“Henri is doing well. I think he’s getting younger every time I see him.”
“Good for Henri.”
“Antoine is doing well, too.”
“Okay. Is Claude talking to you? You said he’s been standoffish the last year or so.”
“Claude is standoffish to everyone except his tapeworm.”
She giggled.
“How are you feeling? Are you still angry?”
He had accepted anger management counseling from his wife’s former priest, now a bishop. His Excellency, Francis Kalabat, Eparch Emeritus of Saint Thomas the Apostle of Detroit, had helped by guiding Jake in his fledgling spiritual journey. But first he had to navigate through a decade of deep anger.
“I didn’t think of it until now,” he said. “But I guess I’ve been kind of calm during this whole assignment.”
“Really? That’s good. Are you sure you haven’t lost your temper even once?”
“Sometimes it happens so fast that I don’t notice. But nothing major, at least for me.”
“That’s unusual.”
He reflected upon a checklist of life’s aggravations, and he started with the frustration of needless death.
To ease his conscience, he had invented the slow-kill weapon, based upon the non-lethal limpets that had proven invaluable in his Falkland Islands campaign. Although he had attacked the Chinese corvette, those souls had been destined for death before he arrived in the region. Accepting their loss as a necessary expense for regional stability, he was at peace with the level of violence in his Spratly campaign.
Next, he wondered if his role as a slave still infuriated him. He had made half-hearted attempts to leave Renard’s mercenary team, but each time a power greater than himself had driven him back. Guilt, camaraderie, and the CIA kept him inside the Frenchman’s submarines. But a candid session with a mirror revealed that his free will would place him under his mentor’s employ. Captive or not, he belonged where he was.
But being in the right place fell short of knowing his purpose, and the philosophies he studied left him empty. The godless beliefs seemed inconsistent and lacked satisfaction. Zen Buddhism rejected intrinsic human desires, which struck him as nihilistic. Though he could afford all luxuries, materialism lacked fulfillment. Taoism left him in an infinite loop with man and nature seeking purpose from each other. And Ayn Rand’s objectivism promoted personal responsibility but marginalized the morality imprinted upon his human soul.
The monotheistic views required a willing suspension of disbelief to accept a god. But he had seen enough of the world to give credence to the supernatural, leaving the door open for a deity. He had started studying the major offerings of Judaism, Christianity, and even Islam, but he hesitated before pursuing an off-the-shelf belief system. The first step was examining the evidence for a single, ruling god.
But anger delayed this journey as every fact he digested in favor of a god crashed against the walls of his past emotional pain.
A lackluster childhood had included a deceased father he hardly knew and a mother who had driven herself to an alcoholic’s death before he graduated high school.
When success at the U.S. Naval Academy and the submarine fleet had promised him a distraction from his suffering, a malicious move and cover-up after an accident had left him with HIV and no chance of a naval career. Anger had tormented him until the then-mysterious Renard had recruited him to steal his Trident missile submarine and sell its warheads to Taiwan.
Ten years ago, he had stolen the USS Colorado, but to protect a friend and an American submarine crew, he had stopped short of warhead delivery. His anger had lingered in the background until six months ago, when his rage exploded in a bar fight, driving him to kill a man with his bare hands. Then — like a cancer in remission — it had receded. It simmered in his heart, and he knew it could erupt without warning. But, for the moment, he felt himself free to maneuver without fury.
With that freedom, he pondered his purpose.
His wife’s priest had earned her trust during the darkest moments of her divorce, and Jake grew to respect him. He also offered Jake counsel while respecting his boundaries — by omitting the peddling of Jesus and the recitation of Catholic rules.
Jake’s mother had raised him Catholic, but he escaped prior to confirmation, the anger of his youth leaving him too disillusioned to fathom a caring god. His dialogue with Kalabat lingered at Question One — the existence of God — and that question kept him off balance enough to diffuse his anger.
“I’m fine, actually,” he said. “The anger is there, but it’s like it’s on the back burner.”
“Really? That’s great, honey! That’s a lot of progress.”
“Yeah. I guess all this stuff I’ve been reading and talking to Bishop Francis about is making me think.”
“Why don’t you call him? He’d love to hear from you.”
“A bishop wants to hear from me?”
“He loves you. I think you’re his favorite student.”
“I wasn’t sure that asking him for advice every six months earned me the status as his student.”
“It doesn’t matter. He likes your questions. Plus, you’ve donated enough money to him that I think he’d take your call any time of the day.”
“That money went to help oppressed people in Iraq. None of it went into his diocese.”
“But he appreciates it. That’s where he wants it to go.”
“I don’t want to talk to a priest, I mean a bishop. At least not now.”
“Will you do it for me?”
He knew where she was going, and resistance was futile. She wanted him to receive a blessing to keep him safe.
“Okay, honey. I’ll get hold of him.”
“Yay! Thanks.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m exhausted. I worked until almost ten last night.”
She didn’t work for money, but, as an immigrant born in Baghdad to parents from Al Gosh and Mosul, she volunteered to help her countrymen who suffered prolonged persecution.
With a nine-figure net worth, Jake silently matched all funds she acquired in her charity work. But he would never pay for it all and rob her of the satisfaction of making a difference.
“What did you do last night?”
“Oh my God, Jake. I think I found an attorney that will work for free to bring orphans into the country for adoption.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“He can’t have kids with his wife, and they want to adopt kids for themselves.”
“Not a bad tactic to find pro bono support.”
“Nope. You didn’t marry no dummy.”
She yawned.
“Should I let you go back to sleep?”
“No, I miss you!”
She knew better than to ask how long he’d be gone, but she seemed to sense when he would leave for days or even weeks.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
The tears started.
“I said I’ll be fine, honey.”
“Promise me you’ll ask for Bishop Francis’ blessing.”
“Honey, you know how I feel about that.”
“You have to promise!”
Resistance — futile.
“Yes, dear. You’ll have to log him in to our secure site, though.”
“Let me know what time.”
“In four hours.”
A knock on his door startled him.
“Come in.”
Cahill appeared in the doorway.
“Mind if I join you?”
“I think you already have,” Jake said. “But no, I don’t mind.”
“Good-looking ship you got here.”
“I have to credit our Filipino hosts for the handiwork. I lost track of the number of faceplates they’ve swapped out from Malaysian to English.”