Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  “Well, it seems that Señor Frederico was not the first to lay claim to this place. You see, in 1792, a British naval officer claimed these islands for His Majesty King George.”

  Petur smiled and asked Joseph, “Christian?”

  “Of course, Petur. Fletcher Christian discovered this chain. And he claimed them. They were not on any map of the day, and no one set foot on them again until Señor Frederico What’s-his-name. But they had already been formally, officially claimed. A British flag had been planted.”

  Marcos calmly said, “You are manufacturing a fairy tale. England would have objected to our claim years ago had this been true. As I said, there has never been any objection. And I know it. I have read all there is in Mexican law about these islands.”

  “Yes,” Joseph agreed. “There is a reason why there had never been a complaint about your claim. You see, England did not know they owned these islands. The man who discovered them and laid claim to them never made it back to England, and never informed anybody of what he had found!”

  Petur looked at Onbacher. “You found his logbook, didn’t you?”

  “My trip to Pitcairn’s was successful,” Joseph replied.

  Petur then told Marcos, “And we have proof of what he says.”

  “It’s certain,” Joseph added.

  “Let me see your proof, Mr. Onbacher.”

  Onbacher pointed to a briefcase that a guard had taken from him earlier. “In there are photocopies of a logbook. I’m afraid I can’t show you the original as I took the liberty of sending it back to the United States for safekeeping.”

  “Give him the case,” Marcos ordered a soldier, who complied after briefly checking the bag for weapons.

  Joseph shuffled through a stack of papers, arriving quickly at the page he wished to find. “Here it is.” He held the paper up in the air. “This is a copy of a page from the diary and logbook of one Fletcher Christian, an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. He sailed in the Pacific when he was twenty-six-years old on an armed merchant vessel called the Bounty. The Bounty never made it back to England, although many of her crew did. Christian spent the rest of his life in the Pacific. He wrote these words on the nineteenth of August in the year 1792.” Joseph then read aloud, struggling from time to time to decipher the scrawl.

  The islands upon which I have stumbled have all the features I had wished for in making a permanent home for the crew. But the Bounty can no longer bring them here. And I doubt I can ever return to where they are, although I will try. I am leaving this very day. It will be a long trip. I have my sextant, but I have only an open boat to carry me, and a storm could appear at any moment.

  Joseph added, “He goes on to philosophize for a bit, which is very interesting, but not relevant here. Then he continues with his narrative.” Joseph began reading aloud again.

  It is likely that this will be my last entry in any logbook, and perhaps my last act on the Earth. It seems that a man’s final act should have significance, and I hoped that such would be the case with mine. Unfortunately, my life closes without any meaning. Except perhaps this:

  In the name of King George, I hereby claim these five unoccupied islands for Britain for all time. I have planted a flag on the shore of one of them, and set foot on each of the others. May all who come after me recognize this claim.

  Joseph put the paper down. “And then he signed his name. It is the last entry in the journal.”

  “Garbage!” Marcos sneered. “Absolute trash. This log is certainly a phony, manufactured in a desperate attempt to defend you and your group.”

  “I have authenticated the log myself. It was written by Christian’s own hand, the signature is a perfect match. The paper and ink are appropriate for the day.” He looked at Marcos. “Other experts will concur with me. It is no phony.”

  “We will fight it in international court and easily win. These have been our islands for decades!” Juan Marcos stated. “They are developed now — they were developed under the authority of the Mexican government.”

  They had the man on the defensive now. Less than an hour ago, Marcos was informing Petur that he was being indicted — threatening him with prison and death and takeover of the islands. Now he had lost his ship, and along with it his biggest threat. He had learned that his operation had been infiltrated by a spy from the Island — a woman of whom he had been particularly fond. And he had discovered that his effort to expel the islanders might not be supported by the law. Furthermore, he had seen that the Island Project had a new, incredibly powerful weapon. Indeed, the man was on edge.

