Island MineChapter 9 free porn video
The Island
Nine days had passed since the dossiers had been planted. The newspapers were beginning the investigative groundwork, but as predicted the British paper was the most aggressive of the bunch. A staffer in one of the Senate offices had pitched the thing before even reading it, the probe monitoring that office quietly retrieved it. The other Senate office turned the documents over to the FBI. The package was taken seriously because of the classified markings on the documentation. There had been no action taken with the package delivered to the Justice Department. So far, the Defense Logistics Agency wasn't aware that they were being investigated, but that wouldn't last.
Waylon wasn't finished. He knew that his upcoming travels would be detected and wanted to keep pressing the issue. He had Penelope set up another call with his lawyer.
"Waylon, it's been a while," Rusty said when he answered the phone. "There've been no developments I'm afraid."
"I can't say I expected any, but thanks, Rusty. I appreciate the work you've done. I've called to tell you that I've made some decisions."
"You sound serious."
"They weren't easy decisions, but I've left the States. I don't know that I'll ever come back. I'd like you to wrap up my legal affairs where possible. I realize the MetMilCorp thing is going to drag on, but do what you can."
"You're not thinking of doing anything ... stupid ... are you?"
Waylon laughed. "That depends on your point of view, but nothing like what you're thinking."
"I'm relieved."
"You never know, I might make the papers."
"Waylon—"
"Don't worry, Rusty. I'll leave you with a clue. Are you familiar with John Donne?"
"Doesn't ring a bell."
"That's alright. I'll give you a call sometime. Take care of yourself, Rusty."
"You too, Waylon."
Planning a flight itinerary, based on an Experimental Airworthiness Certificate, could be tricky. Screw up the documentation and your aircraft could be impounded. The certificate that had been secured in Tahiti was questionable, at best. Waylon had reached the limit of what simple bribes could achieve. Instead, he turned to a legal, but possibly sleazier mechanism. It was astonishing what you could achieve in the name of economic development. Municipalities would rush to eliminate taxes, seize private property for your project, or simply waive burdensome regulations – and it was all above board. They were all things that the regulators were perfectly happy to hang around the neck of local businesses otherwise.
The first big trip for Waylon, and the experimental jet, was going to be to Chennai, India. Better known by its former name, Madras, Chennai was perfect for his immediate goals. India had a terrific appetite for gemstones, and diamonds in particular. Waylon had plenty to sell and the local authorities were more than happy to help with his travel issues. India would also serve for a task that Waylon wasn't particularly looking forward to.
Chennai was thirteen and a half hours ahead of the island and over the International Date Line. At slightly over ten thousand miles, it really would be a trip halfway around the world. To arrive in the morning, Chennai time, departure was scheduled for late afternoon island time.
Takeoff appeared routine until Waylon pulled the aircraft into a steep ascent angle and punched the throttles forward. The steady press of acceleration pushed Waylon deep into his seat. In his peripheral vision, he could see Android Bob casually checking his instruments.
Waylon knew he had no business being the pilot in command. The AIs felt differently. With constant simulator time, and the extraordinary technology built into the aircraft, the AIs swore that he was as ready as they could make him.
The flight was going to test the limits of international law. International boundaries were well established. What nobody had yet to agree upon was the vertical limits of a state's sovereignty. In other words, when did a country's airspace end and space begin? Some said twenty-four miles, others fifty. There was no consensus and there had been little reason to reach agreement. There was talk that an operational sub-orbital space plane would force the issue, but nobody had built one, until Freehold.
Waylon and the AIs had agreed on thirty miles above sea level as their flight ceiling to split the difference. At hypersonic speeds, the flight would last only two and a half hours. It was a bold step, but one that the AIs believed was necessary. In a standard passenger liner, the same flight would take at least seventeen hours. Once the international community fully digested what Freehold had accomplished, things would begin to get interesting.
