The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  "I hate to keep harping on this," Frank Sheppard said from the semi-darkness of the recess, "but we have to do something soon about getting out of here, or we're going to die when this place blows up or the roof falls in."

  Kim rolled his eyes but bit back a retort. "I know, Frank, I know, but we don't have a lot of options right now. If we go out there," he nodded in the direction of the cavern floor, "we’ll die of lead poisoning. If we don’t, and you're right, we'll be deep-fat-fried. If Banner gets his hands on me, I’m dead anyway. If Jambou has his way, he’ll sic Leo on all of us. And if the TRAP team loses this shootin’ match, the guards ’ll tear us limb from limb and feed us to the fish for fun. You got any suggestions, let’s hear 'em, please." His tirade quietened the bunch down considerably. Especially since everything he said was true, if exaggerated.

  "I was just..." Sheppard began.

  "I know, Frank. And I agree. But, even if we could leave here this minute, I'm not leaving until we all leave. And that includes Marc and Janese. So, if any of you find a way to get out of here, take it. I'll be along as soon as I can. Okay?"

  The gunfire, though sporadic, was intense. As nearly as Kim could tell, most of the guards were about halfway across the cavern, firing at the TRAP team who held the high ground in the computer room and the hallway outside that led to the catwalk that crossed the width of the cavern. Kim crept to the entrance to the short hallway and studied the layout. Finally he eased back into the dimness and turned to them. Just as he did, there was an abrupt sound of running feet and a figure with a rifle ran full tilt into the darkened doorway and threw itself against the wall, gasping for breath. The startled group yelped in surprise and the figure whirled around and leveled the weapon at them. They stared hard at each other for several long seconds.

  "Cy!!" Bill Layton blurted out.

  The muzzle of the rifle dropped a half-inch. "Who’s that?!" the voice behind it demanded.

  "It's us! Where ’ve you been?!" Layton’s voice cut through the panic and adrenaline Cy Wojecki was riding on.

  "Doctor Layton! And..." Wojecki dropped the rifle to his side and leaned back against the cool wall. "Man! I almost shot you. All of you! You scared me to death! I thought I'd landed right in a hornet’s nest, for sure!"

  Wojecki breathlessly explained that he'd been caught on the far side of the cavern when the fight broke out and had barely escaped with his life, dodging bullets from both directions, running from cover to cover. And had run head-on into one of Banner's guards, both of them sprawling on the floor. The guard, being heavier, had recovered first, grabbed his rifle off the floor, and had been about to shoot him dead when a neat hole had appeared in the man's forehead and most of the back of his head had spray-painted the pole behind him. Without thinking, he’d grabbed the rifle where the man had dropped it and dodged behind the nearest shelter. He’d been running ever since, heading any direction that didn't include people shooting at each other. This seemed to be the only place that came close. By the time they’d all calmed down, Kim decided they’d better get back to the task at hand...escaping.

  "Okay," he said, turning back to the whole group, "I don't know if this will work or not, but it seems to me that our only way out of here is going to have to be aboard the VIKING. That means we’re going to have to find a way to get to her, and to get aboard. Now, that means we’re going to have to do some swimming...without being seen. First, though, we have to find a way to get to the pool where she’s berthed."

  "That might be less of a problem than you think," Cy chimed in.

  "Whaddaya mean?" Kim fired at him, irritated by the interruption.

  "Have you seen the VIKING lately?" Cy asked. Kim's alarm level shot sky-high.

  "What about her?" Kim said slowly, fearing the answer.

  "A few more minutes and she'll come to us," Wojecki answered. "She’s floating almost level with the floor of the cavern now!"

  "WHAT?!" Kim's voice drowned out all the others' responses to the stunning news.

  "Yeah. The water level in the cavern's risin' fast. Dunno why," Cy said.

  "I'll bet it has something to do with an eruption about to happen!" Frank Sheppard exclaimed. "The cone’s probably leaking air pressure into the surrounding sea."

  "Not likely," Matsumoto said, the truth just now coming to him. It had to be.

