The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  "Questions?" Coventry asked mildly, with a lilt to his voice.

  Finally, from the far end of the table, a lieutenant commander asked, "What unit are these men from?" Coventry responded so quickly it was obvious he'd anticipated the question.

  "They are members of the Terrorist Reactive Alliance Pact, which is an international team of specialists in counter-terrorism. They were initially commissioned and recruited by the North Atlantic Treaty Organization to respond to threats in the NATO countries. But, when terrorism became a global disease, the United Nations embraced the concept and began contributing personnel. At this particular point in time, the team is comprised of a man each from the United States Marines and Army, as well as representatives of the British, French, West German, Australian, and Israeli militaries. As they rotate out, their replacements come from whatever member country has someone available and qualified."

  "Terrorist Reactive Alliance Pact," a weathered chief ventured. "I heard about some group not long ago from a Special Forces buddy of mine. Some elite anti-terrorist bunch he called the 'TRAP Team'. Isn't that the same thing?"

  An almost-smile threatened to crack the Coventry mask. "That is one of the terms applied to this team, yes. But they are elite only to the extent of their pathological profiles, their skills, training, dedication, their penchant for biting the heads off cobras, and their ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Other than that, they're just your average, ordinary soldiers doing a job." There was an uncertain ripple of laughter around the room. The problem with an outrageous lie is finding the fracture line that separates it from the bedrock of truth on which it was built.

  "Under who's command are these men?" a commander seated near the head of the table asked brusquely.

  "Mine," Coventry replied neutrally.

  "And who do you report to?" the commander pressed.

  "To the U. N. Security Council."

  "You're not accountable to the infrastructure of the United States military?" the officer challenged with narrowed eyes. Coventry let his eyes drift from the heavy-jowled man's face to the three gold braids on the shoulder-boards of his navy whites. Then he brought his gaze back to the other's with pronounced deliberateness.

  "No, Commander, I am not."

  The officer could see the danger, but would not. He was too caught up in pomposity. He should have also noticed the glance exchanged between the two ranking officers aboard the Washington and the resulting grimace on the face of Captain Carruthers.

  "Well, Sir, I don't think we very much appreciate the presence of someone aboard an American warship who isn't under the command of the American navy. Or is a representative of the government of the United States, either, for that matter. May we ask by who's authority you and your men are aboard this vessel, and what your plans are?" From the color of his face and neck, he'd managed to escalate his resentment to some level of justifiable outrage.

  Captain Carruthers rose to his feet and, in a brittle voice, began, "Mr. Coventry, I must apologize..." But he stopped in mid-sentence when Coventry gracefully cut him off with a raised hand.

  "Not at all, Captain. And there's no need for apology. I'm not at all unfamiliar with the role of intruder onto territorial ground. National pride is natural, and not to be discouraged." When the Captain reluctantly eased himself back into his chair, Carruthers turned back to the roomful of men and women who were collectively holding their breath.

  "To answer your question, Commander...we are here, aboard your ship, by authority and with the best wishes of the President of the United States. He has graciously put your impressive arsenal of weapons at our disposal." He was perversely gratified to see the officer's flush deepen by three shades of red. "As to our plans: it is the intention of the 183 countries of the United Nations, including the United States, to assault the terrorist's base by inserting the TRAP team; to neutralize the nuclear threat; and to eliminate the terrorists themselves."

  "What about the hostages?" from somewhere in the room.

  "The hostages are not our concern. The terrorists are our only concern."

  "Yeah, but what if a hostage gets in the way? Surely you don't have orders to kill innocent people?"

  "Not intentionally."

  Terri Fletcher, captain of the destroyer Spruance, couldn't restrain herself.

  "What does that mean, ‘not intentionally’? Would you, or would you not, kill a hostage who got in your way?" Her face was a study in concern. Coventry gave her the courtesy of pausing before answering. He'd given this speech many times.

  "In double-oh-four, when radical extremists occupied five floors of the BMI building in Detroit, every agency in existence tried to ‘negotiate’ with them. They held almost fifteen hundred people hostage...innocent people. They wired those five floors, the eighth through the twelfth floors, with high explosives. Enormous quantities of explosives. We'll never know how much." He could see the memories of the tragedy wash in waves across the faces of the older ones present, those who remembered the incident and the aftermath. "Negotiations went on around the clock for a week. Food and medical supplies were sent in. Medical personnel were allowed in, but not out. They made outrageous demands. Illogical demands. None of the experts, the ‘negotiators’, could make sense of the demands. Or their threats. They would blow up the building if anyone tried to infiltrate or assault it. They were willing to die for the cause. Only, nobody was sure what the ‘cause’ was." He paused, and his features visibly hardened. "As it turned out, their outrageous demands were designed to buy time. Time to wire the building. Their goal was to grab international attention. And to guarantee a seat in heaven by becoming religious martyrs...by taking out as many ‘infidels’ as possible. Which they did. Nine hundred and eighty-three, as nearly as anyone could tell after the entire fifty-three story building fell into the surrounding streets and neighborhoods." The room was totally silent. "Do you see? They used the hostages to get what they wanted...the death of the hostages. Either way, the hostages were dead. Would it have mattered which side killed them? If we had gone in, right at the start, instead of ‘negotiating’ them into positions of strength, some hostages would have most certainly died. But hundreds, hundreds would have lived." He took a deep breath. The memories of his parents’ deaths, both of whom who worked for BMI, was still painful. "In a series of international conferences following that incident, the decision was made, right or wrong, that to negotiate with terrorists is a mistake. As a result, the TRAP team, this team standing here before you, does not negotiate. It does not take prisoners. When this team is activated, there is only one possible outcome...either all the terrorists will die, or all the team will. There is no middle ground. They 're all volunteers. Between missions, they can rotate off the team or quit. But, once engaged, there's only one way out...over the dead bodies of the terrorists they were sent to terminate." There was another quiet pause. "Have I answered your question, Captain?" he asked gently of the subdued woman at the table. She dropped her eyes to the table in reply.

