Code 13 (16 page)

h. Intercepted emails from classified sources in the JAG chain of command indicate that LCDR MacDonald may be wavering in his opinion. Should MacDonald recommend to the Secretary of the Navy that the projected purposes are illegal or unconstitutional, the effect upon the Secretary would be unclear.

i. Recommend continued correspondence with congressional liaisons to apply political pressure on MacDonald's superiors.

Sincerely yours,
Jack

Richardson leaned back in his chair and tossed the memorandum on his desk. The two-page letter probably cost AirFlite twenty-five thousand dollars. That would be twelve and a half grand a page! Maybe more.

He decided not to glance at the invoice when it arrived. He would let Ivana read it and tell her to pay the bill without even telling him.

He picked up the telephone. “Ivana.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you come in here, please? And bring me another drink. Then I need your help with something.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He glanced at the twenty-five-thousand-dollar memorandum
again, for the third time, and made a decision. Something needed to be done about this P.J. MacDonald character. No midlevel naval officer was going to stop this contract. Not now. Not ever.

A knock on his office door.

“Come in.”

The door cracked open. Ivana, wearing a fitted white-and-gold dress that ended above her knees, smiled at him.

“Your drinks, sir.” Her voice was cheery, and she carried a silver tray holding another glass, a glass pitcher of ice cubes, and two different liquor flasks. He loved her walk almost as much as he loved her velvety, Czech accent.

“I know you were drinking cognac, sir. So I brought you another flask of that. And in case you wanted to switch up, I also brought you a flask of scotch.”

“Set it on the desk, Ivana.”

At that point he noticed it. The gold ankle bracelet dazzled against her tanned ankle, just above her white pumps.

She stepped over toward his desk. “Certainly, sir.”

Was that flirtatiousness in her voice?

“Would you like another glass?”

“Sure.” When she stepped behind his desk to pour his drink, he caught a whiff of her perfume. The rock on her finger glistened as she drained the drink into his glass. Perhaps a half carat at most.

What a waste for a woman so enticing to be tied up with a boring engineer.

She turned and started walking away. “Ivana?”

She turned around. “Yes, sir?”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you bear a striking resemblance to the former Russian tennis star Anna Kournikova?”

Her pretty face brightened. “You think I resemble Anna Kournikova?”

“Actually,” he said, “the resemblance is quite striking.”

“Thank you.” A kittenish grin crossed her lips. “She is a beautiful lady.”

He responded quickly. “She has nothing on you, my dear.”

Her smile broadened. Her eyes glistened with a sparkling bluish hue.

“I think you are a handsome man.” Her velvety accent thickened. “So much in control.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Such a strong visionary.”

He stood up and pulled her close to him. Their kiss was instant, electric. Why had he waited this long? He did not wish to stop, but the thought of the unexecuted contract distracted him from the excitement of the moment, and he pushed her away.

“Is something wrong?” A look of longing settled into her eyes. “You do not like my kisses?”

“Nothing is wrong. I love your kisses. And I hope to kiss you again.”

“Do you promise?” She moved in, closer to him, as if coming for more.

“Yes. Of course.” He stopped her advance with his hands. “But we have work to do. First I want you to get me Senator Talmadge on the phone. Then, after that, I want you to get Jack Patterson on the line.”

“Yes, sir.” Her face looked both disappointed and starry-eyed. “I shall get the senator for you right away.”

She turned and walked toward the door, and he gazed at her as she left the room. Why had he pushed her away? She was there for the taking. Right in his office. Then he remembered. As much as he loved women, he loved money and power more. The more he poured into a woman, the more money he would lose.

Best to enjoy them in spurts but keep them at a healthy distance.

Her intoxicating voice, this time with a bit more spark than usual, oozed through his intercom. “Senator Talmadge is on the phone, sir. Line one.”

Richardson picked up line one. “How is my favorite United States senator today?”

A chuckle from the voice on the other line. “I hope you're referring
to me as your favorite senator, Richardson.” Another nervous-sounding, bookend chuckle.

Not a good sign, this nervousness in Talmadge's voice. “Well, let me put it this way, Bobby. If I was in fact referring to you when I used the phrase ‘my favorite United States senator,' then the continued use of that phrase might well depend upon the status of the little project I've asked you to work on.”

“Well, I—”

“Put it this way, Bobby,” Richardson interrupted. “For some of us, there's a fine line between having a favorite senator and having a senator we are determined to see defeated in the next election, and are prepared to spend millions of dollars either way.”

“I know, Richardson. You're calling about the drone project.”

“Actually, ole boy, I thought you would have already called me with some positive news. But the sound of your voice doesn't seem so jolly.”

“My apologies. I've not forgotten you, and I understand what this AirFlite project means to the economy in Savannah and southeastern Georgia. I hope you'll give me the privilege of being part of that ribbon-cutting ceremony. It's going to be a great day for the Peach State, Richardson. And I'm going to recommend that the governor put you in for the Governor's Economic Development Award.”

Richardson pulled out his desk drawer, extracted his .38 caliber revolver, popped open the empty cylinder, and started spinning it. “My dear senator, you should know that I couldn't care less about any feelgood political award the governor of Georgia, or any other politician, for that matter, might bestow on me for political purposes.” He started loading bullets into the chamber. “I can buy my own awards anytime I want.”

He finished loading the gun and popped the cylinder back into place, then brought the gun to his mouth and blew his breath onto the barrel, caressing the barrel with his finger, allowing the touch of his finger on the barrel to ignite an irresistible tingling that spread throughout his body. “What I want is an executed contract.”

He aimed the gun at the door, imagining that either Senator Bobby Talmadge or that meddlesome Navy officer from the Pentagon who
was playing the dangerous role of obstructionist to Richardson's aims would dare walk through the door at that moment.