The flight plan called for a couple of course adjustments. While this flight was going to raise eyebrows, Waylon wasn't ready to poke a big superpower in the eye just yet. There were a handful of American territories scattered throughout the Pacific. Their course avoided overflying them, no matter the altitude. The planned route would take them across the expanse of the Pacific, over the southern Philippines, the South China Sea, and the land mass of Southeast Asia before crossing the Bay of Bengal to Chennai on India's eastern coast.
Waylon spent the first half of the journey trying not to gawk out the window. The simulator had prepared him, in theory, but the real thing was something he'd never forget. His view was of the spectacular curve of the earth. Far below, billowy white anvil head clouds were scattered toward the horizon and he could see where day became night. The atmosphere outside the aircraft existed only as a technicality. Any breach in the hull meant instant death. He had asked if he needed a spacesuit when he'd first learned of the flight plan, but the AIs said it wasn't necessary. They'd make him one if he really wanted, but it would have been very uncomfortable. He'd settled for a zip up flight suit and the knowledge that a space suit wouldn't do much good when your hypersonic aircraft broke up thirty miles above the earth's surface.
He'd barely gotten used to the experience when they descended over the Bay of Bengal, shedding the incredible heat from hypersonic flight. Waylon throttled back and turned the controls over to the android when they approached Indian airspace. He remained in the pilot's seat. He was growing more confident in his skills, but Chennai International was a major airport and the most congested airspace he'd flown in to date. The android, ever the instructor, took the time to explain what it was doing while Waylon followed along behind on the controls. It was good training.
Chennai was a coastal city. Over the singed smell of hot metal, the air was thick with the aromas and sounds of crowded humanity. Waylon shed his flight suit, and left his lightweight dress jacket in the cabin, but his shirt was soon damp with sweat anyway.
A group of airport officials were on hand to greet the aircraft. They were accompanied by a party of armed guards. Waylon silently identified the various types of weapons being openly displayed. The guards were expected, they were supposed be extra security arranged by the diamond consortium he was meeting with. They took up position around the aircraft, at a respectful distance, and waited. Waylon relaxed, so far so good.
The flight crew's documents were examined and he was welcomed to India. His airport fees had been paid electronically and the airport officials were courteous. They could barely tear their eyes away from the aircraft. Waylon retrieved a silver case from the cabin and had a few words with the android.
"If I'm detained, get this aircraft off the ground and go back to the island. I don't care what you do, but try not to get anyone killed."
The AIs protested, but Waylon was insistent. Android Bob didn't care, it would follow instructions.
Chennai International Airport was showing its age, but there were signs of new construction here and there. The private terminal was well away from the bustle of the commercial side, but Waylon got the sense that fences and barricades were treated as suggestions rather than hard and fast rules.
His armed escort barely elicited a glance as they walked to the meeting room. The room was large with Victorian features, and overlooked the tarmac and the VIP aircraft area. In the center of the room were two tables with several chairs placed around them. One of the lights in the ceiling kept flickering. Additional guards inside the room wore suit jackets and concealed weapons. Introductions were quickly made. The diamond consortium representatives were short, but competent looking men who wore their suits with the air of long practice. Mr. Patel, the head buyer for the consortium, didn't waste time with small talk. His jet black hair was touched with grey. Mr. Patel's younger companion was silent, but eager. One table was covered with a number of testing instruments and a large modern microscope connected to a computer.
Waylon had the sudden thought that he was way out of his league. Only the whispered assurances of the AIs allowed him to open his sample case and set several trays out for examination.
"May we?" Mr. Patel inquired. His accent was pure London.
"Please," Waylon said.
The silent man started sorting the diamonds while Mr. Patel tested select examples. He jotted many notes down on a sheet of plain white paper.
There was surprisingly little negotiation. The consortium wanted the diamonds, and Waylon wanted the money.
"Euros or dollars?" asked Mr. Patel.
