The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  "Intelligent," she thought. "A predator." She decided he was even more dangerous because first impressions inferred otherwise. But then, she remembered, he had to be dangerous. Evil, even. After all, he had killed thousands of people in cold blood, hadn't he? The lips moved.

  "Miss Darlington." She jumped. He had spoken to her.

  "Yes!" she blurted in a knee-jerk reaction. Then she cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, I'm Jackie Darlington."

  "I know," the face said, and smiled enigmatically. "I saw your broadcast last evening. I was quite impressed." The voice was molasses. Slow and sweet.

  "Thank you," she said nervously. "Is that why you asked for me?"

  The smile broadened. "I asked for you because you demonstrated courage and professionalism under fire," he said. Jackie's ego leaped up and set her head spinning. She smiled. "And because you're here," he added, and her ego crashed. "I think you and I can do each other a favor," he crooned in a voice like soft fudge. Jackie's cynicism alarm went off.

  "What kind of favor?" she asked.

  "Over here, if you don't mind," Jambou said.

  Confused, she turned her head, but saw nothing.

  "Instead of looking at your monitor, where I assume you're seeing my face, I'd rather see yours. So, if you would, please, look into your camera." She realized her error and turned to the camera.

  "Ah, much better. Thank you. You are quite beautiful."

  That did it for Jackie. She'd heard that line too many times before, especially since her divorce. Her perspective returned with a solid jolt. This guy wanted something. They always did. Unfortunately.

  "Thank you," she said coolly. "You said we could do each other a favor. What favor?"

  He smiled again. "Beautiful and professional. A rare combination. Very well. Let's begin. ‘What's in it for me?’ you're asking yourself. That's easy. I've made it possible for you to be famous by becoming the reporter who covered ‘The Johannesburg Story’. Or, whatever title history assigns to the events of the past few hours. Fame and fortune are yours. All you have to do is what you do best...your job." He watched her for a reaction. She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. The trick was to avoid becoming breakfast. She stared resolutely into the camera.

  "And in return?" she countered. Somebody had dragged one of the monitors around and set it up on a chair so she could see his face just to the left of and behind the camera. She saw him lean forward.

  "You can trust me, said the spider to..."

  "Make sure the whole world knows and sees what goes on during these negotiations."

  "Why?" she pushed, though she was pretty sure of the answer.

  "To make sure that my simple requests to be allowed to live and let live are made known to the world, and so that no irresponsible military revenge is attempted against me."

  "I hope you meant what you said about admiring professionalism under fire. Because as a professional journalist, I have to make the observation that you've already broken your half of the contract you're asking the world to make with you."

  "Oh?" An almost imperceptible hesitation. But she was sure she'd seen it.

  "You may want to ‘live’, but there are a quarter of a million people in Johannesburg whom you didn't ‘let live’. Would you care to comment on that?"

  "Shoot him a line..."

  He surprised her. He smiled. If anything that cold could be called a smile. "Very good, Miss Darlington. Considering that you're two miles away from a three mile nuclear explosion, you do indeed exhibit courage. Please try to remember, however, that your job is to mediate the proceedings, not to editorialize."

  "My job is to put the facts before our viewing audience, and to keep those facts in perspective. If you're looking for a rubber stamp, then you made the wrong choice when you asked for me," she warned him, staring hard-eyed into the camera.

  "...and keep him on it!"

  The polished, black head gazed benignly at her for several seconds. "We'll see," he said finally. "In the meantime, shall we begin?"

  "That's why we're here," she quipped.

  "Very well. Then I'll begin by reiterating my requirements to this larger audience." He sat back and she could see his camera refocus. He brought his hands up to his chest and touched his fingertips together. "First, while it is true that I detonated an explosive device in South Africa, and it is also true that I have placed other nuclear devices in strategic cities around the world, the two facts are not directly related to each other." He was warming to the spotlight. "The African incident, you see, was a simple matter of meting out justice for crimes committed against my family. And, though justice was slow in coming, it was certain. Crimes were committed. Justice is served. What has happened brings to a close a chapter of my life that has been open for a long time. However, now that justice has been achieved, it is a closed issue which I do not intend to reopen. That was the past." He made a show of shifting in his chair to a more comfortable position before continuing. Jackie understood that it was a psychological ploy to give his audience time to digest his message.

