Vulcan's Forge

by Du Brul, Jack

  “Captain, message from Matrushka.” The code name for Ivan Kerikov referred to the intricate nesting dolls so popular with generations of Russian children. It was a fitting code for such a secretive and multitiered man.

  Captain Zwenkov was hunched over the weapons officer’s console, reviewing firing solutions for the sub’s Siren missile in case it was needed against the volcano not more than twenty miles distant.

  “This is good, Boris,” the captain praised his weapon’s officer and slapped him on the shoulder before turning to the lanky radio man. “What have you got?”

  “Message from Matrushka, Comrade Captain,” the radio operator repeated, handing over the sheet of paper. He stood at attention, waiting for the captain’s response.

  Zwenkov held the flimsy paper to one of the steel-caged battle lights and squinted to make out the writing. He grunted several times as he read it through. He then folded the paper carefully and slid it into a pocket of his stiff-necked tunic.

  “Bowman, take us to periscope depth.” Zwenkov’s orders were quiet but clear. “But do not use the ballast. Take us up with engines alone, turning for two knots. We’re not in any hurry. Sonar, secure the active systems. I don’t want an accidental ping.”

  Zwenkov looked around the dim bridge as the men went about their jobs. Satisfied with their performance, he picked up a hand mike and dialed in the ship’s intercom.

  “This is the captain speaking.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Crewmen not directly near a speaker had to strain to hear him. “I know we’ve been rigged for silent running for a long time, but the need for this precaution is almost over. We will be leaving station within twenty-four hours and heading for home. We cannot afford to be lax during these crucial hours; now is the time to redouble our efforts. There is an American carrier in the area as well as an amphibious assault ship. I don’t need to remind you that there will be a fast-attack sub protecting the carrier and their sonar can hear a hammer drop two hundred miles away. They do not know we’re here, and I don’t want to give them a chance to find us. All conversations are to be in whispers. There will be no music in the mess rooms and any necessary repairs must first be cleared by me personally. All scheduled maintenance is suspended until further orders. That is all.”

  He hung the mike back in its cradle. The men on the bridge looked at him with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. Apart from sinking the NOAA ship a week ago, the cruise had been long and monotonous. The tension of remaining as quiet as possible for weeks at a time could destroy the nerves of even the best submariner, and they’d been at it for seven long months.

  Now the captain was promising the men that they would be going home soon, and the anticipation creased their faces into smiles. The threat of an American hunter/killer sub in the area only served to spice that anticipation. After all, they were sailors in the Russian Navy and their job was fighting, not waiting.

  Captain Zwenkov turned to the young radio operator. “Preset your system to alternate channel B. Every two hours starting at midnight you will receive a flash message. The message will be the word ‘green’ repeated for five seconds. Sometime tomorrow night the code word will be ‘red.’ It may not come during the two-hour cycle, so be prepared at all times. Every time you receive the message, tell me. Understood?”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain.” The radio operator saluted smartly and turned away.

  “Captain, periscope depth,” the dive officer reported quietly.

  “All stop.”

  “All stop, aye.”

  “Extend the ultra-low frequency antenna but don’t let it broach the surface.”

  “ULF extending . . . ULF antenna depth one meter.”

  “Engineer, disengage reactor, bring her down to five percent power.”

  “Five percent, aye.”

  Although a nuclear reactor operates much more quietly than diesel electric propulsion, the powerful pumps used to keep the containment vessel cooled emitted a distinct whirling sound that a trained sonarman could distinguish over the noisy clutter of the open sea. By reducing power to the barest minimum, Zwenkov lowered his chances of detection by the lurking American sub and its very-well-trained sonarmen.

  “Anton,” Zwenkov said as he ran a hand through his short gray hair. In response, his executive officer stepped away from his station near the glass-topped plotting table just aft of the periscope. “Find young Dr. Borodin and send him to my cabin.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The exec left the bridge, heading aft to the ward room, where he felt sure he would find the scientist.

