Higher Cause

by John Hunt

She turned her head. Close behind was another cart, with four men, one of them being Heinrich Poll. He was talking intently on a radio.

  “They will stay with you. You’ll be fine.”

  “How much time do we have until the Mexicans put their nationalization into effect?

  “Three days. We have much to accomplish in very little time.”

  “Three days. Well, I’m only going to take one day. Petur, I know you may not be in a state of mind to think about this right now, but we are ready, finally, to make nuclear fusion a reality.”

  Petur was taken aback. “Are you really that close?”

  “Not close, Petur: we are there.” She paused, reflecting. “At least, I think we are. We will find out today.”

  He chastised his sister, incredulously. “You’re not planning on working today, are you?”

  “This may be my only chance. You said it yourself, Petur: we have lots to accomplish in very little time.”

  42. A Bowl of Oranges

  JOSEPH GAZED UP at the dark, intimidating cliffs. The swells of the Pacific, unhindered by any intervening land for over two thousand miles, assaulted the rocky coast. White foam forever covered the surface of the water near the shore, formed by the constant pounding of salt water against the age-old volcanic rock of Pitcairn Island.

  He was not excited about this climb. Running Hashes was easier. The steep path started at the tiny beachhead at the base of the cliff and worked its way into the center of the island. Over the years, men had built stairs into the slope, and then a dirt road. But one could not say that it was hospitable to the handicapped.

  He had enjoyed the two-day trip down from Paradise. The Elijah Lewis was hardly designed as a luxury cruising yacht, but it did have some amenities for the crew and any visitors they may have. The cabin in which Joseph stayed during the search for the Bounty was well appointed, with a large shower, plenty of warm water, and a bar. He kept that room for the trip down.

  But now he wished that Jack Gaimey had been able to fly him down. Unfortunately Jack Gaimey was off fishing in the Outback of Australia, or so he claimed. He wasn’t due home for two more weeks. Nobody else could fly his crazy V-22 Osprey. And there was no other way than by sea to get to Pitcairn. But had he been available, Joseph would not have had to make this painful trip up the steep rocky path, for he would have been placed gently atop the island, on a small flat cement square, no bigger than a house, not too far from the small inn with the enticing pub. He would much rather be sipping a beer than struggling on this long climb.

  “Well, no pain, no gain,” he said under his breath.

  “What’s that?” asked the sailor who accompanied him. The man was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and a new part of the Elijah Lewis’s crew. He had come aboard with the three-man submarine. He was its skipper.

  “Just muttering, young man.”

  “You gonna be okay with this climb, Mr. Onbacher?”

  “Yeah. How about you?”

  “No prob. Want me to carry your other bag?”

  “You’ve already got two of my bags, plus your own. That’s enough.”

  The man looked upward at the path that lay ahead. “It’s no problem.”

  “I’m not that old yet, young man. If I have a heart attack halfway up… well, then you can grab my other bag.”

  The two men started up the road. After only a minute Joseph found himself breathing harder. They had only just begun. His legs moved again and again, climbing higher and higher. His thighs began to ache. When he had had enough, he put his bag down and stood looking over an insubstantial guardrail. They were high above the water, Joseph was glad to see; so they had made some progress. They could look down at the Elijah Lewis.

  Joseph gazed out over the ocean. Beyond the tug, there was nothing but water, rippled with giant swells for as far as the eye could see.

  “Can you imagine being one of the mutineers, climbing this slope without a road? They probably stopped their climb, too — maybe right here.” He paused to breathe in the cool salty air. “Look out over the ocean, Michael. Can you imagine knowing you would never leave this place again? Shipwrecking yourself here forever, with no way off?

  “Shipwrecking yourself? Intentionally? What do you mean?”

  “Burning your ship, so you could never leave.”

  “No way would I burn my ship. Why would I want to do that?”

  “So that no one would ever know you were hiding here.”

