Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  Commander Vasquez took in the elegance out of hand, and marched toward the window. In a moment he had assessed the situation, and called to Marcos. “Governor” was a term Vasquez usually used for Marcos only in spite, but this time he said it with excitement. “Governor! Look at our ship!”

  Looking west from the top of Science Hall, one could see over the tops of the low trees and out toward Paradise 5. Just south of the treeless island, the Mexican cruiser, headed back toward them now, was listing sharply to port.

  The hypnotic effect of the room on the elder Marcos passed suddenly. “Give me the binoculars!” he ordered as he walked to the windows. It took but a moment for him to focus them on the injured ship. While he gazed, the camera crew and journalists who had arrived on the next elevator scurried to the window and focused longer, more powerful lenses on the same scene. They looked upon a ship that was doomed. The sailors were running about on deck desperately, like ants unable to avoid a torrential downpour. The crew was lowering the ship’s boats on both sides to serve as lifeboats.

  As Juan Marcos took in the scene, his face formed into a deep scowl. His dark complexion once again became stained with a red flush out of uncontrollable rage borne of his own inability to control the events as they unfolded. He turned viciously upon the reporters, knocking the large film camera to the ground with a clatter as he shoved them away from the window. This was not the scene he had wanted them to report. They were supposed to be reporting a victory for Mexico — not an assault on its mightiest ship.

  It took a minute before Marcos regained his composure. He would turn this disaster into an asset. Wiping the perspiration off his brow, he stepped in front of the cameraman as he picked up his still-functional television camera. He indicated that they should begin recording again.

  Marcos began. He spoke in English, not Spanish. Like an amalgam of politician, journalist, and con artist, he said, “We have just witnessed a desperate assault on the Mexican people. In a cowardly act, the so-called scientists who have been sapping the lifeblood of these Mexican-owned islands launched torpedoes at our finest warship from a submarine without warning. Captain Jose Arcturo reports that the ship has been severely damaged and that it is at risk of going down. Almost one thousand men on that ship are now in peril. These are our brothers and fathers and husbands. Good men who these people attacked ruthlessly and without provocation. Look at them.” Marcos had the cameraman direct his focus back to the foundering ship.

  “We told you already that the people of this island, including the notorious Petur Bjarnasson, are unethical opportunists. They bribed former Mexican officials and established themselves here without the sanction of the majority of Mexicans, paying us only a pittance. When they learned we had discovered the sinister nature of their plans, they crept up on us like terrorists and let loose weapons of destruction. These are the most craven of men. I swear to you as the lead envoy on this expedition, this outrage will not go unpunished!” He repeated the exact same statement in Spanish, for the benefit of his countrymen.

  Just as he finished, the elevator door slid open once again and the membership of the Island Council came out. Bjarnasson approached the windows to watch the scene on the water. Marcos moved his great mass to within inches of his opponent and lashed out at the man — not even feigning diplomacy. “What gives you the right to attack our ship? Did you think you would succeed? You — all of you — will pay!” He looked around the room as he said this, finding Vasquez’s men ushering the rest of the Council into a corner.

  Before Bjarnasson could reply, Marcos called in Spanish to two soldiers. “Seize this man!” Commander Vasquez’s men surrounded Bjarnasson, searched him roughly, and threw him face down onto a table. His feet still touched the floor; his cheek pressed firmly into the hard wooden surface. Marcos moved to get into his view.

  “I care nothing about what you say, Bjarnasson,” he spat. “There is no pleading, no bargaining, no bribing you could attempt that would sway Mexico now!” As he said this, Marcos turned to assure himself that the cameraman was getting it all for the record. “You will no longer be on trial for bribery only. Now it will be terrorism and murder!”

  Bjarnasson, his face painfully compressed and his head held forcibly in place by a large man with large hands, spoke through stretched lips. “We had nothing to do with the assault on your ship.”

  Marcos did not pay heed to the denial, and struck hard at Bjarnasson’s exposed eye. The purple and red bruise appeared within seconds, surrounding an open and bleeding wound of ruptured skin above his cheekbone.