  Petur replied, “You cannot have it both ways, Governor. These islands were developed either under Mexican authority, or despite it. If you claim that the work done here was performed under Mexican authority, then be cautious how you choose to prosecute me. You might win the battle and lose the war.”

  Marcos quickly took another tack. “One logbook, phony or not, is not proof that this man, Christian, was here. Do you expect me, or anyone, to believe you out of hand? Even if true, what five islands has he laid claim to? They could be anywhere. You cannot expect Mexico to pay any credence to such an unsubstantiated story! England itself will ignore it.”

  Petur smiled. His heart was beating powerfully with excitement at what he now knew Joseph must have found. His voice was loud and firm, each word carefully enunciated. “It is, I am afraid, well substantiated, and the islands to which Britain laid claim will be shown unequivocally to be the Paradise chain. Am I correct, Mr. Onbacher?”

  Onbacher smiled broadly, for Petur had guessed correctly what he had learned. To Marcos, he said, “It is substantiated with immutable, incontrovertible, and unimpeachable proof, Mr. Marcos. No one — no one at all — will ever be able to deny Fletcher Christian’s claim.”

  54. Jaws of Defeat

  JUAN MARCOS WAS pacing the floor again. Onbacher’s presentation was disconcerting, but likely to have been manufactured. In any event, it would take months, if not years, of international bickering to reach any decision regarding these islands. And a solid foothold by Mexico now could only help. He was becoming confident that he did not need to change the plans.

  His confidence did not last long, however. Commander Vasquez was talking on his radio once again and his voice was becoming sufficiently animated and sufficiently loud to attract the attention of many in the room, including Petur, who understood very little of the Spanish. Petur watched Vasquez with interest as he finished his conversation and moved beside Governor Marcos. To the governor, he spoke in a low voice to prevent the hostages, or perhaps even the Mexican soldiers, from overhearing. Governor Marcos shook his head and firmed his jaw.

  Marcos indicated to the soldiers that they should bring Petur and Onbacher to him. He resumed his pacing for several minutes, while the two who had been beckoned waited impatiently nearby. Finally, Marcos stopped in his tracks and stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on the wall. He was considering, calculating. A smile appeared fleetingly before being suppressed. No one saw it. He spun around abruptly and rapidly approached the two men.

  “Mr. Onbacher, your efforts do you credit. You have been a busy man.”

  Joseph asked, “Do you have news?”

  “It would seem that I was wrong to think that England would ignore these islands. Apparently there is a British Navy carrier group only three hundred kilometers away from us. The ships are heading this way as we speak.”

  “Are you planning to take them on?” Petur asked as he gazed out toward Paradise 4, where the giant cruiser had taken its last breath.

  “Obviously not,” Marcos replied, without the irritation that Petur had anticipated and hoped for. “In fact, our recently instated leader, President Jimenez, has ordered our immediate departure so as to avoid any confrontations.”

  Petur replied, “We will miss you.”

  Marcos rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and after a moment flared a nostril. Do you realize, Mr. Bjarnasson, that none of this absolves you in an way of your
crimes against Mexico?”

  Petur replied evenly, “You manufactured those crimes. I’ll be happy to see you in court, Mr. Marcos.”

  Marcos stood still for a moment, and then began pacing once again. But this time he walked only a few steps before calling Commander Vasquez over to him. Marcos talked quietly with Vasquez, who then spoke on his radio to someone. Next he spoke to his sergeant. His sergeant spoke to four of his men. The Council members could hear none of it.

  Marcos’s yacht, which had remained outside the lagoon since its arrival, slipped through the small entrance into the muddy waters, heading for the pier. Six of Vasquez’s men stepped into an elevator and disappeared.

  “What are you up to, Governor?” Isaac asked.

  “It seems that you had prepared for our arrival, with your spy telling you what we would do.” Juan Marcos glared at Elisa bitterly. “But I doubt you thought of everything.”

  Ten minutes later, Vasquez received a call on his radio. He spoke into it quietly for some time. Then he turned to Marcos. The two men conferred in private. Marcos sneered again — a purely evil smile.

