The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  Over the impossible din of bloodlust, Kim realized that Frank Sheppard was just a few feet in front of him and shouting his name. They locked eyes. Sheppard nodded, mouthed 'She made it!' and watched to make sure Kim had got the message. Kim nodded and Frank faded back.

  "What now?" he thought. "He's not going to just let me walk away. Am I going to have to kill him? Do I have a choice?" The irony of it was that he could have killed him with a knife to the heart instead of turning the blade away and throwing him instead. Now that he might be winning, would he have to kill him anyway?

  He made his decision. Twisting his right arm, he forced the back edge of his right thumb into Banner's windpipe, completely cutting off what little air the man had been getting. He felt his arms going numb from the pressure he dared not release and his ribs were screaming from the strain they were in. Banner's face was almost purple and he was clawing at Kim's hands around his throat. Having by his own nature been so intent on killing Kim, it never once occurred to him that all he had to do to end this was slap the floor twice in the sign of surrender. Or perhaps it simply never occurred to Sergeant Major Paul Samuel Banner to surrender.

  The explosion a few feet from Kim's head ended the decision-making process, and he ducked involuntarily as Banner's second-in-command discharged his boss's .45 into the air. Then he bent down and jammed the muzzle just below Kim's right ear. It was suddenly very quiet in the cavern, but even though Kim's ears were still buzzing from the shot, he heard Carruthers say, "Let him go." Kim started to turn his head in the direction of the gun, but it ground more deeply into just exactly the right nerve. Carruthers knew what he was doing.

  Kim disentwined his grip and painfully slid his hands from around the huge neck. Banner sagged backwards onto him and Carruthers had to drag them apart, unfortunately by the back of Kim's collar. He looked up as Carruthers motioned with the gun for him to move away. He did so and painfully got to his feet. When he staggered, he was startled that he had so much trouble standing. But then he looked around. And everybody was staggering.

  There were yells and shouts and total confusion for almost ten seconds. Then, above all the other voices, he heard one he recognized. Frank Sheppard's.

  "Earthquake! It's an earthquake!"

  It only lasted fifteen seconds but it was enough to rattle everybody. Even after it stopped, there were overhead lights still swaying and, in the eerie, undulating light, there was fear on more than one face. As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. They all looked uneasily around the vaulted ceiling and then at each other. There wasn't much doubt what they were thinking.

  "Get over there with the others," Carruthers said in a surprisingly respectful voice. Kim moved to stand with Frank, Cy, and Bill. The man with the gun knelt to feel Banner's carotid pulse and stood. He looked at the motley assembly. "Winslow. Kruger. When the Sarge comes around, get him on his feet and get him cleaned up." Two men moved cautiously to their leader's side, correctly guessing the temper he'd be in when he regained consciousness. Carruthers came over to the four hostages.

  "Where's the woman?" he asked. Kim noticed the .45 was hanging down by the man's side instead of pointing in their direction.

  They all shook their heads and looked at each other. Carruthers let it slide. He looked directly at Kim for a moment before he continued.

  "You. If I was you, I'd find a place to hide. We been together ten years, and I ain't never seen him lose a fight before. He ain't gonna like it." Kim nodded and they all started to turn away.

  "One other thing," Carruthers said. They turned back.

  "You could o' killed him instead o' throwin' him. Why didn't you?"

  "It wasn't necessary," Kim replied, shrugging. Carruthers searched his face for a moment.

  "Might come a time you wish you had," he observed darkly. Then he abruptly turned and walked away. The VIKING’s crew moved in around Kim to look at his wounds, but he wisely got them moving.

  "I think he's right," he said to them. "I don't think this is a very healthy place for any of us right now."

  Chapter 46

  Jambou glanced first at the monitor and then the clock. The monitor had chimed him the moment Justin entered the elevator, sensing the additional weight. And, according to the clock, Justin was a little early. He panned the remote camera and zoomed to a tight facial. From his expression, it was obvious Mr. Justin was upset about something. Which would account for his being early. And Jambou was pretty sure he knew what it was. He'd seen the last half of the confrontation between Banner and Matsumoto just ten minutes before. And he hadn't stopped it because, to his surprise, Matsumoto seemed to be holding his own. Protecting Matsumoto wasn't a high priority, but seeing Banner brought down certainly was. He smiled. Especially since Matsumoto was apparently, like himself, racially inferior in Banner's opinion. The smile faded as Banner's racism swirled unexpectedly to the dark surface of Jambou's consciousness and he turned away from the bank of monitors. Going to his dais, he sank into the soft leather chair and passed Justin through the outer lock. Sensors imbedded in the walls of the passageway tracked his captive's progress on a 3 by 4 inch screen near his hand.

  "You're early, Captain. And angry about something, it seems."

  "You bet I am! Can't you keep your dog on a leash? Or is he the one in control here?"

  "I assume," Jambou countered coolly, "you're referring to Mr. Banner and the misunderstanding he and your assistant had?"

  "Misunderstanding?! Is that what you call attempted murder? Or are you so accustomed to it yourself that you don't recognize it for what it is anymore?" Marc took two steps toward Jambou, who carefully measured the distance between them with a practiced eye.

