by John Hunt
Captain Arcturo looked through the water-soaked windows out and across the bow. The lifeless rocky shore of Paradise 5 was rapidly approaching.
“XO, do you think we should turn the ship?”
“The executive officer peered through the windows and his eyes opened in astonishment. “Right full rudder!” he cried.
The ship missed the shoals off the shore of Paradise 5 by a hairsbreadth.
Near the same shoal, nestled in close to Paradise 5, the submarine, mostly full of water now, lay on its side. It would not move again. Khamil also lay on his side, with the faint red glow of the battery-operated lights illuminating his environment well. He was injured, with blood flowing freely from a laceration in his scalp. Nearby, the Indonesian skipper groaned faintly as he recovered consciousness. Khamil could see dimly the crimson-stained ends of fractured bone protruding through the cloth of the man’s pant leg.
Others were moving about now, wading through water, which Khamil noted did not seem to be rising. They were talking, trying to assess the situation. Maybe there was a way out. Khamil knew there would not be.
“Captain.” Khamil moved toward the man with difficulty. “Don’t move. Your leg is broken.”
“I thought so,” the skipper replied. “It hurts. How long have I been unconscious?”
“No longer than I have.”
The captain grunted and began to pull himself up on his good leg, wincing as he did so. He called out to anyone who might listen. “How deep are we?”
A man answered through the red glow. “One hundred and seventy meters. We’re on the bottom.”
The captain nodded, grimly. “Do we have any power?”
“The engine room is flooded, as are the batteries. I don’t think we even have much light left, sir.”
He nodded grimly again, and looked at Khamil. “It looks bad,” he said, with no emotion.
Khamil smiled. “It’s alright. We will have died in a worthy cause. Did the torpedo hit?”
“I have no idea. No idea at all,” the captain replied. Then he quickly added, “We had to have hit the ship. I’m sure we injured it badly. It may be sinking.”
“I don’t care about the ship. How about the island? Did my torpedo make it to the island?”
The captain knew that Khamil’s infection-laden torpedo had never even been launched. It lay covered with water in the flooded forward torpedo room. But Khamil did not need to know that. He lied, “I’m sure it made it. Right now a plague of black spores are raining down on the people of that island.”
Khamil smiled. It may take several days before he would suffocate in this metal coffin, stuck forever on the seabed adjacent to Paradise 5. But when he died, he would die satisfied, confident that he had done as his lost friend had wished. They had dealt a horrific blow to the enemies of his country and helped ensure Iraq’s strength for generations to come.
50. Trial
WHILE CAPTAIN ARCTURO was gazing around the ocean with his binoculars, momentarily to become acutely aware of the impending torpedo assault, Juan Marcos was enjoying the chattered complaints of the people who so haughtily sat at the Council desk. Petur Bjarnasson’s face had flushed with anger, or perhaps surprise, when Marcos told him he had been indicted for felonies. He had sent Bonhoff out of the room, which he presumed was to make contact with Mexico to hear it for himself.
Marcos said quietly to his son, “That worked well. Better than I had thought. They were expecting to hear about lease negotiations. I think we knocked Bjarnasson off his high horse.”
“It seems so,” replied Enrico. “But why do we play such games with them? These islands belong to Mexico, and we want them back — end of issue. They leave, or they die.” He was speaking a bit too loudly, and his father hushed him.
Marcos responded. “International relations still have meaning to us, Enrico — perhaps now more than ever. We’ve entered into national politics. Instead of working against the government, as our family has always done, now we must work within the government, using its power for our benefit. That is the way of wealthy and powerful men the world over. We are joining the ranks of the political class. We define what is criminal now. We must be politicians. You must be a politician. The best way for us is to use the media to manipulate the emotions of Mexico. You showed your skill at this. It has served you well. Now we must use that skill in international relations.” He pointed to Bjarnasson. “The world will turn hard against the man they think is a hero when they find out he’s a crook.”
