The audience murmured, not sure if he’d made a joke or not.
“She stuck the phone in an empty mayo jar,” he explained. “Tossed it overboard. The US Navy traced the signal, found the phone. She’s been missing and presumed dead for about four years now. That vessel? You may not remember, but the Horizon was an MIT project, an electric-biodiesel hybrid meant to set a round-the-world record.
“And the handsome young man bleeding to death in the first frame? He’d proposed to her the day the Horizon left port. They were going to have their engagement party the day they arrived in back in Bordeaux. Presence of mind, intelligence, bravery, and devotion … this means nothing if you don’t have security.
“So we played this to the International Mercantile Shipping Association. Got us the first contract to secure the area with a private security force.”
He let the crowd sit for a moment as he prepared to change the subject. Too easy. He could make them feel sadness just as quickly as ecstasy, fear as quickly as hope.
“Think these pirates respect international waters? Hospital ships? Missions of mercy or exploration? No, they respect force. A borderless world, that’s where we’re headed,” he mused.
“What about territorial integrity? The rights of the indigenous peoples?” shouted a female voice from the audience. Bettencourt snapped around, but couldn’t identify the source of the interruption. He smiled.
“Sister, the automobile was tough on the carriage industry.”
“What about quality of life? Raising social standards?” she shouted back. Ah, yes—the attractive brunette near the back. Why did the activist types always wear glasses?
“I love this topic,” he shouted. “Let’s pretend we focus on social justice nonsense. Bettencorp’s medical subsidiaries start paying their janitors enough to drive a Cadillac and retire at fifty-three. Guess what? We just made less profit. That means less investment. That means we don’t come up with a new cancer treatment. We don’t add the next drug to the AIDS cocktail. But at least you feel good about it because our low-level staff drive caddies they didn’t earn.”
“But—”
“One more word from you, young woman,” he said, pointing. “And I’m going to have to hire you. Then you’ll really be in trouble. Look, you’re also entitled to believe the world is flat.”
Wait for it—line it up—get ready to take that swing—
“And when you make your first billion, I’ll let you debate me all afternoon.” He shrugged at the chuckles and flipped to the next slide, the big reveal. It was a beautiful shot of open ocean with a massive city rising up out of the water like the lost civilization of Atlantis. He’d paid top dollar for the shot, flown the film crew out from Tokyo, put them on a top-of-the-line helicopter with a gyroscopically stabilized camera mount and high-definition video system. Light glinted off the ocean waves like rolling gold. It was, in a word, perfect.
Bettencourt spoke as the camera rotated around the oceanic megatropolis.
“This is Anconia Island. Started initially out of the security concerns we talked about earlier. The goal was to have a stable, permanent presence off the Horn of Africa—one that could provide economic opportunity, private security, and a workforce free of national interests. These structural underpinnings were actually three different massive oil-drilling platforms at one point, all scheduled for decommission. We dry-docked them in the South Pacific, decontaminated everything, stripped all the equipment off and built these office-building and condominium-style high-rises.
“Don’t let the glass fool you, these are built for tsunamis, lightning strike, even a class-four typhoon. Each building has a specialized function. We have our own greenhouse and hydroponics gardens. We have deep-water portage and a jet-rated floating runway. We’ve already developed plans to expand that runway to accommodate passenger aircraft. Communication to the outside world is handled by a dedicated communication satellite, capable of supporting sustained traffic of 800 megabytes per second per terminal—that’s right, per terminal. That’s a must-have, considering that the population of Anconia is now approaching 3,000 souls. This includes a large contingent of IT personnel supporting Fortune 500 companies nationwide, including offshore software development, banking and datastorage. All of this in a non-extradition, non-national, untaxed environment where nobody can be involuntarily subpoenaed. We sublet fully forty percent of our facilities to like-minded corporate interests, and we intend to double the size of Anconia Island every five years for the next two decades.
