The wave chop put water in Drummond’s snorkel, and he had to exhale forcibly to clear the breathing passage. Vogel made hand motions, pointing to the structure below, and they started their descent. Judging from the growth of corals, it had been submerged two or three years. It was comparable to the Captain Keith Tibbits, a Russian frigate sunk off Cayman Brac as an artificial reef. Drummond visited the site thirty months after the frigate had been scuttled.
The structure consisted of four spheres of varying diameters connected by cylinders. The biggest diameter was twenty feet across. The spheres and cylinders were steel, riveted together in sections with large fasteners. The floor was made of prefabricated concrete slabs bolted to steel pilings, a kaleidoscope of rust and coral. A school of yellow grunts encircled the pilings. An eagle ray fluttered, shaking off a blanket of sand, before darting
away. The architect had given thoughtful attention to the shape of his undersea dwelling. It could have been from Jules Verne’s novel.
Drummond piloted the scooter underneath the sea residence, stopping periodically to get vertical. Vogel cruised along its outer edge. At the sphere most distant from the dock, Drummond spotted a glassy reflection coming from a tube five feet in diameter. He entered the tube, and with a burst of pressurized air to partially inflate his BC, he rose three feet before his head crested the water’s surface. The room was lit by natural light, filtering through a viewing portal of thick polymer. The trailing edge of the tube was covered with rubberized material.
This must be it,
Drummond thought.
Drummond uncoupled his backpack and aired up his BC so that it floated on the surface. He removed the regulator from his mouth and pulled his mask down to his neck so he wouldn’t lose it. He hoisted his body out of the water and pulled his gear onto the floor. Vogel surfaced and handed her gear to Drummond. He could see condensation on the glass door sealing the room from the outer areas.
“It’s a mud room of sorts for divers.”
Vogel’s statement was a perfect description of the room. Form follows function. “Complete with showers.” Vogel pointed at two shower nozzles. “It’s to rinse gear.”
“Look at my dive computer. It’s reading a depth of two feet. It’s indicating we are at the same atmospheric pressure as sea level.”
They stripped off their wet suits and hung them up on hooks next to lockers. Vogel was first to exit into the
hallway. The floor was made of teak or marine wood. To the left was a bathroom with tub, walk-in shower, toilet, and two sinks. There were two bedrooms and a great room with a sitting area and a galley kitchen. Vogel messed with the HVAC controls until they heard a whooshing sound. They could feel the air being exhausted through the ceiling, and then the circulation slowed to a low hum. The apparatus conditioning the air appeared to be on a timer. The room temperature was a comfortable seventy-one degrees. Vogel disappeared into the bathroom. Drummond heard water running from the shower.
93
S
heryl Vogel stood nude in the open shower washing her hair. Drummond’s eyes followed shampoo suds sliding down her nape, back, and contour of her bottom, inside her thigh and past her calf muscle to her beautiful feet.
“Is that you, Drummond?”
“Uh, yes…I’m grabbing a towel,” Drummond said. He turned away and tried to think about her kindness on the dock—she was a good person—but his eyes returned to her beauty.
“I’ll be out in a minute, if you want to rinse off.”
Drummond blotted his face, wrapped the towel around his waist, and sat down in front of the command center located in the great room. He stared at a wall of electronics—black boxes recessed in computer racks, four stacks across, with toggle switches, push buttons, tactile switches, radial dials, horizontal and vertical slide switches, all meticulously labeled. In front of him three plasma screens were elevated above the racks housing the guts of an elaborate command center.
What the hell
—he started flipping switches and turning dials. In the background he heard the toilet flush.
Three jumbo flat-panel screens spaced equal distance apart in the great room came to life, projecting oceanic images fed by cameras mounted on the exterior of the undersea dwelling. It was as if the occupants were immersed in an aquarium. The unsettled school of grunts had tightened their formation. A black tip reef shark cruised by, swimming a wide arc.