  “And now my friends, it is time for us to depart.” Marcos’s smile persisted. “Vasquez, see that they are bound well.”

  It took less than five minutes for the soldiers to bind the group of islanders with duct tape, hand and foot. Each was now almost completely immobile, taped to tables spread throughout the room. Petur was the last to be bound. Elisa was not bound, but instead Marcos grasped her harshly by the elbow and propelled her toward the elevator door. Vasquez and his men climbed inside.

  “If nothing else comes from my trip to this island, at least I will be leaving with a trophy!” Marcos pushed her into the elevator and stepped in beside her. “You will never leave me again, Maria. Never.”

  Elisa looked back through the doors at Petur. Her eyes revealed fear, not for herself but for him. He wished so much that he could run to her, hold her again, and keep her safe. For just an instant, he imagined her in the bed of Juan Marcos. It turned his stomach, and he cringed.

  The doors to the elevator closed, and the islanders were left in the restaurant alone.

  “Anyone have any notion how to get out of this mess?” Petur asked everyone and no one.

  Sophia answered quietly. “Actually, Petur, the biggest part of the mess has already been taken care of. It looks like we’ve saved the Island Project. I think Marcos has given up.”

  “Perhaps he has.” Petur wriggled, barely able to move at all. “But now, we’ve got to figure a way to save ourselves — and Elisa.”

  Marcos walked down the slope away from Science Hall in the middle of the group of men. He felt much better walking down than he had on the upward climb. Maria was directly in front, walking between two of the soldiers. She walked with unparalleled elegance.

  Directly ahead, the yacht was tied alongside the pier. Two men stood still upon the foredeck while three others worked at cleaning up the mess of torn cables and smashed equipment.

  There were only sixteen soldiers walking toward the boat now. The small squad that had left the rooftop restaurant earlier had not rejoined them. Marcos turned to look back up the hill, toward the airstrip, but they were not to be seen. Vasquez was up at the front of the group. Marcos called for him to come back and join him.

  “Commander, your man — he can figure it out?”

  “Apparently not, Governor. He reports that it is unlike anything he has ever seen.”

  Marcos grimaced and swore loudly.

  “But he says he found someone who can do the job. However, it may require some encouragement.”

  Marcos’s grimace transformed into a thin grin. “You have a good man there, Commander.” He raised his voice. “Enrico, come here!” His son dropped back, and the two Marcos men talked quietly with one another. After several moments, Marcos spoke loudly. “Take two men with you. Don’t hesitate to use whatever means may be necessary.” And with that, Enrico spun around and moved rapidly back up the path with two soldiers to accompany him.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” cursed Evan Harrigan, not quite under his breath. Why did he have to choose that moment to use the bathroom?

  He had been happily locked away in a small back-corner office of the observatory building, revising the last paragraph of the manuscript that would be his first submission to a scientific journal in years, when he got the call of nature. Several hours earlier, Petur had strongly counseled him to lie low, completely low, with doors locked, during this crucial time. And so he had — for a while. But, after that while, Harrigan just had to go.

  He opened the door of the little office, hesitantly. Seeing no one, he crept stealthily to the tiny bathroom, performed the necessary tasks, and out of pure habit, flushed the toilet. The rush of water coursing through the pipes echoed painfully throughout the domed structure that encased the giant telescope — a design flaw the prompted frequent cursing at the architects.

  Harrigan, who prior to these past two days had not frequented this place, had been caught unawares.

  And because of the obnoxious noise of the plumbing, he indeed was caught. As he opened the door of the bathroom to leave, two men with dark complexions and black mustaches were waiting for his egress. One of the men had singularly prominent jowls, comically enlarged, as if belonging in a caricature of a politician. Later, Harrigan would be unable to remember the rest of the face — only those jowls. The second man was shorter and more muscular, and grimaced constantly.

