The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  At barely six-one, General Clarence Buford Artley was hardly an imposing figure. But it wasn't his size that had won him his rank or his position. It was his unassailable patriotism, incorruptible morality, and incorrigible sense of fairness that made him instantly liked and trusted by everyone he met, from foot soldier to his peers. The only ones who didn't trust him were politicians and lobbyists who didn't trust anybody who couldn't be bought. The fact that he also held doctorates in both chemical and genetic engineering contributed to many an adversary's aversion to crossing intellectual swords with him, as well. He spoke quietly, as usual, to the hushed group.

  "The Joint Chiefs have been asked to consider what military response the United States should entertain in this situation, if any. We've given the matter careful consideration. We've run exhaustive scenarios through the usual computer resources in order to be as thoroughly aware as possible of the consequences of whatever action we take, should we take any. We've reached the following conclusions and submit them to you, and to the President, as recommendations:”

  "Our first action should be to place our military forces on alert inside the continental United States in order to mobilize them to resist any external threat as well as to provide quick response to any U. S. city in which a thermonuclear device might be detonated." A thrill of shock ran through the room as the forbidden words were spoken aloud.

  "We should simultaneously notify our allies as well as other nations who have likewise been threatened as to the reasons for increasing the military level of readiness within our own borders, in order to allay their apprehensions, while offering those who have been targeted support in case any further detonations occur on their soil. We do not recommend at this time any escalation of military posture by our troops on foreign soil, in order to demonstrate that our actions are purely defensive."

  "We should immediately demand, through diplomatic channels, that the United Nations be convened in special session to obtain international consensus for appropriate military response by NATO, as well as by ourselves, of course, should it become necessary."

  "We should immediately request that NATO activate the Terrorist Reactive Alliance Pact team, commonly referred to as the TRAP team, and hold them in readiness for assignment should the situation deteriorate."

  "We should immediately put assets on site in the area of this Centinela Seamount to demonstrate a show of force in hopes that this group of terrorists will capitulate when faced with overwhelming odds. And, if we don't solicit, we should at least allow a limited show of force in the area by those countries who have also been threatened, should they so choose. We feel that a united front could be an intimidating factor in the terrorists' decision to surrender, release the hostages, and negate the nuclear threat."

  "Finally, we recommend that unless negotiations yield acceptable results within 48 hours, military action should be initiated against the terrorists, beginning with the TRAP team and supported by U. S. forces on the scene, due to the fact that all the hostages, as far as we know, are U. S. citizens."

  "I have submitted this proposal to the President in writing, and on behalf of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I will entertain any questions or comments at this time, but we believe that these actions as outlined are the appropriate response and are in the best interest of our country." He stopped speaking and, within seconds, the room erupted.

  "Aren't you jumping the gun a little bit? I mean, military action..."

  "We don't want to get in another shootin' war with..."

  "Hey, we can't let some punk push us around! I don't care if he does..."

  "The tax payers aren't going to stand for another..."

  "How do we know for sure this nut really has..."

  "What makes you think Congress will..."

  One by one, Art Artley addressed the reactions of those present, from the inane to the extreme. The night before, his staff had unmercifully ripped each recommendation to shreds and challenged it with every objection imaginable. Then they compiled a list, prioritized it by consensus, and assaulted him in a six-hour siege, as he tried to overcome their objections. By the time he stood before the White House wolf pack, he was more than prepared. He was convinced that the Joint Chiefs' recommendation to the President was not only right, it was just.

  As he stood before them, speaking with quiet conviction, he experienced a feeling of detachment from the emotionally-charged scene. A phrase came to him from many years before. A soldier had gone berserk and begun firing his M-16 into a crowd in a PX, killing several women and children. A nearby MP corporal, supervising a prisoner work detail, shot and killed the crazed soldier. The Sergeant of the Guard had called it a ‘righteous killing’ and commended the corporal for bravery. He thought about it again. A ‘righteous killing’. What better phrase could possibly apply to the action he and his fellow soldiers were recommending to the President. What, indeed?