“Anconia Island is already a shining beacon of security and prosperity for a lawless region. The local Somalis are a little slow to get on board, given a complex combination of political and cultural factors. But Bettencorps has a standing invitation to the Somali people. If you remember nothing else, remember this—we want them to be a primary beneficiary of this great endeavor. We intend to train them, we intend to employ them, and unlike the UN and their revolving-regime neighbors, we’re in the region to stay. Already we’ve set forth several strategic alliances with the local powers and engaged in some of the first sustained economic development in Somalia in more than a decade.
“I have a vision,” he said. “I want masses of Somali professionals commuting to Anconia Island for extended rotations. I want satellite facilities on the Somali mainland. I want white-collar workers, blue-collar workers, green-collar workers. I believe the people of the Horn of Africa are the single largest, untapped economic resource on the planet and they’re just waiting to be unleashed on the world.”
Time for the big wrap-up. He had them all, every single wide-eyed student.
“And here’s why I think this. You want to leave an impact on the world? Don’t write a textbook; invest in a company you believe in. Don’t graduate and become a literary critic; quit school and start a business. Don’t be an academic; be an entrepreneur. You, quite literally, own the future. And the only type of progress is economic progress.”
Cheers streamed from the audience, and he raised both hands in triumph. He wouldn’t be taking any questions, not today.
“Thank you everybody!” he shouted. And with that, Charles Bettencourt took three steps down to the auditorium floor. The pressing crowd surrounded him, massing together to try and get an up-close look, a handshake, the chance to shout a too-brief question.
A tiny, unwelcome thought crept into the back of his mind. Unknown to the enthralled crowd, the success of Anconia was far from assured. The glittering skyscrapers atop the island were still less than half occupied and the entire project painfully over-budget. To make matters worse, the Conglomerate had begun to demand certain … concessions.
An attractive young woman—a blonde? No, there were too many people for him to get a good look—pressed her entire soft hand into the immaculate woolen pocket of his tailored designer suit. She left something small and crisp behind as she withdrew her hand, no doubt a phone number.
Through the questions, the handshakes, the congratulations and the half-joking job requests, Charles couldn’t help but notice that nobody asked him what the local Somalis called Anconia Island.
They called it the Death Star.
CHAPTER 4
Inky-blue waters lapped against seawalls and along the length of the city’s largest dock. Glittering like a jewel in the warm Mediterranean night, the perpetually lit skyline of the grand harbor of Valletta, Malta was an ancient collection of baroque steeples and domes coupled with a rarified concentration of affluence few harbors could boast. Preparations for the Rolex-sponsored yacht race were in full swing, and the dock, wide as a three-lane highway, held the parked Bentleys and Maybachs of old money, the Ferraris and McLaurens of the more ostentatious. Each flashy supercar lay parked beside the long gangplanks before a line of custom-built megayachts. They were of every construction, flagged from Paris, Dubai, New York, Sydney, Tokyo, London, Shanghai, Venice and other farflung centers of power.
High-speed police zodiacs patrolled the harbor while bulk
y, humorless security officers paced the dock, discrete submachine guns folded under expensive suit jackets. Submerged lights illuminated the dark waters below, lighting the massive white-hulled queens from beneath. The dock was peaceful, quiet, and still. A few of the older guests had gone to bed, as well as a few of the early risers and the jetlagged. Though already two hours past midnight, the majority of the revelers had not returned with their entourages from an exclusive party at the extravagant citycenter Hotel Phoenicia.
The crown jewel of the collected ships gently rocked at the end of the long dock, as if every other yacht were but a court valet, and this the empress herself. Sleek lines suggested a vastly different intent of construction than the other bulbous, glitzy cruisers that surrounded it. This was not just any plaything of the ultra-wealthy; this was the Conqueror, the fastest superyacht ever constructed, a coiled spring, a loaded .357 magnum with a hair trigger. Her sleek 140-foot carbon fiber underhull gently rose and fell with the lapping waves, the moonlight glinting off the laminated strands of ultra-strong synthetics. The skin hid a true technical marvel of exactingly designed structural honeycombing, and her upper works were constructed of high-quality aluminum and ceramic composite, interrupted only by blacked-out lightweight privacy glass. Even while docked, her lines whispered sweet nothings of speed, a barely restrained surging velocity.