  "Smart move," she thought. "Now he'll shift gears."

  "Now for the future," he said, sotto voce, leaning conspiratorially toward his audience. "Yes, I have placed nuclear devices in key cities around the world. But are they there to intimidate you? No. Are they there to hurt you? No. ‘So,’ you ask yourself, ‘if they aren't there to frighten me or hurt me, why are they there?’ Why, indeed? I will tell you why." He paused, looking straight into the camera like a beloved uncle who's explaining why Brussels sprouts are good for you. "They're there for insurance. That's all. I mean you no harm. I only want to live and let live. I would never use any of those weapons unless I was forced to. So, why do I need insurance? I will explain."

  "You see, I have built my home far out in the ocean, in a place no one else wanted. I didn't invade anyone. I didn't steal land from anyone. I only homesteaded land that belonged to no one, and which no one wanted. But I need some way to make a living, don't I? I can't farm this land...it's underwater!" He smiled. A little joke between friends. "I can't raise livestock...unless it's seahorses!" He chuckled out loud. "I can't manufacture anything to export...I don't have room in this tiny kingdom of mine. It's only a quarter mile wide!" He spread his hands in supplication. "So, how can I make a living? I could only think of one way. I can operate a toll booth. That's right, a toll booth! Think about it! It just so happens that my new home is right in the middle of the superhighway that leads to and from the Mediterranean Sea, which is a very busy place, I can tell you. So, since a new country now sits squarely in the middle of all that traffic, it's only natural that the people who want to use my front yard pay me for the privilege of doing so. Don't you agree?" He stopped and took a drink from a glass he picked up from out of camera range.

  "Now, ask yourself: who uses my front yard to get in and out of the Mediterranean? I'll bet you could guess!" He wagged a finger at the audience playfully. "That's right! It doesn't take much research into import and export shipping to know who it is. The United States. Germany. France. Great Britain. China. Japan. Now. Where have I hidden nuclear bombs? That's right. The United States, Germany, France, Great Britain, China and Japan. And why did I do that? The answer to that is simple. Would any of those superpowers take me seriously otherwise?" He shook his head and mimed a sad face. "I don't think so. Do you?" He sipped again from the glass while he stared into the camera.

  "The bombs are insurance. To make sure I stay alive long enough to reach a live-and-let-live agreement with the rest of the world. They're perfectly safe unless I activate them. And I won't do that unless one or more of those big, rich countries is so greedy that they don't want to pay me my tiny pittance of a toll. After all, don't other countries charge each other import and export taxes...‘tariffs’, they call them...just for allowing the other to bring products in or out of the country? Isn't my tax just as valid, not for bringing goods into my country, but for bringing goods through my country? I th
ink you'll have to agree. And, I'm only asking for one per cent of the value of the goods, not thirty or forty per cent, like some countries charge each other. And, they pay it! It's just the price of doing business. So," he leaned close to the camera, "ask yourself...who's being unreasonable? I, because I want to make a reasonable living, or these other countries who've sent their warships here to try to keep me from succeeding?" He sat back and regarded his audience for a moment. Then, at his unseen bidding, the camera slowly zoomed in for a tight facial shot.