  Chapter 56

  "Keith! Ludlow's chopper's been grounded!" Jeffrey Valance yelled over the din in the direction of Keith Presnell, whose desk faced his just fifteen feet away. They were barely two hours into the still-breaking story that would eventually make them co-owners of a Pulitzer. They'd stood firm on being partners in the unfolding drama and won. Now they were surrounded by chaos as housekeeping dragged in desks, chairs, files, while technicians swarmed over banks of video monitors, computers, studio cameras and all the other toys that were tools of the trade in broadcast news.

  "What?! " Presnell snatched the telephone away from his ear and yelled back. "Grounded?! Who says?"

  "He does! Says the airport in Cadiz has shut down. Nothing in or out."

  "Why? What's going on?" Presnell hung up the phone with no thought to whoever was on the other end and hurried around his desk, dodging people as he made his way to where Valance was straining to hear the long distance connection.

  "He's not sure. Says all they'll tell him is that the Federales have sealed off the airport. What?" Valance held the receiver against one ear and the palm of his hand flat against his other ear. "Says he just heard on a cabby's radio that the navy's thrown a blockade across the harbor as well! What do you think's up?"

  "Ours or theirs?" Presnell demanded. Valance gave him a blank look.

  "Our navy, or theirs?" Keith blurted impatiently. Jeff's expression abruptly changed to a startled understanding, as he grasped the implications of the question.

  "Oh!!" he managed to say. "Theirs."

  "So what's he gonna do? We gotta get a camera in the air and over this Centinela Sea...whatever, before somebody beats us to it!"

  "I don't know what he can do. It sounds like the Spanish government's running scared and heading for the root cellar."

  "The what?"

  "The root cellar. You know, Dorothy and Toto, the tornado, Kansas..."

  "Never mind!" Keith threw up a restraining hand. "Never mind!." He stared hard at nothing for a moment. "What about Jackie Darlington? Isn't she over there, somewhere? Where is she?"

  They both dived into the pile of papers on Jeff's desk, further compounding the disarray.

  "Here it is!" Keith came up with it first. "She got into Lisbon this morning."

  "Lisbon. That's what...three, four hundred miles north of Cadiz?"

  "Yeah, but look here..." he grabbed a world atlas off a stack of books on a nearby desk, fanning it open and pointing..."it's only about a hundred and fifty miles down the Portuguese coast to the jump-off at Cape St. Vincent. Then it's a straight shot, maybe only another hundred miles across...what is that?...the Gulf of Cadiz... to this island, or whatever the guy's holed up on."

  Jeff leaned over to study the map. His finger trailed down the page and then he looked up. "This ain't as easy as you make it sound, ol' buddy."

  "Why not?"

  "'Cause, first, it's a long way. You're talking two hundred 'n fifty miles. And your 'jumping-off place' is a four thousand-foot range of mountains. She'd be flyin' from the big city into hicksville. You don't just pull your h
elicopter up to the local BP station and gas it up. And no pilot in his right mind, if she can find a pilot at all, is going to fly a hundred miles out to sea, one way, without some very good weather and a whole lot of gas!"

  "You got a better idea?" They looked at each other.

  "No."

  "You got a ‘reach’ number?"

  "Cellphone and a SkyPage."

  "You or me?"

  "You. I'd rather tell Ludlow he's lost the assignment than be the one who gave it to Jackie when it goes sour on her."

  Keith grinned and started digging on the desk for Ludlow's number in Cadiz. Jeff started back to his own desk but suddenly stopped and turned around.

  "By the way...what is a ‘root cellar’, anyway?

