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Trinidad (Spanish: "Trinity") is the largest and most populous of the two major islands and numerous landforms which make up the island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. It is the southernmost island in the Caribbean and lies just 11 km (6.8 mi) off the northeastern coast of Venezuela. With an area of 4,768 km2 (1,841 sq mi) it is also the fifth largest in the West Indies.

Many believe the original name for the island in the Arawaks' language was "Iëre" which meant "Land of the Humming Bird". Some believe that "Iere" was actually a mispronunciation or corruption by early colonists of the Arawak word "Kairi" which simply means "Island". Christopher Columbus renamed it "La Isla de la Trinidad" ("The Island of the Trinity"), fulfilling a vow he had made before setting out on his third voyage of exploration.



Cyber Wars by Jameson Hunter



CYBER WARS © Jameson Hunter 2008 0 2014 (Chapter 12 extract)




80 20’N, 780 W   Trinidad is a small colonial island, just one hundred and twenty kilometres wide and 3,080 square kilometres in area, lying off the north west coast of Venezuela, South America. The population is roughly 1.5 million today from 850,000 in the sixties which is proportionally analogous to the United Kingdom at 1/70th ratio, where many of Trinidad’s customs and its sister island, Tobago , stem from. Their courts operate in such similar fashion that cases are reported in The London Times newspapers’ weekly law reports, soon after to become authorities around the world. The irony is the knowledge import-export role reversal.

The Port of Spain is the largest and busiest town on the island and the location of The Trinidad Bugle’s newspaper offices, home to roving editor Sam Hollis. Sam is very much a sportsman and has been a keen supporter of his local running club for many years. This club had been the source of many articles he’d written on the subject, one might call Sam a running expert. Today he was manning the news desk.

The news phone rang and soon a colleague was telling of rumours that a man had been clocked running at bursts 30 miles an hour. Sam was instantly galvanised to action, for he knew that would have been impossible. But, his friend said it was on youtube – a sensation - so to check it out for himself. 

“Thanks Joe. I’ll do that.” Sam had his feet up on the desk, at the time of the call lazily gazing out of an open window, appreciating the fresh onshore sea breeze, as it wafted heavenly scents of the season to tease his senses. He tilted his straw sun hat back. He was wearing a tan short sleeved sport shirt and light coloured trousers, perfectly suited to the hot climate. Sam knew that the report must be a hoax, but what a scoop if it turned out to be even partially true.

The reporter flipped back his laptop lid and it sprang into life. A few clicks later and after keying in: ‘fast man panama’ and Sam was presented with a range of links; the top one led straight to the clip Joe had been talking about. The clip was entitled ‘Panamanian Running Man.’ It took a few seconds to buffer, but when it started it was obvious the very athletic looking runner was setting a cracking pace along an empty beach. Damm, he thought. Panama ; that’s about 1,200 miles away as the crow flies – airport to airport. He looked at the clip over and over trying to decide if it was an elaborate hoax, as with so many other clips on this famous website.

It was clearly an amateur film and very short. Or at least the clip posted was short. It had been uploaded by a tourist on her travel blog. The site had frozen with so many visitors, which jamming later became a news feature in itself. It was claimed that the visitor to Panama had been backpacking in South America , when she’d noticed a man running unusually fast on a deserted beach and had the presence of mind to capture the event on her mobile phone. Sam decided to send an email, asking for more information.


“Hi Marjorie, I’m fascinated by your running man and wondered if there was more footage. Regards, Sam”


He’d not expected a reply for many hours, when the laptop announced incoming mail. It was From: To:


“Hey Sam, I got quite a bit more then tripped over in the excitement. Pop in sometime if you want. Best, S     The Hatchings, Brighton Point.


That meant that Marjorie was a local islander. What incredible luck! No need for a flight. He clicked for a print out of the email; then sent another:


“Hi again Marjorie, Okay to come over today? S.”


“Hello S., Cheeky, but okay then.”


“Marjorie, See you in about an hour. Sam.”


Sam rushed out of the office grabbing his jacket from a coat-stand on his way out. He knew roughly where Brighton was, it was between Otaheite and Guapo Bays , about 40 miles south, facing west into the ocean. There was a diner and park close to the point and several dirt tracks leading to private houses. It had to be one of those. He jumped into his trusty grey Dodge PSV and sped off at a brisk pace.

Sam arrived at the point amid a haze of dust. He slowly cruised up and down the outcrop, wishing he’d brought a map, or his GPS.  A tidy looking pink cottage came into sight on his right with an ornamental black iron sign under a rendered brick arch proclaiming: ‘The Hatchings.’ He was relieved. He’d more or less stumbled on the cottage by accident. He liked the look of the gardens and general proportions of the building. It reminded him of the cottage “Light of Mourn” in the John Wayne classic: The Quiet Man, although, that was set in Southern Ireland .

Sam wondered through the arched gateway down a stone path to the front door, which was partly ajar. He knocked twice, “Miss Boyle, Miss Boyle.” The front door opened wider. The reporter knocked again harder looking back up the path. “Anyone home?” As he turned back toward the door he met the gaze of a beautiful tanned blonde standing in the doorway. She was about 5’ 10” and of athletic build. She was wearing a tight white lace shirt unsupported and off-white denim shorts, which complemented her figure perfectly. For a moment he was speechless. He’d expected something different. Backpackers were usually crusty intellectual, plain creatures.