  "I appeal to you, the citizens of the world, to convince your leaders to negotiate a trade agreement with me. With New Victoria. I'm not a threat to you. The only threat comes from those of your leaders who would try to use military force against me and my country. I will tell you why." He put one finger against his chest and tapped it. "In here, next to my heart, is a monitor. It listens to my heart. If it stops hearing my heartbeat, it sends a signal to my security system. My security system automatically dials all of the nuclear weapons, in all the countries they're located, and tells them to explode. And, once it knows for sure that they've exploded, it explodes the nuclear bomb here in my own home. I may be dead. But so are a lot of others around the world. And all because of politicians and generals who refused to negotiate a settlement. Now, ask yourself...who is the real threat?" He looked intently into the camera. He was totally convincing. "I'll be back after you've had a chance to think over what I've said. Pick up the telephone. Call your leaders. Tell them to cut a deal...one you can live with. And tell them one other thing...please. Tell them not to do anything stupid with all these warships they have in my backyard. If I die, you die. But if they take any hostile action against me while you're thinking over my proposal, they must accept responsibility for the lives of the civilians who are here as guests in my home. Do that for me...and them...will you? We thank you."

  He disappeared. Jackie Darlington stood transfixed, looking at a blank screen.

  "What do you think?" Jerry asked from two feet behind her. She jumped and looked around. She hadn't seen them deliver her two ‘employees’ to the bridge. The sight of his familiar face was somehow a comfort.

  "I think if his name had been Hitler, we'd all speak German now."

  "He's better 'n most of the presidential hopefuls I covered in the last election," Jerry observed.

  "Yeah," Jackie sighed. "The sad thing is, he's better than the one who won it."

  Enrique slipped around both of them and handed each a cup of coffee in Styrofoam cups. "The U. S. Navy makes pretty good coffee," he smiled. "I wonder if it's Colombian?"

  "If it isn't, you could probably cut them a deal on some good stuff, couldn't you, Enrique?"

  A grin split his face. "Ah, si, senora, such a deal I could make them!" They all laughed. It felt good.

  Chapter 76

  "Cap'n, Sir, we have a signal from the 'de Gaulle'." Captain Carruthers took the flimsy from the radioman's hand and scanned it. Then he went back and read it again, more slowly. He handed it back.

  "Shred that."

  "Yes, Sir. Any reply, Sir?"

  "Thank the Captain of the 'de Gaulle' and tell him I'll pass the information along. Send it encrypted."

  "Yes, Sir." The RM2 hustled away.

  "Mr. Menendez," Carruthers said aloud. From across the room, his executive officer immediately looked up.

  "Sir," he acknowledged.

  "Please locate Major Strickland. Ask him to join me in my quarters. Thank you." Jerry Carruthers didn't wait for a response, but strode from the room.

  Matt Strickland was, as usual, in the thick of it when the ensign found him in the hanger bay. All that was visible of him was the bottoms of his boots, which were hanging out the door of a helicopter. The rest of him, and of several other hims, was inside the chopper, mixed with muffled conversation and grunts.

  "...okay, this cable here is double-wrapped around the drum, here, before being clamped to an actuator with a positive-feed, auto-reversing servo. So, when the signal from the transceiver trips the four slave units on the controls, the bird does whatever the jock back on the ship tells it to. Pretty slick, huh?"

  Strickland struggled to a sitting position in the cabin, being careful not to get hung up on any of the maze of cables, winches and electronics that now crisscrossed the already cramped space.

  "Chief, it looks and sounds impressive. Will it work?"

  The Chief Machinist Mate looked hurt. "Will it work?! Of course it 'll work! I've got the best gang in the whole fleet. If they say it'll work, it 'll work."

  "I don't mean to seem ungrateful, Chief, but how many times have you ever rigged up a ship like this before?"

  "Countin' this one? One."

  Strickland grimaced and the Chief's grin got bigger. "Trust me, sir. It 'll work."

  "I am trusting you, Chief. I just have one request."

  "What's that, sir?"

  "Go along and hold my hand."

  The Chief belly-laughed.

  "Where are the explosives?" the Marine major looked around the interior of the cabin.

  "They 'll go in last, sir, just before you go."

  "Who 'll have the detonator?"

  "One of my men will, sir. I got somebody who's real good at that."

  "Just make sure he doesn't get trigger happy, okay?” Strickland climbed down out of the helo.

