by Bob Finley
THE VICTORIA STONE
By Bob Finley
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2018 Bobby G. Finley
ISBN 978-1-7324640-2-5
Cover designed by fiona jayde media.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Readers wishing to contact the author may do so at [email protected]
DEDICATION
When I was young(er) I read every book and saw every television special Jacque Cousteau produced. My library still reserves a shelf for Monsieur Cousteau. His explorations awakened in me an addictive need to know all I could about the world’s oceans and our interdependence on it. They led me to become a biology major in college. His underwater labs, Conshelfs I, II and III where divers lived and worked beneath the sea for up to a month and his Oscar-winning documentary World Without Sun fed my addiction. When I left the Navy I began sketching designs for an oceanographic research submarine capable of diving to any depth and staying there for extended periods of time. In 1969, with Apollo 11 on its way to put two men on the surface of the moon, NASA simultaneously launched six men aboard the PX-15 Ben Franklin, conducting the Gulf Stream Drift Mission. For thirty days they lived in a fifty-foot-long metal cylinder weighing almost a third of a million pounds that drifted 1,400 miles underwater from Florida to Nova Scotia at 2 ½ miles per hour and at depths of up to 1,800 feet. It was the ‘innerspace’ equivalent of the International Space Station, but pre-dating it by 30 years. My design morphed into the VIKING, a 140 foot-long nuclear powered submarine consisting of six in-line acriliglass spheres locked into a titanium hull capable of 200 miles per hour under water and any ocean depth in the world. The on-line oceanographic magazines to which I subscribe are a constant source of technological developments that I extrapolate and blend into future fiction plots. If I can’t be the daring pilot who drives his ship into the black void of the unknown abyss, I can at least whisper into his ear and see it through ‘his’ eyes.
Monsieur Cousteau, and those of your family who continue to follow the call of the sea and to remind us of our ‘interdependence on it’, thank you all for your courage and your diligence. Without you there would be no Victoria Stone.
Bob Finley
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
THE VICTORIA STONE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Thank you!
Chapter 1
The room was cool and dark, except for the faintest glow of diffused light that seeped through the walls. An occasional thrum of a distant motor or liquid burp of air only emphasized the otherwise unbroken silence. In the middle of the room, under a futon comforter on a round bed that didn't touch the floor, rhythmic breathing hinted at something alive there.
In the darkness there was a soft buzz. The futon twitched, sighed, subsided. After an indulgent pause, the phone buzzed again. The futon growled. The gentle buzzing abruptly changed to an annoying warble. Finally, a hand and arm emerged and fumbled toward a low bedside table. Fingers skimmed blindly over a row of oversized buttons and jabbed one. A man's voice filled the room.
"Hello?"
A tousled head popped, turtle-like, from beneath the futon. Rising as far as his elbows, the man on the bed squinted blearily at the digital clock by the phone. 4:23 a.m.
"What?" he croaked.
"May I please speak with Mr. Marcus Justin?"
"Speaking."
"Then you are Marcus Justin, is that correct?"
"At this time of night, if you had the wrong number you'd know it already!" he growled.
"I'm sorry to wake you at this hour, Mr. Justin, but I need to talk to you and it won't wait."
At least, whoever it was had the decency to sound apologetic, Marc Justin thought. But an undercurrent of anxiety in the man's voice made him wary.
"Who is this?" he queried.
"Ah, I'm sorry for my lack of courtesy, Mr. Justin. And for calling you at this hour. This is Harold Cardigan."
Secretary of the Navy Harold Cardigan?
Instantly, Marc Justin felt all trace of irritation vanish, replaced by a chill of alarm and foreboding. At this hour, this wouldn't be a social call. He threw back the futon and rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. His eyes strained into the gloomy half-light as fantasies of disaster stampeded through his darkened bedroom.
"Mr. Justin? Hello?"
The Secretary's voice jolted him from his thoughts.
He took a quick breath. "Yeah. Sorry." he quickly apologized.
"I was just wondering how bad things had to get before the Secretary of the Navy was dragged out of bed."
"Mm. Pretty bad, I'm afraid, except I haven't seen a bed yet," Harold Cardigan answered. "What I need is some of that Miami sunshine of yours."
"And the time to enjoy it?" Marc sympathized.
The Secretary laughed. He'd met Justin once or twice at informal socials that included defense contract representatives. Seemed sharp and relaxed, for one of the world's richest men. Maybe because his products were so good they sold themselves. An enviable position.
"Mister Justin, I'm told you have a secure phone. Is that true?"
"Yes, Sir," Marc replied.