  Zwenkov went to his cabin, just forward of the bridge. From the locked drawer of his plastic-veneered desk, he removed a half-full bottle of vodka and a cheap glass tumbler emblazoned with a picture of the immense television tower in East Berlin. The glass reminded him of his one vacation outside the Soviet Republics, to a city as bleak and depressing as his native Tbilisi in Georgia. He poured a half inch of the liquor into the glass, shot it down in one fiery swallow, and returned glass and bottle to the drawer.

  Of course, alcohol was strictly forbidden on all Russian vessels, especially on submarines, but he figured a captain should have some privileges. A single shot, once a week, was all he usually allowed himself, though this week he’d taken three. The second drink he had taken soon after two seamen carried the corpse of Pytor Borodin to the sub’s nearly empty freezer.

  “Come,” he barked after a knock on his door.

  Valery entered, wearing a borrowed officer’s utility uniform. He looked like a recruitment poster, dark handsome features, trim athletic body held erect with just a trace of tragedy around him that lent an air of mystery. Understandably, Zwenkov had not seen much of him since his father’s death.

  “Sit down, please,” Zwenkov invited. “Would you care for some tea?”

  Valery demurred with a hand gesture as he swung himself into a chair next to where his father had died. He eyed the other chair for a moment before turning to the captain. “You wanted to see me?”

  Zwenkov knew that the direct approach was always best. “I just received word from Kerikov. He’s ordered the destruction of the volcano.”

  Valery took the news without changing expression, he didn’t even blink. He had expected something like this, but now that it came he felt nothing. Part of him was vindicated—the father who had abandoned him so young had wasted his entire life on a dream that would never be fulfilled—and part of him felt pain for the old man’s failure. The conflicting emotions turned his face into a stony mask.

  Zwenkov continued. “I’m waiting to hear from a commando team in Hawaii. Once I receive word, I’ll fire the missile and obliterate the volcano. We then head toward Hawaii to extract the commando team.”

  “Did he give a reason?” Valery asked softly.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Borodin, what was that?”

  Valery cleared his throat, but his voice was still a whisper. “I asked if Kerikov gave you a reason.”

  “I’m a member of the Russian armed forces attached to the KGB, Dr. Borodin. When I receive orders I don’t ask for explanations.”

  “You know it’s a mistake, don’t you?”

  “That is not my concern,” Zwenkov replied caustically.

  “I heard what you said to the crew about the American submarines in the area. When you launch that missile they’ll find us instantly.”

  “You may know geology, Borodin, but I know American tactics. When that warhead goes off, they’ll rush to the area to investigate and we’ll slip quietly away. The acoustics of the explosion will hide our underwater signature even at flank speed.”

  He had told Valery about the missile strike out of courtesy, since the young scientist and his father had put so much effort into the volcano’s creation, but that didn’t mean he liked Borodin nor wanted to have his orders questioned.

  Since his father’s death, Valery had abandoned any thoughts of suicide, admitting that he had been tempted in a moment of weakness. Now he re
alized that he would never be able to dissuade Zwenkov from destroying the volcano—but he still had a chance of escaping with his father’s briefcase.

  When the John Dory rendezvoused with the commando team, Valery would find a way to get off the boat, even if it meant swimming to Hawaii. He would escape. The volcano would be gone by then, but Pytor’s notes would certainly be worth something to the Americans.

  “Because our boat is about to enter a potential combat situation,” Zwenkov said, interrupting Valery’s thoughts, “you will be confined to your quarters. You are not under arrest, but a guard will be posted to ensure that you do not interfere with the operation of this vessel.”

  Zwenkov pressed the intercom button on his desk. The XO answered instantly from the bridge. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Send the security officer here to escort Dr. Borodin back to his cabin and have a guard posted there. There is no need for a sidearm.”

  A moment later, the security man entered the cabin and escorted a silent Valery Borodin away. A beefy guard already stood outside Valery’s cabin when they reached it.

  Valery threw himself onto his bunk after the guard closed the door with exaggerated courtesy. Waves of frustration pounded against the top of his head like a crashing winter surf.

  He had been so close. The John Dory would have picked up the commando team near the Hawaiian coast under the cover of darkness and he could have easily slipped into the sea unnoticed.

  Gone. His chances were gone. He would never be able to overpower the guard outside his door and make his way off the submarine.