  "You know yourself that Mr. Matsumoto and Mr. Banner haven't been the best of friends since your arrival. And Mr. Matsumoto's illegal excursion last night didn't help any. In fact, I sent Mr. Banner to recover from Mr. Matsumoto whatever it was that he was carrying when he left the ship. So, Mr. Banner's under considerable pressure to get the job done. Unless, of course, you'd like to get it for us and give Mr. Banner reason to stay away from your friend?"

  Marc had seen the maneuver coming. "Kim already told that moron that he was carrying wet clothes. And, as for his ‘illegal excursion’ aboard the VIKING, he was doing what I told him to do. So, if you want anything else, leave my crew alone and deal with me!"

  "And exactly, Captain," Jambou said in a quiet voice thickly coated with menace, "what was it you told him to do?"

  "Well, what do you think I'd tell him?" Justin grated with heavy sarcasm. "To find a way out of here, what else?"

  Jambou smiled frostily. "And did he?"

  Justin smiled back in a wolfish grin. "Not yet, no."

  They stared at each other for a long moment. "May I offer you refreshment, Captain, before we go on the air?" Jambou finally broke the silence.

  "You may offer me my ship back and safe passage out of here for all the people you're holding hostage, how's that?"

  Jambou smiled ruefully. "See me after the broadcast about that," he hedged.

  "Does that mean you're going to let us go?"

  "Why wouldn't I allow you to leave?" he spread his hands and arched his eyebrows. "The fewer mouths I have to feed around here, the more for me."

  Marc studied the man with cynical skepticism. "So when this is over, you're just gonna let us waltz on out of here, then. That right?"

  Jambou tossed one limp hand out nonchalantly, squinted, and leaned his bald head to one side. "Well..." he said, "...once I'm sure everything has settled down, yes."

  "‘Settled down’...?"

  "Oh, I think you understand what I mean, Captain. While you're my...guests...there's less probability that some misguided bunch of White Knights...no offense...will come riding in here to interfere with my plans. But once everybody's routine gets back to normal, I'd really rather you wouldn't stay."

  Justin changed tack. "I assume you felt the tremors a few minutes ago?"

  Jambou sighed
and replied in a bored voice, "Yes."

  "Are you also aware that it wasn't just a tremor?"

  "Oh? Then what was it?"

  Justin watched him closely as he answered. "It was a warning," he said slowly.

  "Of what?"

  "That this rat's nest of yours is going to blow up. As in ‘boom!’. As in Krakatoa City. Know what I mean?"

  Jambou regarded him as if he were babbling in a foreign tongue. After a moment he asked, "No, exactly what do you mean?"

  Marc looked more closely to see whether he was being goaded. He finally shook his head and looked around, then back at his captor.

  "This is a volcano you live in...right?"

  "Yes...? And?"

  "Well, it's about to go ballistic." There was still no reaction from Jambou. "It going to blow up!" Justin said in disbelief.

  Jambou's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in obvious astonishment. He stared at Justin. Then, finally, he laughed. Out loud. Rolling laughter. Deep laughter. When he finally stopped, he turned back to Marc.

  "And where did you get this revelation?" he asked, spreading his hands wide in admonishment.

  Justin was still watching the big man. He really didn't believe it. "From Frank," he said. "Frank Sheppard. He's an expert on volcanoes! No, more than that. It's even a hobby with him!"

  "Why would he say a thing like that?"

  "Because he's been...he's been...around a lot of volcanoes and he can tell when they're getting ready to erupt."

  "And this one is?" Jambou crooned in a liquid voice.

  "Yeah! That's what he said!"

  "Did he say when?"

  "Yeah," Marc's voice had acquired a hard edge to it, "he did. Sometime between now and two weeks from now."

  "Oh, good. I was afraid it was going to be today, and I already have a full schedule planned. Maybe by then I can work it in."

  "Then...you don't believe it?"

  Jambou took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He regarded his ‘guest’ with a surprising degree of tolerance.

  "Captain," he finally responded, "do you think I would have foolishly rushed in here with a hare-brained idea and risked millions of dollars, not to mention my life...and yours, of course...without feasibility studies, seismic tests, structural integrity forecasts? It's all documented. By experts in their fields. And your amateur volcano-chaser, Doctor Sheppard, is going to tell all these people they're wrong?" He slowly shook his head. "I don't think so. No, I don't think so. Undersea tremors are common. It's to be expected, like tornadoes in Kansas. Have all the people in Kansas moved out? No. They accept them as a way of life. That's how it is. And," he smiled fatalistically, "that's how it is with me. Anyway, life without a little risk would be dull, indeed. I'm sure you agree, considering your own chosen profession." His logic brought Marc up short. When you're right, you're right. "Was there anything else?"

  "Yeah," Marc recovered quickly, "as a matter of fact there is. You seemed to have overlooked one very important fact in this Grand Plan of yours."

  Jambou smiled patronizingly. "Please. Enlighten me."

  "Do you really think the rest of the world is just going to roll over and let you get away with this nuclear shake-down?"

  "Eventually, yes."

  "Well, they won't!"

