CHAPTER 10
Pierre Renard suppressed a frown as he saw the observatory’s fluorescent lighting reflecting off the chief of staff’s scalp.
“I’m still a bit underwhelmed by your command center,” he said. “I trust that your leadership is trained well enough to manage their naval assets within these limitations.”
Navarro kept his gaze fixed through the glass on the room below.
“I assume that you grew accustomed to superior equipment working in Taiwan,” he said. “But you have nothing to worry about here. Admiral Torres is competent, and our command center is sufficient for our needs.”
Renard looked down on the small center. Torres, the solitary flag officer, overlooked a handful of mid-grade and senior officers seated at consoles, one of which remained vacant for the Frenchman’s use managing the submarines. The central hub of the Philippine Navy would fill half the tactical operations room of an American destroyer, but he conceded its adequacy.
“From what I can see, it appears that everything is running smoothly,” he said. “The submarines are in transit to their stations, the conventional arms and construction equipment are en route to your islands, and the railgun module is en route to the Second Thomas Shoal.”
“Correct,” Navarro said.
“I don’t see signs of air support, in the event that it is needed.”
“That’s controlled by our air forces. We have communications with their command center, but there’s no direct control from here.”
“You have a man in charge of your air forces that you trust, I assume?”
“Yes,” Navarro said. “The Secretary of National Defense. He served the president’s father in various assignments for decades. His loyalty is impeccable.”
“Excellent. I understand why you would have him monitoring your air forces. They’re your greatest military asset.”
“He’s verified that our general has fighters airborne for radar support and that he’s ready to scramble every aircraft, if needed.”
“I pray that such a reaction remains unnecessary.”
Turning his attention to the laptop on a table, Renard leaned forward and tapped keys to bring up an overhead view of the Spratly Islands. The Chinese task force that had overrun a garrison on a Malaysian landmass had turned southwest to search for the Wraith, under the false assumption that it searched for the Razak, hiding in waters close to its homeport.
“The task force is almost a full day’s transit away from being able to respond to our moves,” he said. “The plan is working perfectly thus far.”
“Thus far,” Navarro said. “But the Chinese will notice our activity soon enough, and they will respond. I will need you in communication with the submarines during the crucial hours.”
“Of course. I promise you that I won’t stray far and that I shall return long before you need me.”
“I don’t assume that your absence is negotiable?”
“I consider every conflict to be negotiable,” Renard said, “unless I’m dealing with powers I don’t understand. I fear that I’ve lost sight of Officer McDonald’s influence and motivations.”
“Then appeasement is best.”
“Agreed. Excuse me. I shan’t keep her majesty waiting. She is arriving soon, and she has beckoned.”
Two hours later, Renard stirred in the back of a limousine parked on a private airstrip. Olivia had texted him about her pending arrival, but her true landing came ninety minutes later than her declaration. Having worked with Asians, the Frenchman had developed a calloused patience against petty power plays, but the CIA officer’s game irked him. He expected better from her.
His driver appeared comfortable reading an electronic book, and Renard mimicked the man’s decision. He withdrew his phone and indulged in a novel, opting to rest the overworked scheming and analytical section of his mind.
A futuristic detective story took him to an orbiting annulus where a hero sought to unravel a web of politics, crime, and nanotechnology. When the lights of the landing jet shone through the windshield half an hour later, he stepped from the vehicle, stuffed his phone in his pocket, and watched the airplane taxi to a stop.
The aircraft halted but then remained dormant long enough to test his nerves. As a fuel truck approached and hooked up its lines, he withdrew his phone and began reading again, attempting to hold down bile as her gamesmanship forced him to wait.
As he sensed his endurance buckling, a door flipped open followed by stairs reaching to the tarmac. Ghoulish red light flowing from the cabin backlit a man of average stature who called out.
“Mister Renard?”
“Who else might be standing here with infinite patience awaiting a summons from her majesty’s lackey?”
Olivia’s assistant adjusted the lapels of his tailored suit.
“Come,” he said. “She is waiting.”
As the Frenchman ascended into the cabin, he thought he ventured into a night club.
Two suited men he considered too handsome and young to be useful beyond toys for Olivia sat on a couch opposite their leader. The one who had beckoned him into the airborne den appeared to be the designated adult, the only occupant free of chemical influence.
An emptied bottle of Kettel One vodka on the glass tabletop revealed a shameless admission of her traveling style. The unfocused eyes of the handsome duo and of their priestess sprawled on the opposing leather couch were saucers dilated wider than the soft red light warranted. Renard suspected her Ecstasy habit and hoped she experimented with nothing harsher.
At his arrival, she curled into a ball and then rose to her feet. She slinked towards him, her stiletto heels tracing sultry arcs as each exposed knee slid towards him in a practiced, seductive rhythm. A smile spread across her face as she lifted graceful arms to his neck.
“Pierre,” she said. “It’s been too long.”
Her cherry red lips appeared black in the redness, and they caught him off guard as she pressed them against his. He tasted the moisture of her opening mouth as he grabbed her bare shoulders and pushed her back.
“Young lady,” he said. “I’m old enough to be your father, and I am happily married.”
She seemed dazed.
“Olivia?” he asked. “Are you not engaged? And why are you wearing an evening dress? Should you not be showing more restraint?”
Her throaty laugh sounded ghoulish as she stepped back. Then her face turned venomous in the dark light as she angled her chin at her handsome underlings, dismissing them with a nod through a curtain to the aircraft’s rear. The sober babysitting assistant remained, lowering himself to his queen’s couch as she sat and gestured for Renard to join her.
“Engaged?” she asked. “That’s what the press would have you believe. Maybe I will marry him and become Misses Argentina. But for now, President Ramirez and I are just enjoying the benefits of being a power couple.”
“I fear that I no longer know who you are.”
“Come on, Pierre. Can’t a girl have a little fun? I deserve it, after all I’ve been through.”
Despite his present sentiments, he agreed.
Undercover a decade ago, she had survived being raped and contracting HIV while busting a human trafficking ring. Reward for her survival and success earned her an assignment in entrapping Jake Slate, the escaped traitor, as his lover and in catching her greater prey — the Frenchman who protected him. With her seductive skills, she had toyed with Jake, but she also had erred and had started to love him.