Lucky Jim 2 Student Farmer Volunteer Pickup Truck DiplomatChapter 38
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Lucky Jim 2-Student, Farmer, Volunteer, Pickup Truck DiplomatChapter 30 free porn video
Thursday
As usual, I was awake and gone before the women awoke, although I couldn’t go too far. I noticed that we were anchored offshore and not docked in New Orleans. The captain explained that the ship had never docked here, so we didn’t have a place reserved. He didn’t want to choose a dock and have me upset with his choice.
“How much does it usually cost to buy fuel for the ship?” I asked.
The captain looked at me oddly. “You mean for refueling the helicopters?” he asked.
“No, to keep the ship running,” I replied.
“This ship is nuclear powered,” he replied nervously.
“It’s what?” I squeaked. “How in the hell did Zhora get a nuclear power plant?” I gasped.
“Everyone in Russia was afraid of him. Zhora got what Zhora wanted,” he explained anxiously.
My fingers were already dialing Will, even though he was aboard the ship.
“What?” he groaned, my call obviously having just awakened him.
“Did you know this ship is nuclear powered?” I asked.
“Say that again, slowly,” he replied, suddenly sounding more awake than just a moment ago.
“This.Ship.Is.Nuclear.Powered, like our submarines and carriers,” I repeated, pausing for a split second between each word.
“How the fuck did he get a nuclear power plant?” Will asked.
“The captain says that everyone in Russia was afraid of him. Zhora got what Zhora wanted,” I repeated what the captain told me.
“Meet us by the helicopters in ten. We have to make sure that thing is safe,” said Will, his voice conveying a sense of urgency.
It was closer to fifteen minutes before Will and three other men arrived but I was still impressed that they were able to find us so quickly. An hour later, the three engineers had assured Will that the generator was functioning properly. It had three redundancies for all the critical systems and was not releasing any radiation.
“I need coffee,” grumbled Will as we headed for the dining room. “Let’s get the drugs off and let the DEA deal with them. Then you set aside any of the handheld weapons you want and take them home. After that, the military wants to take this ship to Norfolk. They’ll remove the weapons systems. They’ll probably want to study the reactor, too, so it will be a while before you get it back,” Will warned. I didn’t care. That just meant I wouldn’t have to pay docking fees for a while.
After breakfast, the U.S. Coast Guard came out to meet us. Will had already called them and they brought paperwork to transfer ownership of the yacht and the forty-foot cabin cruiser to me, as well as a hundred moving boxes that I had asked for from a nearby U-Haul. The Coast Guard captain looked at me strangely when I told him the new name I chose for the ship.
“Pickup Truck?” he asked.
“Have you ever owned one, or had a friend with one?” I asked.
“Yeah, both,” he replied.
“And someone always wanted to borrow it, right?” I asked. He finally got the joke and cracked up.
I looked at the captain of the cigarette boat strangely when he handed me the title for the cigarette boat. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“Those were my orders,” he replied. “It doesn’t have a name yet,” he reminded me.
Well shit. Going with the truck theme, I named the cigarette boat Race Truck and made a mental note to contact my favorite driver in the NASCAR truck series to see if I could get permission to paint the boat using a paint scheme from his truck, and put his truck number on the boat.
When it came time to ante up the taxes on three boats, I knew the taxes on the yacht would be horrendous. I was surprised when the U.S. Coast Guard captain only charged me registration and taxes on the two smaller boats.
“My instructions are that the yacht is tax-free as long as you own it,” he explained. You could have knocked me over with a feather. “If you ever sell it, you’ll owe the original registration fee and tax on the estimated value, and the new owner will owe tax on what he pays for it, as well as registration fees. Considering who the former owner was, and what the ship was used for, I have to agree with the decision.”
One of the ship’s crew used an electric pallet jack and left the empty moving boxes right outside my suite. After breakfast, the girls helped me empty the contents of the safes into boxes. We numbered each box so we could keep track of what was in each one.
It took two pallets just to hold the boxes of currency. Chloe kept a running tally and estimated that we had $100 million, 400€ million, 700 million Rubles, and one billion Yuan. I had no idea how much a Ruble or Yuan was worth compared to a U.S. dollar, but knew that so many were still worth a chunk of change. I could have looked the exchange rate up online, but at this point, I didn’t care.