"Is it... reliable?" asked the Secretary tactfully.
"You tell me, Mr. Secretary. You're most likely talking on one of 'em."
"Oh, really?" Marc heard a tired chuckle. "Very well. If you'll scramble it, I'll explain why I'm calling," Secretary Cardigan said.
Connected to all of Marc Justin's telephones was a device the size of a deck of cards. In a textured gray matte finish with an oversized green button, it was a toy for the rich, watchdog for corporate and intelligence networks. It was expensive. It worked. And everybody wanted one. Programmable voice recognition and Random Digital Enhancement ensured privacy.
Marc reached over and tapped the green "enable" button. In less than a second the green light began to flash rapidly, indicating privacy mode.
"Go ahead, Mr. Secretary," Marc advised, though reluctantly, for he had an illogical dread of what he was about to hear.
"Thank you." Marc heard him take a sip of what was probably very hot and notoriously strong Navy coffee and sigh. "Mr. Justin, are you familiar with the MARS project?" the Secretary asked.
"Outer or inner space?"
"Closer to home. I'm talking about something real!"
Marc grinned. He'd heard about the Secretary's salty opinions of tax dollars being "burned up in space" instead of being "invested" in the "inner space" exploration of the world's oceans.
"The 'other' MARS . . . the Mid-Atlantic Ridge Station?" Justin queried.
"Yes. The deep-submergence vehicle that's doing a study on continental drift along the Rift Valley," explained Mr. Cardigan.
"Well, Sir, I'm sure you're aware from your files that two of our subsidiaries developed the closure and propulsion systems for MARS. But I wouldn't say that I'm familiar with its current mission, no, Sir." Marc Justin replied.
"Please understand, Mr. Justin, as an old Navy man brainwashed in military secrecy, I don't like bringing in civilians under any circumstances."
Marc smiled at the admission.
"I understand, Sir."
"However, I've been overridden by higher-ranking diplomatic types who are convinced that the only way to handle this...situation... is through civilian channels because the project involved is being run by civilians. And you're the civilian they want to represent us. I hope you're properly impressed."
Marc could almost hear the Secretary's wry smile.
"If you don't mind, I'll reserve judgment until I hear the punch-line," replied Marc. "There is one, isn't there?"
"Smart move, Mr. Justin. There always is, isn't there?" He paused to gather his thoughts. "You probably already suspect it, but I'll make it official...continental drift research is only part of the reason for MARS's existence; a cover-story, as it were. Does that surprise you?"
"Not hardly, Mr. Secretary," Marc Justin replied with an edge to his voice. "We don't do much scientific research in this country just for the sake of science, do we? If you peel the camouflage off most of these government research grants, some kind of military brass usually shines through. Maybe that's why we run second in so many so-called 'races', you reckon?"
The Secretary hadn't expected to be broadsided, though he'd heard that Marcus Justin was as outspoken as himself. He went on, but more warily.
"I'm not up to a debate just now, Mr. Justin, but if you'd like, we can talk later. Maybe you can invent a way for me to get the politicians off my back. Meanwhile, let’s get 'back' to my reason for calling, okay?" There was a moment of silence. When the Secretary continued his voice was subdued. "MARS's primary mission is to scout sites along the chain of mountains between Europe and the U. S. known as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge for locations for a new submarine traffic monitoring system."
"But there's been a system like that in place since the nineties," Marc interrupted.
"Yes...and no, Mr. Justin. Yes, there was a listening system laid down back then. And it worked well, insofar as its limitations allowed it to. Even fostered a new generation of supercomputers just to handle the data stream. But the new system is definitely not like the old one."
"How is it different?" Marc's innate curiosity was piqued.
"The old system was passive. The new one is...very much different."
"How 'different'?" Marc persisted.
There was a silence. "That's all I can tell you, Mr. Justin. It's a highly classified project and you don't have a 'need-to-know' in order to accomplish what we're asking you to do."
"And... I'm a civilian."
The secretary almost laughed out loud. "And you're a civilian."
"Exactly what is it that you're asking me to do, then, Mr. Secretary?"
"As a sub driver, Mr. Justin, you know, of course, that the Mid-Atlantic Ridge literally divides the Americas from Europe and Africa as surely as the Alps divide Northern and Southern Europe. All west-bound ship traffic, surface or submarine, has to cross this 'dividing line.' It's a natural wilderness of huge undersea mountains and valleys that provide literally thousands of secluded sites where defense systems can be hidden." He paused ominously.
"However, we've been afraid for a long time that MARS's real mission might leak out. A manned, necessarily unarmed, station thousands of feet down in the ocean is completely vulnerable if anyone wants to destroy it."