The people up front were starting to quiet down. Bonhoff had returned and was now whispering to Bjarnasson, who then indicated that all should sit. Most did. Marcos and his son remained standing. “You have indicted me of crimes, farcical though that sounds.” He paused, while running his hand through his hair. “How much confidence should I have that my trial will be fair, Mr. Marcos?” The statement was not so much a question, addressed to either of the Marcos men, as a comment. The outcome was certain.
“What happens if I do not accompany you back to Mexico?” Bjarnasson asked.
Enrico responded. This was his moment to shine. “That is not an option. We have nine hundred men on our ship, all dedicated to a hasty return home, with you in custody.” As he spoke, he checked to see that the camera was focused upon him. It seemed that it was.
Bjarnasson said, “It appears you leave me with little choice.”
“Your own crimes have left you in this predicament, Mr. Bjarnasson.” Enrico’s response was quick and biting.
“Yes — my own crimes.” Bjarnasson spoke softly.
A new voice cut in, speaking from outside the door that Bonhoff had left open upon his return a minute earlier. The voice was familiar to Juan Marcos and to Enrico, although neither could place it right away.
“Señor Marcos, let’s waste no further time here. What is it you really want from Mr. Bjarnasson?” The impatient voice was a woman’s, faintly accented, although the origin of the accent was uncertain.
Juan Marcos looked at the doorway. The room beyond was still well illuminated, and it hurt his eyes to peer at the whiteness beyond. “Who is that speaking to me?” he demanded.
“Someone who knows you well,” the disembodied voice replied. “Someone who knows how you think.”
A thin dark figure stepped into the doorway, blotting out some of the light from within. Neither Marcos nor his son could see the face.
“Who are you?” Enrico demanded, voice raised, impatiently as always.
The voice ignored the question. “Please tell Mr. Bjarnasson what you really came here to do, Señor Marcos. Tell him your demands so we can move on with it.” She spoke gently.
“We told you! We demand that Bjarnasson come to Mexico to stand trial.”
The woman in the door replied. “I do not believe that for a moment. There is no profit in that for you! And you most certainly are always seeking profit. There is something else that you want.”
“Who are you?” Enrico demanded again. The voice was so familiar. But the attitude and demeanor seemed incongruous.
Marcos, too, thoroughly angered now but anxious for some reason as well, shouted abruptly. “Show yourself, woman! Come out immediately!” His cheeks were crimson and his forehead was sweating. But his cheeks turned to a pallid green when he heard what his son cried out.
“Maria! Maria! My god, it’s Maria. What are you doing here?”
Juan Marcos squinted at the woman as she emerged from the bright doorway. Like Bjarnasson’s sister, she looked lovely. With brunette hair hanging down to her shoulders and wearing a black, tight-fitting cotton jumpsuit that outlined her exotic figure, the woman seemed to glide into the room. Had all eyes not already been staring at her, they certainly would have turned her way.
Marcos stared at her, dumbfounded: It was his Maria — the girl whom he was so fond of — a fondness that transcended mere lust — a fondness that had prompted him to nearly kill his own son. He tried to speak, but only a stammer emerged. The gi
rl walked gracefully down the steps and moved toward him. As she approached, he spoke, but only able to repeat his son’s feeble question.
“What are you doing here, Maria?”
“Mr. Marcos,” the girl spoke softly in Spanish, “how nice to see you again.” She smiled politely, nodded at Enrico, and bowed slightly, yet courteously, to his father. Then she turned to the Council members sitting at the curved desk at the front of the room. She spoke in English; her tone was now harsh and her words clipped. “Petur, why are you putting up with this disgusting fat slug? We should send him on his way immediately.”
