[Black Lagoon + Jormungand]
Off the coast of Roanapur.
Sea wind blew, waves rolled, on the yacht.
"Vela!!" Hey!
A clear, high-pitched female voice rang out by satellite phone in Vela's ear.
Vela, who had been tilting her head as she listened, knit her delicate brows, wearing an expression that said she'd known this was coming. She dug at her ear, reached out to take the phone, and, under Nova's resentful gaze, pushed herself up and sat properly. The lovely outline wrapped in soft fabric also recovered with the motion, springing back from a flattened, pressed shape and giving a faint little tremble.
"Koko." Vela spoke with poor humor.
"Hey, hey, hey! It's me. Vela, long time no see." On the other end, the young woman called Koko sounded exceptionally energetic. "Done with your round-the-world trip? What was fun? Also, did you write a new shop-crawling guidebook?" Her words came fast, questions in a string.
"See? Rushing again."
Vela stayed unhurried as always.
Only after she picked up the cocktail by the lounger, pinched the stem, swirled it, and slurp took a pull did she slowly continue. "I'll share it with you. Including the formal venues and the social ones. Also, there's a little business. Let's talk face-to-face."
"Business? In Southeast Asia?" The playful, impish tone on the line instantly turned steady. "You should be talking to Casper, who handles HCLI's Asia affairs. I'm responsible for transport in Africa and Europe."
Vela neither affirmed nor denied. She just asked, "So do you want Roanapur's channels and clients, or not?"
"..."
A brief silence.
"Yes!" Koko answered decisively.
"I'm coming right now! Hope the big client you're introducing is generous enough. Ugo—"
Before she could finish, accompanied by a burst of clattering noise, startled yelps, and shouted demands to go faster, she hung up.
Beep... beep-beep.
"Miss Hekmatyar is still as unrestrained as ever," Nova sighed.
"Daughter of a ship king. Her temperament is as wild and changeable as the sea." Vela shrugged, smiling faintly as she tossed the satellite phone back to her.
Just then.
"Hey! Boss, we've spotted people from the Moscow Hotel. Three kilometers north, seventy klicks an hour. They'll be here in three minutes."
"Their speedboat... what? It's actually a torpedo boat?" The sentry, peering through military binoculars, jolted. Leaning over the third-floor railing of the yacht's bridge structure, he asked, "Potential risk. Should we go to alert status?"
Vela asked in return, "Is it Balalaika herself?"
"Yes, confirmed. We also saw a blonde woman in red on the torpedo boat's forward deck."
"Then loose on the surface, tight underneath."
"Understood."
The sentry flashed a hand signal.
"I'm going to change." Vela set her half-finished Thai cocktail on the low table and turned toward the deck cabin.
When you invite someone aboard to talk business, you're not throwing a night party. Better dress properly.
Meanwhile.
Out on the sea, engine roaring, cutting through the waves. On a U.S.-made Elco PT-80-class (24.4m) torpedo boat.
"Wooow, that's huge. Just looking at it makes me want to stick a torpedo in it." Revy sat cross-legged on the foredeck, cigarette dangling from her mouth, gawking upward.
"Cough, cough!" Rock, leaning by the cockpit observation window with one hand in his pocket, coughed hard.
Seriously. Since joining the Lagoon, he'd seen more than enough of Revy's trash taste and violent tendencies.
"Don't do anything stupid, the other side—"
"I don't need you to tell me! I'm not an idiot." Revy cut him off impatiently. "God, you're noisy."
"Sigh." Rock shook his head, then looked up again. Staring at the ten-thousand-ton-class yacht, he wore the same awestruck expression. "A superyacht on this scale has to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Even in a prosperous Japan, you rarely see one. I didn't expect to run into one in Roanapur of all places."
As they drew closer, they could already make out faces and body language on deck.
"Hah." Revy took a deep drag, pulled it into her lungs, and blew out a ring.
After flicking the nearly spent butt into the sea, she slapped dust off her ass, stood up, and asked the woman in red at the bow, "Boss, that high-end arms dealer you mentioned. She's got this kind of money. Why do this line at all? Why come roll around in our mud pit?"
"Who knows." The red-clad woman called Boss—Balalaika—folded her arms, eyes half-lidded. The expression on her heavily scarred face was complicated. "But that woman really is rich."
"Because God's a fuckin' idiot. Hell's empty, devils are walking the earth. Good people don't live long, loyalty gets you killed..."
"Enough." Balalaika shook her head, then turned to Rock, who looked startled. "Relax. Just muttering. I won't make you come all this way for nothing."
"She'll leak a little, and it'll be enough to feed your Lagoon for a long time."
As they spoke, the torpedo boat cruised in at a steady pace toward the yacht's stern as the yacht slowed.
On the deployed floating extension dock, several burly men were already waiting, pistols on their hips, bulletproof vests on their chests.
Scrape-scrape.
The torpedo boat came alongside, its edge rubbing against the fenders.
Before the speedboat even finished stopping, before anyone could secure mooring lines, Balalaika had already led her people in a leap onto the boarding deck.
