The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  Nothing was said for a moment. The pilot broke the radio silence.

  "How many more tries do we get?"

  The two crew members looked at each other. The crew chief shook his head.

  "One. Maybe, if we're lucky, two. No more. He was ten feet from the edge on the last pass."

  The co-pilot shook her head in disagreement. "I don’t think so. I don’t think he’ll make two more passes."

  There was five seconds of radio silence. When the pilot spoke again, there was steel in his voice.

  "Alright," he said. "Reel in the wire."

  "What?" the crew chief said, horrified.

  "High-speed retrieval. Do it NOW!" the pilot barked.

  The chief stepped to the hatch and threw the winch into high gear. As he did so, the pilot slammed the big helicopter into a steep climb. The co-pilot’s knees almost buckled under the unexpected G's. Bringing Monk in was not a pleasant task. He could be heard above the noise of the chopper when he was still whipping in the wind twenty feet out. The crew chief swung him inboard and within seconds looked like he was trying to carry an alley cat that didn't want to be carried. The ship heeled hard to the left, the deck pitching up sharply, and the bottom fell out as the pilot powered her into a steep dive. Monk and the chief were thrown to the deck and pinned there. The co-pilot threw herself on top of them and yelled into the soldier's left ear.

  "We’ve got maybe one more chance! We’re going to get ahead of your buddy, touch down on the drop-off, and let him run into us. You’ll have about two seconds to get him. It’s our last chance. If you miss, he goes over the edge and we all get to watch him die!"

  Monk gaped at her. "You’re going to set this thing down on the edge of that whirlpool?"

  "That's what I said. But there’s a catch. It's got to be done from the float on the port side. We can’t get to the one on the starboard side because the hatch is too far aft. But the crew door on the port side’s just above the float."

  Monk scrambled up off the crew chief. "So what’s the problem?"

  She looked at him. "The winch is on the starboard side. Whoever goes out onto the crew-side float won’t be secured from falling into the whirlpool."

  Monk grinned at her. "So, like I said, what’s the problem?"

  She shook her head and grinned in return. "Okay. We've got maybe a minute before it’s too late. Come on, I’ll show you where the hatch is."

  In ten seconds, Monk was out the hatch and climbing spread-eagled out onto the float that normally allowed the craft to land on water. The wind from the rotor wash was viciously whipping his clothing and his hair.

  "He’s ready!" she said to the pilot over her headset.

  The chopper instantly nosed down and gained speed. She knew that the pilot had been pacing the man in the water, just yards behind him, as he waited for the crew to get ready for this last-ditch, desperate attempt to save the man’s life.

  They passed Strickland and she could see him clearly, could see the deep lines of profound weariness in his face as he fought to stay afloat against almost impossible hope of rescue, could sense how weak he was. She knew he’d never be able to hold on to his rescuer. She wasn’t the only one who had seen him.

  Three more members of the TRAP team pushed by her, scrambling out the hatch and onto the float, clinging to whatever might give them the slightest grip. The third one out couldn’t find a perch, so he braced himself between the aircraft skin and the float to act as a relay.

  The helicopter began to vibrate and jitter, bumping up and down in bone-jarring thumps.

  "What’s wrong?!" the co-pilot shouted into her mic.

  "Turbulence! The vortex is...generating...some very unstable...turbulence!"

  "Do you need help?!"

  "Stay there and talk me through this! I’ve got to line up in just the right spot in front of this guy, so he hits dead-center the float!"

  She'd never forget the next twenty seconds. They were the longest of her flying career. In spite of severe turbulence, flying a ten-ton aircraft sideways in a circle, and having to delicately set one float down on the edge of a watery precipice that dropped away into a hundred-foot-deep cone that ended in an active volcano, the pilot dropped his ship down in front of the onrushing swimmer and held rock-steady until he banged into the side of the float. For the next ten seconds, he couldn't see what was going on twelve feet behind him, but he kept his mouth shut, held his breath, and waited.

  Outside, Monk saw Strickland heading for them. But he was facing the other way.