  "No?"

  "No. No way."

  Jambou regarded Justin with a contemplative stare, finally glancing at the clock. "We have a few minutes, yet, Captain. Would you like to tell me what you think will happen?"

  "You know that I left Ben Masters back on MARS, to take her to the surface?"

  Jambou nodded slightly. "A reasonable thing to do."

  "And that by now he's been rescued by the navy? Our navy?"

  "Alright."

  "And, with the clues your...traitor...dropped to get us here, the U. S. Navy knows by now pretty much where we are. And, therefore, where you are."

  "Yes? So?"

  "And that doesn't bother you?"

  Jambou just sat motionless and waited. Justin couldn't sit still any longer. He got up and began to pace, and since he'd moved further away, Jambou didn't stop him.

  "Well, it should. It should bother you. Because I know something you," he stabbed a finger in Jambou's direction, "don't know. And it bothers me plenty!"

  Still, Jambou said nothing.

  "You ever heard of the TRAP team?"

  Jambou pursed his lips, squinted his eyes, and finally shook his head. "No, I don't believe I have."

  "Not many people have. They're an elite, international anti-terrorist strike force, and they're only used as a last resort or when a threat is deemed catastrophic enough to warrant their intervention. Such as this."

  "Catastrophic? Don't you think you're being just a little melodramatic, Captain?"

  "No, I don't! You've taken international hostages, you're guilty of piracy against a U. S. vessel, you have nuclear weapons, for heaven's sake, and you're about to threaten the whole world with them! How do you think the international community's going to react? With loving arms?"

  "They'll get over it."

  "Wrong! They're gonna be on you like flies on a road-kill 'possum."

  Jambou shook his head and smiled. "Your vocabulary is..." he chuckled out loud and shook his head again, "...astounding. You're obviously literate, and yet..."

  Justin gripped the back of the chair he was standing behind and leaned over it intently. The veins on each side of his neck were standing out like ropes.

  "Listen to me, you fool, before it's too late!" he hissed. "Within a few hours of this broadcast you're planning, you'll have a dozen warships up there with a hundred missiles locked in on you! Every nationality that has a ship within five hundred miles will be heading your way! They won't be deciding whether to play your naïve game of ‘King Of The Mountain’...they'll be raffling off tickets to see who gets to blow you away! And us with you! Now, give it up, before you back us all in a corner!"

  As Marc railed, Jambou's eyes had gradually gone cold and brittle. The smile was gone and when he finally spoke, Justin was afraid he'd gone too far.

  "First, Captain, I have anticipated military response. Yes, the warships will show up. Yes, they will bark and growl and strain at the leash like the attack dogs they are. But they'll stay on their leashes because the countries who own them don't have the will to unleash them. They'll debate and filibuster and protest, and their political hacks will attack each other, but they will not attack me. In almost seventy years, with all the thousands upon thousands of nuclear weapons that exist, only one country has ever used them. Yours. And your country is so guilt-ridden for having done so, they would talk me to death before they'd do it again. As for the others, because they've never used one, they won't do it now. Nobody wants to be first because nobody knows where it would stop. Instead, there will be debates and resolutions in the United Nations and weeks will become months and the public, who's already lived under the threat of nuclear weapons for three generations, will grow tired of hearing about it and come to resent the interruption of their soaps and game shows. Public stupor and apathy will dull the edge of decisiveness. The world's good citizens will shrug, go back to the comfort zones of their drab routines, and prove once again that no incursion on their morality, cultural values, and decadent life styles, no matter how flagrant, will stay them from their own personal and selfish pursuits of lust, money and power."

  "And, secondly, Captain," Jambou went on after he'd drawn a deep breath, "I will tell you this: the last man who called me a fool apologized a thousand times before I finally allowed him to die." His eyes burned into Justin's.

  Marc slowly walked around the chair and sat down, leaning forward in an imploring gesture. "Look," he said in a calmer voice, not wanting to step on an unseen landmine in this disturbed man's psyche, "this TRAP team...they're not your every-day, run-of-the-mill anti-terrorist group. They're different...in one very important way."

  Jambou had withdrawn from the field of verbal battle. He s
at, stone-faced, not moving. Justin pressed on.

  "This is a deep-cover, black operation that exists, but doesn't exist, if you know what I mean. After terrorism infiltrated the United States in the nineties, it woke us up. When bombings killed innocent women and children in our own country instead of Ireland or Iraq, the blood that ran in the gutters was red, white and blue. There was a sudden tidal wave of emotion to form an international strike force that would be different from all the others up to then. It would be sanctioned by the United Nations under the agreement that desperate member-nations, who'd tried everything else, finally called the Terrorist Reactive Alliance Pact...TRAP. The team was recruited from military forces all over the world. They're the best. But they all have one personality trait in common. Every one of them will kill on command. No exceptions. No remorse. Once they're activated they're completely autonomous and recalling them's like trying to stop a bullet from a smoking gun. Their job is to kill every single terrorist with total disregard for the safety of any hostage. If a hostage survives, it's just pure, dumb luck. They don't negotiate and they don't take prisoners." He stopped talking for a moment, considering how to convince this man.