The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  Jambou uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "Well, Captain, you've certainly peaked my interest. Perhaps if they drop by we might invite them to dinner." He smiled pleasantly.

  Marc shook his head despairingly. "If you go on the air with this insane plan of yours, it's more likely they'll have you for dinner!"

  "I appreciate your concern, I really do," Jambou said condescendingly, "but I'm afraid we have no more time for this intellectual exercise. Now, if you'll just..."

  "Not...so...fast," Justin stopped him. "Aren't you forgetting something?" When Jambou seemed puzzled, he added, "Like the fight your gorilla downstairs forced Kim into?"

  "I don't understand. They're no longer fighting."

  "No, not now," Marc persisted. "But I know a bully when I see one, and as long as there's the slightest chance that Banner's gonna try to get even..."

  "Don't worry about Banner. I'll take care of him."

  "Like you did a half-hour ago? Huh-uh. That's not good enough."

  "Captain Justin, I can assure you..."

  "No! I won't leave my people at the mercy of your hired killers. And I can assure you of something, too...I won't say zip on television unless I'm sure my people are safe! You can take that to the bank!"

  They faced each other in a contest of wills. Finally, Jambou touched a button on the chair arm.

  "Mr. Breton!" He waited, watching Justin all the while.

  "Yes, sir!" Breton sounded as if he were in the room with them, but there were background noises. Machinery. And the clack-clack of heavy-duty electrical contacts shunting open and closed.

  "Mr. Breton, are you alone?"

  "Yeah, I'm up here in the utilities room. I've got a flux variance on a 550 line. Why?"

  "Can you fix that later?"

  "Well...yeah, I guess so. What do you need?"

  "There has apparently been some kind of...confrontation between Banner and Mr. Matsumoto. It's vital to our broadcast today that there not be another one. Do you have a stunner?"

  "Well, no, not with me. But I've got one in my room."

  "Good. I want you to get it. Then I want you to stay with Banner until after the broadcast. If he even thinks about going near Mr. Matsumoto, I want you to drop him in his tracks. Do you understand?"

  "I don't know, he's..."

  "Mr. Breton! Do you understand me?!" There was a pause.

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "Good. I'm holding you personally responsible for Mr. Matsumoto's safety. I think you know what I mean. Don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure, Mr. Breton? Or do you need Leo's help?"

  "No. I understand. I'll go get my stunner right now!"

  "Good. Thank you, Mr. Breton." Jambou turned to Marc. "Satisfied?"

  "Am I supposed to trust him? A traitor?!"

  "I do. My friend Leo carries a lot of weight around here."

  "Yeah. So I've heard."

  "Now, Captain. We really must get ready." He nodded toward a far wall of the round room. "That door over there," it hissed open at the unseen touch of Jambou's hand on the console, "leads to the studio." The wall suddenly filled with the image of the room via a remote camera. "I've already prepared the booth for you and checked the lighting. We do want to present you in the best light possible, don't we?" He chuckled to himself.

  "Why a booth? Why not here?"

  "Because all the equipment is there. Logical? Now, please..."

  Justin reluctantly walked across the room and glanced through the door. The room looked harmless enough. Blindingly bright studio lights. Enclosed booth. Thick glass windows, double-insulated. Probably sound proof. Comfortable chair inside. A fancy looking television camera was outside the booth, aimed through the window at whoever would be sitting in the chair.

  "Would you please take your seat, Captain, so we can check for sound levels? Thank you."

  Justin entered the booth and carefully sat down in the plush chair. "A little fireside chat, nice and cozy," he thought. "Credibility."

  "Count up to ten and back to zero, please, Captain."

  Marc self-consciously did as he was instructed. Just as he finished, he heard a metallic ‘clack’ to his right. The door!

  "Hey! What was that?!" he got out of the chair, alarmed.