"Yo, Captain Balalaika." The leading Slavic cadre greeted her.
Balalaika's callsign, translated directly, was the Russian three-stringed lute.
"Long time no see, Slava." Balalaika lifted a hand. "Where's Vela?"
The big man named Slava grinned and stepped aside, making an inviting gesture. "Boss is waiting up top, Captain."
Balalaika nodded.
Then she turned her head toward the torpedo boat. "Dutch, let's go. I promised you." With that, she took the stairs up.
On the boat, a tall, burly Black man and a blond White guy stepped out from the cockpit, looking the yacht over. The former glanced at the other side's sailors tying lines, and at Revy and Rock itching to board, then grinned and nodded, climbing aboard as well.
...
Fifth deck, main lounge.
"Oolong tea or coffee?"
"Coffee." Immediate answer.
Vela regretfully returned the specially mixed, flammable oolong tea to the bar.
After sitting down, Balalaika flicked her eyes toward the already-open vodka and whiskey on the counter. She took a sip of coffee, and her gray-blue gaze instinctively swept the room.
"Nice yacht."
Vela could naturally hear the lack of sincerity.
There was something between the lines.
But she understood.
Balalaika's real name was Sofia Pavlovna Irinovskaya, later changed to V.V. Vladilena. Born into an official's family, daughter of a senior Soviet officer, she grew up, enlisted, was selected for an aerospace special operations unit, and fought across the world for her country, rising to captain.
Her tracks ran through Africa and Central Asia. In Afghanistan, the "graveyard of empires," she was seriously wounded and left with terrifying scars.
In words and deeds, she was unquestionably a patriot.
Unfortunately, the homeland she loved betrayed her, and it no longer existed.
And Vela's first bucket of gold in this life, without question, came from the upheaval in 1991.
Just like the oligarchs in the Russian Federation who still lived off that old blood-sucking capital. Come to think of it, those oligarchs also seemed obsessed with building superyachts.
The legacy of the red giant, blood-soaked buns like that, were simply too enticing.
Balalaika's complicated mood at this moment—anger, grief, hate, weariness, numbness—Vela sensed it all clearly.
"It's fine." The Geass-like halo in her eyes slowly drew in. Vela pressed her lips into a small smile, slid a box of Cohiba Cuban cigars across to Balalaika, and only after sitting down did she introduce, "Eclipse. How's that name?"
"Eclipse... good name. Fitting." Balalaika lowered her eyes, the corner of her mouth tugging.
The wind that lifted Vela up didn't come from her homeland's internal bleeding, from bureaucrats swallowing state assets, from corruption, from faith and conviction eaten hollow by vermin.
Tsk.
Angry?
Of course she was.
Lies don't hurt people. The truth is the sharp blade.
But to explode with rage over some old sesame seeds and rotten grain, not worth it.
Plenty of people ate the Soviet collapse's inheritance. At least under Vela, there were still large numbers of veteran compatriots she fed, people driven to the edge by discrimination and poverty.
"It's all in the past." Balalaika let out a long breath, opened the cigar case, casually picked one out. Click! She clipped the cap, used an IMCO lighter to evenly toast the foot, then lit it and drew in, looking thoroughly practiced.
"You didn't call me here just to play with words and give me a history lesson, did you?"
"That's a bonus." Propping one side of her face with a few fingers, Vela flipped a butterfly knife in her other hand. "I'll ask again, Balalaika. Do you want to join my team?"
"No thanks. I'm not interested in going to America to lick those bloodsuckers' assholes."
"What a shame."
Rejected again, Vela didn't get angry.
The small talk ended.
She raised her coffee and took a sip, turning serious. "Inside the arms group Hecmatial, or HCLI, there's a newcomer who wants to expand into West Asia, the Caucasus, and Central Asia. Are you interested in getting deeper contact and helping her open some doors?"
"She. A female arms merchant?" Balalaika arched a brow.
"Mm."
"One of your kind?"
"Not the same. I do it for money and thrills. She sells weapons for world peace."
"Hah? Cough—cough!"
Balalaika's draw on the cigar paused. She choked, and her dead fish eyes snapped wide open.
"You're serious?"
Vela nodded calmly.
"Then I'm a little interested."
"Good. Interested is enough." Vela crossed one leg over the other, adjusted her posture, and switched topics. "What about your side? Them. New lackeys? Brought them to see the world?" As she spoke, she tipped her head toward the four-person group who had come aboard with them.
Three men and one woman.
The one in front was a powerfully built Black man, bald with round sunglasses. Army-green vest, cargo pants, combat boots. He looked like a Marine.
The other two were both young. One was a White guy in a Hawaiian shirt, blond, wearing glasses, stubbly beard, the typical Florida hacker look. The other was a mild-looking Japanese man, black hair and brown eyes, short-sleeved shirt and a tie, misery-ridden office-worker vibes leaking from every pore.
Finally, there was a young woman with questionable fashion sense. Dark red hair in a ponytail, big chest, great figure, pretty face but fierce, wearing denim shorts with a busted zipper and a black cropped tank. A tattoo on her right shoulder, an underarm holster holding two customized Beretta M92s. She was curiously examining the yacht's lavish decor and facilities, as well as the companions who clearly didn't look short on supplies.
