Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  “I doubt that St. Peter speaks Russian during his interview at the Pearly Gates, Mr. Barnes,” Mercer said evenly. “But that’s not the fact I’m relying on.

  “A friend of mine in Miami is an expert in maritime law. I had him research Ocean Freight and Cargo, the owners of the September Laurel. He found that the company is a front for the KGB.”

  “I had a court order demanding Saulman turn over all the information that you requested,” Henna said incredulously. “He withheld that from the FBI.”

  “If you knew Dave Saulman, you wouldn’t be surprised. He’s as crusty as a Paris bakery. But he is a walking encyclopedia concerning maritime commerce and his word is gospel truth.”

  “If we take his word about the KGB for the time being,” Paul Barnes said suspiciously, “what about this submarine idea of yours?”

  “The first piece of evidence is really just simple reasoning. According to the news reports there was a combined naval and coast guard search of the area, using, I’m sure, the most sophisticated hardware in the world. Yet they failed to find any survivors. The Ocean Seeker’s last known position was well documented by her Loran transmissions, yet the search turned up nothing except an oil slick and a few pieces of debris.

  “Then, two days later, the September Laurel happens along, ‘aiding’ in the search, and miraculously they find Tish. That freighter, which was a hundred miles away from the Ocean Seeker when she blew up, managed to accomplish something the coast guard and navy couldn’t do. I don’t buy it. There were no weather problems during that time, no storms, no fog.”

  “You’re wrong there, Dr. Mercer,” Admiral Morrison interrupted. “There was a tremendous amount of surface fog, and because of the President’s order not to send out surface ships, we were confined to an aerial search only.”

  “Admiral, tell me honestly, is there any logical reason why your planes would have missed her, even with the fog?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs ran a hand across the tight whorls of hair on his large head before answering. “If she had been out there, my boys would have found her.”

  “Since there is no logical reason why she wasn’t found by the coast guard or navy, I looked for an illogical one. The only one that fits, gentlemen, is a submarine.”

  Morrison turned to the President. “It makes sense, sir. There could have been a sub out there and we never would have known it. None of the search aircraft used sonar buoys or acoustical gear in the search for survivors. That sub could have sat just under the surface and listened to us flounder around.”

  The President nodded. “What other proof do you have, Dr. Mercer?”

  “Since I couldn’t learn anything more about Ocean Freight and Cargo from Dave Saulman, I knew I needed a firsthand investigation, so Tish and I broke into their offices in New York.”

  “What did you find?” asked Dick Henna.

  “For one I found a fish tank in the vice president’s office, a large tank that contained only a single fish.”

  “So?”

  “Well, OF amp;C has a practice of naming their ships after months and flowers and painting those flowers on the stack of vessels. Tish remembers seeing the design on the stack of the ship that rescued her. It was a black circle surrounding a yellow dot, yet the September Laurel is marked with a bunch of laurels. The distinctive pattern that Tish remembered matches that of a European game fish I once caught in France.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “The name of the fish is John Dory and that tank at the OF amp;C office contained a prime specimen.”

  “That’s the thinnest connection I’ve ever heard,” Barnes remarked.

  “I’d agree with you, if I hadn’t found a base file tab in the drawer with the ownership papers for the company’s vessels. The tab read ‘John Dory.’ At the time I thought the reference was simply a misfile, but it makes more sense that they own a ship by that name but don’t keep any paperwork on her. When I got back to D.C., I called the friend I went fishing with and he confirmed the name of the fish. The design on the stack pins down the source of the name, and the only ships ever named after fish are submarines.”

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Barnes chuckled indolently.

  Mercer stood up. “Mr. President, you said I was a guest and not a prisoner. If that’s true, I want to leave. If you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, then I see no reason to stay here and try to explain. In the past few days, I’ve been shot at a dozen times, and not because I have a bad standing in the community. I’ve stumbled on something, and if you gentlemen are not interested in what I have to say, I’m going.”

  “Dr. Mercer, please wait,” Henna said. “Tell us what happened in New York.”

  Mercer told them about the break-in, the armed soldiers guarding the building, and his impressions about the office.

  “There is something nefarious behind Ocean Freight and Cargo, and so far all indications point to the Russians,” Mercer concluded. “I just don’t know why.”

  “Mr. President,” Henna said, turning in his seat, “I had some agents go to the OF amp;C offices soon after Dr. Mercer and Dr. Talbot had left. The scene had been sanitized — no corpses or blood. My men could tell that a gun had been discharged in the building. The air fresheners couldn’t mask the smell of the cordite. I can’t confirm what Dr. Mercer reported, but I certainly can’t deny it either.”