  "Nothing to be concerned about, Captain. I've locked the door. I'm sure you'll understand that I'll be quite busy out here for the next few minutes, getting ready, and I can't concentrate with you wandering around. Not that you would try to take advantage of my inattention, of course, but I really am more comfortable and can concentrate better without having to worry about where you are every minute. I'll unlock the door after the broadcast. But, in the meantime, you'll find that I've provided for your creature comforts in there. There are refreshments on the table beside your chair. Now, if you would please, just sit back and relax. We only have about twenty minutes until air time and I do have some last minute details to attend to. Thank you. I'll let you know just before it's time to begin."

  The speaker in the room went silent. Justin went over and tried the door, but he didn't really expect to have any luck with it. Unfortunately, what Jambou said rang true. Given the opportunity to get the jump on the melon-head, he'd have taken it in a heartbeat. So he made an inspection circuit of the small booth, noted a twelve-inch monitor mounted flush in the wall beneath the viewing window, and finally sat back down. After a couple of minutes he popped the top on one of the soft drinks next to him and began to consider what he could say in the next few minutes that Jambou wouldn't censor but, he hoped, would give whoever heard it some clue as to where they were and what kind of help they needed.

  It didn't seem like it had been twenty minutes when he was jolted out of his reverie by the sudden transformation of the room beyond his temporary prison into brilliant daylight as artificial suns came to life, washing Jambou Bereel in surrealist contrasts of light and shadow. Light and dark. Good and evil. The irony of this whole scenario, Marc thought, was this evil man's unassailable belief in the righteousness of his crusade for revenge against descendants of men long-dead whom he blamed for crimes against his heritage. His indiscriminate murder of innocent people as the means to an end transcended those original sins. The Biblical justice of "an eye for an eye" no longer sufficed. And the plea for mercy on the order of "seventy times seven" was unthinkable in his pursuit of revenge. But ‘an eye for an eye’ carried to the power of "seventy times seven"...

  His apocalyptic train of thought was only ten minutes from realization.

  Chapter 47

  At twenty-two-thirty hours the orders came through the comm shack aboard the nuclear powered air craft carrier George Washington. The stores ship San Jose, with MARS III in tow, was to be detached from the convoy and diverted back to the Azores. The guided missile cruiser San Jacinto would ride shotgun with continuous satellite feeds to monitor inbound traffic within a two hundred mile radius, and the nuclear sub Bergall would run perimeter defense and stay out of sight. The Navy wanted to be seen by the inevitable chartered media aircraft as rendering assistance to a civilian craft in distress, not defending one of their own. The other seven warships and two tankers in the convoy were ordered to proceed at standard speed toward the British naval station at Gibraltar. The insignificant course change on the final Med approach would logically...and conveniently...take them directly over the Centinela Seamount. The two surface ships, looking for all the world like they were being tailed by an ocean-going spacecraft, put about and fell reluctantly astern. In thirty minutes they were hull-down out of sight over the curvature of the horizon as the rest of the convoy fell into a sustained eastward lope. By midnight, not even the white range light of either group's running lights was visible to the other.

  Admiral "Jake" Cochran read the orders on the monitor before him one more time, staring at the screen as if doing so would squeeze just one more scrap of data from it. Though his quarters aboard the nuclear flagship "George Washington" were almost claustrophobic in size, they
were cavernous compared to the rest of the living spaces aboard. Finally, he keyed in the two-stroke command to store the orders in the computer's secure file and wiped the screen clean. He leaned slowly back into his chair and interlaced his hands in his lap, sighing audibly. There was a discrete tap at the door.

  "In," he called firmly enough to be heard through the door. It popped open and his aide stuck his head in.

  "You wanted to see me, Sir?"

  Admiral Cochran nodded absently. "Come in."

  Commander Charles Fulton entered quickly and closed the door. With the flurry of messages being sent and received during the last couple of hours, he hadn't even thought about going to bed. Good thing. He stood quietly a few feet from his boss and waited.

  "Charlie, you've seen the orders. You know the scoop. What do you think about all this?"

  Fulton had been in the Navy for twelve years, the last two with Cochran. He knew better than to hedge.

  "Well, Sir...from what little we know, it sounds at first like terrorists."

  Cochran watched his aide carefully. He'd picked him personally because he was intelligent and because he was a bit of a maverick in his thinking. Like himself. He nodded agreement and, noncommittally said, "Yeah?"