Drummond focused his attention on the rack to his left labeled “closed-circuit video.” He switched on the main panel, and the monitor activated, partitioning into a dozen two-inch squares, each showing images of various locations on the island. The screen emitted a muffled popping sound as the heat from the electrical current warmed the display. Drummond recognized screen shots—conference rooms, great room, kitchen, various suites, and exterior shots of the compound. The cameras were mounted at different elevations. He thumbed through the owner’s manual he found in the desk drawer, and after a few minutes of experimentation, his confidence grew.
Yes, it was possible to configure the video system to Dain’s specifications
.
“It’s looking nasty out there,” Vogel said. Palm trees were listing held down by high winds. Sheets of rain swept the beach, and droplets of precipitation obscured several cameras.
“Is that Dain?” Vogel said, pointing to the lower right. “What’s he doing outside?”
“He’s filling bags with sand…to prevent flooding,” Drummond said, an afterthought.
“We may want to hole up here for an hour until the weather breaks.”
Vogel produced two juice boxes from the refrigerator and an assortment of power bars. “I’m going to make hot tea.”
Drummond could hear the whistle from the teapot as he stepped into the great room. He had taken a shower. It felt great to immerse in warm water and remove the film of saltwater from his body. Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, he found a pair of men’s undergarments to wear with borrowed slippers. His damp hair was combed straight back.
“Do you know how many women would kill for hair like Gordon Gekko?” Vogel said, admiring his hair while handing him a cup of tea. The two moved to the seating area.
Vogel sat on the couch across from him. Drummond wondered if she had anything on underneath her robe. He closed his eyes and turned his head back and forth, cracking the vertebrae in his neck.
“I was curious, so I looked up the valuation of corporate equities on the Federal Reserve flow of funds,” Drummond said. “I scanned their quarterly report; it’s two hundred fifty pages. What I discovered is the Federal Reserve tracks the net worth of the federal government and corporations. But it also tracks the net worth of households,” Drummond said.
“Care to guess the tangible net worth of US households?”
“Ten trillion…I have no idea,” Vogel said.
“US households have a net worth of seventy trillion dollars. Hold on to that thought. When I was conducting research for my thesis, I found it odd sovereign debt was measured as a percentage of GDP, not a percentage of the government’s annual budget…as if the government has one hundred percent ownership of all goods and services produced by US citizens.” Drummond took another sip of tea. Vogel stirred in honey.
“It’s preposterous for the government to think the country would allow it to tax one hundred percent of GDP, but that’s the metric it’s using. When you look at the budget deficits and cumulative debt, the numbers are huge. We outspend tax revenues by thirty percent each year. And our debt now stands at more than fifteen times the amount our government collects in taxes each year. There’s only one way to achieve the financial multiplier effect we need to manage our debt load. You said it, Vogel. The stock market—fifteen times earnings. Why not use the assets of US households as security for a new stock offering?” Drummond propped himself up on his knees, becoming more animated as he spoke.
“We issue a tracking stock on the New York Stock Exchange. Not privatizing the US government, I’m talking about taking US citizens public, as if they were a publically traded corporation. Seventy-five percent of their net worth is financial assets. We have more than enough tangible assets and liquidity to secure the stock. We raise two trillion dollars: one billion shares at a share price of two thousand dollars. We peg the share price to the net earnings of the holding company created to track the aggregate profits of the public-private partnerships,
following a traditional price-to-earnings valuation methodology akin to Berkshire Hathaway.”
For thirty minutes the two brainstormed, feeding each other ideas. The flow of ideas—back and forth—was intellectual foreplay. They were two attractive individuals sitting in the comfort and privacy of Captain Nemo’s underwater suite in the eye of a raging storm, whose destiny was to save the world. The brainstorming played out, and the two sat in silence.
“Vogel, I’m sorry about my emotional display on the dock. I was feeling low—guess it’s because I’m a long way from home, and the stress of the contest is taking a toll. Thanks for understanding.”
“Drummond, I have a confession to make. I’m drawn to you—it’s not something I’ve tried to hide—and it’s not just a physical attraction. Your emotional outpouring confirms you’re human. Vulnerable like the rest of us…It makes me want you even more.” She kept her eyes on him as she pushed her robe down to her shoulders until it fell back on the couch. She patted the couch, motioning Drummond to come closer.
