”
“Yes,” Renard said. “Except for my commanding officer, my crew are veterans of the French Navy, and they have served together under my charge for years aboard Scorpène-class vessels and their slightly larger predecessors, the Agosta class. My commanding officer is my greatest find — my protégé—a former American submarine officer who fell on difficult circumstances that I was able to exploit for recruitment.”
Gomez reached across his desk and extended a pack of cigarettes.
“No, thank you,” Renard said. “I have my own brand. But I would appreciate the light, please.”
Chiding himself for his failure to give up smoking, Renard withdrew a pack of Marlboros from his sport coat. The president extended the flaming silver lighter, and the Frenchman enjoyed soothing puffs of nicotine.
“When you called on me,” Gomez said, “I was somewhat hesitant about taking military action against the British Empire. But I now see that I must strike the Malvinas to divert the nation from the economic crisis, maintain my presidency, and prevent panic and chaos.”
“Thirty-two years ago, the military junta that ruled your country arrived at the same conclusion,” Renard said. “They failed to predict the British response, but they were correct that they needed to take military action. Such steps unify a nation.”
“I agree. Plus, I also have the added motivation of the empire’s discovery of the oil deposits.”
Renard blew smoke into the president’s chambers.
“Precisely. You have both nationalism and economic relief as your end goals — twice the motivation of your predecessors and, if you will allow me to serve as your advisor and arms supplier, ten times the preparation.”
“To get to that oil and preserve my presidency,” Gomez said, “I will require a far different outcome than the campaign of thirty-two years ago. Back then, Prime Minister Thatcher surprised the junta and sent her fleet across the ocean and retook the islands. How can you guarantee me a different outcome?”