The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  "Anybody ever been in an earthquake?"

  "Yeah, but not under no stinkin' ocean!"

  "Whadda we do?"

  "Wait. And pray."

  Finally, there was a stillness. A fine dust drifted through the air. Several of them looked at each other, eyes still wide. Seconds ticked by.

  "Okay," Strickland broke the silence, "we didn't come here to squat on our haunches like tourists. We got a job to do."

  They began pulling on gloves they took from equipment belts around their waists. Then they clipped three foot lanyards to the belts, securing the loose ends temporarily to D-rings to keep the braided ropes from tangling as they climbed. They Velcroed their weapons to attachment points on their chests and they were ready.

  "Gentlemen, let's be careful out there," Strickland somberly warned.

  "Hey!" Monk said. They all turned to look at him. He raised one gloved fist and extended it to them. "For Slater," he said.

  They all raised a fist and smacked theirs against his.

  "For Slater!" they chorused.

  Then they swarmed over the railing and began to climb.

  Chapter 82

  The CNN satellite coverage had gone on line 18 minutes before the launch of the helicopter that carried the TRAP team to its insertion point. The instant they had a picture, they began recording live and non-stop, not knowing when something newsworthy might break.

  The phenomenal optics aboard their leased bird in geosynchronous orbit 19,313 miles into space above the George Washington delivered better picture quality than if they'd had a helicopter of their own hovering overhead, with the added benefit that the buffered platform on which the camera rested aboard the satellite increased image stabilization.

  Anticipating rightly that any action initiated by the armed armada that by now included ships of six world navies would center on the nuclear aircraft carrier Washington, the network had requested magnification that allowed inclusion of both the Washington and the terrorists' surface tower in the primary field of view on the average viewer's television screen.

  They were also paying an enormous hourly rate to the company that owned the satellite for that company's experts to man the computer terminals 24 hours a day in order to have zoom capability on demand. Two of CNN's own technical staff hovered over them in order to try to anticipate when and where the camera should look, and how closely. It was during the testing for this very scenario, a few minutes after they had begun successful downlink of the live feed, that the camera had been directed to zoom in on the Washington to determine how much detail was possible. And it was pure luck that the helicopter transporting the TRAP team lifted off less than 30 seconds into the close-up. But, because it was the only thing in motion at that moment on the Washington's deck, it made a timely test subject.

  The camera operator furiously typed in the parameter coordinates he hoped would enable him to track the moving target. Then he grabbed the joystick on his console. Holding down a selection stud on the handle with his thumb, he dragged a small, white arrow across his computer screen until it centered on the helicopter. When he lifted his thumb from the stud, the computer locked onto the object and prepared to track it in Priority Focus, Continuous Mode. By recording direction and speed of travel, and inputting that history into its fuzzy logic function, the computer was able to predict the target's probable future path. By then feeding almost continuous macroscopic adjustments to the servo motors aboard the satellite, the camera lens could follow its target in real time with remarkable accuracy.

  The highly erratic takeoff of the helicopter when it did get airborne, darting first one way, then another, made it impossible at first for the computer to establish its database for course predictions. The result, from a viewer's perspective, resembled a scene from a camera held by someone who had tripped and was trying to regain his balance.

  The satellite automatically clicked back once on magnification. The tracking arrow remained on the aircraft, but the view was from a thousand feet up instead of a hundred. The difference in scale of the data stabilized the camera by minimizing the data overload that extreme close range had caused. By then, the ‘pilot’ aboard the Washington was getting the hang of flying a full-scale ‘toy’ helicopter by remote control, and had brought the aircraft onto a more conventional flight path. As soon as the data stream stabilized, the satellite zoomed back to full magnification, and the image on the recording equipment at CNN headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia, in the United States of America, was as good as if a camera were broadcasting live from another aircraft flying in formation with the TRAP team's plane, minus audio, of course.

