chapter 3

SATELLITES

Michel Mercier navigated through the hallways of the oil rig, his face set in a mask of frustration. Jack stepped out from the shadows and pulled him into a corner, his grip firm.

“Spill it, Michel. You know something.”

Michel’s eyes flashed with anger and something else—fear. “Jack, I’m as clueless as you are about this—”

Jack’s voice was low, menacing. “Your wife has the complexion of the South Pole. She hates warm weather, she hates the sun. I know that you didn’t come to Bermuda for a vacation.”

Michel’s face hardened as he studied Jack. “What else do you know, Jack?” He moved closer, his tone challenging. “Come on, Jack. Dire la vérité. Tell the truth.”

“I know that you and Antonio were working on a satellite project together. Is that what your argument on deck was about?”

Michel’s eyes darted around nervously. “Keep your voice down!” He pulled Jack into a small custodial closet, shutting the door behind them.

Inside the cramped space, Michel’s facade cracked. “Antonio and I were working together, but he tried to screw me. Everyone thinks they can screw the French.”

“Keep talking,” Jack urged, his voice a cold command.

“Italy and France developed a new penetrating satellite technology,” Michel revealed.

“Penetrating?” Jack echoed, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m not a scientist. I just know that the satellite sees the movement of heat and energy below the Earth’s surface. Imagine the utilitarian applications. No more dead spots for cell phones. You could be in a bunker a mile below the surface and still get a call on your smartphone. But Antonio got greedy. The French are not pussies, as you say. I sent in my Marines! They kicked Italian ass and retrieved the satellite.”

Jack’s eyes widened in shock. “What does that have to do with Bermuda and this oil rig?”

“A few months ago, the satellite recorded a tremendous amount of energy in this area. We thought maybe it was some new form of nuclear power. I was going to send troops to investigate—”

Jack interrupted, incredulous. “French troops a thousand miles off the coast of the United States? Then my Marines would have had to kick some French ass.”

Michel raised a hand to calm him. “Take it easy! I came to Bermuda with a small geological security force, but we found nothing. Whatever the energy was, it’s portable. That’s what this is about.”

Jack shook his head, frustration boiling over. “Michel, you’re playing a dangerous game. And you’re doing it alone. You could have told us about this.”

Michel’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Like I said, the French are not pussies! Besides, you kept what happened in the Paracel Islands to yourself, did you not?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about the Paracel Islands, Michel?”

Michel’s smile was sly, knowing. “No, no, nothing. Nothing. Isn’t that what I am supposed to say?”

“So why tell me anything?” Jack demanded.

“Do not be so modest, Jack. Everyone looks to the United States of America.”

The lower levels of the oil rig resembled the cramped quarters of a submarine. Jack, Milanowski, and Sheldon huddled just outside a room, their whispers urgent.

“Mr. President, what do you make of all this?” Milanowski asked, her voice edged with concern.

Jack shook his head, his mind racing. “I don’t know what to think about any of it. The fact that we’re on an oil rig a thousand miles out to sea suggests that anything is possible.”

Sheldon nodded, his face tense. “The fact that we are a thousand miles in the ocean makes that assumption plausible.”

Milanowski chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “On the contrary. The fact that we’re a thousand miles in the middle of the Atlantic makes the existence of this rig impossible. But it’s here.”

Sheldon gritted his teeth, stepping closer to Milanowski. “Don’t laugh at me!” he snapped, his voice irate.

Milanowski dismissed him with a wave of her hand, her focus on Jack. “Mr. President, in the interest of national security and your safety, I suggest we commandeer that catamaran and return to Air Force One immediately.”

Jack held up a hand, trying to calm the rising tension. “We’re all tired and edgy, but let’s not jump to any conclusions. We’ll hear what Felix has to say. If he doesn’t knock my socks off, we’re out of here. Deal?”

Milanowski nodded, though her eyes remained wary. “Deal.”

Jack leaned in closer to her, his voice a whisper. “I thought I mentioned Sheldon’s childhood thing about being laughed at.”

Milanowski’s smile was devilish, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You did, sir. I must have forgotten, but it’s been duly noted.”

Jack sighed, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. Tomorrow would bring answers—or more questions. And in the shadows of the colossal oil rig, the stakes had never been higher.

Jack stood shirtless in front of the mirror, splashing water on his face. His reflection revealed a fit physique, scarred from past battles. The old wounds served as a constant reminder of the wars he had fought, both on the battlefield and within his own mind. A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie. He opened it to find Lichelli, the Deputy Prime Minister.

"May I come in?" Lichelli's tone was formal, but her eyes betrayed curiosity.

Jack stepped aside, pulling on his T-shirt quickly. "Sure, come in."

Lichelli's gaze lingered for a moment before she regained her composure. "Jack, we need to talk."

Jack sighed, anticipating another round of political maneuvering. "What’s on your mind?"

She hesitated, then plunged in. "Most of us – France, Italy, Pakistan, Germany – we don't trust Brangman. This entire setup is irregular, but we're here because you’re here."

Jack’s eyes narrowed. "Bermuda is a British territory. Felix Brangman isn’t my responsibility. I made my feelings about him clear last year at the Summit in Cape Town."

Lichelli moved closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "That’s beside the point now. Whatever Brangman has done, he’s done without the UK's authority, and he's had significant help."

Jack waved her off. "You can imply all you want, but the U.S. isn’t involved in this."

Lichelli nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Fair enough. I had to ask."

"Actually, you didn't ask. You implied," Jack countered, noting the subtle dance of politics in her words.

Lichelli’s gaze softened as she looked at him. "They're serving T-bones downstairs. I could order two, medium rare, with a bottle of Merlot..."

Jack met her eyes, understanding the unspoken invitation. "I'm not ready for this, Lichelli. There hasn’t been enough time."

"It’s been three years, Jack," she said softly.

"I’ve spent half of that time mourning my son and the other half at war," he replied, the pain evident in his voice.

Disappointed, Lichelli moved to the door but paused, stroking a finger against his lips. "I’ve lost someone too, Jack. I’m not looking for a husband or even a boyfriend. But it’d be nice to have a friendly face to wake up to every now and then."

She left, shutting the door quietly behind her, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts.

Michel Mercier moved stealthily through the hallways of the oil rig, his face set in determination. He slipped out of his room, heading for the spiral staircase at the end of the hall. Emerging on the upper deck, he was struck by the beauty of the black sky, studded with millions of stars. But his attention quickly shifted to a massive electronic module, glowing with green and amber lights.

Drawn to it, Michel moved closer. The module rumbled and emitted a ten-foot-wide beam of amber light that shot through the floor of the oil rig into the ocean below. The deafening mechanical shrill that followed made Michel’s ears bleed. He collapsed, disoriented and in pain, as Felix approached, a fire axe in hand.

"Michel, I was hoping we could do this another way," Felix said, standing over him.

Michel looked up, pleading, "F-Felix... what are you doing?"

Without a word, Felix raised the axe and brought it down, decapitating Michel in a single, brutal stroke.