  “Ain’t worth it, Mr. Onbacher. I’d keep the option to get off open. And if I lost the ship, I would build a new ship if I had to!”

  “If you were found, you would be tried as a traitor and executed. You would never be able to go back to America, or any place Americans might visit. How about then? What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t settle here, I don’t think. But if I did, I’d sure as hell keep my ticket out.”

  “Yes. So would I.”

  The younger man asked, “You okay to go now?”

  Joseph looked towards the horizon again, trying to place himself in the shoes of Fletcher Christian. He just couldn’t determine what the man must have been feeling. He wished he knew Christian. He so much wanted to know how he felt, what he thought, and what he enjoyed. He wanted to understand him.

  “Sure. Let’s go. If I make it to the top, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink beer. I’ll take a coke, though.”

  “They may not have coke here, Michael.” He huffed as he pushed himself up a few more stairs. “Why don’t you drink beer?”

  “I never really liked it, I guess.” Michael was thoroughly fit — the combination of genetics and lifestyle.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a sailor who doesn’t drink beer. I worked as a merchant mariner for a while, did you know that?” Michael shook his head. “I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Looking back on it, I think it was just about the most fun I ever had.”

  “Must have been a bit different back then.”

  “Probably not. It’s probably the same now. When you’re my age, you’ll look back on these years with fondness.”

  “I’m sure of that. I love being underwater. But I’m not gonna look back fondly on this climb.”

  “No, nor will I. But it seems to be coming to an end.” Joseph guessed that there were only fifty more yards to go. Each yard caused a new pain. They had come far, and were now high above the tiny beachhead. The thin metal rail to their right provided psychological support against the fear of heights, but if someone were to fall against it, it would snap instantly. He didn’t trust it enough to use it as a handrail, and so he leaned his free right hand on his thigh with each step, as if to push himself upward.

  Finally they made it to the top. Joseph was in the lead, and let out a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, the well-trod path they were now joining was another uphill climb. It was less than half a kilometer to the inn from here. He could make it.

  Michael made it to the top a moment later. Joseph noted that he too was panting.

  “What next, Mr. Onbacher?”

  “That beer I was telling you about — or a coke or something. Just a little ways up this path.” He looked at Michael. “That duffel is pretty heavy,” Joseph gibed. “You sure you got it okay?”

  “Yeah. What’s in this thing?”

  “You’ll see when we get to the inn, maybe.”

  It wasn’t long before they arrived at the place. An anchor lay outside as a decoration, labeled as having belonged to the Bounty. Nearby was a small gun — a tiny cannon, badly rusted. The pub was mostly dark inside, and empty too. Joseph had made no arrangements to stay here, but nobody ever visited the island, so it was a safe bet there would be an available room. The backup plan was to go back down to the tug for the night.

  He rang a bell that lay at the end of the bar. He heard a rustling noise upstairs, and then footsteps. The footsteps came down the stairs, and a moment later a man appeared.

  “Well, hello there. W
e’ve been expecting you.” The innkeeper’s voice was pleasant.

  “I don’t think so. I never made any arrangements or reservations or anything.”

  “No, we only found out that you were coming when we saw your vessel out there. Figured one or more of you would make it up here.”

  “Of course; of course.”

  The proprietor flipped a light switch on. He looked at Michael, then at Joseph.

  “Mr. Onbacher, isn’t it? Good to have you back, sir. Can I offer you a beer?”

  Onbacher smiled at the gray-haired man. He looked much older than when they had met before. “It’s good to be back, Mr. Young. And please call me Joseph. And yes, a beer would be nice. And a coke for Michael if you have it. I promised.”

  The drinks soon appeared. “What brings you to Pitcairn again, Joseph?”

  “Same type of thing that brought me before: a search for information.”

  “If I remember correctly, we couldn’t help you then. Do you think we can help you this time?”

  “Is it true that you couldn’t help, or was it that you wouldn’t help?”