  It was a full minute before the CNN tekkie, looking over the camera operator's shoulder, realized that the helicopter was on an interception track with the terrorists' tower. The operator was accustomed to working under much less stressful conditions and having a hyperventilating client shouting demands into his ear didn't help his clarity of thought. He'd no sooner managed to drop back magnification enough to show both the flight path of the helicopter and the tower when the newsman, formally a ‘breaking news’ cameraman himself, smelled blood and began yelling at him to zoom back in, hurry, hurry, hurry!

  Though he did manage, under almost impossible conditions, to maintain focus while tracking and zooming simultaneously until he had a full-screen shot of the helicopter, when the aircraft unexpectedly flared into a hover, the camera continued on its predicted course and lost the picture.

  By the time he'd recovered with a high-overhead, slow-zoom-in, smoke was pouring from the aircraft. It exploded in a massive fireball while the camera was still incrementally zooming in and the scene was recorded as if shot from an aircraft hovering five hundred feet above.

  The results of the satellite photo coverage, as seen by Bereel Jambou over network television news, left him with two critical misconceptions.

  First, the erratic behavior of the helicopter at takeoff, which should have alerted him that something was wrong, was masked by what appeared to be sloppy camera work. Second, because the computer overshot the chopper when it flared into a hover on his doorstep and was forced to regroup with a high, long shot with much less detail, the TRAP team's exit through the smoke from the aircraft was not visible. He bought the story of a malfunction fiasco. His irrational conviction that internationally televised news coverage would create a firewall behind which he could be safe from military intervention forged the chink in his armor that would leave him exposed in spite of his elaborate security precautions. He should have trusted instead in Edgar Allen Poe: ‘Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.’.

  Chapter 83

  Kim Matsumoto had only been a fugitive for a half-hour and he was already in trouble. As far as he could tell, no one had followed him down the lava tube that had seemed his only hope of escape. But it was no longer what might be behind him as much as what might lie ahead that scared him.

  His eyes were burning, he was sweating profusely, and he was beginning to have trouble breathing. He'd begun his flight down this hole in the earth in total darkness, feeling his way along cautiously with his hands against the cold rock walls and sliding his feet ahead of his body to be sure he didn't fall into an unexpected pit. He'd read about the bones of a saber toothed tiger found in a deep pit in a popular North Carolina cavern that was believed to have fallen in the darkness while tracking prey it had chased into the cave. It had died there in the darkness, broken and alone. He'd shivered, thinking of that.

  He wasn't shivering now. The rock wasn't cool to his touch anymore. But, most of all...it wasn't dark now. And that was bothering him as much as the darkness had. There was a dull red source of light coming from somewhere ahead of him. There was barely enough light, with his night vision quickly adjusting in what had been absolute darkness, for him to see shapes. The fact that he could scramble along at a faster rate now didn't necessarily mean he wanted to.

  He knew now that what Frank had told him about this old volcano going act
ive must have been true. He was no expert on volcanoes, but he was very quickly coming to the conclusion that Frank's estimate of when the mountain might reach critical mass was off. Way off.

  Using his uniform sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face as best he could. He wasn't sure whether his eyes burned more from the sweat dripping into them or from the acrid sulfur fumes that seemed to be filling the tunnel at an alarming rate. He found that if he crouched, the air nearer the floor of the tunnel was slightly cooler and a little more breathable.

  He rounded a sharp bend and froze. The tunnel took a nose dive. He guessed the slope must have been at least forty-five degrees, and down maybe thirty feet over a rock slide to the bottom. But then it got worse. The roof slanted down to a vertical slit that looked to be no more than two feet high and not even that wide. And beyond...there was a hellish pulsing light, casting shadows that danced evilly on the walls. He found himself vacillating between going on and going back, and going back was winning.

  "You gotta be kiddin'," he said aloud. But he willed himself to move forward, picking his way carefully over the boulders strewn haphazardly down the incline. He realized with dread that now even the rocks felt warm to the touch.

  "Okay, I'll just look in, and if I don't like it, I can go back."