“Don't worry, I—”

“Don't worry? Did you just tell me not to worry?”

“Well, yes. Look, I have an appointment to talk with Senator Fowler today. You know, he's the most powerful member of the U.S. Senate. He's the chair of the Armed Services Com—”

“Yes, I know who Fowler is. Spare me the patronizing. What I want is action. So tell me why I don't have a signed contract yet.”

“They . . . Look, I expect the Navy to approve within the next couple of days. Then it's clear sailing. Don't worry.”

Richardson took a swig of liquor. “Do you even know who in the Navy is responsible for pushing it along?”

“Yes, of course. The Secretary of the Navy. And I expect—”

“Do you know what's holding up the Secretary of the Navy?”

“Uh, I believe he's waiting on approval from the Navy JAG.”

“Why is the Navy JAG delaying?”

“I, uh, I'm sure it's a matter of processing some paperwork. Look, everybody wants this project—”

“A matter of processing paperwork?”

“Could I please finish, Richardson?”

“You're going to be finished if you don't get this contract through the Navy and then through Congress. Since your people don't know as much as my people, let me enlighten you.”

“Richardson—”

“Don't Richardson me, Senator.”

“Okay, okay.”

Richardson picked up the twenty-five-thousand-dollar memo, but his fingers shook with anger to the point that he couldn't even read it. “Give me a second, Senator.”

“Okay, Richardson. Take your time.”

Richardson inhaled, then slowly exhaled, then repeated the process. “Okay, Bobby. Let me educate you, since my own private sources seem to be superior to the offices of your almighty United States Senate office. So let me see.” There. He saw the name. “The officer
who seems to be causing all the problems is a Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald in an office under the Navy JAG they call Code 13. Our sources say this MacDonald chap is wavering on this contract and may be planning to recommend to the Secretary of the Navy that it's not legally defensible. Did you know that, Bobby?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Don't stumble around on me, Senator. Did you know that, or did you not know that?”

Talmadge hesitated. “Well, we knew it's in the JAG's hands, but we didn't have that level of detail.”

“I didn't think so. I'm more than disappointed at your inaction and ignorance. So my patience is running out.” He waited a second. No response. “Let me ask you, Bobby. Have you heard of Georgia State Representative Billy Ray Oliver, Republican of Fayette County?”

A delayed response. “He's a rookie representative. I don't know him personally, but I hear he's a fine young man with a bright future in the party.”

“Yes, well, but from what I'm hearing, that fine young man, as you call him, may have his eyes set on becoming a United States senator from the great state of Georgia.”

Another hesitation. “Well, if he's conservative enough, we need to be grooming bright political talent up through the ranks so they're ready when the time's right.”

“I'm glad you feel that way, because from what I'm hearing, the kid may be ready to become a senator sooner rather than later.”

“I don't follow you, Richardson.”

“Oh, I think you understand. Because of his conservative voting record in the State House, he's catching the attention of the national Tea Party. Some are even saying young Billy Ray ought to take a shot at you in the primary.”

Silence on the other end. “Are you threatening me, Richardson?”

“It's taken you this long to figure that out? Yes, I'm threatening you. You can either serve your constituents or expect a challenge.”

“Look, there's no reason to feel this way. We're gonna get this done. I promise.”

“You'd better get it done!” Richardson slammed down the phone, half satisfied that he was among a small handful of people in the state of Georgia who could slam down the phone on a United States senator and get away with it, but at the same time boiling with anger that his handpicked choice for United States senator had not delivered.

At the moment, his rage at Talmadge exceeded his self-satisfaction in having hung up on him.

He punched his desk intercom.

“Ivana.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Jack Patterson on the phone now.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Richardson stood, picked up his liquor glass, and walked over to the bay window overlooking the Savannah River. In perfect V formation, three seagulls swooped in from the right, from the direction of the Atlantic toward the port facilities downtown, their white feathers a bright contrast to the river's blue water and the marshes swaying in the breeze along the way.

Soon his drones would be flying in formation over every major river in the nation. There would be no political prejudices in his marketing, no limits to his customer base. Like the Bank of England, the Federal Reserve, and other international banks that had financed both sides of wars since the 1700s, AirFlite would sell drones and other airborne weapons to all sides!

But first, this obstructionist commander in the Pentagon would need to be dealt with.

His desk intercom buzzed. “Mr. DeKlerk, Mr. Patterson is on the line for you.”

“Bring me a portable phone and another drink, Ivana. Make it a bourbon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ivana walked in with a portable phone and a glass of bourbon, handed them to him, and turned around and walked out.

“Jack, you cost me almost as much money as what it cost me to buy
elections to get some of these idiot Georgia bozos elected to federal office. But I'll say this. At least you get things done.”

“Thanks, Richardson. Does this mean I should raise my rates?”

“Don't push your luck. I'm not in a joking mood.”

“Yes, I can hear that in your voice. What's up?”

Richardson sipped his liquor, then stepped out onto the balcony.

“Still there, Jack?”

“Still here, Richardson. Take your time.”

“That's part of the problem. Too many people are taking their bloody good time. Like that ungrateful rookie Republican U.S. senator I put into office. I don't have any time to take, Jack. Do you understand?”

“Bobby Talmadge giving you a hard time? I'm sure he wants this contract as much as we do.”

“I'm sure he wants the project, because it will make him look good politically. But he isn't moving fast enough, and I still don't have a contract.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“What did he say?”

“Cheesy political talk. He promised to talk to Roberson Fowler and assured me everything would be okay.”

“I'm sure he'll talk to Fowler. Fowler's a powerful guy in the U.S. Senate. He's the oldest rat in the Republican barn. Get him on board, and this project is a done deal.”