  "What do you think it is, Kim?" Layton asked, studying the smaller man’s face. They all fell silent and looked at him.

  "I think...well, I don't know, but...just before the TRAP team got here, or maybe they were even here, already, I got into a fight with one of the guards up in a maintenance room. Well, two guards, actually. But, anyway..." the memories of the guard he'd shot to death almost overwhelmed him. "Anyway, there was some gunfire exchanged and some of the equipment could have been damaged."

  "What kind of equipment?" Wojecki asked.

  Kim sighed. "The kind that keeps the air pressure up in this..." he looked around, "...place. If it was hit by any stray bullets, the air pressure could be dropping faster than the equipment can replace it. Or, maybe it isn’t even working at all."

  "So, as the air pressure drops, the water is able to begin filling up the cavern. Is that right?" Bill Layton asked matter-of-factly. Kim just nodded agreement.

  "Frank," Layton said, turning to the amateur volcanologist, "would decreased air pressure inside the mountain, or whatever you call it, have the effect that I think it might?"

  They all saw Sheppard's eyes widen as he, too, saw the implications. "Oh, my. I see what you mean." He scanned the faces before him. "Dr. Layton means," he explained to those who still hadn’t got it, "that the more or less constant air pressure here inside the dome has most likely helped keep the greater-than-ambient pressure of the lava down deep under the volcano at bay. And, now that the air pressure inside has apparently dropped to less than that of the lava's upward pressure, they no longer act as checks and balances for each other. So..."

  “So,” Kim summarized, “with our air running out, the sea closing in, Leo on my tail, the bad guys and the good guys shootin’ at anything that moves, and a volcano that’s about to go critical...”

  "...the coffee pot’s about to start brewing,” Wojecki interjected, “and we’re sittin’ in the basket."

  “In other words,” Layton observed, “we’ve been pushed out of the frying pan and, literally, into the fire.”

  "Exactly. I couldn't have said it better myself," Sheppard agreed.

  "Then, before this pot boils over, let's get ourselves perking, how ‘bout it?" Kim challenged with a finality that was obvious.

  "What do you want us to do?" Layton asked, assigning authority to Kim on behalf of them all.

  "First, I need to see how high the water is." He looked at Wojecki. "Do you know how to use that thing?" he nodded at the rifle.

  "Yep."

  "Then come with me and cover my back. Don't let me get shot by either side, okay? The rest of you...see if you can scout out a route to the ship...one that will keep us out of sight if possible. And, be careful. We’ll be right back." They took a quick peek out the entrance to the hallway and, seeing no immediate threat, but with automatic weapons fire still reverberating through the cavern, both ducked and ran toward the pool where the VIKING...hopefully...still lay at berth.

  Chapter 97

  Marcus Justin dropped the carpeted manhole cover back in place and strode briskly down the long corridor, barely glancing at the remnants of the unfortunate soldier on the floor. He turned the corner and broke into a jog down the second corridor. Entering the penthouse, he unconsciously glanced over to make sure that former First Sergeant Banner was still in his appointed place before going directly to the computer bank across the room. Glass shards from several monitors snapped under the pressure of his feet, making little popping noises against the deeply-piled black carpet. He stepped back and scanned the banks of equipment. There had to be one here.

  "Marc!"

  He whirled around, taken com
pletely by surprise. "Janese! What are you doing here?"

  "That’s what I was going to ask you!"

  "You're supposed to be locating Kim and the rest of our group."

  She motioned behind her, helplessly. "I can’t. I mean, I couldn’t. They’re still shooting at each other out there. It would be suicide to go out there." She stood there, the picture of failure.

  He took a deep breath. "Okay. Don’t worry about it. Come help me find a two-way radio in this pile o’ junk."

  She crossed to where he stood. "There it is," she said immediately, pointing to the second shelf.

  He looked at her. "How’d you find it so fast?"

  She shrugged and half-smiled. "I have one just like it. It was easy."