  “Mexico will not listen to your foolish lies!” In Spanish he ordered, “Commander Vasquez, order your men to round up anyone they see in this building or on the island. Bring them all here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vasquez was aware that his actions were being recorded, and spoke in his most authoritative tone into his handheld radio. “Control the elevators completely. Inform me of any activity and of any arrivals. Search the building and bring anyone you find to this floor. Kill anyone who disobeys you! Understand?”

  As he finished, a roar filled the building, and Jack Gaimey’s unique VTOL airplane whisked past at eye level. It slowed above the landing strip, turned its engines vertically, and then set down quietly on a helicopter landing pad. Commander Vasquez again spoke into his radio. The radio was silent for a few minutes, and then another muffled conversation ensued. Then they faintly heard through the glass of the building the crackling of an automatic weapon firing.

  In surprisingly little time — less than five minutes — one of Vasquez’s men came up in the elevator. In his custody was a short man with a white beard and a slightly protuberant belly. He had a soft leather briefcase tucked under his arm. As he stepped off the elevator, Joseph Onbacher reached into a pocket and removed a pipe. He gently nudged some leaf from a pouch of tobacco into the bowl, and lit it lovingly.

  Petur saw Joseph out of the corner of the bloodied eye still pressed against the table. “Joseph, you know you aren’t allowed to smoke in here.”

  Enrico Marcos was by Bjarnasson’s side, and struck him in the face. Bjarnasson looked back with a glare that suddenly became a smile, like Elisa’s had earlier. Enrico stared back for a moment, and then turned away. Vasquez’s man allowed Peter to stand, but the two soldiers stood close by. After stretching, Petur pulled a chair over, and rested his chin in his hands.

  Marcos strode to where Petur was sitting. Petur had begun wiping at his bloodied cheek. “How many are on the island, Mr. Bjarnasson? How many of you are left?”

  Petur looked around the room. “It looks like you have enough of us, Marcos.” Marcos, however, wanted more information, and Petur suffered another violent strike on his face. This time he was able to turn away somewhat to lessen the impact. No blood was drawn.

  “Keep them all over there in that corner. And get him over there too!” He pointed to Bjarnasson with a snap of his hand. The men pushed Petur toward Onbacher.

  Petur quietly asked, “Jack Gaimey?”

  Onbacher smiled, though Petur didn’t see it. Whispering quietly, he replied, “Fine, Petur. He’s fine. They shot up his plane, though. Believe it or not, they think I’m the pilot!”

  As the soldiers herded the Islanders closer together, Vasquez directed Marcos’s attention to the cruiser. Close to the northern cliffs of Paradise 4 already, it was steadily drifting closer. It appeared as if Arcturo was attempting to run her aground. The ship was listing much further now. She would not stay upright long enough to be grounded. The forward motion of the ship slowed, soon stopping altogether. All eyes in the room turned to watch the great vessel tip further and further, picking up pace until the superstructure smashed into the water in a billow of white spray and foam. The ship lay on its side for a moment, while men jumped off, swimming toward the small launches that had moved away moments before. Then, silent to the observers in the restaurant, the ship began slipping sternward into the sea. It took two minutes for the first half of the
ship to become completely submerged. Now the bow was almost completely upright, pointing toward the bright sun above. An eruption of frothing bubbles broke the surface around the hull, and then, releasing its last breath, the warship slipped the rest of the way under the waves to sleep forever in a shallow grave.

  There was silence in the restaurant at the top of Science Hall. All eyes were staring out over the trees to the churning water beyond. The last moments of a ship’s noble life were sacrosanct, regardless of which side of a battle one was on. At that last moment, hundreds of men had jumped into the sea and now were attempting to swim through the foamy water toward the safety of Paradise 4. As the surface of the ocean finally settled down, and the ship’s boats continued to collect the sailors who had escaped just before the end, a subdued murmuring began in the restaurant.