  Chapter 57

  Janese Cramerton was startled when Ross Breton appeared at her elbow immediately after Banner unceremoniously knocked Bill Layton unconscious. And her sharp intake of breath seemed to startle Breton as well. He took a quick step backwards.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and seemed genuinely so. "I, uh...that is...Mr. Jambou would like to see you." A nervous smile flashed across his face and as quickly vanished. He seemed unusually ill at ease. And that, in turn, made her uneasy.

  "What does he have to be nervous about?" The thought was gone as quickly as his smile.

  "Me?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Yeah. He, uh...told me to come get you and...uh...escort you up to his place." His hands fluttered and his eyes never met hers for longer than a fraction of a second.

  She stared at him for several seconds. His demeanor was contagious. Her thirty-three-year-old instincts told her that she was not going to enjoy whatever was about to happen. She looked around for support but everyone's attention was in Banner's arena. She felt panic begin to rise.

  "Please." Breton had moved closer and spoke in quiet but urgent tones. She whirled back to face him. His face was full of...what, fear? "You don't need to be here. Not now. It's a very..." his eyes darted in Banner's direction..."dangerous place for you to be. For anybody to be." His urgency somehow propelled her. One moment she was a part of the brutal assault on Doctor Layton and the next...

  "Please. Come with me. This way." He didn't quite touch her, but the half-formed gesture was there. She moved farther away from the group, her feet picking up momentum as she drifted toward the mess hall door leading to the tunnel.

  "Come on! Hurry!" Breton hustled ahead of her like a crab, looking furtively back over his shoulder at the crowd behind them. Janese suddenly remembered. She slid her hand into the coverall pocket. It was there. The stun gun Breton had, for whatever reason, slipped her earlier as he'd hurried by. It wasn't much, but the idea of having even so tiny an element of surprise on her side was somehow comforting. They reached the tunnel and rounded the corner out of sight of the crowd in the mess hall. She stopped. Breton had gone ten feet before he realized she wasn't following.

  "What's the matter?" he asked agitatedly. "Come on, we have to hurry!"

  "No," she said, and stood her ground.

  "What?"

  "I said 'no'. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."

  Breton's eyes flicked nervously toward the tunnel they'd just come out of.

  "There isn't time for this! Banner 'll be out here any minute! We have to go!"

  She folded her arms across her chest and her chin tilted up. The thin set of her lips told him she wasn't budging. He quickly took the few steps back to where she stood.

  "Look," he said, exasperated, eyes still darting over her shoulder. "I've been told to bring you up to the penthouse. Jambou wants to...talk to you. But I'm not on the best of terms right now with Banner, and I don't want to be caught out here, away from everybody else, with him around. And neither do you!"

  "I thought you and Banner were buddies," Janese chided.

  "Hah! Nobody's buddies with Banner. Nobody! The healthiest thing you can do, and me, too, is stay away from him! Especially now that your buddy, that Japanese guy, made a fool of him!"

  "What do you mean?" Janese pressed.

  "Get serious, lady. Nobody, and I mean nobody, makes a fool out of Sergeant Banner and lives. Your friend doesn't have long to live. And," the eyes again, "neither do we if we don't get out of here."

  Janese Cramerton was forced to agree. Whatever lay ahead probably wouldn't be as bad as being caught alone with Banner in a bad mood.

  "Why does Jambou want to see me?" she persisted.

  "Hey, I'm not his shrink. He talks, I listen. It's healthier that way. He said bring you, I bring you. You wanna know any more, ask him. Now, can we go?!" He reached out to take her by the elbow but she jerked her arm away and glared at him.

  "Don't touch me," she warned him in a low, menacing voice. His eyes widened, but he drew back. She grudgingly took a couple of steps, warily watching him. Finally, he turned away and walked ahead, looking back only to watch the tunnel entrance to the mess hall. She followed two paces behind, wondering whether she was doing the right thing. And the fact that she'd just disappeared back there, without telling Kim or Frank where she was going, bothered her even more. As they reached the curving stone steps leading down into the cavern, she involuntarily looked across the expanse toward the penthouse elevator. Though she couldn't see it from where she was, she shivered. She felt very much the moth drawn to the light, exposed to predators she couldn't see out there on the jagged edge of the darkness.