  "Very well. Any more questions?"

  "Yes, Sir," a first class in the back of the room called out. "Do they really bite the heads off snakes, or were you just kiddin'?" Coventry turned to the seven. Six of them looked at the shortest of the group and laughed. He grinned.

  "Well, yeah," he admitted, "but he bit me first!"

  The room erupted into spontaneous hilarity. When it settled down, Coventry regained control. Even he was smiling, if ever so slightly.

  "If there are no more questions, these gentlemen have a lot of preparations to make before they go in. I would very much appreciate your help should any one of the team need something from you. They've already asked to meet with the ship's Chief Aviation Mechanic, if that's possible. They have an idea they'd like some advice and help on." A few chairs scraped the floor as preparations were made to leave the meeting. Admiral Cochran's voice rose above the gathering noise.

  "There's just one other thing before you leave, ladies and gentlemen."
The room immediately quieted. "What's been said in this room stays in this room. Understood?" He nodded. Silence was consent. "Thank you. That's all."

  Chapter 72

  True, they had moved some poor schmuck of an officer out of his room so she could have it. But, what a ‘room’! She had closets at home bigger than this. She could hardly turn around! And, they wouldn't let her so much as stick her nose out the door. Even her meals were delivered to her. The one time...well, maybe more than one time...she'd even peeped into the hallway outside...passageway, she'd been corrected...a wall wearing a uniform and a huge gun on his hip had pushed her back inside and slammed the door. Well, maybe not actually pushed her, but...and he didn't actually slam the door, but...

  She flounced off the bed...rack...for the hundredth time and paced the length of the room. It took three steps. She whirled around and paced back.

  The worst part was not knowing. Not knowing anything. Cut off completely from everything. How could they do this? They had no right! She was a reporter! This was like some sensory deprivation experiment. A U. S. citizen, being held against her will on, of all things, a U. S. ship! Boy, they had some nerve! Just wait'll...

  And Jerry. Where was he? What had they done with him? And his equipment, his camera and satellite link. Especially the satellite link. And Enrique. And his plane. His poor plane. What a mess.

  She looked at her watch again. As she did, she caught a glimpse of her face in the small mirror above the tiny, stainless steel sink. She moved closer, under the light, and carefully probed the knot above her hairline where she'd been thrown across the plane's cabin. The blood was gone, and her hair at least looked half-way reasonable since they'd let her shower last night. After some doctor had put three stitches in her scalp! She remembered the moments after the missile had exploded and she'd staggered to her feet, blood streaming down her face, but still on the job. She smiled. That's the stuff legends are made of. Back in the office, she was probably a hero...heroine...whatever. "Jackie Darlington," they'd say, "...takes a lickin' and keeps on..." She shook her head. Late night T.V. was taking its toll on her.

  She tiptoed over to the door and listened. What few sounds she could hear didn't make any sense to her. She took hold of the door knob and verrrry slowly turned it. Then she just as slowly eased it toward her. A crack of light appeared around the edge of the door. Taking courage from her progress so far, she eased the door open three inches. And was looking at a shiny belt buckle with a globe and anchor on it. Her eyes rose slowly to those of a nine foot Marine who was somehow facing her and the door. He stared impassively down at her from somewhere up there just below tree line. He was motionless.

  "Hi," she said and smiled like a child with her hand in the cookie jar.

  He nodded his huge, almost hairless black head once. Just.

  "Ma’am." Thunder rolled down from Eagle Pass.

  "Uh, I was just wondering...could you tell me where my friends are? I mean, the two men I was with when we, uh..."

  "Came aboard?"

  "Yeah, when we came aboard," she smiled again, nervously.

  "They're fine, ma’am."

  "Yes, but where are they?"

  "They're being detained in another part of the ship, ma’am."

  "Detained? What do you mean, ‘detained’?"

  "They're confined to quarters, ma’am, same as you."

  "Confined? Where are they ‘confined’?" Her smile was coming loose.

