by Bob Finley
"‘Thinks’?" Cochran shot back.
The first class petty officer held up the sheets of paper in his hand and slowly waved them. "‘Strongly recommend’ and ‘discretionary action’ are mentioned, Sir."
Admiral Cochran looked across the display at the Washington's Captain. Jenks Carruthers shook his head.
"We have men down there, Sir. I won't abandon them."
"Understood," the Admiral nodded. "But there are other factors involved as well."
"I'm aware of that, Admiral. But we can't just pull out on the say-so of a bunch of techno-weenies a couple of hundred miles away!"
The Admiral stood quietly in place. His head turned slowly as his eyes drifted from one place in the room to another. Finally, he turned back.
"I agree. Let's see that message." He accepted it from the commtech and scanned it, his eyes darting quickly down the page. He glanced back up at Carruthers.
"They’ve apparently been very busy. Lot of hurry-up research. Computer model projections. Statistical probabilities. Atmospheric plumes. Loss analysis. They’re pretty thorough, considering the amount of time they’ve had. Or not had."
Carruthers didn't comment. He was pretty sure he knew what was coming.
"The volcano is a seamount and, as such, is flat-topped. The top is about seventeen fathoms down. They say if the seismic activity shakes that vent plug loose and all that cold seawater dumps in on top of superheated lava, there's probably going to be quite an explosion."
"How big?" Carruthers asked, feeling like he was being herded down a cattle chute into a holding pen.
"About the size of a tactical nuclear warhead."
There was silence in the room.
"In which case...?" the Captain offered.
"In which case," Cochran added, "the TRAP team and the hostages, not to mention the terrorists, are all dead. And the blast sinks every ship within two miles and extensively damages everything out to three or four miles. Then there's an eighty-three percent chance of a fifty-foot ‘tidal’ wave that goes out in every direction. Probably be more like a hundred feet high when it goes ashore at Gibraltar."
There was another silence that stretched until it was broken by a female voice.
"And that's the good news, isn't it, Admiral?"
Heads turned toward Jackie Darlington, who had entered the CIC unnoticed. She sauntered in, hair flashing red as she moved from darkened area to spotlighted. She kept Jake Cochran centered in her sights as she maneuvered around the equipment clusters and electronic monitoring stations. She stopped just four feet away and appraised him.
"The bad news is," she continued in a throaty voice that could nevertheless be heard throughout the CIC, "that when...if...that volcano blows, it'll be a shot heard, literally, around the world, won't it Admiral?"
Cochran stared at her stonily, neither moving nor answering.
"Because, if I have my facts straight...and it’s rare that I don’t...when Bereel Jambou dies, that is, when his heart stops beating, that's supposed to trigger a computer to set off all the nuclear bombs that he’s scattered in countries all over the globe. Isn't that right, Admiral Cochran?"
It was her tone of voice that warned him. She sounded as if she were grilling some poor slob on camera. Sure enough, when Jake peered through the twilight, there was the cameraman on the other side of the CIC. With the lens pointed straight at him. Jake Cochran's skin crawled and he fought back the urge to have her and her cameraman thrown in the brig.
"We don’t know that for sure, Ms. Darlington. We have only the terrorists’ word for that."
"He blew up half of Africa, didn’t he? Wouldn’t that give his claims some degree of credibility?"
"A single, isolated act of violence does not prove a terrorist's future capabilities, Ms. Darlington."
"Nor does it disprove it, does it, Admiral?"
"As much as we hope that nothing happens to those people down there in that undersea mountain, if there were, after all, a catastrophic explosion or eruption that destroyed the structure, that same explosion would destroy the computer that is allegedly supposed to trigger a chain reaction intended to explode other remote nuclear devices. Therefore, there would be no other explosions anywhere. All of which is a moot point, anyway, since there's no proof that there are any other such devices."