  Petur shook his head gently from side to side, worried for the men who had been on the ship. It was possible that many people had died just now. He spoke softly to Joseph and Otto. “It’s an incredible sight, the sinking of a ship.”

  “Yes,” Joseph replied. “There are, invariably, amazing stories to be told about the sinking of a ship. The story of this ship’s demise is particularly gripping.”

  “Yes. I hope we can make the truth be known. But Marcos has no interest in hearing who really sunk his ship. He thinks, understandably, that it was us.”

  Otto said, “We may never have a chance to tell him, either.”

  Juan Marcos did look furious. As the ship disappeared beneath the surface, the fact that the dismal people on this island had dared to stand up against him caused him once again to lose control. He was as angry now with Petur Bjarnasson as he had ever been with his son.

  Commander Vasquez was speaking to his troops, while Marcos paced around the restaurant, muttering to himself. Without a doubt, he was earnestly planning his next moves.

  Isaac and Elisa were sitting together on the floor in one corner. “Why did you decide to reveal yourself to Marcos now, Elisa?” Isaac whispered.

  “I would not have, had I known their ship was about to be sunk. I would have waited,” Elisa answered. “Marcos has several weaknesses, including his misplaced ego. But in his early life, it was his ego that kept him strong. He was weakened several years ago when an unexpected breach of trust destroyed his self-confidence. He never regained it completely. My entrance today was intended to hurt him where he is already wounded — to take away his confidence; to blunt, slightly, his determination, so we could manipulate him. My intention was to put him on edge and keep him there. Petur needs him on edge. And it worked. But now with his ship sunk, he may go over the edge, and that won’t help us at all.”

  From across the room, they heard Marcos command his son. “Bring Maria to me.” Enrico walked briskly to the corner. Isaac stood up to get in his way, but the younger Marcos pushed the older man aside easily.

  Elisa reassured him. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” She raised her hand as a request for assistance to stand. Enrico grabbed her wrist, yanking her roughly to her feet.

  Petur’s heart pounded within his chest, and without considering the consequences, he moved toward Enrico. His fist was balled and his teeth clenched. One of the soldiers had anticipated this, however, and moved immediately to block his path, gun aimed at Petur’s chest. Petur backed away as Elisa was pulled forcefully toward Juan Marcos. Enrico tugged at her again, but now she pulled back. She launched herself in the air while jerking his head downward. Her foot came up without warning. It flew in a speedy arc, smashing into his face. He fell to the floor.

  Sophia had calmly moved alongside Petur. “She’ll be okay, Petur,” his sister said. “As you can see, Elisa can defend herself well.”

  Petur nodded. “There is much more to that woman than I realized. She’s the woman who followed me in Europe, years ago, when I first met Standall and Otto Wagner. I’m sure of it now. She always seemed a little familiar, but the way she dressed and held herself hid the truth from me.”

  “I’m sorry, Petur,” Sophia said with a pained expression.

  “What do you mean?”

  Sophia looked at the ground, ashamed. “I knew she was more than what she appeared. She came to me for help to meet you. She told me ages ago how she came to be your anonymous benefactor.”

  This was another surprise for Petur. He turned and looked at Elisa, who stood defiantly in front of the enormously obese man who, he now knew, had once been her employer. This was the mystery person who had supplied so many millions of dollars but had been unwilling to identify herself. There were things in play here that he did not understand, and people who had kept Petur in the dark about their agendas. He now realized how little he could control and how little he knew. But one thing he knew is that he loved this mysterious woman, Elisa.

  Juan Marcos reached for the pistol on Vasquez’s hip. The commander moved out of reach reflexively, but then took his pistol out of its holster and handed it to Marcos. Juan Marcos was standing in front of the girl now. He raised the pistol. He aimed it at Elisa’s forehead. She stood completely still.

  52. Annihilation

  “GOVERNOR MARCOS, I need to confer with you,” Petur said, urgently.