"Why would anybody want to destroy an unarmed research station ?" said Marc, thinking of the cold, black depths and the keen feeling of vulnerability he knew only too well as a research submarine pilot. The terrible reason for Secretary Cardigan's call reached out with icy fingers and grabbed him by the heart.
"There is...another reason, Mr. Justin, that you were chosen." He paused. "You're acquainted with Dr. William S. Layton, the submarine geologist, I believe."
"Yeah, Bill's a good friend of mine," Marc answered.
"Dr. Layton was in charge of the MARS project, Mr. Justin."
Mild surprise, then shock registered on Marc Justin's face. He slowly got to his feet, the covers sliding from his nude body.
“'Was', Mr. Secretary?"
"MARS routinely transmits a signal every two hours, around the clock, to a station-keeping buoy near the surface, Mr. Justin. The buoy relays to a satellite network. The signal's transmitted by the watch duty officer, not automated. This is our assurance that everything's alright and there aren't any problems. If we don't monitor the correctly coded signal on the right frequency at the right time, we assume that there's trouble and go looking...patrol planes over the area looking for...floating debris...distress beacons...like that. But no direct contact," the Secretary's voice trailed off, as if embarrassed to continue.
Marc said nothing. The Secretary waited a moment, then said, "MARS failed to transmit the midnight or the oh-two-hundred signal this morning, Mr. Justin. We want you to find out why."
Marc remained standing, staring vacantly at nothing.
"A packet of instructions will be delivered to your main office within the next two to three hours, 'FOR YOUR EYES ONLY'. I see you have clearance, so I don't need to remind you of the need for secrecy." Again, Marc said nothing.
"About Dr. Layton, Marc...I'm sorry," the Secretary added. Several seconds passed before Marc Justin realized that the Secretary had compassionately called him by his first name. And also, that there was no longer anyone there. The phone was dead. And he was alone. Like the men aboard MARS. If they were still ali
ve.
Chapter 2
Marc Justin remained motionless for long moments. Then he sighed softly and absently switched the phone off. His face hardened from reflection to resolve as he compartmentalized his emotions and cleared his mind of everything but getting ready for what lay ahead. He was a professional explorer of a hostile world that literally lay at his doorstep, and this slash-and-burn mindset was his only real hope for survival. He was keenly aware of its value. A blend of scientist and adventurer, it was hard sometimes to know which end of the leash the scientist was on. Whether "flying" his huge craft up a stiff current to within mere feet of a cliff thousands of feet under the sea, or stalking the intensely competitive corporate jungle, he applied the scientific method to any problem: define it; research it; consider the options; decide; do it. If it doesn't work, go to Plan B...or C, or whatever gets the job done. But…never, ever give up. He liked being in control of his life and he was fiercely protective of those who worked for him. He hated bureaucracy, the word "can't", and boredom. He had more money than most countries and enjoyed it. Every day was a new adventure. Like the elusive shapes that prowled the farthest reaches of his sub's arc lights, he lived "out there", on the edge. And could hardly wait for what came next.
Now, with Bill Layton in trouble or maybe even dead a mile under the Atlantic Ocean, Marc Justin withdrew emotionally from the horror of such a death and instead began organizing the preparations involved in a hurry-up search and rescue expedition.
He turned to the low bedside table and brushed a fingertip across a touch pad. The eerie gloom in the room blossomed as brilliant lights outside the room blazed to life. Marc crossed to the transparent wall and stood for a moment. The reflected light seeping into the room softly painted his face. His expression was a curious mixture of pleasure, awe, and quiet pride. The scene before him was one of gaudy, improbable color and motion as bizarre, darting forms were drawn to the spotlights he had turned on. Queen Triggerfish, locally known as “Old Wives”, yellow with bright blue fins and tail, and a blue double-mustache. Smart ones, these. A foot-and-a-half long and smart enough to puff an armored Crown Of Thorns over onto its back so its vulnerable belly could be attacked. Little Redlip Blennies peeping out of coral crevasses. Tiny Pygmy Angelfish, neon blue with snouty orange faces they kept stuffed into every little crack, sniffing out whatever edibles might be hiding there. French Angelfish, the young ones black with yellow vertical bands, and as tall as they were long; the bullies of the reef. A pair of Spiny Boxfish, striated, with horizontal rectangles for mouths. And little Fairy Basslets, looking for all the world as if they’d swum frontwards into a magenta tunnel and then backed into a yellow one. But then there were the other illusive shapes that prowled the darkness just beyond the perimeter of light.