  The Chief smiled and shook his head. "Jarheads," he said.

  As Strickland regained the deck, he found a navy Ensign shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Major Strickland, sir?"

  "That's me."

  "Sir, the Captain requests that you join him in his cabin. Right away, sir. I'll show you the way." He turned and immediately hurried away. Strickland looked around for a rag to wipe the grease off his hands with. While he was doing so, the young officer discovered he was alone and backtracked.

  "Sir, the Captain is waiting and I think it would be best if we go now."

  Strickland shot a glance at the Chief, who was gathering up a bunch of tools. He smiled at the stocky Marine major and shrugged. Matt Strickland shook his head, grinned, and fell in behind the Ensign who was already off and running again.

  "Mustn't keep the Captain waiting," he murmured to himself as he tried to keep the gazelle in front of him in sight.

  The Ensign, having done his duty, left the Marine major, still in camos, at the Captain's door. Strickland rapped twice, lightly, and was surprised when it was opened by the Captain himself.

  "Come in, Major. Coffee?"

  Matt Strickland looked quickly around the stateroom and, seeing the coffee already in a carafe, replied, "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

  Carruthers waved him toward the pot and went around behind his desk, where he eased into his leather chair and picked up his own mug. He swiveled around so he could cross his legs, leaned back into the creaky leather, closed his eyes, and took a careful sip.

  "If there's one thing this ship has, it's good coffee," he said, smacking his lips gently.

  The Marine officer appreciatively slurped his and smiled. "Mine usually tastes like mud and smells like diesel fuel," he admitted.

  "Your choice, Major. You should have stayed in the Navy."

  Strickland's eyebrows went up and he looked reappraisingly at the man across the desk. "You've seen my file, I take it."

  "I like to know who I'm dealing with," the Captain said through the rising steam of the cup he held cradled on his chest. "Navy Corpsman, up through the ranks. TAD two tours with the Fleet Marine Force. Survival schools out the wahzoo. Jump school. Made E7 and jumped ship to the Marines Corps. I'm curious. Why the switch?" He realized his guest was still standing and waved him to a chair.

  Matt nodded and sat, but remained on the front edge of the seat, back erect. He looked as if he might come to attention any moment. He took another sip of his coffee, avoiding the answer as long as possible. But the Captain simply waited, watching him. Finally, he carefully perched his mug on his knee and took a calming breath.
/>   "Well, Sir, it was the only way I could get to do what I really wanted to do. The...opportunity wasn't available in the navy."

  "What ‘opportunity’, exactly?"

  Strickland lowered his eyes and thought about it before he answered. His eyes rose to meet the Captain's. "To be a participant instead of an observer, I suppose. To be in the action, a part of it." He laughed. "I used to spend my weekends off hanging around the emergency room at Camp Lejeune, waiting for something bloody to come in. A bunch of us did. They called us The Vultures. There was never a shortage of help around the ER. When I was on a ‘float’ in the Philippines, I'd ride the ambulances into town at night. It was a lot more interesting than hanging around the bars in Subic. And I didn't wake up with a hangover or the clap."

  The Captain had to laugh. He knew Subic Bay well. "And then?"

  "And then," Matt sighed, "I discovered that I was bored. Really bored. Same thing every day, day in, day out. No end in sight. It didn't take me long to find out that Navy Chiefs are paper shufflers and pencil pushers. In triplicate. No offense, Sir, but that just wasn't for me. So, I requested a transfer to the Marines."

  "So, you're an adrenaline junky," the Captain said, setting his empty mug on the desk.

  Strickland chuckled. "I do like to be active," he admitted.

  Jerry Carruthers leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers at his pursed lips. "Well," he said, "I think we can accommodate you there."

  Matt set his own mug on the desk, careful not to slosh the remaining coffee in it. He unconsciously sat up straighter and his face came alive. "Yes, Sir?"

  "I had a communiqué a little while ago from the commanding officer of the 'Charles de Gaulle'.

  "The French aircraft carrier?"