The knife-edge bow of the John Dory was no more than ten feet away and bearing down on him at eight knots. Mercer dove hard, but his reaction came an instant too late. The steel plates of the ship’s bow scraped along his body, shredding the thick rubber of his wet suit. The thick crust of barnacles grated against Mercer’s skin like a thousand tiny paring knives.
Mercer screamed into his mouthpiece as pain shot through his system, racing through his body to explode against the top of his skull. He felt the gray blanket of unconsciousness falling over his mind, but managed to push it aside by sheer force of will. He wouldn’t allow pain to stop him now. He had only a few seconds in which to find a handhold of some sort before the vessel passed him. And if that happened, he had no chance of ever catching her.
Training the dive light upward, Mercer recognized the smooth curve of a submarine’s hull. At least he had the right ship. He flashed the light to starboard and saw a space between the freighter silhouette and the sub’s hull. He swam into the gap.
When his head broached the surface, he spat out his mouthpiece and gulped down the warm humid air trapped between the steel plating and the sub. The water in the four-foot-wide gap was churned in a vortex that carried Mercer along with the ship.
Since he did not have the luxury of time, he didn’t bother glancing at his watch. He was certain that the sub was getting into position to fire the missile. He immediately set to work. The magnetic limpet mines he’d pilfered from the SEALs’ stores stuck to the hull with a quiet snap; the timers had all been set, and as each one made contact with the sub’s hull, it went active.
As soon as the explosive charges were planted, Mercer began climbing the spiderweb of steel girders that locked the bogus freighter hull to the submarine. Because of his injured ribs and the scuba gear hanging from his back the climb was exhausting. He wished he could dump the dive equipment, but if he hoped to escape with Valery Borodin, he needed it. At the top of the girders, he paused to look at his watch. Four minutes until launch.
Shit.
The sharp steel struts had ripped into his hands; blood poured from the wounds and dripped onto the deck where Mercer stood, just forward of the submarine’s conning tower. The empty superstructure of the freighter soared thirty feet above his head. The cavernous space echoed with the hiss of water sliding across her hull and the beat of her props. The nearly total darkness smelled of diesel oil and saltwater. As quietly as possible, Mercer stashed his scuba gear and dive fins in a corner.
Two minutes.
He crept up the ladder of the rounded conning tower. As he neared the top, he made out muted voices. The language was unmistakably Russian.
He popped his head over the top of the conning tower and gave a friendly smile to the two shocked officers standing at the open hatch.
“Take me to your leader,” Mercer grinned. Exhaustion and the adrenaline he was using as a substitute for real courage had made him giddy.
The two officers produced pistols in record time, leveling them at Mercer’s head. One of them shouted down into the sub. Though Mercer did not speak Russian, he assumed that the captain had just been informed that they had a prisoner. Prompted by curt gestures from a pistol barrel, Mercer went down the hatchway and into the Soviet submarine.
At the base of the ladder, Mercer casually glanced around the vessel’s control room. By the slack-jawed looks and the lack of movement, he rightly guessed that the launch had been suspended for the moment.
“Hi, my name’s Barney Cull.” Mercer stuck out his hand but no one made a move to shake it. “I’m offering a sale on hull scraping and wondered if you needed my services.”
Captain Zwenkov stepped forward, his face set in a deep scowl. “Who are you?” His English was thick but understandable.
“Actually I’m Sam O. Var, your local Coffee Wagon Company representative. How are you guys fixed for blinis?”
Zwenkov said something that in any language would have sounded like, “Get him out of here and lock him up.”
Mercer was hustled from the control room by two armed sailors. He called over his shoulder, “Don’t think strong-arm tactics will get me to lower my prices.”
He would have continued with the jokes but the pistol stabbing into his kidney jammed the air in his throat. He was led through the sub toward the stern, thankfully away from where he had planted the charges.
He was stripped of his wet suit and after a rather extensive body search, one of his guards undogged a hatch and thrust Mercer into a small cabin. The hatch was closed behind him but not locked.