  The rocks grated and shifted under his weight. He almost fell, but caught himself by leaping to a different boulder. Carefully, he sat down and slid along the face of the rocks, trying to spread his weight out more evenly over their surface. Twice, he had to quickly lift his bare hand off the surface of rocks that were too hot to comfortably touch.

  Finally, he found himself unwillingly at the bottom. He couldn't stand because the passageway had narrowed so, and was forced to bend over into an uncomfortable crouch. He stooped down and looked in. But the small hole turned out to be a short, curving crawlspace, so he couldn't see much.

  He took a deep breath, forgetting about the sulfur and heat, and almost choked. Coughing, he finally recovered enough to go on.

  "Alright. All you gotta do is crawl in just far enough to stick your head through the other end, and if you don't like what you see, you're outta here!"

  He squatted and found that, to get through, he'd have to turn his body slightly sideways and wriggle himself along until he could reach the edge at the far end where it opened up. Then he could hold on to the edge and pull himself forward as far as he needed to.

  He'd put his head in and was twisting his shoulders when he felt the tremor. It shook him like dice in a Yahtzee cup. There was a series of sharp jolts, serious ones, that reminded him of concussions from big artillery rounds ka-thumping the ground with tremendous force. And then he heard the grinding, grating sound that seared his soul. Jerking his head around, he looked back the way he had come. And the way he had come was following him. The avalanche of boulders over which he'd so cautiously crept had jarred loose and were beginning to shift and slide, the first ones already beginning to tumble and ricochet as they fell toward him like steel balls in a pin ball machine.

  He yelled and smacked his head on the low-hung rock ceiling as he tried to leap up. It was too late. There was nowhere else to go. In seconds he'd be crushed at the bottom of a twenty-ton pile of boulders. Whirling, he dived head first into the narrow cleft of rock he'd been about to enter. It knocked the wind out of him, but he had the presence of mind to jerk his legs up into the fetal position and scramble desperately forward until his body burst through the opening at the other end. He felt the concussion of the rocks as they slammed down into the space he had just occupied and that lent him the impetus to claw his body free of the hole. He fell and rolled several feet, taking several hard knocks against sharp rocks before he slid to a stop. He looked back at the hole in the wall as if he half-expected some banshee to be in hot pursuit. But he was alone. And worse.

  It was easy to see the cavern he'd entered. It was illuminated by red, yellow and orange light dancing crazily on the walls, their source the lake of molten lava in the middle of the ‘room’. He stared at the cauldron of liquid rock that roiled in grotesque slow motion. Bubbles of fiery gas plopped with syrupy slowness on the blackened, gently heaving surface. Frank had said there was a deep pit here. Not any longer. It was filled with lava and must have been thirty or forty feet across. The heat in the confined space was almost unbearable. He knew he had to get away from here before his skin began to blister. With eyes watering and lungs laboring from the superheated air saturated with sulfur, Kim searched the hellish cave for a way out. He moved along the ledge onto which he'd fallen. It seemed to hug the perimeter of the room, just a couple of feet above the pool of lava. He suspected it would soon overflow the ledge. When it did, there would be nowhere for him to go.

  Then he remembered. Janese had described with disgust the purpose to which the basin had been used that now held the rising lake of molten lava. This was where the sewage from up above had been piped. And, if it had been piped, then there had to be...

  He clambered with quickened pace along the ledge, peering into the flickering shadows of the crevasses. And almost missed it. A black, four-inch discharge pipe was jammed down into a crack that cut across the ledge and he probably wouldn't have seen it had he not known what to look for. He glanced over the edge and saw that the end of the pipe was already completely melted away where it had trailed into the pit, and was sagging into a blob where the crack exposed it to the heat.

  Turning from the searing pool, he backtracked the pipe as it snaked along the crevasse in the floor. The crack rose and ran along the wall above his head. It was darker up there and he couldn't make out much detail except when a large bubble of gas erupted in the pool and splattered the walls with light. As soon as he reached out to begin climbing, he had to jerk both hands back because of the radiant heat the stone walls had absorbed. He tried again, but couldn't stand to touch the walls for more than a couple of seconds.