Gathering himself as convincingly as he could he queried, “Miss Boyle?” Marjorie Boyle stood in the doorway smiling. She knew she had this effect on men. Pity they all turned out to be simpletons after a good time – at least the ones she’d come across to now. 

“What kept you? Fancy a sherbert?” 

“I’m Sam Hollis.” 

“Yes.” She said, “I know who you are Mr Hollis.” 

“Call me Sam Miss Boyle.” 

“Call me Maj, Sam.”

 Sam enjoyed the repartee as much as Marjorie. “Where’s your accent from?” said Sam. Marjorie spoke in British tones with a hint of colonial Africa

“Fools everyone. I’m from New Zealand . I just travel a lot.” She led Sam into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator, looking over a few cans on the middle shelf. She’d forgotten it was shopping time. Sam spotted the problem. 

“Oh, anything you’ve got.” 

“That’s lucky.” She handed him a Solar Tonic – a new health drink sensation from the mainland, but Sam wouldn’t know about that. 

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to try one of these.” Marjorie looked on mystified as she handed across a can. Sam cracked the lid on his can at the same time as Marjorie. They both tilted the heads back and took a big gulp. Ahhhh, and went to belch instinctively, but stopped themselves and looked at each other awkwardly, then both laughed. “Strewth,” said Sam, affecting an Australian accent, “that’s bloody nice.” He looked at the picture on the can interestedly, then at the stunning features of his host. “Well, what more have you got on this runner?” Marjorie beckoned Sam to follow her to her study where she had a 32” LCD screen running a sweeping planet saver program. He followed mesmerised by her shorts. She bent over her desk and moved a mouse to reveal several files in a folder called ‘Panama Holiday,’ then opened the middle one. 

“This is the one you’ll be interested in.” Marjorie played it full screen. Sam, who was now standing beside her, dragged his eyes away from her lace top. The runner was a well tanned Caucasian wearing a tight silver track suit. He looked to be about five feet nine inches tall and superbly toned. 

“Christ,” blurted Sam, almost spraying the screen with Tonic. “That’s really moving.” The clarity was several times that on the web, it made a heap of difference to the perception of speed. Sam turned to Marjorie mouth agape. Marjorie gave a knowing smile back. 

“I know,” she said “it’s unbelievable, that’s why I had to film it.”

“Sorry to ask, but can I see the camera?” 

“Sure, you wanna check it out. I don’t blame you. I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there.” 

“Was anyone with you?” 

“No. I’d wandered off that morning, to powder my nose. I went to Panama with a friend. You’ll see her on the camera before and after the runner. Marjorie handed Sam her phone. Check the time of creation of the files.” Sam was already on to that. 

“Hey, nice phone.” He scrolled through the saved images, admiring the metallic pearl finish on the mobile and oyster shell undulating pattern. The dates checked out and Marjorie was indeed with a very attractive looking brunette. He looked up at her. 

“Can you meet my friend?” she said. “Yes of course you can.” 

“Thanks Maj, perhaps I should take up hiking.” He played the clip a couple more times, noting the change in pace of the athlete as he breezed up to 30 miles and hour to jump over a mound. He seemed to take it all in his stride. 

“Wish this guy was in our running club. He’d wipe the floor with Usain Bolt’s record.”  Usain Bolt was a six foot tall Jamaican who set a new world record of 9.58 seconds over 100 metres at the 2009 Berlin Olympic Games.”

It turned out that Marjorie had known of Sam Hollis from his enthusiastic editorial support for the local athletics club. For that reason Sam got Marjorie’s permission to use a still from her camera in the Bugle. They ran that story the following weekend, when controversy reigned supreme. Marjorie Boyle went on the record to say that she’d simply captured live what she’d seen in Panama . Sam gave her full credit for the photograph and the paper put out a reward for the name and address of the mystery athlete. The islands around the Caribbean Sea had produced many great runners, which geography was thought to be a factor by many.

Countless Bugle readers thought the runner was an alien. Others thought the footage had been speeded up. Whereas the fastest man on earth officially was only capable of 20mph and that was a 100 metre dash. Experts had examined Marjorie Boyle’s Utube footage and calculated that the runner was indeed doing 30 mph at times, equal to roughly 15 metres a second. They recalled the stunning performance of Jesse Owen at the Berlin Olympic Games just before the Second World War, much to the annoyance of Adolf Hitler, and Owen’s record had stood for a further 20 years. It was not lost on broadcasters that performance enhancing drugs may have played a part in this stunt. In the eighties the Olympic runner Ben Johnson had been disqualified when he tested positive for a banned substance, when his 9.78 second 100 metre record was struck from the record books.  

Nearly all of the networks in every country reported this news item tongue in cheek, as some kind of publicity stunt or hoax. Sky News, told viewers: ‘Well folks, it looks like someone’s gone and built the perfect man!’ Little did they know how close to the truth they were? Marjorie was inundated with enquiries for her film clip and eventually sold the exclusive rights to a documentary film company for an undisclosed sum, after which other media companies left her alone, but not Sam.


















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