  "Major! MAJOR!!" The second time Monk yelled above the roar of the chopper and of the millions of tons of water rushing by, Strickland heard him. Feebly, he was able to turn his body facing in the direction he was traveling. And saw the helicopter. The pilot was traveling just a little slower than the current, so Strickland was gaining on the aircraft. Watching out his window, the pilot slowed his forward motion by five miles per hour and Matt gained that much more quickly on the men waiting for him.

  "They’ve got him! Go, Go, Go!!"

  He went. The big Sea King tore loose from the perilous grip the sea had on it and, after the four men were dragged inside, rose into the sky at 2,000 feet per minute, shaking the water victoriously from her mane.

  The flight back to the Washington was only a minute longer than the flight out. All craft in the area were pulling back due to the dual warnings of nuclear threat as well as the potential for a catastrophic volcanic explosion, but Swansong's 160 miles per hour made short work of it.

  They were given priority to land and were swarmed by the crew and medical personnel as they touched down on the deck aft of the tower.

  Kim's first words to the officer who met them was to ask the status of the VIKING. He knew if the ship had made it out, Marc would be on it.

  Chapter 101

  "Stay right there, Captain." There was no mistaking the voice behind his command chair.

  "I assume you’re armed?"

  "Of course."

  "Of course," Marcus Justin mimicked.

  "That was quite a ride, Captain. Do you do that often?"

  "Now and then, when things get a little boring."

  "You don't seem surprised to find me here."

  "Jambou, I’ve stopped being surprised where you're concerned." He heard the familiar laugh.

  "Well, I do hope that everyone else, especially your US Navy, is convinced that I died in the decoy minisub. It would make my life just a little bit easier for a while. Long enough, at least, for me to...how do your western vids say it? ‘Ride off into the sundown’."

  "Sunset."

  "Whatever. The important thing just now is for me to buy enough time to disappear. Don’t you agree?"

  "You really don’t want my opinion on that, do you?"

  Jambou chuckled. "No, I suppose not."

  "What do you want, then?"

  "I just told you. To escape. To hide. To start over."

  "And I guess I’m your escape, is that it?"

  Jambou didn't answer. Instead, after a few seconds of silence, he walked around to Marc’s right side, being careful to give him a wide berth, and stood near the front acriliglass wall several feet away. He looked the wall over, his eyes taking in everything. Then he spent several seconds staring at the controls in front of and beside Justin.

  "I’m very impressed, Captain, though you may not appreciate that. This ship is a fine piece of craftsmanship. I assume it’s your own design?"

  Marc just watched him. The gun in the man’s hand looked like a 9mm Beretta. Anger flared as Justin realized that he’d probably taken it off the dead soldier’s body that Leo...read ‘Jambou’...had killed in the hallway as he was setting up his fake escape. But Marc held his emotions tightly in check. This was not the time for mistakes.

  "Come, Captain. We needn’t be enemies. We’re both reasonably civilized men..."

  "One of us is," Marc cut him off. "The other is a vicious egomaniac who kills people for fun and profit. Wanta guess w
ho’s who?"

  Jambou's feigned joviality sagged and his face fell. "You are a hard man to deal with, Captain Justin."

  "I don't deal with animals like you, Jambou. What do you want from me?"

  They stared at each other for several seconds before Jambou raised the weapon from where he’d allowed it to hang casually down by his side. He leveled the barrel at Marc.

  "What I want is the use of your ship. If what I’ve heard about it is true, there’s nothing in anybody's navy that can catch it and it can go anywhere in the world. I could even hide out on the bottom of the deepest ocean and stay there for weeks, and no one could find me. As it happens, that’s exactly what I need right now."

  "And what gives you the slightest idea that I’d be willing to help you get away? After what you’ve done? You must be crazier than I thought you were!"

  Justin knew from the way the man's eyes widened that he’d struck a nerve with the ‘crazy’ bit.

  "You’ll help me escape or I’ll kill you." Jambou raised the gun threateningly.