"So, to summarize, and please correct me if I’m wrong, Admiral, here's what you're saying: If the seamount blows up, the terrorists are dead and the hostages are dead, but the threat of other nuclear bombs hidden around the world is over...except, of course that if they do in fact exist, then they’re just sitting there in some musty warehouse waiting to blow up later. Or, if Jambou dies, but the computer survives, we find out for sure whether he was telling the truth when Paris and London and New York and who knows how many other major metropolitan cites start to disappear is a mushroom cloud. Or, if Jambou and his computer survive, we all sit around for the rest of our lives, and our children's lives, and wonder when he's going to get bored and light off one of his toys. Is that about the straight of it, Admiral?"
"Are you quite finished, Ms. Darlington?"
She stood watching him for several seconds. Then, without taking her eyes off him, she said loudly enough for her cameraman to hear her, "Jerry, kill the live feed, but keep the camera rolling."
Cochran could see the man's left hand go to a hip pack. It looked like he turned something off, then brought his hand back up to steady the camera. It was a convincing move.
"Now, Admiral, we're off the air. I'm going to ask you a question. If you answer it honestly and completely, it stays off the air until you say so. If you refuse to answer the question, Jerry will go live again and I'll ask you the same question on live television for the whole world to see and hear. Either way, I get an exclusive. How we do it's up to you."
Cochran was astonished by her audacity and blatantly aggressive blackmail. He couldn't think of anything she could ask him that would make her think that she could wield that much power over him.
"Jerry, be ready to go live."
Jake saw the man's hand go back to his waist. And stay there.
"Admiral Cochran, a few moments ago you mentioned the ‘TRAP’ team. Would you please tell us who they are and what they do?"
Cochran was stunned. His mouth fell open but nothing came out. It would be suicide...and not his...if he said anything on a television broadcast that the enemy would see. But if he tried to avoid the question, he had no doubt that she would keep her word to go live.
"Sergeant-At-Arms," he spoke loudly enough for the whole of CIC to hear.
There was a rush and suddenly there was a U. S. Marine standing stiffly at attention at his elbow.
"Sir!"
"Sergeant-At-Arms, go over there where that cameraman is."
"Yes, Sir!"
It happened.
"Sergeant, draw your sidearm."
"Yes, Sir!"
"Unsafe your weapon."
"Yes, Sir!"
The sound of a click and a slide being worked to chamber a round was loud in the small room.
"Sergeant, put your weapon to that man's head. If he throws that switch his left hand is on, kill him instantly."
"Sir! Yes, Sir!"
In the gloom he could see the Marine's other hand come up to form the correct firing stance.
Jake Cochran, Admiral, United States Navy, looked into the huge eyes of the woman before him, seeing clearly the face that had gone slack and chalky.
"Ms. Darlington," he said slowly, in a voice that was grave-cold, "I will grant you the exclusive interview you want because I know you're doing your job. But I'll do it my way, not yours. And if you threaten me one more time with treasonous acts, such as divulging information to the enemy that endangers the lives of my men, I will shoot you and your cameraman and personally kick your dead bodies overboard to the sharks. Do you understand me?"
All Jackie Darlington could do was nod her head. Her throat had suddenly gone too dr
y to say a word.
"Does your cameraman understand me?"
She nodded again.
"I can’t hear him."
There was a choking sound from somewhere in the gloom and then a faint, croaking "Yes."
"Sergeant-At-Arms, you may safe your weapon."
There was a click and the sound of leather holster flap being snapped.
"Ms. Darlington, you and your cameraman may join me on the flight deck in thirty minutes for your interview. That will be all."
When the two civilians scurried from the room, it would have been impossible for them to ignore the raucous laughter that erupted behind them. Even the Admiral's half-hearted "Stow that noise!" as he left through the other hatchway only diminished it temporarily, until it swelled again. The aftermath sounded like a locker room after a hard-won victory, with its whooping laughter and cat-calls.
Chapter 90
He'd found the loose plywood next to the sink in the toilet and torn his jumpsuit on a nail as he squeezed through the small hole. But that was nothing compared to the blast of heat and sickening smell of sulfur that had assaulted him when he reached the end of the short tunnel he'd entered. He'd swallowed both the rush of bile that rose from his stomach and the fear that gripped his throat and made him pant for breath. He tried to look down the chimney that lay before him, but his eyes teared up so quickly that he ducked back into the tunnel for a moment. Then he rolled on his back and hunched forward until his head was out in the chimney. Somewhere up there he thought he saw, if not a light, at least a grayer darkness. He wondered briefly how...whether...he'd find this little tunnel again in the darkness if he should actually be able to climb this chimney and find no ‘light at the end of the tunnel’.