As we began clearing the bundles of cash from the bottom shelf of the safe, we discovered fourteen wooden boxes of various sizes hidden behind the front row or rows of cash. Jan and Marisa were both looking over my shoulder when I carefully opened one of the smaller boxes. The inside was filled with foam pellets surrounding something wrapped in bubble plastic. By the time I got the wrapped item out of the box, hundreds of the stupid foam pellets were scattered on the desk and floor.
The pellets were immediately forgotten when I unwrapped the item. Next, I chose one of the larger boxes, about twenty inches tall and twelve inches square. I immediately recognized the ornate jeweled gold egg on an equally jeweled and ornate base. As part of our studies of Russia’s history, I did a report in high school on the Fabergé eggs. If it was real, this was the Royal Danish Egg, crafted in 1903, and one of eight missing eggs. Over the next hour, I opened each box and photographed the egg inside.
All four of the previously photographed missing Imperial eggs were here, along with four that fit the description of the four missing eggs that had never been photographed.
In addition, four of the eggs should have been in the Kremlin Armory Museum in Moscow. The remaining two boxes contained two more eggs that had probably been originally consigned for someone other than the Imperial family.
Then, I spent another hour on the Internet doing research and verifying that only four of the missing eggs had pictures available. After emailing the photos to the New York auctioneer, I called. He wasn’t happy, thinking that I was trying to scam him. I offered to pay him to send someone to evaluate them. He agreed, and I sent the Citation X to LaGuardia Airport to pick him up, telling him it would be there in about two hours.
The precious metals and gems from the safe were loaded into heavy canvas bank bags I found filling a closet. The bags were loaded aboard one of the Superhawks and flown home. When I finally followed it, I’d fly the cash to my offshore bank. Then I smacked myself mentally and went to find Will. Fifteen minutes later, I had permission to sail to the Caymans to deposit the cash. When I told the captain, he warned me that the Cayman government wouldn’t be happy to see us. In fact, most of the island governments would refuse us entry. Will said he’d take care of it.
Rather than pack everything back in the safe, I had it stashed in hold six where it would be near the helicopters. I made a phone call to the farm to invite Juwanna and Mabel. Shortly before lunch, one of the helicopters that was ferrying the arms from the holds to the farm arrived back with my two cooks and the man from the auction house. Along with them was a surprise visitor--the Vice-President.
“Permission to come aboard?” he asked with a big crooked grin when he saw my surprised look.
“Uh, sure,” I answered, which immediately caused four Secret Service agents to exit the helicopter, their heads swiveling back and forth, making sure it was safe.
“Any chance my wife and I can bum a ride for a few days?” he asked as he motioned to the woman who just appeared in the doorway of the helicopter. “I understand you’re sailing to the Cayman Islands.”
“Not a problem,” I replied, finally remembering to shake his hand.
“Where’s the kitchen?” Juwanna asked teasingly.
After a stop to tell the cargo officer to lock up the cardboard boxes in hold six, I led everyone to the dining room where Will and the others were congregated anticipating the arrival of the Veep. Why they didn’t warn me, I have no idea. While they talked, I went and got the fourteen Fabergé eggs and brought them for the auction house appraiser to verify. After scrutinizing the first one for barely a minute, he peered up at me over the egg.
“Where did you get this?” he asked cautiously.
“I inherited it and this ship from a man who liked to smuggle things to sell to the highest bidder. I was sent to protect someone who was to verify the authenticity of an item he had for sale. The men with me and I had to protect ourselves against him in international waters. He went overboard and we couldn’t get to him before he died,” I used an almost truthful explanation.
“I know this ship, and the reputation of the man who owned it previously. I’m surprised that he has found the missing Imperial eggs, but not that he has the stolen ones, too. We won’t be party to selling the four stolen items,” he warned.
“I don’t intend to sell them. I plan on returning them to the Russian government,” I replied. That reply seemed to mollify him.
When the last of our helicopters returned that afternoon, the holds were empty except for the cash and we were already sailing southeast. The man from the auction house was also gone, along with the Fabergé eggs that I planned to sell.
Friday
The next day was spent relaxing and talking. The chef and his assistant both asked me to let them continue working aboard the ship, as did more than half of the other crewmen, including the captain. Juwanna was teaching both the chef and his assistant, as well as learning from them. Back in DC, Dieter was busy securing replacements from Wounded Warriors or retired Navy personnel for those current crewmen who wanted to leave.
Saturday
I was awakened before dawn by a steward. The captain requested my presence on the bridge because the Cayman coastal patrol refused to allow us to enter their waters.