A lot in Waylon's life had changed, and was still changing, but greenbacks would always be acceptable. The sale was completed with a minimum amount of fuss. Waylon was once again a rich man, both technically and practically.
Mr. Patel looked pleased. "Mr. Eckermann, a question if I may?"
"Yes?"
"Freehold, is that your company name?"
"Freehold is both the company name and our location," Waylon answered, revealing the name of the island for the first time.
"I am unfamiliar with it."
"We're a new, but a growing concern," Waylon admitted.
Mr. Patel looked thoughtful as he folded his sheet of notes. "It's an old English word as I recall from school."
"It is. I was particularly drawn to its original meaning."
Mr. Patel's brow furrowed as he pondered the information, "May I offer any further assistance before your departure?"
"Can you recommend a car service? I need to make a quick trip to the American Consulate."
The consulate was a short, but nerve-wracking, twenty minute drive from the airport. Mr. Patel's personal driver pointed to the large consulate building with one hand while navigating a complicated roundabout with the other, seemingly oblivious to the insane traffic around him. Cars and trucks, even motorcycles, roared past with little care or concern for traffic lanes or the dizzying array of road signs.
Somehow, they arrived at the front entrance of the consulate without being involved in any accidents.
"Will you be long, Mr. Eckermann?" the driver asked in his accented English.
"I have an appointment, but you know how these meetings are."
"Indeed," the driver answered as he handed him a card. "When you require my services. I shall be at a tea shop nearby."
Waylon's gut churned as he walked toward the guard shack. He had used his St. Kitts & Nevis passport to enter India. To enter the consulate he was using his American passport.
An alert marine guard greeted him with a gruff "Good morning," and passed him through after examining the passport. The consulate was like any other government building. The crowd of visitors all had the same look. Their faces showed that they had accepted the slow, interminable crawl of bureaucracy. Occasionally, someone who hadn't gotten the message would protest, but their heated words would give way to the inevitable. Since he had an appointment, Waylon only had to wait for about ten minutes before being shown into a small, but empty office. It lacked any personal touches and helped reinforce the visitor's role as supplicant. There were the requisite pictures of the current president and Secretary of State.
"Waylon," AI Barry said in his ear, "so far, your name only appears in the consulate's calendar program. When they run your details, we'll delay things."
Waylon blinked, acknowledging the message.
"Mr. Eckermann," the official said as he entered through a separate door. "Your appointment note says only that you are in town on business. What can I do for you?"
"You are a consular officer?"
"I am."
Waylon swallowed heavily and pushed his passport across the desk.
The official picked it up and examined it. "And?"
"I wish to relinquish my citizenship."
The official frowned, "That's a very serious and permanent step. You do know that it's an irrevocable action? Without another passport, you'd be stateless."
"I have dual citizenship elsewhere."
"I see, do you also—"
"I also understand," Waylon said interrupting the man, "that renouncing my citizenship does not affect any tax, or military obligations, or protect me from possible prosecution for any crimes committed as an American citizen."
The consular officer quizzed him again to see if he was certain and Waylon replied that he was. An oath of renunciation document was produced after a short delay. It wasn't an uncommon request. Waylon signed the document and it was witnessed. The process was shockingly easy and very professional.
"Thank you for your courtesy," Waylon said while trying to keep the remains of his breakfast down.
The official acknowledged him with the barest of nods.
A marine escorted the former citizen off consulate property. Waylon's driver was waiting for him, thanks to a call the AIs made for him. The drive back to the VIP air terminal was just as harrowing as the first one, but Waylon barely noticed.
The guards around the aircraft were removed and Android Bob opened the hatch and lowered the stairs. Waylon took a last glance around as he climbed the steps. To one side he noticed an Indian military officer with a video camera.
He turned takeoff over to the android and left the cockpit. In the cabin he curled up on a couch with a blanket and pulled it tightly around him.