  He had lost.

  He pounded his fists into his thin mattress, trying not to imagine how close he’d been to being with Tish again. The ache was strong enough to make him moan and toss about on the narrow bunk. Those beautiful weeks when they’d been together in Mozambique played through his mind like a romance film. Himself and Tish swimming and laughing and loving, carefree and gay. He could almost feel her thinking about him at this very moment, feel the connection they shared, the bond that wouldn’t ever let them be truly apart. Valery closed his eyes tightly in a vain attempt to block out his loss.

  “Goddamn it,” he seethed, teeth clenched so tightly they were almost in danger of shattering. “Goddamn it.”

  Near Hawaii

  The roar of the turbo jets woke Mercer and he knew the F/A-18 Hornet had just slowed to subsonic speeds. He blinked his eyes hard and rotated his stiff neck. The constricting flight suit dug painfully into his groin and had bunched up under his arms, but there was no way he could stretch out in the cockpit. Night still held the earth in its grip. The moon was big and fat overhead. Mercer was sure he could read by its pale glow.

  “Where are we?” he asked Billy Ray.

  “About fifty miles out from the Kitty Hawk; they’re trackin’ us now.”

  Ask any commercial or private pilot to name the most dangerous thing they could do with an aircraft and they will invariably say landing without power on rough terrain. Ask any naval aviator and the response would be landing on a carrier at night in rough seas. Knowing this, Mercer thought it prudent to keep quiet and let Billy Ray do his job.

  Billy Ray “Bubba” Young had other ideas. He kept up a running dialogue of inane observations about farming, flying, and anything else that came into his head. Mercer could see his hands gesturing wildly as he talked. Only when they were ten miles out did the pilot regain his calm professionalism and get down to business.

  “Control, this is Ferryman One-One-Three.” Bubba gave the flight destination. “I have you in sight.”

  Mercer peered into the gloom ahead of the hurtling aircraft but it took him nearly twenty seconds to find the dim lights of the aircraft carrier which were just faint pinpricks of light like a constellation on the black surface of the sea. There was no doubt that Billy Ray possessed exceptional eyesight.

  The Hornet was descending steadily, her powerful engines throttled back, her airspeed no more than two hundred knots. As they drew closer to the huge carrier, Mercer could see the lights on her stern; running lights, VASSI system lights to show the pilot his glide path, and the “ball” light that indicated the ship’s roll. They meant nothing to him, but he trusted Billy Ray to know what he was doing.

  “One mile out,” the voice of the flight controller called.

  “Confirmed,” Billy Ray replied casually. There was a mechanical whine as the landing gear sank from the fuselage.

  The few lights on the carrier made the sea look even darker and more ominous. By watching the ship’s bow, Mercer saw she was pitching wildly. It looked impossible to land the Hornet on her deck.

  “Call the ball,” the radio buzzed.

  Billy Ray slewed his aircraft through the sky to match the great ship’s ponderous roll. When he felt they were aligned, he keyed his mike and said, “Bubba has the ball.”

  The flight was in his hands now, the carrier closing by the second, the Hornet still flying over one hundred and fifty knots, the controlled sway of the aircraft matching the flight deck’s movement.

  Three hundred yards out, the stall warning wailed—the wings were losing lift at the slow speed. Two hundred yards out, Billy Ray pitched the needle nose up at an even steeper angle; the aircraft was barely hanging in the sky. At one hundred yards the aircraft began to shudder, but Billy Ray held her up with a deft touch on the throttle. The deck was just a murky shadow ahead.

  The entire situation seemed out of control. It was definitely unlike anything Mercer had ever experienced before—the wailing alarms, the mad movements of the fighter, and Billy Ray’s rebel yell.

  The wheels touched with a squeal of burned rubber; Billy Ray slammed the throttles to their forward stops and activated the afterburners, but the massive power of the engines could not pull the Hornet from the arrester cable that stretched across the Kitty Hawk’s deck. He shut down the engines as the plane’s nose dropped to the deck. The instant deceleration from 150 knots to zero slammed Mercer into his harness, bruising both shoulders painfully.

  As the turbofans whined into silence, Mercer exhaled the breath he was sure he’d held for the past two minutes.