Clad in black diving gear, Dr. Nassiri concealed himself behind a rock jetty two hundred meters from the long dock. Jonah treaded water beside him, fussing over last-minute adjustments to the doctor’s buoyancy compensation vest.
“I told you I’d never scuba dived before,” Dr. Nassiri said.
“Yeah, well I figured you’d at least be able to put your flippers on the right feet,” Jonah said.
“Are you quite, quite certain no charter vessels will work for our mission?” Dr. Nassiri tried, but failed to conceal his anxiety.
“The Conqueror is the only ship in Malta that can outrun pirates,” said Jonah. “If I wanted to get myself shot, I would have gotten it over with in prison and saved myself a trip across the desert in a body bag.”
“So it must be the Conqueror?” repeated Dr. Nassiri.
“She’s a thoroughbred,” said Jonah. “She’s got twin Purcell engines and a TF80 diesel turbine making over 20,000 horsepower. She tops 80 knots at full speed, and the only thing faster on water is a US nuclear submarine. If the pirates catch us in that, we deserve to be caught. We need her … and she ain’t for sale.”
“She looks as if she could outrun a fighter jet,” admitted Dr. Nassiri, admiring the yacht from the distance.
A third diver surfaced in a wreath of bubbles. Youssef “Buzz” Nassiri, the doctor’s cousin, dropped the regulator out of his mouth.
“You pussies ready?” asked Buzz, glaring at Jonah.
Buzz, simply put, was a bully. He’d been a bully since he and the doctor were children, and would probably always be one. But if there was a place for bullies in this world, stealing a yacht likely was it.
Jonah ignored him, but Dr. Nassiri popped in his regulator and nodded. Just remember to breathe, he reminded himself.
The trio slipped beneath the waves, following Jonah. The American seemed even more comfortable beneath the waves than he did above, allowing himself long, lazy kicks, propelling himself forward with minimal effort. By comparison, Dr. Nassiri clawed and kicked at the water, trying to maintain his balance as he followed, dragging a large mesh dive-bag behind him.
Jonah did a long, slow barrel roll, turning belly-up to look at the surface, then flipped back again. Buzz followed closely, too closely, and Jonah aimed a sharp kick at his head, nearly knocking his facemask off.
Buzz waved his middle finger at Jonah, who shrugged in return and pretended the kick was an accident.
The underwater illumination nearest to the stern of the Conqueror flickered as the trio approached from just under the surface. Small bubbles drifted upwards through the shallow water, silently breaking as they surfaced. Jonah’s neoprene-encased hand stealthily emerged from the water, grasping the polished aluminum handrail to the stern sundeck. The wetsuit-clad American cautiously raised his head just above water. From below, Dr. Nassiri watched as Jonah pushed himself belly first onto the fine-grained teakwood deck and peeled back his wet goggles. The doctor following closely behind him.
The doctor’s pulse pounded, unpleasant quantities of adrenaline coursing through his system. He was jittery, paranoid. Strange to think his career depended on his ability to make snap decisions, to stay cool and dispassionate, and to operate with a steady hand on even the most traumatically injured patients, and yet stealing a boat unnerved him so completely.
It’s the rules, he thought. He’d always been the type of person who understood and adhered to the rules. It’s what made him successful. It’s what gave him comfort. As a surgeon, he could inadvertently allow a patient to die, abysmally fail at the repair of a wound or the removal of a tumor. But that was still within the rules. Stealing wasn’t.
After taking a moment to see if anyone had noticed his incursion, Jonah Blackwell wriggled free of his bulky air tanks and buoyancy-compensation vest, securing them in a hidden compartment underneath the deck and out of sight. He pulled a plastic Ziplock bag from his weight belt, and noiselessly dropped the lead weights onto the deck.
Wasting no time, Jonah tore open the bag, letting the squared-off polymer composite pistol inside tumble into his dominant hand. He pulled back the slide, racking a .40 caliber round into the chamber. It was a debate giving him the gun—not a debate Jonah was party to, but a debate nonetheless.