In the spartan room, a man a few years younger than Mercer sat on one of the bunks. He was handsome in that Connecticut shore, hair blowing in the wind, sweater knotted around the throat kind of way. Mercer assumed, correctly, that this was Valery Borodin. Borodin said something to Mercer in Russian.
“Sorry, I don’t speak it.”
Mercer’s use of English drained the color from Valery’s face. “I said, you’re not a member of the boat’s crew. Who are you?”
“I’m Philip Mercer, the guy you sent the telegram to.”
“Who?” Valery’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Philip Mercer. You sent a telegram to me in Washington, warning me about the danger to Tish Talbot.”
“Tish sent you?” Valery stood, his voice brightening.
“No, you sent me.” Mercer was getting confused himself.
“I don’t know who you are, but you know Tish?”
“You didn’t send a telegram to me in Tish’s father’s name?”
“No.”
“Just after you had her rescued from the Ocean Seeker?”
“No.”
“If you didn’t, then who the hell did?” Mercer muttered. “Well, anyway, I’m here to help you get off this tin can.”
“Did Tish ask you to come?”
“Not exactly, but she’s safe and waiting for you right now in Washington, D.C.”
“There’s no way to escape. We’re hundreds of miles from Hawaii.”
“Listen, in thirty seconds this sub is going to have more holes in it than the golf course at Pebble Beach. I’ve got a helicopter waiting for us, so don’t worry about it. Where’s your father?”
“He died two days ago. Heart attack.”
“For the pain he’s caused, don’t expect my condolences.”
Mercer glanced at his watch and held up his right hand with fingers splayed. As each second ticked by, he curled one finger downward. With two fingers to go, several explosions rocked the John Dory. Immediately klaxons sounded throughout the sub. The dim battle lights blinked once, then shut off completely; a single white bulb lit as the emergency system took over. Above the wail of the sirens and the shouts of men, Mercer could hear the sound of water pouring into the vessel, signaling her impending death. Mercer thrust his hand down the front of his pants, ignoring Valery’s startled look.
Few body searches ever explore the area between the scrotum and anus. As Mercer’s fingers grasped the four-barrel pepperbox Derringer pistol held there by his jock strap, he was thankful that homophobia struck Russians, too. The gun, a favorite of nineteenth-century riverboat gamblers because of its small size, had been a gift from his grandfather years before and had remained in Mercer’s desk at home since then.
He yanked the tiny pistol from his pants, mindful of the stray hairs caught in the gun’s hammer. Although the Derringer was only twenty-two caliber, it was loaded with bored-out hollow-points filled with mercury. At a range of more than ten feet the gun was useless. Closer, a hit would be fatal.
“Are you coming?” The sub was already listing.
Valery grabbed a cheap briefcase from the bunk. “Yes, I’m with you.”
They stepped into the boat’s central passageway, Valery clutching the briefcase to his chest like a mother protecting her baby. Panicked sailors and officers ran down the narrow corridor, ignoring everything except their own safety. Mercer and Valery blended into the stream of men r
ushing to the nearest hatch.
Bursting into the control room, Mercer saw Captain Zwenkov leaning over the weapons officer. They were still going to launch the nuclear missile. Instinct made Zwenkov turn around and face his executioner.
The report from the Derringer was lost in the sounds of the dying vessel and her crew, but the bullet tore through the captain’s head cleanly. His cap flew through the air, carried by the top section of his skull. The blood-splattered weapons officer whirled in his seat, but before he could move, a round caught him in the throat, ripping out his carotid artery and jugular vein, sending a fountain of blood across the ballistic control computer.
A crewman grabbed Mercer from behind. Mercer whipped around, smashing his elbow into the man’s jaw. Blood and broken teeth sprayed from the Russian’s lips. Another man, this one wearing the coveralls of an engineer, charged forward, and Mercer shot him point blank in the heart.
The little four-barreled pistol had only one round left, and Mercer didn’t have any spare ammunition. “Valery, come on.” With Valery close behind, Mercer shouldered his way to the hatch, shoving, kicking, and punching his way to the bottom of the ladder.