Whatever.
Like a cockroach feeling its way in the dark, he emerged from the tunnel an inch at a time, first one hand, then the other, outstretched before him. Finally...he realized with a start that the gasp he heard must be his own...his hand found the far side of the shaft. Trembling...exertion, he told himself...he dragged his unwilling body out of its hidey-hole and struggled into a more-or-less vertical position. With the startling amount of heat flowing past him and the choking fumes that had tears streaming down his face, he inch-wormed his way upward. Worked the feet up until he was in a half-crouch. Then force the backside to slide a little higher. A sweaty hand slipped, throwing him off balance and he clawed at the rock walls desperately, breaking a nail and jamming his thumb.
"Careful. Take your time." But time was short. And his legs were trembling. He promised himself to work out harder. If he had the chance.
He was there. Maybe it was only twenty or thirty feet, like Janese said. But it seemed like a lot more. He slapped a sweaty palm on the cool rock floor and bore down to gain purchase. Then the other one. And dragged himself from the wretched hole. Heaving for breath, he lay limply on the floor for ten seconds before he had the strength to raise his head. And found himself staring into the muzzle of a very nasty-looking gun. He froze.
"Well, there goes the neighborhood," someone behind the gun said. His focus shifted from the end of the barrel to the person behind it.
"Kim! What are you doing here?!" he demanded weakly.
"Well, my immediate plan was to shoot whatever came out of this tunnel. But whatever it was, was breathing so hard, I felt sorry for it and waited until I could see it’s pathetic face."
Marc raised his eyes from the stone floor he'd been studying while his breathing leveled off.
"Not funny," he managed to say. "Now, what are you...really doing...here?"
"Shh!" Kim raised up to peer over the cylinders next to them. Then he squatted back down. "I heard all the commotion out in the main cavern and went to see what it was. But when I saw it was a bunch of Rambo-types and they were all shooting in my general direction, I decided to advance in a different direction. By the way, where'd you come from?"
"Whaddayou mean?" Justin rolled himself slowly into a sitting position, his back against the wall. Kim nodded toward the hole in the floor. Marc rolled his eyes at it wearily. "Toilet in Dodge City."
"You're kidding."
Marc looked at him. "No. Why?"
With disgust in his voice, Kim said, "How far up did you have to climb?"
"‘Bout a mile, I think."
"Seriously, how far?"
After a moment, Marc slowly replied, "Janese says it's about 20 feet. I think she deliberately lied to me."
"Agh! That means I could have saved myself that much climbing. I must not have noticed the place where it comes into the chimney."
Justin looked at him in awe. "You climbed the shaft too?" Kim nodded absently. "Farther than I did?"
Kim gave him a ‘are you kidding’ look. Then he gave him the twenty-five-words-or-less version of his escape from Dante’s inferno down below, while his boss listened with his mouth agape.
"I can’t believe you did that!" he finally breathed when the tale was told.
"There's a line from an old Amos n' Andy show...’A man kin do most anything when he's skeered enuff.’ Or something like that."
"Yeah. And speaking of which..." Justin forced himself painfully to his feet. "I’ve got to get out there...now!"
"What are you, crazy? They’re shootin' live bullets out there!"
"Yeah...and if one of them finds Jambou, it'll be bye-bye for all of us. A lot of us."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to try to call off a war that's already started." He looked at the machine pistol in Kim's hands as if seeing it for the first time. "Where’d you get that?" he asked.
Kim motioned him to follow and walked around the desalinization tank. He pointed with his head at the dead guard. "He didn’t need it anymore."
Justin's eyes widened. "You?"
Kim only nodded, the strain showing on his face.
"Well, don’t worry about it. If you hadn’t..."