  Marc answered coolly, "You fire that thing inside this ship and we both die. You have noticed that it’s built of glass, haven't you?"

  Jambou looked down at the weapon in his hand and then back up at Justin. "It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a chance. At this point, I really don’t have anything to lose, do I? If they catch me, I die. If I destroy your ship, I die. It's a lose/lose situation, wouldn’t you say, Captain? However...if you help me escape, you live, I live, and you get to keep your precious toy." He gestured with the gun to indicate the VIKING. "And, I must say," he looked around appreciatively, "this is such a nice toy!" A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He walked around behind Justin.

  "Now, Captain. You apparently have some kind of voice activated computer on board. I heard you talking to it. Much like my Leo, I suppose."

  "Not hardly," Marc growled. "This one doesn’t kill people."

  "I’m glad to hear that. I feel safer already. Now. Turn back around in that chair and let’s get out of here."

  Slowly, reluctantly, Marc Justin complied. He slid his chair back into place and locked in.

  "Without talking to your computer," Jambou said, "and keeping your hands where I can see them at all times, I want you to take the...what do you call this, a ship?...I want you to take this ship out of what seems to be some kind of automatic pilot. And I want you to turn the ship away from your George Washington, and drive it straight out into the open ocean. Do you understand? And, remember, I will be watching everything you do."

  Justin did as he was told. Not that he had much choice. Except for one small detail. He headed straight for the Washington.

  A gun barrel cracked! into the right side of his head, half-blinding him with pain and drawing blood from a cut on his ear.

  "The compass in front of you reads northeast. The Atlantic Ocean is due west. You will turn the ship at once or I will shoot you in the back of the head!"

  Justin blinked away enough pain to read the compass, chastised himself silently for not thinking of it before, and heeled the VIKING into a left turn. When west appeared on the digital readout, he pulled out of the turn.

  "Now. Go deeper. Go very deep. And do not make the mistake again of thinking I am stupid!"

  Jambou had him level off at twelve hundred feet. For the next hour he performed most of the normal functions of driving the ship, all under the watchful eye of his captor. It was obvious from his orders that Jambou learned quickly. And, though there was a massive amount about the ship that he didn’t know yet, Justin was sure that the man probably knew enough already that he could, with luck, succeed in escaping...without Justin’s help. Which meant that Justin’s value as a pilot was dropping fast. Which meant that school was about to be over.

  "Alright, Captain," Jambou said smugly. He walked back over to the place he’d stood before in order to keep an eye on his captive. "I think it’s time that I drive now. Stand up and move away from the seat." He waved the gun in Marc's direction.

  Marc reached to unbuckle his seat restraint. But instead, he jammed both feet down on the emergency brake. The VIKING, which had been running at almost sixty miles per hour, suddenly tried to stop and back up. Marc, still strapped in, merely slid forward until his seat restraint stopped him. But Jambou, who had been standing, was caught totally off guard and was thrown violently forward, crashing head and shoulders into the clear acriliglass wall of the control sphere.

  Marc popped his seat restraint off as the VIKING came to a stop and dived out of his chair. Jambou, reeling backwards from the sudden stop, caromed into him and they both went down. But Marc had underestimated the force of the blow he'd taken to the head earlier from Jambou's gun. The blood that had run down his neck from the cut on his ear had coagulated along his right shoulder where it had soaked into his uniform. But until he leaped from his chair, he hadn't realized that he was suffering from concussion. His head swam giddily and his body refused to do what he told it. His reactions were frustratingly slow and when he tried to get to his feet, Jambou beat him to it. Himself dazed from the blow he’d taken when he was thrown into the wall of the sphere, his recovery time was nonetheless much swifter and he saw his advantage. And took it. He pummeled his opponent unmercifully, knocking him down and kicking him in the head and ribs when he fell. Justin summoned all his energy and, as Jambou was bending over to lift him to his feet in order to hit him again, he drove straight up from a crouching position and caught Jambou full in the face with the top of his head. Jambou grunted and went sprawling across the carpeted control sphere, tumbling to a stop at the far side.