At first, Petur only thought how Elisa she looked with her hair down, her glasses off, and the black outfit revealing her figure so distinctly. When he saw her speaking in Spanish to Marcos, and then in English to him, the silt cleared from his memory and the fleeting vision returned. The woman before him, known to Juan Marcos as Maria but to him as Elisa, was the same woman who had followed him from Amsterdam to Germany so many years ago. He recalled that day by the elevator in Amsterdam — the exquisitely honed legs, the faint scent of a pleasant perfume. He thought back to the hotel lobby in Mannheim — her brunette hair was wet, she was wrapped in a towel, water dripped to the marble floor, and … those same incredible legs. It was her pheromones that had so aroused him, not just her attire.
How had he not known? He had spent hour upon hour with the woman he called Elisa. They had held long discourses on topics as diverse as Mexican politics, sewage in space, and Nobel Prize winners. They had sat face to face in conferences, in Council, at dinner, and at breakfast. She seemed to intentionally conceal her features, and he had presumed it was part of her intellectual, or perhaps feminist, affect. Yet from long conversations, he knew that she was not a feminist.
Yesterday, as she stepped onto the elevator she had removed her glasses — those thick coke-bottle glasses that enlarged her eyes so much — and let him see her face bare. He had had a momentary view of her beautiful features, and the image was soon lost among the myriad thoughts that had so preoccupied him lately. Now everything made sense — but not complete sense. His mouth transformed into a grin as he contemplated the woman in front of him.
The mouths of Juan Marcos and Enrico hung open at the realization that the woman they had known as a servant was an agent of the Island. They had spoken too freely in front of her. Rage within Juan Marcos grew powerfully, but not as fast as within Enrico.
As the camera took in every moment — every word and every image — Enrico launched himself through the air at the woman he had known as Maria. His teeth were bared and he growled like a wild animal.
Isaac cried out in agony to warn her as Petur leapt to his feet and ran around the ponderous desk. He was too far away to get to her in time, but Isaac’s shout was all that she needed. Elisa, hearing the cry, turned her head enough to see the rapidly approaching and fully crazed man. She spun around while bending over and, throwing her foot into the air, she drove it solidly into his solar plexus. Enrico was stopped in midair, fell to the ground, and lay gasping for breath. The cameraman focused closely on Enrico’s face.
Commander Vasquez’s men had moved too. Three of them surrounded Elisa while the last of the four aimed his weapon at the men behind the desk, who stood incensed. Commander Vasquez stopped Petur and ushered him back to his seat.
Juan Marcos ignored his son’s moans. He looked at his feet for almost a minute, with a look of consternation on his face. Then he sighed, slowly walked over to Elisa, took her chin firmly in his hand, and pulled her eyes up towards his. His face revealed dismay and controlled anger as he said, “Maria, I cannot tell you how much this distresses me.” He released her chin and slapped her face with the back of his hand.
Isaac, watching intently, spit out words in anger. “Keep your lousy hands off her, you pig!” He climbed over the desk with uncanny agility and rushed toward her, but two men with submachine guns quickly moved to intercede, and easily turned him around.
Elisa gazed up at Marcos with a look of pure disdain. Then smiled as if she pitied the man. “So tell us — now,” she said. “What do you really want from us?”
Juan Marcos grunted. He turned, walked back to his seat, and withdrew a small white document from his pocket. “Alright, then.” He tried to speak firmly, but his voice was less confident, less self-assured than before. “First, you will provide us with all laboratory notebooks, technical manuals, and computer files in your possession. You will provide information regarding all experiments ongoing or recently completed. Second, you will immediately evacuate the remainder of your people. Third, you will confess to bribing several Mexican government officials and give us their names. If you do not know their names, I will provide their names to you. Fourth, you will pay us fifteen billion US dollars in back payments and back taxes.”
Petur interrupted. “We will be more than happy to grant you access to the ongoing experimental data. I can convince the scientists to cooperate.”
“Good. That is step one.”
“We do not wish to evacuate the islands. We wish to stay.” Petur said it matter-of-factly. “What sort of modification of our lease agreement would you be desiring to make?”
“No lease agreement. We want you off.”
“Why? What purpose will these islands serve for you?”
“They are Mexican islands. They have become part of our national identity. They need no other purpose.”