  “Ay should’a warned you about hittin’ max power when we touch down. Gotta do that in case we missed the cable and need’d to take off again.”

  “No problem,” Mercer said, too relieved to complain.

  “Control,” Billy Ray spoke into the radio, “give me the wire.”

  “You snagged two, Ferryman One-One-Three,” the controller replied.

  Billy Ray shouted triumphantly. “Ah haven’t landed on a carrier in two months and Ah can still lay her down on the center wire.”

  To maintain flight status, naval pilots must consistently hook into the middle of the three arrester cables that stretch across a carrier’s deck. Hitting on number one or three meant they came in too high or too low, and if they do either too often, they’re taken off active status and sent to the mainland for additional training. Billy Ray had executed a perfect nighttime landing.

  As the F-18 was towed to one of the aircraft lifts by a small utility tractor, the canopy opened and Mercer breathed in the rich Pacific air. The smell of aviation fuel and the smoke from the carrier’s eight Forest-Wheeler boilers could not dampen the tanginess of the ocean. Mercer was amazed at the activity on the flight deck; men scurried from task to task, aircraft jockeyed around. An F-14 Tomcat streaked into the darkened sky, a huge helicopter warmed up nearby.

  Deck crews swarmed up to the Hornet. One pushed a mobile ladder to the cockpit. Two men scrambled up the ladder and helped Mercer and Billy Ray extricate themselves from the cramped seats.

  “Good to have you back, Bubba,” one of the men said. “Your squadron leader wants to see you in the briefing room right away.”

  “Fine,” Billy Ray drawled. “Well, Mr. Mercer, been a pleasure.”

  Mercer shook his hand and grinned. “If you say so. I’m sorry I wasn’t much company on the flight. I guess I needed the sleep.�
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  “Shoot, you were asleep the whole time? No wonder you didn’t answer none of my questions.” Billy Ray laughed.

  Someone handed Mercer his nylon bag recovered from the ammo well. The asphalt deck felt good under his feet as he stretched his tired muscles. He realized that the ship was barely pitching, it had just seemed violent as the Hornet had screamed in on its approach.

  “Dr. Mercer, Commander Quintana wants to see you,” said a crewman. “I’ll lead the way. Please stay behind me, sir, the flight deck is a pretty dangerous place.”

  No sooner had they stepped away from the aircraft than the huge square of the deck elevator vanished, carrying the Hornet to the hangar below. Mercer followed the crewman to the seven-story island, the only part of the carrier to rise above the flight deck. He could make out the bridge windows and the mass of antennae that shot up into the sky. Since the Kitty Hawk wasn’t nuclear powered, she had a single funnel that cantilevered out over the starboard rail.

  The wind that swept the deck pushed Mercer and his escort aft, toward the island. As they approached, Mercer saw a figure silhouetted in a doorway. When they were close enough, the Hispanic features and dark hair allowed him to correctly identify Commander Quintana. He was dressed in starched khakis, and though he seemed relaxed he held himself erect. Typical ramrod navy man, Mercer thought.

  “Welcome to the CV63 Kitty Hawk. I’m Commander Juan Quintana. Why don’t we step inside out of the wind?” Quintana made no offer to shake hands and spoke as if every word was capitalized and punctuated with a period.

  Mercer followed him into the ship. The unitarian gray walls and stark lighting reminded Mercer of the basement of his grandparents’ house in Vermont. The steel corridors were spotlessly clean but smelled of fuel oil and saltwater. Quintana led him up three decks and through a maze of corridors, to his office. Had Mercer not been used to the three-dimensional labyrinths of underground mines, he would have been thoroughly lost.

  Quintana’s office was small, but on a ship which housed more than 5000 men, space was at a premium. The walls were covered in cheap paneling and the carpet on the floor was thin but a definite upgrade from the steel passageways. Quintana’s desk was wooden, standard government issue. In fact, it reminded Mercer of his own desk at the USGS. Since he believed that a clean desk was the sign of a sick mind, he assumed Quintana was indeed touched. The only items on the desk were a lamp, bolted to its surface, and a black, three-line telephone.