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
Things were not going well in the Defense Logistics Agency's Strategic Materials Compliance Office, and Nathanial Woollcott was scalp hunting.
"How the hell does our target walk into an American Consulate and then back out again?" the man demanded.
"State's computers are worse than ours," one of his deputies replied, "and the ... nature of our investigation precludes us from taking advantage of other resources so we had no advance warning that he was in the country."
"Unacceptable," Woollcott fumed. "Where did we have him last?"
"Alaska, but the name has been popping up in some strange places lately; Tahiti, Singapore, India, and the West Indies."
"What do you make of this India visit? Why not renounce his citizenship in China? And how did we not know about the pilot's license?"
"We've never been able to establish a China connection," the deputy replied. "We may have had this wrong from the beginning."
Woollcott glared at the speaker, but the man held his ground.
"What about the flying?" he pressed.
"We weren't looking for it. I suspect it was a hobby he couldn't afford as a student."
Woollcott cursed. "Do we know anything? He evaded our search teams for months and slipped out of the country unnoticed. Don't tell me he's not had help doing that. What about this report of some kind of strange plane? Did he just fly out from under our noses?"
Another deputy spoke up, "Sir, I put a call into the people at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. They don't have anything on it, but they are interested. For what it's worth, I ran it by CIA and they think it's some kind of scam."
"Alright," Woollcott said, "what about our security leak then?"
There were no answers.
"Well?"
The senior deputy looked around for support, but found none. "We've started polygraphs," he said, "but there's no doubt that information came from our computers."
Nathanial Woollcott looked around at his assembled team and wondered which one of them was the traitor.
Freehold
Waylon's post-India funk lingered for days. His citizenship had been important to him. It was part of his DNA and he was proud of his military service. The idea of America still meant something to him, even if the country of his birth had forgotten those principles.
The AIs had a plan to boost his spirits.
"Why do I need to go to Tahiti?" he asked.
"The island will be complete soon. Hiring staff is the logical next step," AI Barry replied.
"What would this staff do that you can't?"
"Waylon, you need to interact with other humans. Staff can cook and clean, and do simple maintenance. You need security personnel and a water patrol. With staff to populate the island, there will be fewer questions."
Waylon shook his head. "We built an island in the middle of the ocean where there wasn't one before. People are going to ask questions. The staff is going to ask questions."
"You need a vacation."
"Alright! I'll go to Tahiti, sheesh."
Tahiti
Waylon spent three days unwinding while the AIs kept an eye on the island. Android Bob dropped him off at Paa'a International and left without incident, so he had nothing to worry about, in theory.
His friendly Tahitian government minister recommended a resort not far from the capital, and as promised, it was spectacular. He had his own bungalow. It had a thatched roof, but all the modern amenities. Waylon could walk right out of the bedroom onto a shallow beach and go for a swim, which he did whenever the mood struck him.
He ate in different restaurants, enjoying the variety of dishes. It was a nice change of pace. He wasn't a very imaginative cook when left to his own devices.
He even bought a local satellite phone service package for his phone that was supposed to be good throughout French Polynesia. The AIs could have continued to hack into the local phone system, but they knew that eventually someone would take a closer look at what Waylon and Freehold were up to. It was better to let them find what they expected.
On his third morning in paradise, Waylon was sitting in a chair on the black sand beach enjoying the sun.
"You have an incoming call, it's the minister," AI Penelope said.
He reached for the phone. Avarice was a powerful motivator. The minister was working hard for the rewards he'd earned with the hope of earning a great deal more. After a short conversation, Waylon agreed to meet the man for lunch. The minister had a solution to his staffing problems. He returned to the bungalow and changed out of his board shorts into light cotton pants and a casual shirt.
The taxi driver didn't laugh at Waylon's terrible pronunciation, "The market on Rue de 22 September 1914, please." The driver played tour guide, shouting out interesting sights over a blaring radio. The island station played an interesting mix of French and English pop hits.