  Chapter 58

  Ross Breton delivered Janese Cramerton to the penthouse. Her head was still spinning with the enormity of events that had occurred in just the past few minutes. If it were to be believed, the man she was about to meet face to face for the first time since their arrival had just killed thousands of people in a city five thousand miles away by...by dialing a telephone! One of his goons had just beaten an old man unconscious, and another one had told her that Kim was certain to be murdered soon. So, where was she? Right in the middle of it.

  They passed through an L-shaped hallway and she froze in her tracks, a gasp escaping from her lips.

  "Miss Cramerton. Please, come in." The voice was vibrant, rich.

  "Malignant...evil." She wondered where that thought had come from.

  "The view is magnificent, isn't it? I never tire of it." The blue-gray of the sea swept away into vast infinity and wrapped itself around her. She felt...vulnerable, even intimidated...by the almost overpowering illusion of such immersion in the sea.

  She was suddenly, electrically, aware of the source of the voice as a figure moved across the room toward her, ghostly in the pervasive blue light cast by the sea. He was big. And he moved like...what? Like an animal. A cat. A big, powerful, black cat, confidently stalking its prey. The folds of his clothing seemed to ripple and shimmer in the strange light. He was suddenly...there. As if she had dozed off while he crossed the room and awakened to find him standing before her. And he was touching his lips to the back of her hand.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she reflexively jerked her hand away. He smiled languidly, his eyes never leaving hers.

  "I don't bite," he murmured softly.

  "What do you want with me?" she managed to force the words out.

  The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Had she not been intently watching his face, wide-eyed, she wouldn't have noticed the subtle change. "We'll get to that. In a moment." His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder on a summer evening. "Please, have a seat." She edged over to a chair in a nearby pool of light and sank into it. He turned from her and, in an entirely different tone of voice, spoke to Breton.

  "If Captain Justin has recovered, bring him out here. But, be careful."

  "Recovered?!" Janese Cramerton was startled. "What's wrong with him?"

  Jambou looked her way and smiled wanly. "I'm afraid he allowed himself to become a bit...overwrought...a little while ago. But he'll be fine, I'm sure."

  There was a sudden flurry of angry voices somewhere and Janese rose quickly to her
feet. One of those voices had been Marc Justin's! And then, he was there. He quickly crossed the room, Breton close on his heels.

  "Hold it right there!" Breton barked. "Not another step!" Justin checked his advance on Jambou but, with his fists clenched and his face frozen in a hardened mask of revulsion and fury, it was obvious what his intentions were. Janese could see in Breton's right hand what looked like a stun gun identical to the one she had secreted in her pocket and Breton was aiming it at Justin's back.

  Jambou nodded coldly in his captive's direction. "Captain Justin," he acknowledged. "I do hope you've recovered."

  Janese could see the muscles flex in Justin's jaw as his eyes burned into Jambou's. "And I hope you're ready to go to hell, because after what you did today, that's exactly where you're going!"

  Jambou tilted his massive head slightly to one side as he gazed at Justin and gave him the slightest hint of a smile. "Perhaps," he replied in a flat voice devoid of emotion, "but not today." He slowly turned away, took a couple of steps, and stopped. He seemed to be lost in the beauty of the ocean beyond.

  Janese Cramerton sensed, more than saw, Marc shift his weight and lean slightly toward the big man's back. Her eyes went to the stunner in Breton's hand and saw it rise. She drew a breath to shout a warning.

  "If Mr. Breton doesn't get you, Leo will," Jambou's voice, though casual, cracked like a velvet whip in the quietness of the room. Jambou turned back to face Marcus Justin. "Am I worth dying for?" He smiled across the few feet that separated them. "After all, you do have other people depending on you, don't you?"