  “Same effect, isn’t it?” The innkeeper avoided Joseph’s gaze. “Some of us talked about you after your last visit.”

  Joseph looked at Young inquisitively. “Do you think maybe you can get those same people together again? I mean, while I’m here. I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to talk with them, all together.”

  “Perhaps. Might I ask what you want to tell them?”

  “I don’t want to tell them anything. I want to show them something.” He pointed to a round canvas bag that Michael had set down by his feet at the bar. “Can you hand me that bag, please?”

  Joseph set the bag on the bar. Drawing back a metal zipper, he reached into it and removed an object wrapped in tissue paper. Young raised his eyebrows. Joseph motioned for him to remove the paper. Young unveiled what lay within. The brass lantern reflected the lights from the ceiling.

  “Take it out; look at it.”

  Young picked up the lantern, reverently, placed its base gently on the bar, and spun it slowly. The glass lens jiggled and emitted a dull ring. As he read the engraved words, his eyes widened. He asked, “Where did you find this?”

  A pause.

  “Did you find the Bounty, too?”

  Joseph took a long draw of beer and smiled contently. “Mr. Young, now I know you can help me.”

  Young looked out him quizzically.

  “Turn the lamp over and look at the base.”

  As Young read Fletcher Christian’s inscription, he looked shocked and as though his mind were racing; then, confused. After several deep breaths, he nodded. “The bell. Look to the bell.”

  Joseph spoke. “You obviously know that Fletcher Christian did not allow the Bounty to be burned after coming ashore, and that, wherever the Bounty is, he had hidden something with her. You know he had been on Paradise, and that means he, or at least something he wrote, got back here. And that information has been passed down to you, generation after generation. You see, I know you can help me. The question remains, though, will you help me?”

  Young again nodded. He quietly said, “Now all is at risk. Your timing could not have been worse, Joseph.” He paused and sighed. “It is time for trust. It is time to work together. Despite all our best efforts, it is only trust that can save us all now. I can help you.” The old man contemplated. “We, the descendants of the mutineers and Maoris, have been looking for this since you first told us of your interest. Before then, all was safe and undisturbed. Our grandparents had even placed old Bounty artifacts here in our bay to deceive the few who cared to look. I myself have looked all over Jack Gaimey’s islands on multiple occasions, seeking what you found. Will you tell me where? Where did you find this?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you, Mr. Young. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “And in exchange, we will give you information that will excite you beyond limits. But that information will come at a very dear price — a price higher than you will never know.”

  “What information could be worth such a price?”

  The old man picked up an orange, one of six, out of a wooden bowl on the bar and rolled it toward Joseph. He looked into Onbacher’s eyes. “We will tell you exactly where the Bounty lies.”

  Petur provided very little at the meeting of the Council. This group could do almost everything that they needed without his help or advice. But not quite everything. He smiled nervously.

  They had already begun implementing the plans that had evolved over the six months since Elisa briefed them on the impending danger to the island. Over the last three weeks, the council had been meeting more frequently, and they laid out specific plans. They undertook various measures to ensure the least loss if the nationalization did occur. With major corporations and academic institutions they created opportunities for the individuals of the Island Project to continue their work in the short term, while maintaining close communication with the remainder of the Project members. The idea of the council was to hope for the best but plan for the worst. In the worst-case scenario, the Project would be scattered to the four winds. To maintain a coherent and functioning organization they had to sustain the political system and communication structure despite the long distances between them and the loss of their physical plant. But it could be done. The Project, though somewhat handicapped, could nonetheless continue.

  Time limits precluded them from giving the people any opportunity to vote. The standard highly limited democratic process that generally served the Project so well was designed to be replaced in times of great danger by a benign autocratic oligarchy: the Council. Superseding them was Petur, the elected president, who could make unilateral decisions without consultation for very brief periods of time if required. He was not obligated to even inform the others if he were to make unilateral decisions. This was a crisis. Their response to the crisis might require force and fraud, and it therefore required autocratic powers. Petur planned to use the great temporary authority provided to him.