They made good time and he was early for the meeting. He decided to go exploring. The waterfront was nearby, so he walked to a handy vantage point. Waylon could see a large cruise ship was being pushed toward a pier by a tug. Not far away he caught sight of a familiar military paint scheme, haze grey. The small French navy contingent evidentially had their own pier. There was a small frigate moored next to some similarly painted patrol craft. It had been a while since he'd seen naval vessels. He decided he'd have time to take a closer look after lunch.
Waylon walked toward some shops and browsed. There was a nice covered market with an impressive display of produce and touristy type kitsch. He bought a straw hat and a couple of colorful t-shirts from a stall. He had gotten turned around, but AI Barry gave him quick directions to the restaurant.
The minister was in a good mood. He was particularly pleased to see that Waylon had been shopping. He suggested several local dishes that Waylon might enjoy and they gave their orders to the server.
"I've found an opportunity for you, Mr. Eckermann."
"Go on."
"The English prerequisite was a challenge, but a close friend has suffered a setback. The family estate will be sold, and the staff forced out."
"What sort of setback?" Waylon asked.
"The French tax authority is very diligent."
Waylon indicated his understanding.
"The wife was English, so the staff has the language. You do not have a problem with..."
The minister fumbled for the right word.
"I do not know the English term. The Hoa people, ethnic Chinese who fled Vietnam after your war?"
"He means the 'boat people, ' Waylon," Barry said in his ear, "perhaps as a pejorative."
"Ah, I understand," Waylon replied aloud. "That was a very long time ago, and no, their nationality doesn't matter to me."
The minister smiled at Waylon's youth. "The estate is on Moorea. There's a ferry in the morning, and I will arrange a driver if you would like?"
The island of Moorea was a popular vacation and honeymoon destination only eight or nine miles from where they were sitting.
"Can you tell me anything about the staff?"
The minister consulted a note, "A family consisting of the mother and three adult sons. One has a wife. No minor children. They have hospitality training. My friend insisted on it."
Waylon didn't know how else he was going to find staff, "Okay, I'll meet with them."
"Excellent. Would you have an interest in the property? Opportunities like this are seldom available in such an exclusive location."
Waylon declined. He had enough property issues at the moment.
Their food arrived and the two men enjoyed a pleasant meal.
While the two men ate the AIs investigated and kept Waylon informed of what they found. They located an estate that matched the minister's story. His friend hadn't just run into a tax issue. He was currently under house arrest in Marseille according to the records in the Papeete government offices. There was a brief blurb about a long running Ponzi scheme back on the continent, but little else.
Waylon was ready to leave, but could tell that the minister had a question on his mind. He watched the man closely waiting to see if he would ask it. They had a jovial argument about who would claim the bill for lunch. It was all pretense. Waylon knew he was expected to pay.
The minister took his shot, "Mr. Eckermann. Your island?"
"Yes?"
"I respect your privacy, but the rumors will come, sooner than you think."
"No doubt they will," Waylon agreed.
"The island, it isn't..." the minister stumbled. "It isn't something that exists only on the Internet, is it?"
Waylon had not seen that coming, and smiled. "It is as real as my appreciation has been."
The minister flushed, and glanced around to see if anyone else was listening.
"It's true that I value my privacy," Waylon continued, "but I also believe in being a good neighbor no matter how distant."
The hundred plus islands of French Polynesia covered an ocean area roughly the size of Europe. Freehold might be two thousand miles distant from Tahiti, but eventually the French would take notice.
"Yes, but a new island. It is, unusual."
Waylon humored the minister and discussed the numerous 'new land' projects underway around the globe, including the creation of resort islands in places like the Persian Gulf. There were also multiple examples to point to in Asia where airports and sea terminals had been created because there was little available land for expansion. Papeete's own international airport had been built, in part, on such reclaimed land.