  "This ain't gonna get it," he said aloud. But, looking around, he saw no other way to follow the sewage pipe. What he did see, though, stunned him. The ledge back where he'd entered the cavern was already engulfed in fiery lava! The cave was filling even faster than he'd thought. And then, as if to add insult to injury, the rock ledge beneath his feet began to vibrate. And then to quiver. He threw himself down on the ledge just in time. The ‘quake shook the cavern like a bowl of Jell-O, sloshing red hot lava up and over the edge of the basin in several places, and bringing down a hailstorm of fist-sized rocks to splash in the pool and clatter down all around him from somewhere overhead. The shaking stopped. He cautiously lowered his arms from where he'd instinctively raised them over his head for protection, and what he saw made him wish he could just close his eyes and wish himself out of here. Anywhere would do. Through the dust sifting down from overhead, he could make out something that wasn't there before the ‘quake. Less than forty feet away, a foot-wide split in the rock wall had opened up and lava was gushing out and cascading down into the rapidly-filling pool. He made a quick mental calculation and decided there must be a flow of at least a hundred gallons a minute. He turned back to look at where the crack that contained the pipe ran jaggedly up the wall and disappeared somewhere in the murky dimness overhead.

  "Well," he said, "this sure simplifies the decision-making process."

  He jerked the zipper on his coveralls down to his waist and quickly stripped off his tee-shirt. Gripping it with his teeth, he tore it into several long strips. Pulling his coverall back into place, he selected two of the strips and stuffed the rest of them into a hip pocket. He wrapped the strips around his hands and, using one hand and his teeth, tied knots in each to hold them in place. Then, without another thought, he faced the wall and began to climb.

  There were plenty of handholds at first and he made good headway. But as he climbed, the wall steepened. As he climbed higher, there was less light to help him find hand and footholds. He followed the cleft in the rock face that held the pipe, peering down into it now and then to be sure he was
still on track. Finally, the crack petered out and the pipe surfaced, to lie in plain view against the rock wall, but still climbing. Kim looked down once. And decided not to do that again. The ledge was gone, submerged beneath the rising lava. The pool was at least twenty feet wider and six feet deeper, and seemed to be pursuing him at a rate faster than he could climb. But climb, he did.

  He knew that if his sweaty hands slipped, he'd fall down the rock face and into the roiling lava. At least it would be a quick death. He hoped. Finally, after climbing fifty or sixty feet above the pool of lava, the angle of the wall changed. It leaned away from him, with more frequent handholds, until it was actually more like climbing a steep ladder. And then, nearly a hundred feet above what was now a torrent of liquid fire raging from the fissure in the wall, he reached the cavern ceiling. And an increasing concentration of sulfurous smoke.

  The pipe disappeared. He couldn't see where in the near-darkness above him it went, but he felt something. A movement of air on his skin. Not a lot, and hot, but definitely there. He climbed again, moving into a darkened cleft that seemed to continue even higher. Groping, he frequently touched the pipe to be sure it was still guiding him.

  A ledge! He crawled onto it and almost collapsed. His legs were quivering with the effort and his arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. His breathing seemed about to tear out his throat, and swallowing was agonizing. He knew he must be dehydrated and feared it would sap his strength beyond his ability to go on. But...it wasn't in him to die without a fight.

  He carefully got to his hands and knees, dizzy with the effort, and shaking all over. Forcing himself to his feet, he hugged the wall and welcomed the touch. He suddenly realized the rock up this high was a little cooler and stripped the rags from his hands. That was a big help. He could better grip the handholds now. He tied one rag around his head to keep the sweat from blinding him and resumed climbing. In just a few feet, he felt definite air movement, rising to disappear somewhere above him. And ten feet further, the pipe disappeared into a hole. He felt inside it. Maybe two or three feet wide.