  “I just remembered something.” Paul Barnes rejoined the conversation with a more accepting tone. “I can’t remember any details, but a report crossed my desk a few years ago from a metallurgist in Pennsylvania. It sounds similar to the conditions Dr. Mercer described about the explosion in 1954. He had obtained a sample of some element; I can’t remember what it was called, but it had something to do with radiation and seawater.”

  “Do you remember anything else?” Admiral Morrison prompted after Barnes had lapsed into silence.

  “Abraham Jacobs,” Barnes finally replied. “The scientist’s name was Abraham Jacobs. I’m sure he knew something about what we’re discussing.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want him in my office by this afternoon.” The force in the President’s voice galvanized the room. “We now have a more grave situation in Hawaii than we first estimated. If Dr. Mercer is right and this does go beyond Ohnishi’s personal coup and in some way involves the Russians, I don’t even want to think of the consequences.”

  “It seems too far-fetched to me that Takahiro Ohnishi and the Russians have been planning this since the 1950s. Too much has changed in the world to make a plot of this type viable.” This from Henna.

  “This could be an alliance of convenience,” hazarded Mercer. “Something that was formed recently, as new situations developed.”

  “That makes sense,” the President agreed. “But we have to get in touch with this Dr. Jacobs. Hopefully he can tell us exactly what’s at stake here.”

  “You mean over and above the possible secession of Hawaii?” Henna said caustically. The President shot him a scathing look.

  “Mr. President, may I make a request?” asked Mercer.

  “Yes, Dr. Mercer, what is it?”

  “I have a feeling that we’re working under a time limit. Ohnishi or the Russians must know we’re on to them in some respect. They are probably being forced to push up their deadlines because of my action in New York. I have a feeling that the situation in Hawaii is going to get critical real soon.”

  “I know what you are going to ask and it’s already been taken care of. The carrier Kitty Hawk and the amphibious assault ship Inchon are already on alert three hundred miles from Hawaii.”

  “A good idea, sir, but not what I wanted. I think to better understand what we’re up against, a series of infrared photos should be taken of the area where the Ocean Seeker was sunk.”

  The President looked toward Barnes, who rummaged through a briefcase at his feet. “Let’s see, there’s a KH-11 flyby of t
he north Pacific in thirteen hours. That bird has the right cameras and it wouldn’t take much to change her orbit to pass north of Hawaii.”

  “Thirteen hours, that’s too late,” Mercer said.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Either an SR-1 Blackbird or one of the air force’s superspy planes that no one is supposed to know about.”

  “Paul?”

  “There’s an SR-71 Wraith at Edwards, but I need your authorization to get her airborne.”

  “Do it. How long before we get some pictures back?”

  “At mach six the Wraith will be there and back in about an hour and a half. Say a half hour for film processing and transmission here.”

  “Dr. Mercer, I needn’t remind you that you have not heard any of this, correct?” the President cautioned.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Mercer smiled. “I haven’t been listening. Did you say something?”

  “Very good. Gentlemen, we all have jobs to do.”

  The group started for the door. “I want everyone to meet back here in two hours. Dr. Mercer, ask my secretary for a temporary pass if you plan to leave the grounds.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Mercer spoke with Miss Craig and learned that Tish was asleep in one of the White House guest rooms. He scribbled a quick note for her in case she woke up while he was gone and then hailed a cab near Pennsylvania Avenue. He was home twenty minutes later. After a quick shower and an even quicker beer, he went to his study, touched the large bluish stone that was his good luck piece, and sat behind his desk.

  He dialed a number and two rings later the phone was answered. “Geology department, Carnegie-Mellon University.”

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. Jacobs, please.”

  “One moment.” After about a dozen moments the same voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Dr. Jacobs is with a class.”

  “My name is Vince Andrews from the Hiller Foundation, the group that supports Dr. Jacobs’s research,” Mercer said, putting as much bluff into his voice as he could. “Dr. Jacobs is in serious trouble and will probably lose his grant. It’s imperative that I speak to him now.”

  “I understand, please hold the line.”

  A minute later a more mature voice spoke. “I don’t know who this is since my grant comes from Cochran Steel, but you’ve piqued my interest.”

  “Hi, Abe, it’s Philip Mercer.”

  “I should have known.” Abraham Jacobs laughed. “Mercer, give me a second to get into my office. I don’t want my assistant realizing the low caliber of some of my friends.”

  A few seconds later, Abe Jacobs was back and the assistant had hung up the antechamber extension. “So, to what do I owe the honor of this call, and by the way thank you for getting me away from that class. They’re an even bigger group of idiots than you and your class when I taught at Penn State.”