  Jowls grabbed the professor brusquely, spun him around against a wall, and searched him quickly. Satisfied that he presented little danger to them, the two men questioned him. They spoke loudly in Spanish. Harrigan understood not a word. The Mexicans were frustrated by their captive’s stupidity, each stepping away and releasing his frustration with violent blows of his tight fists on Harrigan’s face and abdomen. In a moment he was on the floor. Jowls then yanked him to his feet and threw him back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The door was jammed from the outside, leaving Harrigan secured within. There was no window.

  He chastised himself repeatedly for having ever emerged from the sanctity of the little locked office where he had been so productively writing. How he wished he was back there, instead of locked in this tiny stall with nothing to do but think about the uncertainty of his immediate future.

  Twenty minutes passed — time enough to recover from the beating somewhat. He thought about the last time he had been struck by another person: fourth grade. It had been a brief playground scuffle. Nothing much; but remembered for life.

  His contemplation of that unpleasant experience did not last long. Soon enough, the door was pulled open and Jowls motioned for him to come out. Jowls directed him to climb a narrow metal staircase into the observatory proper. At the base of the stairs he was given an unnecessary and painful shove.

  It was with mixed feelings that Professor Harrigan emerged from the stairwell to see a half-dozen additional Mexicans. Two were examining the laser systems that he had so haphazardly attached to the telescope.

  “Hello, sir,” the first man began, his voice tinny in the open space of the dome. “We had presumed to find this building empty. We are sorry to interfere with your work.” There was not even a hint of sincerity in the man’s voice. “I am Enrico Marcos. What is your name?”

  “I am Professor Evan Harrigan.” His voice was feeble initially, gaining strength as he realized that he was not permanently injured. And the fact that the man spoke excellent English lifted his spirits, at least by a small margin. “Your men have been less than hospitable.”

  “Please accept my apologies. These are stressful times. I will counsel my men when this is over.” Marcos turned to the formidable telescope behind him. “This is an amazing contraption. To destroy an entire island, leaving no trace! Am I correct to presume this is your invention?”

  Harrigan usually would have expressed appreciation at the compliment — a favorable event that greeted him rarel
y in his career. This time, however, he was only amused, and said nothing. “I had some help with this particular contraption. I can’t say it’s my best work.”

  “Oh, you are modest, Professor. This device is certainly unequalled in the world.”

  Harrigan could not help but smile briefly. “Unequalled — certainly!”

  “Please tell me how it works.” The man’s words indicated a plea, yet it was clear that the comment was nothing of the sort, but rather an order.

  Harrigan replied cautiously, “It’s highly technical.”

  The man next to Marcos spoke. “I am Sergeant Gonzales, and like your device, I too am highly technical, Professor. I am an electrical engineer. Please, tell me. I may understand some of it.”

  “No, I’d best not tell you anything, Sergeant. I doubt it would be in my best interest.”

  “Your doubt is misplaced, sir,” said Marcos, communicating to Jowls with a quick motion of his head.

  Harrigan did not understand the signal between the two men until Jowls landed a forceful blow on his flank with the butt of a rifle. The professor fell to his knees, holding his side and struggling to pull air into his lungs. In his life he had never experienced such pain or fear. These were not bullies on his grammar-school playground. There was no principal to intervene on his behalf this time. This was a grave and dangerous situation.

  Young Marcos’s face was completely devoid of sympathy and mercy. “And now, instruct Sergeant Gonzales on the operation of this machine. And be quick about it. I have little time, and even less patience.”

  They reached the motor yacht just as Juan Marcos was tiring. He struggled up the steep and overly narrow gangplank. He propelled Maria directly behind him.

  “Put her in a secure place,” Marcos commanded two of the sailors who awaited him on the deck. “Somewhere below decks, with no portholes.”

  Marcos worked his way to the bridge, where the skipper was gazing through binoculars at Paradise 4 and the small black dots that were the wandering sailors from the sunken cruiser. He put the glasses down as Governor Marcos walked over to him.