by Paul Lally
“Mission accomplished.”
The chopper’s crew chief helps Cher board the helicopter. Right after he does so, another figure dressed in a flight suit and clunky helmet hops down from the helicopter and marches resolutely toward Admiral Lewis.
JJ would know that “walk” anywhere. He followed it long ago as a SEAL, on a joint mission with a special forces team; he an ambitious Navy Lieutenant (junior grade) and the other man a wet-behind-the-ears Army First Lieutenant.
The man peels off his helmet and the shiny bald dome confirms JJ’s suspicions: SOCOM chief, General Clark Richardson. No exchange of salutes between these two high-ranking four-stars. They are equal and opposite forces meeting on the playing field.
“Long time no see, Clark Bar—except our recent video chats, that is.”
“Ditto, Mainiac. Got a minute?”
“I do indeed. But before you line me up before the firing squad, I have one last request.”
“Which is?”
“Let me wave goodbye to Cher.”
“Permission granted—how was her show, by the way? Heard good things.”
“Out of this world.”
The Seahawk, all buttoned up, revs it turbines in preparation for a screaming takeoff. JJ, Clark Bar and the rest of the Battleship Boys furiously wave to Cher, her face pressed against the window while smiling that trillion-dollar smile of hers.
The chopper’s RPM indicator pegged, it wiggles its landing gear, loosening its hold on earth, then leaps off the deck like a bottle rocket, rotates into the wind, and soars into the dazzling blue sky high over the Gulf of Mexico.
“Got any coffee on this tub of yours?” General Clark says.
“By ‘tub’ you’re referring to a United States Navy Montana-class battleship on active duty?”
“I am indeed.”
“You bet your lazy, good-for-nothing-army ass we do. Follow me, general.”
Up on the bridge, Jack’s phone buzzes in his front pocket. He ignores it. Right after Cher took off for the blue yonder, his dad got a little shaky and pale.
Now, Jack’s intent on making sure he can safely navigate his father down the passageway to his quarters.
“Don’t lie to me, Pop.”
“I’m fine. Just need a little power nap is all—here we go.”
He yanks open the door to his compartment and turns to face Jack. “Go play with your toys, okay?”
“I already am. You’re my favorite one at the moment.”
“Malarky.”
“Pop, nobody says that anymore.”
“I do—now hit the road before I slam the door in your pretty-boy face.”
His words say one thing but his smile—weak, but a smile nonetheless—is encouraging enough for Jack to back off.
Tommy points at Jack’s pants pocket. “That you making all that noise?”
“You can hear it?”
“Hell yes. I may be dying of cancer, but my ears aren’t. Your phone, right?”
“Expecting an important call.”
“Busy, busy, even at sea.”
“My middle name. Now, hit the rack, will you? See you at chow.”
“Aye, aye.”
Jack sprints topside to the passageway near the flag bridge. Reception’s much better out here. The glittering blue waters of the Gulf comfort his eyes. But not as much as his ears, when he answers his phone and listens to Andy Diengott’s voice, loud and clear and bright as sunshine.
“It’s in the bag, boss-man! Your double equity hold did the trick. It’s a done deal, signatures accepted, monies being wired, banks gorging themselves on your hard-earned dollars—thank you e-sign.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“What else can I do for you on this wonderful morning—or afternoon—or whatever the hell time it is out there on the ocean. Please say it’s time for me to pull the trigger. The suspense is killing me.”
“It’ll end in the next five minutes. I’m about to make the call and flip that Devillar bitch along with her crappy deal.”
“I love it when you talk dirty, boss-man. Skype, right?”
“You bet. I want to see her eyes.”
“And hear her scream?”
“We’ll see—and while I’m thinking about it; don’t forget to tip off the mayor soon as we’re done with this call. But just her for now. No need to clue in the city council until we make the big announcement.”
“Mayor Maggie’ll be dancing in the street. The whole city will too, once they hear what you’ve done.”