  "But then...aside from the act itself of hostage-taking, not much else fits."

  "How do you mean?" the Admiral encouraged.

  Commander Fulton pursed his lips and squinted his eyes, thinking hard.

  "Well, it's more what they didn't do that disqualifies them as terrorists, than what they did."

  "Such as?"

  "Well...they didn't kill anybody. At least, not that we know of. And they didn't blow up anything, as far as we know. They haven't made any demands. Not so far, anyway. And, since MARS was a civilian project," he cut his eyes at Cochran, who rolled his but said nothing, "there would seem to be no political motivation."

  Jake Cochran knew when to be quiet.

  "On the other hand," Fulton continued, as Cochran knew he would, "they seem...seem...to have deliberately left clues as to where they can be found. But then...the clue makes no sense, really, because a seamount is no kind of a place to hole up. Is it?"

  "You tell me."

  Fulton frowned sternly. "You're not much help. Sir. Have you given me enough rope yet to hang myself?"

  Admiral Cochran smiled. "We're getting there," he answered cryptically. His aide's frown deepened before he continued.

  "Do you know something I don't about this seamount? Like, what's waiting there for us?"

  "Nope," the Admiral shook his head.

  "Then why would somebody do a hit-and-run and then tell the cops where to find him?"

  "Charlie, you're the one with psychology degree. I say again, you tell me."

  Commander Fulton walked the width of the small room and returned, staring intently into space.

  "He wants to be found," he finally said.

  "Why?"

  "He wants to be punished. Or..." he looked around the room without seeing it, "...he wants attention."

  Cochran, who had sat forward in his chair, now leaned back again. He studied the blank screen in front of him.

  "Not punished."

  "Sir?"

  Cochran looked up. "Not punished. He went to too much trouble for that. This took a lot of technical knowledge to pull off. And equipment, too. MARS was deep, real deep, when she was boarded. And..." His eyes slitted and his face hardened. He looked directly at his aide.

  "What is it, Sir?"

  "You've heard the term ‘an inside job’?"

  "Yes, Sir, but..."

  "How many people knew where the MARS was? Exactly where? And when?"

  Fulton searched his memory for details of the briefing he'd read.

  "Two. Two groups, that is. The people aboard the ship itself. And the people they reported to."

  "And the people they reported to...would they be screened for security clearance?"

  "Oh yes, Sir, I'm sure they would be. Top Secret at least. So, what are you..."

  "Military?"

  "Sir? Oh. The people MARS reported in to? I don't know. But, considering the circumstances and the sensitive nature of her work...probably."

  "And the crew of the MARS. Military or civilian?" He knew the answer, of course.

  "Civilian, Sir, except for the tech." Fulton knew that he knew. But it was part of the ‘what if’ game they played.

  "Mister Fulton," Admiral Cochran addressed his aide as if he were his executive officer, "given a choice between military personnel with Top Secret clearance and civilians, which group would you be more willing to believe had a weak link?"

  "I think you know the answer to that, Sir," Commander Fulton replied softly.

  "Exactly. Send a message to CinC Atlantic Fleet. I want a deep background search run on every crewman of the MARS III vessel. Strip 'em bare. Subversive activities, though there probably won't be any of those, or they wouldn't have made the crew. Families. Political affiliations. Finances. Religion, if any. Everything! I want a report on my desk in twelve hours. No, make that by noon... we'll almost be to this seamount by then. And get psychological profiles on them, too. You look those over. You'll know what to look for better than I would. Also, notify the CO's on the rest of the Group that I want a secure video conference at oh-eight-hundred. And then," he looked at his wristwatch, "get some sleep. I've got a bad feeling about this whole mess." He casually returned his aide's obligatory salute, but was so intent on the frustrating mystery that had landed in his lap he didn't even hear the door when it closed.