On deck, the list of the submarine was much more noticeable, at least twenty degrees. Mercer guessed that the vessel would flip onto her back in moments. The confused mass of men on the deck were too busy trying to launch an inadequate number of life rafts to notice Mercer as he led Valery to the cache of scuba equipment. The din of the klaxons echoed across the storm chopped sea.
“There’s only one set of tanks,” Valery pointed out.
“We’ll buddy dive,” Mercer said, slipping the heavy tanks over his shoulders.
“But I’ve never dived before.”
“That’s okay, this is only my second time, so we’re almost even.” Mercer shoved Valery into the gap between the sub and the outer plating and leapt after him, losing his mask in the plunge.
In the water, Mercer slipped Valery’s hand through the straps of the scuba tank so they would not get separated in the confusion. Explosions rumbled within the sub’s hull and burning oil filled the narrow gap with reeking smoke. Mercer worried fleetingly about the very real danger that the nuclear power plant would melt down from the shock of cool seawater washing over its five-hundred-degree shielding.
“There will be a helicopter a few hundred yards directly astern. If we stay underwater, we won’t be spotted.”
A bullet plowed into the sea a few inches from Mercer’s head, throwing up a tiny fountain of water. Mercer fired the last round from the Derringer into the gloom above them, grasped Valery’s free arm, and ducked beneath the waves. He kicked downward, breathing as slowly as possible. About fifteen feet below the surface, he felt Valery tug the regulator from his mouth. The Russian took a few breaths, then thrust the rubber piece back between his lips. The John Dory was mortally wounded but her engines still pounded out eight knots. Mercer and Valery hung below the surface as the 285-foot hull glided over their heads. The concussion from the blasts that were wrenching her apart assaulted their ears painfully, but they had no time to worry about its effects. They began swimming away from the stricken vessel. Their progress was impeded by the turbid swells and their need to trade the life-giving mouthpiece.
After five minutes, Mercer brought them to the surface. The John Dory was a few hundred yards away and it was easy to see she was sinking. Her bow rode deep and her props thrashed the water into a white froth as they were pulled from the ocean. Only two of the lifeboats had been launched and the crew seemed too occupied, picking up survivors and corpses, to care about the huge helicopter that swooped in overhead.
Eddie Rice settled the Sea King into the water and let the rotors idle. Mercer could see the pilot scramble to the cargo door of the Sikorsky machine. Rice popped open a large drum of oil and spilled it onto the water. The churned-up sea settled immediately under the weight of the fluid.
Mercer and Valery swam toward the helicopter, their heads repeatedly swamped by the storm. Both men retched seawater regularly. They were only twenty yards from the machine when one of the lifeboats began motoring their way.
“Eddie,” Mercer screamed into the night, “get ready to take off.”
The pilot must have heard Mercer because he vanished from the hatch. The last fifteen yards of the swim were the most agonizing moments in Mercer’s life. The pain in his body was unbearable. His lungs burned, his arms felt like lead, and saltwater had closed his eyes to slits. He dug deep within himself, searching for any last reserves of stamina to keep him going. There wasn’t much left but still he swam on with Valery right beside him.
The outboard motor of the life raft was getting louder as the small craft drew near. Neither man dared look back.
Suddenly they burst into the calmed pool of oil that Eddie Rice had laid down. The chopper’s rotors were beginning to beat harder. Mercer and Valery swam the last few yards on will alone. Valery tossed his father’s briefcase into the open door and clung desperately to the side of the chopper, his lungs pumping for air.
Mercer shoved him into the craft and stole a glance over his shoulder. The John Dory’s life raft was only about twenty yards behind and closing fast. Mercer knew he’d never clamber into the chopper before the Soviets were upon them.
“Tell the pilot to take off,” he shouted, and let go of the Sea King.
Valery was nowhere to be seen. Mercer assumed that the Russian had passed out as soon as he was inside. He was wrong.
Valery reappeared in the doorway, a machine pistol held firmly to his flank. He fired a long, devastating burst at the life raft, bullets and screams piercing the night. When the clip was empty, he held the weapon out to Mercer.