“What we’ve done, Andy. Couldn’t do it without a bright guy like you.”
“Flattery gets you everywhere, boss-man.”
“Man your battle stations.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Like an improbable date night, JJ and General Clark sit side by side on the big leather couch snugged up against the bulkhead of the palatial flag admiral’s quarters. Used primarily for in-port welcoming of dignitaries and the press, Cher used it for her overnight berth while her backup band found comfy refuge elsewhere.
“I wonder if she sat where I’m sitting right now,” General Richardson says.
“Seat still warm?”
He shrugs. “Hard to say with this flight suit on—beats me how the hell you navy guys do it.”
“Do what?”
“Put up with all the bullshit just to be out on the water. The flight suits, the helmets, crappy food, and worst of all, the endless nothingness out here.”
“You’re referring to the Gulf of Mexico?”
“So damn boring.”
“Try being out here in a Force Ten storm—but speaking of small talk coming to an end, have you tenderized my hide enough for the kill? If so, make it fast. I’ve got work to do.”
“What kill?”
“For running my battleship like a banana republic.”
“What are you talking about? You had green lights all along the way from the White House down.”
“With one exception: I didn’t request permission to spill the beans to the world with those videos we sent out.”
“Ah...yes...those.” Clark’s relaxed face tightens into a scowl. “Not kosher, my friend.”
“I’m not Jewish.”
“You know what I mean. How do you think the boss felt when the whole world saw the story of the rescue before he did?”
“Which boss are we talking about?”
“The one we refer to as ‘Mister President’.”
“Ah, yes, that guy. All I can say in my defense is that I hope he liked the shots of us blasting the hell out of Garcia’s compound—and Hector Garcia himself.”
Clark sits up. “That’s confirmed—you really got him?”
“Colonel Williston got the intel just before you landed. Somebody with boots on the ground saw them carry out the body—or what was left of it after we finished our sixteen-inch barrage. Got pictures to prove it. Commander Goldstein’s sending them back to your shop as we speak. Fuzzy cellphone ones but authenticated as the corpse once known as Hector Garcia.”
“The White House is going to be delighted.”
“What about the Pentagon?”
“Funny you should mention that. That’s the real reason I choppered in here—they wanted me to do this personally.”
“Who’s ‘they.’”
Clark lifts his chin. “Need to know, JJ.”
“Give me a break! If I’m gonna’ hang, I want to know who’s pulling the rope.”
“Okay, okay, suffice to say, nothing but top dogs are doing the barking here.”
“The joint chiefs.”
“Affirmative. And here’s what they said—if I can find the damn thing. So many pockets in these flight suits, what the hell do you put in all of them?”
“Condoms, mostly.”
That gets a laugh. When it comes to affairs of the heart, Clark Bar loves to roll around in the dirt before hopping into bed. After patting and rooting around in the flight suit, he pulls out a sealed envelope
.
“Read it and weep—for joy, I hope.”
JJ squints at the words. “Forgot my readers. Not enough light in here...”
Clark Bar pat-pat-pats the pockets until... “Here...use mine.”
After a few tense seconds... “They’re serious? The Rock stays in commission?”
“And so do you—that is, if you want to keep those admiral’s stripes on your sleeves.”
JJ ponders this but shakes his head.
Clark Bar prods a bit. “C’mon, Mainiac, it’s not like you’d be like running some big-ass operation like you used to. That’s not what they have in mind at all.”
He pulls out another piece of paper from another pocket and paraphrases: “I’m authorized to tell you that your command—if accepted—will be—and I quote—‘exclusively limited to overseeing the USS New Hampshire and her active-duty crew of five officers, one for each division, and twenty-five enlisted.’’’
He hands over the paper and adds, “The Rock remains a museum ship, open to the public. You continue a normal life: home every night, no weekends, uniform allowance, too. It’s gone up since you left the service, by the way.”