Youssef emerged from the water. Bracing his feet, Jonah reached into the water with his left hand and gripped Buzz’s forearm, pulling him onto the low deck. With more flash than necessary, Buzz rolled onto the deck, theatrically covering possible ambush points with an amphibious-modified Soviet-era bullpup rifle, complete with an integrated grenade launcher.
What a joke, Jonah had whispered to Dr. Nassiri when Buzz first proudly revealed his new toy. Is your cousin expecting underwater frogmen? Grenades for that piece of junk rifle hadn’t been manufactured since the Reagan administration.
Jonah had taken a disliking to Dr. Nassiri’s cousin from the moment they’d been introduced, despite the doctor’s glowing introduction. Buzz was ex-special forces, trained by Americans for Moroccan internal anti-terrorism and counter-insurgency operations. A real hardass, as Jonah might say.
When he’d first met Jonah, Buzz didn’t even acknowledge the American, just gave Jonah an icy so-this-is-the-fucking-prisoner look that would have not been out of place at an all-girls prep school.
Buzz stripped his neoprene hood and shed his tanks onto the slipway. He was built like his gun, squat and ugly, with almost as many scars. He’d shaved his head that morning and glared at Jonah with open malevolence, anger flashing behind his dark brown eyes.
“You fucking stupid or something?” Buzz demanded with a whisper. “I told you I was first on deck. You going to clear rooms with that plastic peashooter, you deaf Yankee fuck?”
Jonah replied with a masturbatory gesture.
“I don’t have fucking time for this,” said Buzz. He shouldered the weapon and disappeared into the main cabin.
Dr. Nassiri shrugged off his equipment. He felt quite relieved that the underwater portion of this particular plan had come to an end, despite the fact that the dangerous phase had not even yet begun.
The doctor’s large mesh diving grab bag was stuffed with two bulky shrink-wrapped cubes. While Jonah raised his head over the deck to spy on the guards, Dr. Nassiri slung the bag over his shoulder and ascended the boarding ladder and off the slipway.
Leaving the doctor behind, Jonah crept the exterior length of the ship holding a titanium dive knife, slipping the razor-sharp blade through one mooring line after another. By the time he’d reached the final thick nylon line, the massive yacht had already begun to pivot away from the dock, carried out into the harbor by the
receding tide. Buzz silently joined Jonah at the bow, the best vantage point to the dock and still-inert patrol boats. Buzz gave Jonah a curt nod and took up a position, intending to stay there. Jonah shook his head in irritation.
Automatic sliding glass doors silently opened in front of Jonah. Just inside the foyer, Dr. Nassiri stashed the mesh duffle underneath a curio table and unwrapped his black Beretta. Jonah and the doctor covered each other as they moved on tiptoes across the colored marble floor of the foyer, leaving behind splotchy wet footprints.
Passing between twin faux Greek columns, they entered into the salon, scanning the dark burlwood fixtures for signs of occupancy. They passed beside the chef’s kitchen, then descended the stairs to the four unoccupied staterooms and the locked crew cabins. The owner, infamous for his all-night parties, had not yet returned. Jonah cracked the door to the crew cabin then closed it again.
Stepping into the engine room was like stepping into a space station. The compartment reserved for the massive turbine engines dwarfed every other cabin within the entirety of the vessel. It was truly the beating heart of a beautiful mechanical organism. The turbine system required endless rolls of neatly secured insulation, and a bank of computers were set aside to monitor system statistics and operations. Dr. Nassiri imagined that even at a comfortable cruising speed, the Conqueror was designed to inhale a prodigious amount of expensive high-octane fuel. Unlike the sumptuous old-world tones of the rest of the yacht, this room was pure tech.
“I have to credit the owner for this marvel,” said Dr. Nassiri.
“Yeah, but can’t say I feel much guilt for stealing it,” mused Jonah.
The doctor agreed. That morning at their hotel, he’d done a little investigating on his own. The Conqueror’s owner was a retired CEO, one of the pioneers in the practice of chopping up subprime mortgages and selling them for cheap, tanking the American economy, and nearly taking down the world with it. Still, his taste in yachting could not be denied.
The Wrecking Crew Page 4