  Chapter 48

  Jeffrey Valance had his desk cleared by quarter-past-eight. He'd already had three cups of coffee and two sugary donuts and he was wired. He'd left two messages on vidmail for Kathy up in Support Services about room confirmation and she wasn't even due in for another fifteen minutes. He got up and walked down the corridor to Keith Presnell's office, moving on when he saw it was empty. Agitated, he jogged up two flights of stairs to the sixth floor and strode briskly down the corridor. He could hear muted voices somewhere but the hallway itself was deserted. ‘Suite 4’, the genuine wood grain engraved plastic sign announced. He pushed open the door and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent ceiling lights stuttered and flared into a harsh glow. Yep, the equipment he'd asked for was there. He powered up both digital recorders and checked them for available memory and cueing just to be sure. Kathy had done her job well, as usual. Coming out, he looked again at the door. Then he walked quickly down the hall looking at each door as he came to it. Finding what he wanted, he snatched a "Reserved" sign off a door four rooms down and stuck it on Suite 4. Just to be sure. He hoped Kathy hadn't been the one who'd put the reserved sign on the room down the hall. He'd harassed her enough already.

  Presnell had the misfortune to be coming up the hall toward his office when Jeff got back to the fourth floor. He turned in mock dismay and started to walk back the way he'd come from.

  "Don't even try it," Jeff barked. Keith made a show of resignation and came back to his office.

  "What are you doing down here?" he demanded.

  "Looking for you."

  "Why? You called me three times last night. If a half-decent-looking woman called me three times in one night, I'd ask her to marry me! What's yo' problem?"

  "If you knew a half-decent-lookin' woman, it would make the six o'clock news!"

  "Hey! Hey! Don't start with me this morning. How many cups of coffee have you had so far today?"

  "Three. I think."

  "No wonder! I'm gonna turn you in to that drug rehab place down by the bus station. It ain't safe for you to be walkin' the streets." Presnell eased into his chair. Jeff perched precariously on the front corner of the desk like a wild creature prepared to take flight at the slightest provocation.

  "Sleep in?"

  Presnell, who was slowly grinding his palms into his bloodshot eyes, looked up at him once and went back to massaging his whole face.

  "Been her
e since six-thirty," he mumbled through his hands. "Parsons went home sick about five. I just got back from trying to hack a path through the jungle on his desk."

  "Why didn't they call Angela in?" Valance asked, not really caring.

  "Operator said her ‘phone was out of order."

  "Off the hook again, huh?"

  Keith rolled his eyes tiredly. "Probably kicked it off during one of her flying scissor-holds!"

  Jeff laughed in spite of himself. Angela Kirkland's fondness for night games was well known.

  "You ready?"

  Presnell looked blankly at him. "For what?" he asked after a moment of wading through mental quicksand.

  Valance grimaced. "Tell me you're kidding."

  Keith was obviously miles away from understanding.

  "The DVD. The...DVD, Einstein!" he rasped exasperatedly. When he still got no response, he sighed heavily. "The weirdo we got the tape from in the mail...the one who's gonna be on the air in... "he flicked his wristwatch, "...in twenty-three minutes. In Suite 4. The one Cole approved? Hello? Hellooooo," he called, leaning down to peer into his friend's eyes. "Is anybody in there?"

  Recognition finally dawned. "Oh, that," Presnell gestured in dismissal, "I'd forgot about it. Is that today?"

  "Is that today? Is that today, you say?! No, why would you think it's today? Just because you and I risked our careers upstairs? Just because we bumped a vice-president out of using the viewing room this morning? Just because if this creep doesn't come through with something good this morning you and I might find ourselves permanently on third shift?"

  Keith was holding up both hands as if he were trying to stem a flood pouring through the dike.

  "Alright, alright, alright! So, I've been a little busy. It just slipped my mind, that's all. Okay?"

  They were both silent for a moment. Finally, their eyes met. Presnell took a slow, audible breath, let it escape, and shook his head. "I sure hope you know what we're doing," he admonished gently.

  Jeff smiled crookedly and raised one finger before his friend's face. "This is it," he said in a soft voice filled with confidence just begging to be unchained. "This is the biggie that's gonna turn everything our way. I know it is. I feel it!" His smile widened.