  A message went out to all members of the Island Project that there would be a community meeting at Science Hall that night at which exceedingly important information would be passed on. They relayed a similar message to journalists throughout the world, many of whom would fly thousands of miles any time exciting announcements emanated from the Paradise Islands. Three inbound flights were already planned for the day, on each of which journalists could hitch a ride. What the people of the Island would learn tonight was that there would be several dozen planes tomorrow, and that over the next three days more than two hundred planes would come, including passenger planes and cargo planes and the Navy anti-submarine aircraft. The air terminal would be insanely busy.

  The US Navy was willing to send six P-3 Orions to the island. They were expected to arrive in about ten hours. Isaac said that they enjoyed having the opportunity to do some real sub hunting. “Actually, Petur,” he said, “they seemed more willing than I expected. I asked for a couple of planes, but they are sending three-quarters of a squadron. It’s almost as if they were expecting the request.”

  Petur paid little heed to the comment, but he appreciated the Navy’s willingness to lend a hand. He was worried. The submarine was lurking in the waters nearby, and they had no way to protect the OTEC until the P-3s arrived. It was an easy target. Given that the attackers had tried to destroy the fusion reactor, he was surprised that they had not tried to sink the OTEC already. Perhaps Sophia was right: they weren’t interested in it anymore.

  Among all the worries that Petur had on his mind right now, there was one additional, very weighty concern. These terrorists were back, attacking the Island. That meant that Jeff’s offensive tactic, initiated months before, must have failed. And that meant that Jeff was probably dead. His sister was in love with him. His loss would be sorely felt.

  While lost in thought, he had been asked a question by one of the members of the Council.

  “Pe
tur, are you with us?”

  Petur brought his mind back to the meeting. “Yes, yes. I am, now. Sorry.”

  “You are forgiven.” It was Standall speaking.

  “What was the question?”

  A young engineer who had gained some prominence on the Island asked his question again. “We were wondering how you felt about contacting the United Nations. Maybe, just maybe, they will intercede on our behalf.”

  “We discussed that at length before,” replied Petur. “I was not in favor of the notion then. It’s a humanitarian organization, and occasionally pursues that mission well. But the powers of the United Nations in political issues are essentially nonexistent. It’s pretty much a farce now. But nonetheless, several weeks ago, I brought the issue to the attention of the Office of the Secretary General. I presented it as a hypothetical situation. Their conclusion was that, regrettably, there was nothing the UN could do to assist us. We will likely have the sympathy of the world, although Mexico will release information that will make us out to be the bad guys. But irrespective of that, the UN can take no action regarding what Mexico does within its own sovereign borders, barring human-rights violations.” He paused to take a drink from the glass in front of him. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you have known very well for months, we are pretty much on our own.” He added, “Just like we have always been.”

  The meeting went on, going through all the details of the anticipated evacuation. The Council wanted Mexico to have as little warning as possible that they were evacuating. After this evening, however, the whole world would know.

  43. Tension

  KHAMIL HAD FOLLOWED Azid’s orders. He had had the sub’s skipper move the boat closer into shore to keep watch for the blonde woman. She never appeared, and as the sun rose in the east, they were forced to move the sub out to a safe distance where they would not be observed. Several miles off shore seemed far enough. They remained submerged, but shallow, thereby allowing the ancient diesel engines to vent in order to keep their batteries charged.

  Most of the day had passed without communication from Azid. Khamil knew he could not initiate communication. Azid always kept his radio off unless he wished to make contact. There was a time, years ago, when a poorly timed radio call left Azid in a precarious position from which he barely escaped. He wanted to speak with him, to remind him to keep a wary eye on Baddori. Azid had not been in possession of his usual clarity of vision when he left the sub that morning, and his usual precautions and careful planning seemed to have been thrown to the wind. Khamil had the notion that he would not see Azid alive again.