  "Yeah, right. Easy. Okay, let's see if it still works or if it got shot up a while ago." He went over to it and leaned closer to read the dials. "Here," he said after a second, "you know how to work it. You do it." And he stepped back out of her way.

  Janese quickly reached up, turned it on and checked the frequency for which it was set. "Who do you want to talk to?" she asked.

  "Pick a universal distress frequency. See if you can raise anybody. Anybody at all."

  "Are you kidding? We have half the world’s navies practically in our laps. They’re probably all monitoring the standard channels."

  She began scanning channels, repeating the same distress message on each one. They scored on the fourth try.

  "It's a French ship. They want to know who we are and the nature of our problem."

  "Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Tell them we need the USS George Washington to contact us on this frequency. And tell them to hurry."

  She relayed the message and was told to stand by. Justin was just about jogging in place by the time, after only a minute-and-a-half, they were contacted by the American carrier. She handed him the microphone and he explained as briefly as he could what their situation was. They seemed especially interested when he mentioned the missing minisub and who its probable occupant was. It took a bit longer to twist the necessary arms to speak to the person he assumed would be the controller for the TRAP team. That was after he got them to admit that there was a TRAP team, and that someone in charge of them might exist. Finally, someone who called himself ‘Mr. Coventry’ agreed to speak to him.

  The conversation was a strange one. Marc Justin was aware that he was most likely talking to some secret agency spook but he didn’t really care who he was, or who he worked for. And told him so. But finally, it seemed that he had convinced ‘Mr. Coventry’ of the facts and of the high probability that unless he pulled the TRAP team out now, right now, they would most likely all die, and die needlessly, since Jambou had already escaped. Coventry reminded him that there was no proof...yet...that Jambou was actually in that minisub. But he conceded that if that were so, and if the volcano were about to ‘reach critical mass’, as he put it, and the rest of the paid thugs would either die in the eruption or from drowning or from lack of air or, if all else failed, from eventual starvation, then justice would have been served, there might be justification for aborting the mission. He left a thoroughly frustrated hostage dangling when he told Marc that he'd get back to him ‘in a few minutes’. Marc reminded him that unless he got off his political butt and made up his bureaucratic mind, chunks of them would rain down on his ship ‘in a few minutes’ and he could choose which parts he wanted to keep.

  The waiting was difficult and Marc Justin didn’t wait well. He fumed and paced and growled. But when the call came through, the political wheels had taken a little less than three minutes to turn. It didn't help his mood.

  "Captain Justin?"

  "Yeah, it is," Marc affirmed testily.

  "Please write this down. Are you ready?"

  "Ready? No, I'm not ready. Wait a minute." Janese had efficiently already located a ball point pen and a scrap of paper. She swept broken glass from the console with her sleeve and held the paper in place so he could write on it without having to chase it.

  "Alright. Go ahead."

  "John 19:30."

  "John nineteen thirty?"

  "Yes. You know...Matthew, Mark, Luke..."

  "And John. 19:30. Okay. What else?"

  "Nothing else. Just give him the message."

  "That’s it?"

  "That’s it."

  "And he’ll leave?"

  "He’ll leave."

  "Well, I wish I’d had this little tidbit of information about the time I was looking down the barrel of his favorite cannon a little while ago. Now, let me speak to somebody over there with some authority." There was a silence of almost ten seconds.

  "Captain Justin?"

  "Yeah. Who's this?"

  "This is Captain Carruthers, on the Washington. Will I do?"

  Justin laughed out loud. He knew who the Captain of the biggest, baddest aircraft carrier in the world was. "I sure hope so, Cap’n. You got the word about our escapee?"

  "Yes, we did. In fact, we were already tracking him and have several assets assigned to keep an eye on him right now."

  "That’s what I wanted to hear. I want to make sure we don’t lose this one."

  "That could be a problem, Captain Justin."

  "What do you mean, a ‘problem’?"

  "The vessel in which he apparently escaped seems to have developed mechanical trouble. We have him on sonar even as we speak."

  "What’s the problem?" Justin asked, confused.