The fact was that artificial islands were more numerous than most people realized, as the AIs had informed Waylon. The catch of course was that they were built close to land. None had been created in the open ocean, until Freehold.
"You will forgive my skepticism," the minister said. "There have been several examples of, fraud, as it relates to 'investments' in micronations. There are also the territorial disputes."
Waylon knew quite a bit about the subject in fact. He'd been having vigorous discussions with the AIs about that same topic for weeks.
"Allow me to allay some of your concerns. We're not selling citizenship, or even our own currency. Freehold is a private venture and needs no investors."
The minister's forehead crinkled, "How would such an enterprise support itself?"
"We are not without resources," Waylon replied.
The minister had to chew on that vague answer. They parted with a handshake.
After lunch, Waylon took the opportunity to walk around the capital city and see the sights. He visited a small museum. He wasn't much of an art critic, but he couldn't figure out why Gauguin was such a big deal. He kept his mouth shut and nodded appreciatively with the small tour group he'd attached himself to.
Back at the resort, Waylon went for a swim. After a shower he had the AIs put up a privacy screen to prevent any sounds from drifting out of the bungalow. Acoustics near the water could be funny sometimes.
The argument Waylon had been having with the AIs was about sovereignty. Long gone were the days when you could stake out a corner of the unexplored globe and declare it yours. The modern world was built upon layers of treaties and mutual recognition. Just because you said you were a sovereign state, didn't make it true.
The minister had mentioned the key word, micronation. Typically, these 'nations' were created by some eccentric and viewed as no more than a joke. Recent history was rife with them. The difference between a micronation and a microstate was critical. The latter met criteria that the former did not. They were recognized by other sovereign states.
A micronation could be anything from an interesting family of characters living hand to mouth on an abandoned oil platform a few miles off some coastline to one of your unstable neighbor who suddenly declared his house free and independent of any government authority.
In contrast, a microstate was Vatican City or Barbados. Waylon's current passport was issued by one such microstate, St. Kitts & Nevis.
"Waylon, you knew there would be questions," AI Barry said.
"I was hoping we'd have more time," Waylon replied.
"Sovereignty is as much a matter of perception as it is a legal framework," the AI insisted.
Waylon had heard all the arguments. Freehold could potentially meet the criteria for a self declared state and move past micronation status and into being a microstate. But that didn't mean automatic recognition by the world powers. The criteria were simple. Have a defined territory with a population, a system of government, and enter into international agreements.
The island was a physical reality, in international waters, that no other political entity could claim prior ownership of. That was a big advantage that other failed attempts hadn't established. Who owned the land was a delicate sticking point at several locations around the globe with territorial claims and counterclaims, some of which were downright hostile; Israel and Palestine, Cyprus, Taiwan, and North and South Korea all came to mind.
One human with a handful of alien computers in his head wasn't much of a population.
A state required a government, but Waylon couldn't see declaring himself president or king. Chief executive officer, slash president? It would make a great business card.
"I'd feel better about poking our heads up and waving the Freehold flag if I didn't have that classified arrest warrant hanging over my head. If they come after me with the full might and power of the United States, there's not much I can do about it."
"We don't have a flag, Waylon. Should we be making one?"
"Let's not get sidetracked, guys. Come on, focus."
"No request for your arrest has been made to any international authority," Barry continued. "We have a tap on the immigration computers here in Papeete. There's no action listed against your St. Kitts & Nevis passport. Furthermore, there have been no instructions issued to the Police Nationale or the Gendarmerie."
"Why do you think that is?"
"AI Chief believes it is because the American authorities had hoped to detain you surreptitiously and avoid any public notice," Barry replied.
"So, you're saying I'm walking free because they don't trust their international partners?"
"Essentially," the AI said. "Also, they face increasing scrutiny. They may not wish to exacerbate the situation."
"You may be right," Waylon said. "Let's do what we have to do tomorrow and get the heck out of here before anybody changes their mind."
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