JJ absorbs this but waves it away dismissively. “All well and good, except the Rock doesn’t have a home remember? That witch who took over her father’s scrap metal business tore up our lease and tossed us out of town.”
General Clark winces. “I can see why that would be a fly in the ointment for sure.”
“More like a Murder Hornet.”
Jack heads below to the crew mess to grab some coffee before making “the call.” Deserted, save for a few regulars who huddle at one of the long tables, telling tall tales and listening to even taller ones, he chooses a faraway corner to “flip the deal.”
After blowing on the freshly made java, he accesses Ocean Cellular, opens the Skype app, selects her number, and then endures the usual back and forth of geostationary satellites and land-based cell towers shaking hands, until a puzzled-looking Munroe Devillar pops up as a thumbnail, then goes full screen.
“Jack Riley?”
“What a surprise, right?”
A hearty laugh. “More than that. You guys really know how to make an exit. Like thieves in the night. Here today, gone tomorrow. And then all that excitement down in Mexico. My God, I’ve been watching.”
“Thanks. Our entrance is going to be a lot different.”
That gets a pause. “Excuse me?”
“I see you’re sitting down. And that’s good, because what I’m about to tell you might make you a little weak in the knees.”
She tilts her head tilts slightly as she tries to straighten her tousled, raven-black hair—was she sleeping or screwing? he wonders—as it tumbles to one side, but she ignores it.
“I’m listening.”
“A FEDEX envelope will be arriving at your place sometime before noon today. I suggest you be at home. You’ll need to sign for it.”
“What are you talking about—why are you calling me?”
“Inside the envelope is another envelope with my company’s return address on it. Inside that envelope you’ll find a cashier’s check made out to you for two-point-two million dollars.”
He lets that hang for a second.
“I figure that should be enough for you and Councilman Stein to set up housekeeping full time in Amalfi. That is, after David divorces you for—what’s the nice term they always use?—‘alienation of affection,’ I believe.”
A very long silence. Her slack jaw matches her slack hair.
“May I continue?” Jack says. “Or are we finished? Because you most certainly are—in Portsmouth, that is—and so is your cheap-ass, two-bit, riverside project.”
That gets a rise.
She opens her mouth to speak but Jack intervenes by saying, “Amazing what a lot of skin in the game can do for a deal as shaky as yours is—or was, I should say.
“If my records are correct—and I assure you they are—you managed to scrape together an equity-hold of four million and guaranteed zoning rights that convinced the State of New Hampshire you could actually pull this off, and for them to get behind you and cheer you all the way. That fair to say?”
She instinctively nods but words don’t come.
“I admit, that’s significant skin, but for a deal like the one your proposing; the hotel, the high-rent housing, the Abenaki tribe casino with a rate-of-return that is only ‘okay’ at best, it’s a miracle you managed to get this far.
“ Of course, tossing out the Rock was a good start. Nothing like getting rid of the evidence of a city’s love for a favorite landmark. Bad move, there, though, I must say.”
“That rusting piece of shit a ‘landmark’? Who are you kidding? I know for a fact that—”
“Excuse me, Munroe—may I call you ‘Munroe’? From here on out, you don’t know jack shit because an hour and ten minutes ago, I flipped your cozy little deal with China Pacific.”
Her eyes widen and she leans backward like being slapped.
“They accepted my counter-offer—which includes tripling my equity hold to twenty million, while keeping the same interest rate on their ROR. Plus, adding workforce housing and non-profit office space proves my plan has a heart as opposed to your Frankenstein-monster that barely has a brain. What were you thinking? Never mind, you were too busy fucking where you eat lunch to consider all the angles. But I did—you want all the dirty details? Please say ‘yes.’”
She licks her dry lips, opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
“Anyhow....as far as takeout financing’s concerned, with my sizeable chunk of equity on the table, it’s going to be a breeze for either Allstate or Liberty Mutual or one of the big guns to fight over who gets to buy us out lock, stock and barrel after we start building on the site—oh, and did I mention this includes the casino?”