“Cayman patrol, please check with the U.S. Coast Guard in New Orleans. Ownership of this vessel has recently changed,” I explained. They still made us wait. Ten minutes later, they called back, apologizing. Not only had they called the U.S. Coast Guard, the Secret Service agent on duty on the bridge had contacted the White House, who contacted the Cayman governor, waking him.
To make it up to them, I invited them aboard to inspect the ship. They were still inspecting when we docked. I was surprised that they actually had a dock that could accommodate us but the coastal patrol captain explained that the Caymans hosted a large number of high rollers with large yachts.
The poor captain of the coastal patrol was watching with his mouth agape as we unloaded all the boxes of currency. Only the continued presence of several federal agents from DEA, ATF, and the Secret Service--as well as the Vice President--quelled any questions as to whether I was hiding money from the government. The coastal patrol captain told me to have the bank call him if they were concerned.
The Vice President suggested inviting the governor to dinner, so I extended the invitation through the coastal patrol captain. He assured me that he would deliver the message personally. He also issued me a temporary permit to carry my Glock, both in deference to being a U.S. Marshal, and because of the huge amount of cash we were transporting.
We debarked and the women headed for town, hoping to spend money as fast as I was hoping to deposit it. I noticed that the Second Lady went with them.
The amused and excited governor actually showed up at the bank while I was waiting through the tedious process of counting all the currency. Thank goodness for automatic counting machines. The governor and I emptied boxes of currency for the four people using the counting machines. They would remove the bands, run the currency through a machine, and put new bands with their bank’s name on each bundle.
I noticed the bank president eyeing me suspiciously before having a somber whispered conversation with the governor. When he finished, the governor laughed, took the bank president’s hand, and brought him over to introduce us. “Jim Reynolds, this is James Witherspoon, president of this bank. James was worried about the source of your newfound wealth. For a few years now, your Mr. Zhora has maintained several accounts here. Periodically, he would empty the account belonging to someone else, only to have that person later turn up missing or dead.
“They tried insisting that he close his account, but he threatened their families if they ever messed with his accounts. James was worried that you might have taken over for Mr. Zhora,” he explained.
I explained about “inheriting” the ship, the valuables aboard the ship, and the bank account. “Since you have ‘inherited’ everything, there are several more accounts,” the bank president said excitedly.
I closed the six remaining accounts at this bank, transferring one million dollars into each of twenty new accounts. I promised to bring the ladies by tomorrow to sign for their own account, and to get a debit/credit card for the account. Into another account, I deposited $50 million. That one would be for the captain of the ship to pay for anything related to the ship, such as docking fees, fuel for the helicopters, etc. Finally, I opened another account with a ten-million-dollar balance for the chef to buy food. If we were going to have wealthy and high-profile guests, he’d need plenty of caviar, champagne, and expensive booze.
The bank president left to share the good news with the other banks on the island that had been forced to deal with Zhora. When we were finally finished and I left, I was shaking my head at how much money Zhora had, and wondering why he didn’t quit while he was ahead. I finally decided that he must have enjoyed what he did.
I stopped on the way back to the ship, nearly cleaning out a store the governor had recommended that specialized in saltwater fishing gear. When I told the man I wanted gear for fifty people to fish, and only the very best gear, he looked at me suspiciously. “I’d like it all delivered to my ship before dark,” I added, handing him one of the business cards for the bank manager, and writing my name on it. Three minutes later, he was back with a huge grin on his face. I waved him off when he tried to explain how to use everything.
“I have government officials to entertain. My fishing to date has been inland lakes and rivers, but I’m sure they know how to use these. If not, surely one of the crew will know.”
Digging through what appeared to be an old Rolodex, he began marking up a nautical map of the Caribbean. “My grandfather and father own a sport fishing charter boat. These are wrecks and reefs that always have good fishing,” he explained. The spots were all within a 200-mile radius of the island while still leaving a big buffer around Cuba.
I thanked him for the map, paid for everything including delivery, and headed back to the ship. The bags of clothes and gifts on the bed indicated that my wives were already back, but I didn’t see them anywhere. I made my way to the dining room and found the table set lavishly enough for a state dinner.
The head chef had previously explained that he had been the head chef for Mikhail Gorbachev during the last three years of his leadership of the Soviet Union, and for the final days of Communist Russia. As such, he had planned and served hundreds of lavish state dinners.
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