“We are willing to continue to pay fees for the right to stay here — within reason, that is.”
“No. You have bribed Mexican officials, shortchanged the people, and sent spies against us. We want nothing to do with you. You are hereby evicted.”
Petur shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t this seem unjust to you, Governor Marcos? We have put our lives — and our souls — into this place.”
“You should not have attempted to cheat Mexico, Mr. Bjarnasson. Your followers can only blame you.”
Petur nodded. “And you want our money. How can you justify that demand?”
“It is only for back taxes and back payments at a fair lease rate. Also included is a fine for violating the law. That is our justification.”
“It’s completely outrageous! I haven’t even been convicted of any violations, have I? Only indicted!”
Elisa interjected, “It’s all just a setup, Petur.”
Juan Marcos said, “You have little choice.”
“If we do these things, what then?” Petur asked.
“If you do these things, as I have said, I will not take you back to Mexico.”
“And we all live?”
“If you do exactly as I say, yes.”
“And if we deviate?”
“Then you all die. This is very simple. Furthermore, I have 900 soldiers ready to turn this island inside out.”
Elisa smiled, turning to Juan Marcos. “I knew you could tell us what you really wanted. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Juan Marcos stood and walked over to her. He grabbed her hair and tugged her to her knees. “I will accept no more insults, Maria. For the rest of your life, you will serve me faithfully! The length of that life rests in your hands, Maria.” He turned to Petur. “One additional note. Maria will go back to Mexico with me. There will be no discussion.”
“Like hell she will!” shouted Petur, becoming more irate. “She is a member of the Council. We are all to be left free. She has to be part of the deal, or there will be no deal at all!”
“Fine. Then there will be no deal.” Marcos turned to his soldiers and commanded them in Spanish, “Kill all these people — now.”
“No!” Elisa cried. “I will go with you! It’s not up to Petur. I will go with you to Mexico. But do not kill these people!”
Petur’s stand had failed miserably. The soldiers had their weapons targeted and ready to fire.”Mr. Marcos, you’d better see something. It may change your mind.” But before he could continue, the sound of distant explosions cut him off.
De
spite the tension, the chattering, and the argument, no one could ignore the noise. The concussions of six explosions interrupted the events. People turned their heads and tried to determine how close the blasts were. Then came another, this one different from the rest, but sounding equally remote.
“What is happening?” Marcos shouted at Petur. “What are you doing?”
Petur replied sincerely, “I don’t know.” He was anxious — very anxious. This was not part of his plan. “Is your ship firing at us?”
More blasts. The building trembled slightly. It too was aware of the explosions. This time there was the sound of more than two dozen detonations stacked together.
Commander Vasquez talked on a portable radio. After a moment, he approached Marcos.
The officer spoke in Spanish. Everyone listened. “Captain Arcturo says a submarine attacked them. He says they sunk the sub, but the cruiser took a torpedo hit. His ship is flooding rapidly.”
“My god!” Marcos turned in a rage toward Petur. “What are you all doing? You are attacking Mexico! How dare you!” His face was a deep burgundy. He turned in anger from the curved desk and the people standing in shock behind it and marched out through the double doors. “Bring them all up to the top floor!” he yelled, his roar echoing in the wide hallway.
51. Force
JUAN AND ENRICO Marcos emerged from the elevator into the grand restaurant at the top of Science Hall. They had intended to run to the windows to see for themselves what was transpiring on the ocean nearby, but both men were dazzled by the bright lights and stopped. The sun shone through the crystalline peak of the roof with a display of colors even grander than usual. Juan Marcos felt unable to move, his body forcing him to take in the grandeur of the place. The sun sparkled through the prisms above his head, forming a cascading rainbow of colors that somehow danced on the floor and the tables and the walls. It was mesmerizing.
Enrico recovered first, moving toward the windows that looked out to the west — toward Paradise 5. His father stayed still until the next elevator arrived, delivering Vasquez, two soldiers, and several members of the Council.