If they weren't the Lagoon's quartet, who else could they be.
Dutch the Black man, Benny the White man, Rock the Japanese man, and Revy the Chinese-American woman. Familiar strangers she'd never met.
Sure, she'd been to Roanapur before, but back then Rock was probably still in college. As for the others, maybe they'd been out on transport jobs. In any case, when Vela flipped a local casino, she hadn't seen them.
So the team was only put together in 1997...
Vela was thinking on her side, while on the other, the Lagoon's four were also observing her.
Even taller than Boss Balalaika, and wearing a wine-red bespoke casual suit that clearly wasn't cheap. Underneath was a solid-color shirt, a jade brooch pinned at the collar, matching bright silver cufflinks. Very put-together.
Her shawl-length hair shone like gold, tied into a simple yet refined knot at the back of her head.
Bright eyes, lips touched with soft pink, composed bearing. Every glance and gesture carried effortless poise, gorgeous and sharp.
Standing behind the others, Revy curled her lip and muttered, "Tch. Damn rich people."
Dutch and Benny exchanged a look, then, without a word, both placed hands on Rock's shoulder.
The meaning was clear. Revy's education was too low, we two don't look presentable enough. So it's you, Rock!
Use your big-company workplace experience from Asahi Heavy Industries. Use your sharp observation, negotiation skills, and silver tongue to represent Lagoon and talk to Vela.
Suffering.
Rock made a cramped face.
His first impression of Vela was strange. She had the blood-tinged sharpness of a soldier, yet also the corporate executive vibe of a financial tycoon, and the dignified, edged authority of a high government official. Not just any leader, either. The kind who'd been issuing orders for years.
So contradictory.
Unfortunately, there was no time to think. At Boss Balalaika's call, Rock squeezed out of the crowd and bowed. "Ms. Russell, sorry to bother you. I'm Rock, from the Lagoon."
"How'd you end up in Roanapur?" Vela looked him up and down, asking though she already knew.
Rock sighed and told the truth, laying out his bad-luck story.
In one sentence, you're sitting on a ship, and disaster comes from the sea.
You're eating sukiyaki and singing, and then out of nowhere you get hijacked by pirates.
As a small employee in Asahi Heavy Industries' Materials Department, Southeast Asia Section, he was transporting the company's confidential disc when Revy, on a whim and looking to squeeze a bigger ransom, kidnapped him along the way. His boss, afraid the secret would leak, planned to erase both him and the disc. Disheartened, Rock helped the kidnappers repel the assassins, changed his name to Rock, and joined the Lagoon.
The nationality didn't match, but it really was an aggressively stereotypical Russian counterterrorism joke...
Even Vela's bodyguards couldn't keep straight faces.
"Ahem." Vela coughed once, stood up, and tossed a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey to Rock. "I'm not laughing at you. However you slice it, you did end up with a blessing in disguise."
She glanced at Revy, who was baring her teeth at the embarrassment, then stepped forward and offered a business card. "Balalaika admires your brain. Your joining is a real patch for the Moscow Hotel's Thailand branch and for Lagoon. If a team wants to grow bigger, it can't go far on nothing but shooting and killing. You have to learn operations."
Taking the chrome, gold-stamped card with both hands, Rock went a little blank.
That's it. Passed?
Seeing his confusion, Vela smiled. "What else would it be? I trust Balalaika's eye. On the other hand, your experience is so unexpected that I'm curious what kind of name you'll carve out on the world's shadowed side, someone who used to have nothing to do with guns and bullets."
"O-oh!" Only then did Rock snap back to himself. After accepting Vela's private card, he hurriedly fished out his own Lagoon card, handing it over with both hands.
Vela accepted it gladly.
Then she looked toward Dutch and the other two.
"Okay. Someone, please take our four new customers to pick out some 'gifts.'"
After a round of Japanese-style bows, Rock and the Lagoon's trio were led away by a dedicated attendant.
"Thanks." Cigar between her fingers, Balalaika stood up to express gratitude.
She assumed Vela was taking Lagoon in for her sake. Dutch had once saved her, leaving her owing him a huge favor. Now that Vela, who was barely something like a good buddy, had made it big, introducing a new money-making path for Dutch's Lagoon was necessary as a matter of favors.
Conversely, when Koko from HCLI arrived later, and needed help expanding into the Caucasus and so on, Balalaika would have to put in effort no matter what, for Vela's sake.
"I heard you took a salvage commission a while ago. It involved a sunken WWII German Navy submarine?" While they waited, Vela changed to a new topic.
"You interested in that stuff?"
"A hunter's heart, when prey appears."
...
Until.
Whirr... whirr...
The hum of helicopter rotors.
She's here.
Vela and Balalaika, having received advance notice, walked to the terrace and looked toward the sound. A Sikorsky S-76 all-weather transport helicopter appeared on the horizon, coming closer and closer.
"Vela!!" Under Vela's barely contained expression, that bright, piercing female voice blasted straight from the helicopter's loudspeaker.