94
T
he dinner plates were cleared from the table. Drummond spoke. “Vogel and I had a breakthrough this afternoon…a potential solution to a serious deficiency of our proposal.”
“What deficiency,” Lowsley asked.
“Implementing our proposal will require issuance of debt to capitalize the partnerships. And it’s mum regarding how our economy will muddle through when we shrink health care. Vogel said something today that triggered an idea.”
“Vogel.”
“It was Drummond’s idea.”
Vogel spent the next ten minutes describing the concept of a stock offering secured by the net worth of US citizens. Several examples were cited as to how the proceeds from the stock offering could be used. The concept of the US having its own SWF was intriguing.
After the team discussed the ideas for a stock offering, the conversation transitioned to Captain Nemo’s undersea villa. The others were fascinated by the story and expressed an interest to visit before leaving the island. Drummond and Dain made eye contact. Their thoughts were focused on whether they would make it off the island, alive.
95
P
an Jiang’s hands shook as she depressed and held the button on the GPS locator device. The green LED light started blinking. Fifty minutes later, Jiang was on her way to meet Chinese Special Forces on the north shore. Wu Jintong’s night vision optics would be pointed at her torso. He would know her whereabouts before she emerged from the blackness.
“You’re late, bitch,” Wu hissed in a low voice, making known his displeasure.
She knew the sky would be turning from black to gray soon and their rubber-raiding craft could be detected, placing the four men in jeopardy. Wu kept his assault rifle pointed at her, his way of establishing dominion. A red LED light on his helmet illuminated his face and upper body.
“I lost.”
Wu stepped forward and slapped her face. Jiang turned, covering her cheek, trying to regain composure. Jiang suspected Wu was a bully the first time she laid eyes on him. This was their second meet. Her face stung—anger burned within—the same heat and indignation she felt toward the military when they shackled her parents.
“If our mission is compromised because of your incompetence, your parents will rot in jail for the rest of their lives. Anybody who criticizes the Communist Party should be shot as traitors.”
Jiang kept her eyes lowered.
“Where’s the file?”
Jiang produced a thumb drive concealed in a pocket sewn into the waistband of her sweat pants.
“This is work I performed for the team. It contains the stochastic modeling.”
“I’m not a statistician. Speak in layman’s terms. Does it have the information Finance Minister Hongwei wants?”
“I wasn’t able to obtain complete file of proposal. Gupta noticed the file I stole was missing, and he’s been securing the backup. I have no way to access.”
“What’s excluded Hongwei needs to know?”
Jiang put her hands in her pockets to prevent Wu from seeing her tremor. She had rehearsed her answer over and over. It seemed simple enough when the Communist Party approached her. In exchange for her cooperation, they’d clear the name of her father and release her parents from jail. Cooperation had been vaguely defined. Meeting a Chinese marine assault team in the middle of the night on a remote island to hand over classified information belonging to the United States was inconceivable when she had said yes. Not true…She would have said yes to anything. She was naive to believe her repressed feelings of anger and loathing for a nation whose capricious behavior and subjugation of its citizenry that had destroyed her family could be purged. Betraying the individuals whose kindness exceeded what she had
known in a lifetime made her physically ill. For the first time, she felt self-worth. Jiang didn’t know whether her split-second hesitation set him off or whether it was his instincts for interrogation, but Wu suspected something. He grabbed her arm roughly, drawing her near. His grip closed like a vise. It felt like he intended to squeeze until her arm snapped like a twig.
“What’s not on the file Hongwei needs to know? I won’t ask again.”
Jiang was terrified, stammering to spit words out. She couldn’t breathe. Wu drew his arm back to slap her again—but before he could deliver the blow, another soldier lunged forward, his full weight impacting Wu, blocking Wu’s arm with the soldier’s chest and shoulder. Wu extended his hips, to create space, and coiled his body like a spring. Using his core body strength, he exploded, delivering a vicious knee to the stomach of her protector. The gasp was audible, as the soldier doubled over in pain. Wu delivered two punches in rapid succession, connecting to the man’s nose and jaw. The soldier lay on the ground bleeding, traumatized. Wu stepped on his neck and drew his pistol from his holster, pointing it at the soldier’s face.