“You spoke to the fucking Indians?”
“How do you say this in Abenaki? ‘We accept your deal, Mr. Riley.’ Because two hours ago, the tribal council elders exercised their escape clause in your shitty contract and agreed to build their casino on my property instead.”
Jack laughs. “Hey, that’s the first time I actually said, ‘My property.’ Sounds great, don’t you think?”
Munroe looks like someone slugged her.
Jack takes another swing at her jaw.
“And here you thought all along, you were a regular Warren Buffet by—let me see if I remember your quote in the press release—by ‘transforming the face of Portsmouth from a sleepy harbor town into a vibrant, modern-day destination for people who value progress and growth as the only way to go.’ Did I get that right?”
“CALL ENDED” replaces her angry face.
Jack sits and sips his coffee.
One of the old-timers across the mess hall spots him and shouts. “A hell of a ride, wasn’t it, Jack? Cancún, I mean. And those speedboats shooting at us. Sweet Jesus, I about peed my pants.”
Jack cups his hands and hollers because most of the guys are hard of hearing, “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings, Mr. Stewart.”
Just as he says this, his phone vibrates. Without even bothering to check caller ID, he hits ACCEPT and says, “Must have been cut off. My apologies.”
“I cut you off, you son of a bitch! Who do you—"
“—the check’s in the mail, as the saying goes. Two-point-two million hot little dollars just for you. I can’t stop FEDEX from doing their thing. But hey, you don’t have to cash it. You still can save your marriage if you want to. Up for that?”
She stiffens even more.
“Okay, okay, sorry I mentioned it. But, anyhow, here’s what you can’t do. You can’t have the deal. It’s mine now. Top to bottom, signed, sealed and delivered, and before you start in again, listen carefully: the mayor and city council are in my pocket and the state has agreed to follow like the puppy dog it is, because my TIF doesn’t empty their fiscal wallets—it fills them, but that’s a secret. Don’t
tell anyone.”
“You fucker.”
“Thanks.”
“My lawyers will—”
“And if you do, my lawyers will e-mail you and Charlie Stein’s sex videos to the Portsmouth Herald.
“Videos?”
“Affirmative. Got a buddy who’s one of their reporters. Newspapers are a fading proposition nowadays, but you already know that. That’s why he needs a juicy scoop to stay on the payroll. And hey, their online version isn’t half-bad—especially considering the videos they’ll be featuring—minus the juicy parts, of course.”
“You can’t—"
“Oh, but I can, and I will. Starting with the bondage one, where you’re on top and Charlie’s been a bad boy. What do you think? Then follow with the others. Pornography is like salted peanuts. Once you start....”
“I never—”
“—My inside guy figured you’d deny everything. That’s why he placed hidden cameras in your place, when you were out strutting your stuff with the mayor and city council.
“What!!!!”
“I have a bunch of screenshots from different sessions to prove it. Gonna’ send you my favorite just as soon as we end the call. After you see they’re for real, promise to tell me where you got those fur-lined handcuffs Charlie’s wearing. They look great but probably cost a fortune, right?
Silence.
“Anyhow, take a look. Enjoy the view. Take your time. Think things over. Two million two to get out of town is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Jack, please!”
“Call me back when you’re ready to do business. I’m not going anywhere out here in the middle of the ocean. Get ready—here come the handcuffs.....”
He ends the call, goes to “photos,” tags the one he wants with Councilman Stein spreadeagled, wearing fur handcuffs, with Munroe wearing a black corset,, crouched over him with a feather whip, raring to go.
He messages it to her.
He barely has time to blow on his coffee to cool it down before she calls back.
“You win, you bastard” she says.
“Bon voyage, bitch.”
A half-hour later, Jack tracks down JJ and General Richardson in the wardroom and delivers the happy news: Munroe Devillar’s been ousted. As a happy consequence, no acetylene torches in a shipbreaker’s boneyard for the Rock.