  "In their quarters, ma’am."

  "I know what you..." She bit it off and put the smile back on. "I mean," she carefully began again, "where, exactly, are their ‘quarters’?" A hint of a twitch at one corner of his mouth was the only change in expression she saw.

  "In the brig, ma’am," he replied languidly.

  "The brig?! " she exploded. "The brig?! You mean you've got them in jail?! What for? They haven't done anything wrong! Neither have I!"

  He blinked once. "The brig was the only place on the ship where they could be housed in separate quarters without tying up additional manpower. In fact, ma’am, if you weren't a woman, and a civilian, you'd be there, too." He gazed at her impassively.

  "What, you don't have enough men on this boat to watch two harmless civilians, that you have to stick 'em in jail? How many people do you have on here? Five thousand? Eight thousand?" The amusement faded from his face as quickly as yesterday's news.

  "When a ship..." he emphasized the word and she realized her mistake in calling it a ‘boat’, "is at battle stations around the clock, everybody has a job to do." His voice was flat and brittle. "When your shipmates' lives depend on you doing your job, there's no time for babysitting."

  She looked at him. He meant every word he said. "And if you weren't here, what would you be doing..." she looked at his collar, "...Corporal?"

  It was a moment before he replied.

  "My job. Ma’am. My real job."

  With as much face as she could salvage, she slowly and quietly closed the door. This was not turning into a pleasure cruise.

  Chapter 73

  Sunrise washed gently over Jambou, sitting in his command chair. All around him, in larger-than-life panorama, the clear dawn spread its wings, damp with the dew of the night. The sounds of long swells breaking against the tower legs a hundred-fifty feet above him filled the room through the massive speakers concealed in the walls, punctuated by the mewing of gulls who'd already discovered the only stationary ‘island’ within a hundred miles. He could almost smell the freshening breeze. Almost.

  He panned one of the tower cameras and zoomed it to it's hundred-and-twenty power. They were still there, of course. Shimmering in the amplification, he could actually see the wash of the bow wave as the George Washington plodded along its circumscribed course, maintaining a two-mile circle, with his tower at its hub. Farther along the perimeter...he had to pan the camera...were at least four other ships he could make out, though with their lower profile they were less prominent on the sun-spattered surface.

  He brought up the radar display on one wall panel and abruptly sat up straighter. More company! He glanced at the scale. Forty miles? Maybe less? There were three ships...he assumed they were ships...in one group roughly north-north-west of his position. And a similar group about thirty miles beyond the first. And yet a third to the southeast. He flipped out a keyboard and queried the computer for a plot history over the past six hours. In less than ten seconds, the screen changed. All three groups were displayed with ‘backtracks’, tracing their original contact and their progress over the requested period of time. He told the computer to extrapolate, based on established shipping lanes. A global scale rolled onto the screen. A series of dots representing fixed positions, automatically recorded every fifteen minutes, stretched out behind each plot of ships, establishing a six-hour track on each group.

  "Ha! Just so! Probably British, French and...somebody from the Med...U. S. reinforcements?" He smiled. He noticed two position fixes due east of the George Washington that were recent. But the position markers were isolated events and therefore represented no recognizable pattern. He didn't think to note their time signatures, so the track of a helicopter inbound to the Washington in the wee hours of the morning led him to dismiss their significance.

  "Good," he said aloud. "Very, very good."

  He'd been awake for two hours. Had, in fact, been awake when the TRAP team landed aboard the Washington. But that wasn't what had awakened him. No, what awakened him had been an idea that had congealed during the night as the result of the crash landing of the CNN news reporter on the carrier the evening before. He awoke suddenly, clear-headed and excited with the revelation he'd had. It couldn't be better. Fortune had dumped an international news reporter right in his lap. Well, almost. He had only to reach out and pluck this unexpected windfall from the tree. He laughed. If the legend about the first president of the United States having chopped down a cherry tree wasn’t just an urban legend, then the George Washington he was looking at just two m
iles away had dropped its fruit in his own backyard, his for the taking.

  He brought one of the studio cameras and a monitor in and set the camera up on a tripod ten feet in front of his chair. He ran the cables, powered it up, and retrieved the remote control. After a couple of tries, he got the camera centered and pre-focused on the spot he would occupy. Sitting back down, he laid the fifteen-by-ten inch wireless studio remote in his lap and pressed down the SEND button. When it lit up green, he knew that his main console in the other room, slaved to the remote, was transmitting. He had absolute confidence that CNN would not have closed the channel over which he had originally transmitted, on the chance that he would do so again. He was right.

  It was 2:33 in the morning at CNN in Atlanta when the video recorder was triggered by an incoming signal. Within two seconds it automatically began recording and simultaneously rang a dedicated telephone line on a desk in the conference room that overnight had been turned into a command post. Only two people were in the room at this time of night. Both were frantically transcribing and editing reports that had been wired or called in within the past eight hours from reporters all over the country who were digging up fresh background on the bombing for newscasts that would air on the seven A.M. Headline News.