“What’s amazing is how much this tube of steel cost. Do you suppose it’s made out of pure platinum?”
“Platinum?” Bellior said with a snicker. “Don’t make me laugh. Zimmey, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, but if it ever comes back to me, I’ll deny it and hate you for the rest of my life. Fair enough?”
“Hey, we’ll be playing golf together when we’re ninety, ’cause I’ll never tell. I swear it.”
“I know you won’t. I just wanted to remind you this little tidbit I’m about to tell you could get us both in deep shit—especially me. So here’s the deal: this minisub didn’t cost a billion or even half a billion dollars. Try sixty million for the prototype. And they’ve slashed production cost on the others.”
“Others? What do you mean others?”
“They have at least fifteen built and more on the way. Hell, I was at the plant over a year ago when they were finishing up the second batch of five. I snuck down and wrote my name on the inside of the seventh hull. I like the number seven.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“No, not a bit. I wrote ‘This is the property of Commander Steven G. Bellior’ with a smiley face below it. I’m sure some ass will paint over it, but then you never know. I’ve had a lot of input on these minisubs. So maybe someday you’ll crawl inside one and see my name scrawled on the wall. Then you’ll know I was telling it straight.”
“Why the hell would they mislead the public about the cost and tell them the craft didn’t work?”
“Come on, Zimmerman! It’s a misinformation campaign. You know Bullshitting 101, the same tactic you used to pick up that chick in Messina last summer.”
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