His voice faded off. Kim realized that Marc was staring at something over his shoulder and nervously whirled around, half expecting to see a bunch of armed men there. He saw nothing.
"What are you looking at?" he reluctantly asked, dreading the answer. He didn’t think it would be anything he really wanted to hear.
Marc stepped around him and walked to a vertical cylinder with a gauge on it.
"You shoot in this direction?" he asked, without turning around.
"Well, yeah...I think so. Why?"
"That would explain what looks like bullet holes in the electric pump for the air compressor. And why it isn’t running. And why it’s a little hard to breathe in here."
"What?!" Kim exclaimed, pushing past his friend to see for himself. "But that's the unit that..."
"...keeps the air in and the ocean out," Justin finished for him.
They looked at each other. "We have less time than we thought," Marc observed. He peered more closely at the gauge. "Pressure's down to .87 atmospheres. Shouldn't be long ‘til somebody notices there's about to be water in the beachfront property down below. With water coming in the front door, hellfire and brimstone filling up the basement, and shooters in the rafters, I think it might be a good thing if we find a way out of here real soon."
"I've always admired your gift for understatement," Kim dryly observed. “Do you also have a plan?"
"No," Justin sighed as he pushed past him, "but we're gonna do it, anyway."
Kim hurried to catch up as his boss dived into the tunnel, took a quick peek around the corner, and began moving toward the main cavern.
"So, what are we going to do?" Kim insisted, hustling along just behind him.
"I don’t know. I'm making this up as I go." He couldn’t see Kim roll his eyes behind him in exasperation. "Don’t roll yo’ eyes at me, boy," Marc said over his shoulder. "I done tol’ you a hunderd times about that." Kim had to smile in spite of himself. They covered the distance much too soon. Both of them knelt and leaned instinctively into the wall of the tunnel. Matsumoto knew when to
be quiet and when to wait. Finally, Marc swiveled his head to whisper over his shoulder.
"Okay. Don't show that weapon to any of those bad boys out there. They don't necessarily know you or me from the bad guys." He paused. "Now, the last time I saw Jambou, he was blasting away at anything that moved with some kind of machine gun. And he was headed for this tunnel." Kim's eyes went wide and Justin made a soothing motion with his hands. "Now, since we didn't pass him, that might mean he’s in this next room. Is this the computer room?" Kim nodded. "Okay. If he's in there, he's probably armed. Against my better instincts, I’m gonna try to keep him alive. But..." he gave Kim's weapon a nod, "...if he tries to shoot me, use that thing."
"You want me to shoot him?"
"Only if he tries to shoot me!"
"But, won't that mean...?"
"He blows us away, or he blows us up. Dead is dead."
After a moment, Kim nodded and shifted the deadly little Uzi in his hands, his senses already heightened.
"Oh, and by the way...with that gun in your hands? Try to look like a hostage."
Kim shot him a wicked look. The irony of being killed by so-called rescuers because he was trying to protect a fellow hostage from being killed by the one they’d come to... He shook his head. It was too complicated to think about right now.
"You ready?" Justin asked. Kim shut his eyes tightly and nodded.
"On three. One......two...."
"HELLO! HEY, OUT THERE!!"
Justin's voice jolted Kim out of his preparation. He snapped his head around and saw his boss squirming along on his belly ten feet away. In fact, his head was just inches away from the computer room doorway.
"You didn't say ‘three’!!" Kim wailed at the retreating form. He whirled and awkwardly duck walked toward the prone figure, afraid he wouldn't be in position to shoot if he had to. Maybe he could shoot the gun out of his hand. Cowboys did it all the time in the vids. Then he wouldn't have to kill him and the bomb...bombs... wouldn't go off. Sure. He hurried...
"IT’S MARCUS JUSTIN. YOU KNOW, THE ONE YOU WERE SENT TO RESCUE? REMEMBER? DON'T SHOOT! EITHER OF US. IF YOU SHOOT JAMBOU, WE'LL ALL BE BLOWN UP! WITH NUCLEAR BOMBS! AND IF YOU SHOOT ME, THEN I'LL BE...WELL, I'LL BE DEAD, AND THAT WON'T BE GOOD!"