  "The craft seems to be in a spiraling power dive. He's already at...ah, about a hundred and sixty fathoms and still descending. We're guessing he’ll reach crush depth at about two hundred and fifty fathoms. Unless, of course, he recovers."

  Justin thought a moment. "You’re probably about right. My Surries have a working depth of six hundred feet, with a crush depth of about eighteen hundred. Is there nothing you can do?"

  "Not really. We can watch him and confirm hull collapse from sonar. Maybe look for debris, if any surfaces. That’s about it. Sorry."

  Marc sighed. "Yeah. Me, too. ‘Cause, if he’s tellin' the truth, when he goes, a lot of people go with him. Includin’ us."

  "At his current rate of descent, we estimate hull implosion in five to six minutes. That assumes a fifteen hundred foot crush depth. Can you get your people out by then?"

  "I don’t know. We’ll try."

  "Good luck. To all of you."

  "Thanks. Gotta go. See you later. We hope."

  Marc tossed the microphone on the console. He grabbed Janese by the arm and gave her a push. "Let’s get outta here. Hurry."

  He shoved the massive door open and peeped out. There was still sporadic gunfire but it had diminished somewhat. Maybe the guards were running out of ammunition. He ventured to step outside.

  It wasn't ammunition the guards were running out of. It was floor space. He was stunned to see water almost to the spiral staircase that led up to the crews’ quarters. It wasn't very deep, but it was there, nevertheless.

  "What’s going on?" he wondered aloud, incredulous at such a drastic change in such a short time. They stared at the remarkable sight just long enough to remind Justin of how little time they might have.

  "Look. You stay right here, where I can see you. Squat down so those goons on the floor can't see you, but stay put."

  "Where are you going?"

  "You heard the radio. I've got to get over yonder and give this code word to the guy in charge of the TRAP team, so they’ll pack up and get out." With the key hastily left in the slot, he reached up and activated the telescoping section of the catwalk that the guards referred to as 'The Moat'. It slid smoothly across to bridge the fifteen-foot space.

  "What about the guards? How are you going to get past them?"

  He looked down at the water. "It looks like they've had to move in under the catwalk. It’ll cover me."

  "No, it won’t! They can shoot right through that mesh! You’ll be killed!"

  "I'll be fine," he lied. "They don't call me ‘T
he Streak’ for nothing."

  "Who calls you ‘The Streak’?"

  "Never mind. I'll be right back."

  He was gone before she could reply, running slow enough, he hoped, to be recognizable by the TRAP team and fast enough to be hard for the guards down below to hit.

  He was almost two-thirds of the way across before the guards, who were already focused on the men in the computer room and the hallway at the end of the catwalk, noticed him. He made another thirty or forty feet before the first shots were fired, and they were wild. By the time he was on the home stretch, the TRAP team realized what was happening and opened up with covering fire so that the guards had to duck in self-defense. Justin went pounding into the tunnel like a Brooklyn subway. He fell up against the stone wall and gasped for breath.

  "Well?"

  He managed to raise his head far enough to see Strickland standing before him, one hand on his hip and a mean look in his eye.

  "He got away," Marc managed to gasp out.

  "What do you mean, ‘got away’?" Strickland's voice was caustic. The veins on his forehead and temple were standing out.

  "I got in a shoot-out with him and he disappeared. It took me a few minutes to find out where he’d gone. Then, when I followed him, he’d got away. In a minisub."

  "A minisub?!" Strickland spat. He whirled around and kicked the wall. "A minisub?!" he repeated, more vehemently than the first time.

  Startled, all Marc could say was, "Yeah."

  Strickland stalked away, walked out of the tunnel directly onto the catwalk, leaned over the railing and, as fast as he could pull the trigger, emptied his Beretta in the direction of the guards below. When the gun was empty, he whirled around and stalked back into the tunnel, ejecting the empty clip and ferociously slapping a new one into the butt as he walked. Right back up to Justin. He stood there, the muscles in his jaw working furiously.