Mercer grasped the proffered gun stock and hauled himself to the chopper. He hooked an arm through Valery’s and the younger man hoisted him aboard. Mercer didn’t even take time to catch his breath; he grabbed a headset and wheezed into the microphone, “Go, Eddie, goddamn it, go.”
Only after the Sea King lifted from the water toward Hawaii did Mercer collapse to the deck, his eyes glazed over, his lungs nearly in convulsions. Valery sat down next to him, drained by exhaustion and an adrenaline overdose.
“My father told me that years ago he had stood by and watched as a lifeboat full of men was machine-gunned like that. He said that the men died for Russia’s greater glory even though they weren’t Russian. Now I have done the same. For what?”
“For the best reason of all,” Mercer gasped. “To save your own ass.”
He got to his feet and staggered to the open cargo door, wind and rain whipping around his body. He closed the door and returned to Valery’s side. “Tell me, are you sure you didn’t send that telegram?”
“Positive.”
“I wonder?” Mercer mused, and then passed out.
Arlington, Virginia
Mercer sat at the back corner booth of Tiny’s and slowly swirled his vodka gimlet so the cubes of ice clicked discreetly. He took a swallow and placed the glass back on the scarred tabletop. His movements were slow, deliberate. It had been three weeks since Eddie Rice had ditched his Sea King into the Pacific nearly a hundred miles from Hawaii and his body was still stiff and battered. Mercer fractured a leg during the impact and Eddie had given himself a severe concussion and turned his face into a vermillion patchwork of bruises and lacerations. The chopper pilot was still bedridden at the Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital. Valery Borodin wasn’t so much as scratched during the crash.
He swiveled his head and surveyed the room. Tiny was out of sight behind the bar, searching for something or other. There were four or five other patrons, workers from the local trucking firm. Looking at them, Mercer felt vaguely conspicuous not sporting a baseball cap or at least a cigarette. Umber light slashed through the windows as the sun dropped beneath the smoggy horizon.
Mercer had been back in Washington just long enough to jam a clear pin into Hawaii on the map at home, call Dick Henna to set up this meeting at Tiny’
s, and give himself a decent buzz.
He drained the last of his drink and called to Tiny for another. The three gimlets already wending their way through his body were dulling the pain in his bruised joints.
Richard Henna came through the front door just as Tiny set the new drink in front of Mercer. Henna wore a dark suit and tie, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses seen on all FBI agents in the movies. Mercer stood slowly, supporting himself with one hand on the table, as Henna crossed the room to his booth.
“I see you’re alive if not well.” Henna shook his hand and the two men sat.
Henna removed his glasses and glanced around the dingy room. His expression matched one Mercer had made once in a public toilet in Istanbul.
“Lovely place you have here,” Henna said sarcastically.
“It has its charms.” Mercer grinned. “They water down the beer with bourbon.”
“I’ll stick to Scotch.”
“Tiny, Scotch and . . .” He looked at Henna, cocking an eyebrow.
“Neat.”
“Scotch and Scotch.”
“So where have you been since the navy fished you out?”
The explosions that sunk the John Dory had been heard by the sonar aboard the USS Jacksonville, the Los Angeles-class attack submarine attached to the Kitty Hawk battle group. She was the vessel poised to launch a nuclear-tipped Tomahawk cruise missile at the rising volcano. The sub raced to investigate the blasts and in the process found the sinking Sea King and three passengers. After an hour of argument with the captain, radio communication with the commander of the Pacific fleet, and finally intervention by Admiral Morrison, the Jacksonville abandoned her mission and headed for Hawaii.
“I stayed in Hawaii until just this afternoon.”
“A little rest and relaxation?”
“More like recovery and research.”
Henna thought better than to press for Mercer’s meaning. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. The cast on my leg came off yesterday and my ribs are okay as long as I don’t try to sing opera.”
Henna smiled, then thanked Tiny as his drink came. “I see how this place gets its name.”
Vulcan's Forge Page 33