  Marcos eyed him bitterly. He looked at the woman he called Maria for a moment, then dropped the hand with the gun to his side. Then, unexpectedly, the hand shot back up at her cheek, pistol-whipping her vindictively with the butt of the weapon. She stumbled backward and fell over a chair, hitting the floor painfully.

  Petur tried to help Elisa, but Marcos ordered him away, backing up the command with the pistol, which he now aimed at Petur’s head. Petur walked toward him and followed an order to sit down with him at a nearby table. Isaac crept slowly over to Elisa, and this time the guards allowed it. He tended to her sore cheek, softly.

  Marcos spoke to Petur while looking past him. “There is nothing I need to hear from you except a confession that you bribed officials in the Mexican government to obtain an illegitimate lease on this island. If you state this publicly, I will not have you all killed today. If you do not, you all will certainly die, here and now.” Juan Marcos looked intently at Petur. “Do I make myself clear, Mr. Bjarnasson?”

  “The lease is not illegitimate. Not at all. In regard to the bribing of officials, hell, that’s the only way you can blow your nose in the thick bureaucracy of Mexico City. We did nothing special there.”

  Marcos smiled triumphantly. He may have lost the ship, but he was about to win two battles at once: obtaining the confession of Bjarnasson, while simultaneously hammering another nail into the coffin of the previous government. “Why don’t you tell that to the people of Mexico?” He waved for the cameraman to come to the table. Petur nodded in acquiescence. The man steadied the camera and focused directly on Petur’s face, while another man sat down at the table next to him, microphone at the ready.

  “Is this live?” Petur asked the man next to him.

  “No, now it’s on tape,” the journalist replied with hardly a trace of a Mexican accent. “Juan Marcos would not be so stupid as to let you broadcast directly.”

  “Do you work for this man?” Petur was pointing at Juan Marcos.

  “Not at all. I am a reporter for Mexico City’s largest television news station. I do not work for the government, either the old or the new.” The man’s eyes looked down at the ground as he said this.

  “What a waste of time,” Petur commented under his breath. A blinking red light on the camera indicated that it was on. Petur sat upright in his chair and looked intently into the camera. He did not speak Spanish well, so instead he spoke in careful English. “People of Mexico, my name is Petur Bjarnasson. I am the leader of the Island Project — a group of people dedicated to improving the condition of the human race — humans who have been betrayed by their own governments and their own willingness to let their governments grow in power and control. It is with the purpose of correcting this sad trend that we obtained a lease on this island group, which had been uninha
bited throughout history. We wished to build an establishment that would have more impact on the world than any other secular organization in history. And we have only begun. We have supplied wealth to the world rapidly and efficiently. Wealth is the only cure for poverty.

  “As you may have heard, the lease we obtained for the Paradise Islands was procured with the assistance of several members of your former government who were less than scrupulous. Even aside from the quid pro quo, I am sure that they profited from our interest in the place. I am sorry that we had to have interactions with them. However, their imprudent actions served Mexico well, for we have done great things here. And Mexico will benefit along with the entire world.

  “A terrible thing happened here today. A vessel of the Mexican Navy was sunk off our shore by a torpedo launched from a submarine. This submarine did not belong to the Island Project, but rather to a group of terrorists — the same group who sunk our first giant ocean thermal-energy converter.” Petur stopped talking when he realized that the red light on the camera had stopped blinking.

  “Keep to the confession, would you please, Mr. Bjarnasson?” Marcos was impatient, and his expression fully revealed this. When he stood up, his great bulk was intimidating.

  “I’m afraid I have little more to say about the lease.”

  “Well, then go ahead and keep talking about the sinking of the ship. But you will admit to sinking our vessel. If you do that, then perhaps I will let you and your people live.”

  “You add things as you go, don’t you, Governor?” Petur replied, staring at the camera, its light still not blinking. “I love confessing under the threat of death.”

  Marcos smashed his hand into the back of Petur’s head. “The threat is very real, Mr. Bjarnasson.” He turned to Enrico, who was still recovering from the blow he had received from Elisa. “Kill Mr. Bjarnasson’s sister.”