“As expected.”
“That’s the good news.”
“What’s the bad?”
The colonel lowered his weapon. “Do you think a ship of this value has only six guards?”
“On board? Yeah. We just killed them all.”
“Not on board. Beyond. The owner of this ship will come for it.”
“I know that, sir. What are you getting at?”
The colonel reflected upon the vessel’s owner. “I’ve studied him. I know him. When I say he’ll come for this ship, I mean he’ll do so like his life depends upon it. And he’ll bring a fury like you can’t imagine.”
The bulldog guffawed. “You’re not scared, are you, sir?”
“If you knew what I know about him, you’d be scared, too. Get the men onboard and to their stations. We need to get out of here. Now.”
CHAPTER 2
As Jake Slate swallowed a tasty mouthful of medium-rare filet mignon, he realized he’d chewed the first bite with an open mouth. He scanned the head table’s other faces to assure himself nobody had seen him.
While celebrating the recent success of diverting Israel from a war, his mercenary fleet’s leadership ignored him during the silent exploration of their main courses. Fatigue and relief consumed his colleagues.
On his right, his French mechanical systems expert, Henri Lanier, sported his usual head of impeccable silver hair. But under the strands of perfection, the skin around the mechanic’s eyes sagged.
Next, Jake reviewed Terrance Cahill, former commanding officer of the Australian submarine Rankin and present commander of the mercenary fleet’s flagship Goliath. Though his cheeks flushed with the satisfaction of a deserved feast, the Australian slumped tired shoulders over his planked salmon.
To Cahill’s right, Liam Walker, a lean officer who had learned naval surface warfare aboard an Anzac-class frigate and served as the Goliath’s second-in-command, appeared consumed in slow reflection while chewing on shrimp and scallops.
Beside Walker, Dmitry Volkov, former commanding officer of the Russian submarine Krasnodar and present commander of the Wraith submarine, wiped gravy from his short, graying beard. To the Russian’s right, a translator leaned into his ear, uttered an inaudible phrase, and then accepted a cellar of salt from his comrade.
Between the translator and Jake’s left arm sat the table’s final occupant, French arms dealer and the fleet’s patriarch, Pierre Renard. Though he’d managed the naval combat off the Israeli coast remotely, Jake’s leader’s recovery from the mission seemed the slowest.
Renard owned the fleet of two Scorpène submarines and the mammoth submersible combat-transport ship, Goliath, exposing him to more than a billion dollars’ worth of worry. Worse, Jake knew his mentor felt responsible for each person’s life within the hundred-man fleet. The burden of profit, mission accomplishment, and preservation of life and property was his.
The Frenchman sipped from his imported Rhône Valley Merlot, lowered the glass, and then gazed at it with pensive eyes. As some unknown spark within him catalyzed his energy, color rose to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast.”
As the table’s occupants reached for their glasses and waited, a moment of understanding revealed to Jake the orchestrated order governing the seating geometry.
Seeing himself as Renard’s first among commanders, he sat by his patriarch’s right. To their leader’s left, the newest and rising hero, Volkov. Farthest from the king sat his diametric opposite, the one from across the globe who commanded the chameleon Goliath—a vessel which could labor as a beast of burden or rise to the pinnacle of the fleet’s firepower.
Next to each commander sat his primary confidant, shaping a perfect arrangement reflecting Renard’s worldview. Jake forgot if the Frenchman had guided the men to their seats or if each minion had obeyed a subconscious order from their boss’ inescapable will.
Beyond the dining leaders, sailors from the fleet’s three vessels filled tables in the private banquet hall. Encircling the crews, personnel from a private security group Renard had formed from former legionnaires and French national veterans patrolled a perimeter.
The room’s murmur fell as the Frenchman stood and cast his voice towards the far wall. “Forgive me if I wax poetic. And forgive me if I embellish a bit.”
Men chuckled in anticipation.
“We navigated the delicacies of our first civil affair flawlessly, and I thank you all for a job well done. I could ask for no better staffing of my ships, and I consider each of you a valuable member of an elite team.”
The Frenchman sipped, and a hundred men raised their glasses and drank, but Jake protested. “You already kissed our asses in Port Said.”
“Yes, I did. But with the staggering amount of alcohol consumed then, I’d wager that only a dozen men can remember it. I’d like to express myself to this somewhat coherent audience.”
“Fine. I’ll shut up now.”
“Now, lest I become too nostalgic, let me give credit where it’s due to someone outside this room. Let me thank a great woman who predicted the former Israeli prime minister’s missteps almost as easily as she defeated Terry Cahill’s throbbing heart.”
As laughs and catcalls billowed, Cahill blushed from the reference to the Israeli military intelligence major whom Jake predicted would become his fiancée. The Australian then shot a glance at the Russian. “Should I say it, Dmitry?”
Despite a lingering language barrier, the Russian displayed his understanding of the inside joke. “Da! Say it!”
“Bite me bare hairy arse, Pierre.”
“I will not, but I’ll drink to the audacity of your request. Enjoy your feast gents!”
As the Frenchman sipped and sat, a room of men returned to their seats.
Addressing the leadership at the head table, Renard continued expressing his gratitude. “Now, where was I? Yes, five weeks ago, we finished a mission in which we sent a formidable navy back into its port and stopped an invading army from begetting unacceptable hostilities. I salute you for a lucrative and noble job.”
Jake continued harassing his boss. “Then how come you never give bonuses?”
“The one thing I never hear complaints about is the pay.”
“I’m just messing with you.”
“But as long as you’ve broached the subject, I’ve decided to share a significant percentage of my profit from our Israel campaign with the entire crew, pro-rated proportionally to each man’s pay.”
“Can you dumb that down please?”
“Bonuses. Can you drink to that?”
Though Jake had given up alcohol, he would drink to it. “Sure. Thanks, Pierre.” After a tiny sip as a gesture of camaraderie, Jake lowered his glass and reached for his fork in anticipation of another meaty bite. But then his leader’s face turned ashen while reading a text message, and he leaned into the elder Frenchman. “What’s wrong?”
“The sentries aboard the Specter and Wraith have lost contact with the Goliath’s sentries.”
“It could just be a radio problem.” Jake felt like an idiot for voicing a foolish hope. He knew better than to allow the luxury of optimism.
“Perhaps. But I’m taking precautions.”
“Like what?”
“Weighing anchors, for starters.”
Jake’s stomach became a pit as he grasped his friend’s fear. “Shit. You’re getting the submarines underway?”