  They both saw it at the same instant. The gun was lying where Jambou had dropped it. But it was much closer to Jambou than it was to Marc. Knowing he only had seconds to live, and that there was no way he’d get to the gun first, Marc turned and ran.

  He cleared the threshold between the two spheres like a low-hurdle runner and, still reeling from the effects of the concussion, staggered down the hallway, ricocheting from wall to wall as he ran. Behind him, Jambou scooped up the gun and unsteadily ran after him. As Marc passed through the lab/kitchen, the gun roared behind him and glass aquariums and metal lab equipment exploded next to his head. He instinctively ducked and ran now in desperation, overturning a stainless steel cabinet behind him to slow down his pursuer. He heard Jambou crash into it and go down.

  He dived into the reactor room and, gasping for breath, ran to a wall panel. He slapped his palm onto its flat surface and, chest heaving, waited impatiently for it to open. Finally, when it did, he rapidly punched in a numbered code, answered two verification questions, and slammed the box shut. Hearing Jambou staggering clear of the debris in the room he’d just come through, he ran toward the stern of the ship. But eventually, he came to the end. He knew he wouldn’t be able to decompress the air lock leading to the dive sphere before Jambou arrived, so he jerked open a locker and snatched out a gas-operated spear gun they sometimes used to collect fresh fish for supper.

  But he’d underestimated Jambou's recovery. He was still turning from the locker with the spear gun in his hand when Jambou burst into the room. There was no contest against a 9mm handgun. What happened next surprised him. Jambou, instead of shooting him outright, ordered him to drop the spear gun. He did.

  Jambou's chest was heaving from the sudden exertion, and the gun in his hand wavered slightly. But the gun was still in his hand. Marc was pleased to see the blood that was still flowing from the other man's nose and dripping down the front of his jumpsuit. Jambou moved to one side and motioned with the gun.

  "Get back up front. And this time, if you try anything, I'll kill you for sure." His eyes were hard and very watchful.

  Justin moved past him and went back to the control sphere. He really didn't feel like doing anything else at that moment.

  "Get in that chair. And bring the ship up to sixty feet."

  Marc looked at him carefully, wondering what he was up to. But being l
iterally under the gun, he had no choice but to do what he was told. And Jambou wouldn’t be fooled by the same trick twice. He went to the front, sat on the floor eight feet away, and leaned back against the clear glass wall. The gun didn’t waver from him once.

  Marc brought the VIKING up to sixty feet and, at Jambou’s order, set it to hover. Then Jambou ordered him out of his seat and back down the sub the way they had come.

  "Show me how to operate the decompression room," he said bluntly. Justin cycled the air lock and stood aside for Jambou to pass through. But the man made a face that might have been an evil smile, spun him around, and pushed him in. Then, reaching in, he grabbed Justin by the hair and viciously ground the gun barrel into the base of his skull. He stepped into the air lock behind him and ordered him to complete the cycle. In the tiny confines of the ‘lock, there was no chance to struggle. He would have died instantly. When the pressure inside the dive sphere equaled the pressure of the outside sea, the air lock door opened into the room.

  They stepped out the other side into the dive room and Jambou pushed him away, quickly putting distance between them while he kept the gun trained on him.

  "Open that dive hatch," he ordered curtly.

  Marc did so, the man-hatch in the floor sliding downward into the sea like an elevator, exposing the hole through which divers came and went while the ship was submerged.

  "Now, close it."

  He closed it.

  "Now. Open it again."

  "What are you, stupid? You get your kicks watching this hole open and close?"

  Jambou raised the gun and pointed it straight at him. He opened the hatch again.

  "Turn around and put your hands on top of your head," Jambou said.

  "Why?" Marc asked.

  "Because doing what I tell you to do keeps you alive," Jambou hissed down the barrel of the Beretta.

  Slowly, Marc turned around. And just as slowly put his hands on top of his head. Which hurt.

  "Now what?" he growled.