  Abe Jacobs had been Mercer’s academic advisor during his graduate work at Penn State, and Mercer had continued to seek his former professor’s advice in the years since school. They rarely saw each other now, but the tight bond between master teacher and star student had not dimmed.

  “Abe, I was just in a meeting where your name came up.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re on Carnegie-Mellon’s ethics board?”

  “Abe, we both know your wife’s leash on you is just long enough for you to roam to your classes and your lab.”

  “Too true.”

  “Well, she might be in for a surprise tonight, because you won’t be home for dinner. A couple of years ago you apparently sent a research paper to the CIA.”

  “Hold it right there, Mercer. How did you know that? That information was top secret.”

  “I was told by Paul Barnes, the head of the CIA.”

  “Ah.”

  “The CIA is tracking you down right now, but it’ll probably take them a few hours to find you. They think you’re a metallurgist, not a geologist. I thought I’d beat them to the punch and teach Paul Barnes a lesson in humility at the same time. They want you in Washington as soon as possible with any relevant material about your paper.”

  “What’s this all about? It was basically a theoretical paper. Without twenty years of development, what I found would be unfeasible.”

  “Let’s just say someone may have already put in the development effort. Get to the Pittsburgh airport general aviation counter. I’ll have a charter plane ready to bring you down here.”

  “I don’t understand. How could-”

  Mercer interrupted. “Abe, I’ll explain on the way to the White House this evening.”

  He cut the connection, then called general aviation at the airport. Securing a plane and pilot for Abe maxed out two of his credit cards, but Mercer shrugged off the expense. He was keeping a running tally of what the government owed him, and the price of the chartered Lear jet wasn’t even close to the repair bill for his shot-up Jaguar.

  Bangkok, Thailand

  Minister Lujian, the Chinese representative, scratched his name into the heavy book slid to him by Minister Tren of Taiwan. Lujian finished his signature with a flourish and slid the book across the burnished mahogany table to the person at his left, Ambassador Marco Quirino, the representative from the Philippines.

  With each successive signature, the oppressive air in the meeting room lightened. There were murmurs from the small gallery of spectators allowed to see the ambassadors pledge their nations’ consent to the document. Those in the gallery had not been privy to the weeks of frustrating delays that had plagued the Bangkok summit, but still they sensed the great accomplishment these diplomats had achieved.

  The official signature book was passed to the Russian ambassador, Gennady Perchenko. A close observer could easily detect a slight rise in tension among the delegates. The wily Russian had been the reason for the past weeks of utter frustration. Then, inexplicably, this morning he announced to the delegates that he had no further comments. Because the symbolic documents for the representatives’ signatures had been prepared at the start of the accords, Thailand’s ambassador Prem motioned that the delegates commence with the signing and the others nearly fell over themselves seconding him.

  U.S. undersecretary of commerce Kenneth Donnelly leaned over toward Perchenko and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I sure hope you know what you’ve been playing at, pardner.”

  “Mr. Secretary, I’m not playing at anything, I simply wanted to ensure all nations’ rights were explored here.”

  Perchenko heard America’s delegate mutter, “Bullshit,” under his breath, but let the comment pass. No sooner had he signed the document than a wave of applause rippled through the room. Perchenko acknowledged the ovation with a smug smile and slid the book to Donnelly.

  Donnelly signed with a tight smile focused on Perchenko and closed the book with a resounding snap.

  A pounding rain lashed the night, the drone of the water interrupted only by the booming thunder that echoed across the city. The storm did little to cool the overpowering heat, and Perchenko found himself nearly panting as he raced from the courtyard of the Arun Wat toward the protection of the temple itself.

  Kerikov’s orders had been explicit; that he wait by the low stone wall that separated the Temple of Dawn from the Phraya River at eight p.m., but the spy had said nothing about drowning in a torrential downpour.

  Gennady dashed into the shadow of one of the four ceramic-tiled towers which surround the conical two-hundred-and-sixty-foot spire of the Wat. His suit was soaked through and his sparse hair hung limply against his pale face, a face once tight and healthy looking, but now worn by exhaustion so that bags drooped under his eyes and slabs of skin hung down his cheeks and throat.

  He could hear the faint chanting of monks within the huge temple, but the storm drowned out all other sounds save his labored breathing.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” he wheezed aloud.

  “Not following instructions, Gennady Perchenko,”

  Ivan Kerikov
replied from the deep shadows to Perchenko’s right.

  Kerikov stepped into the light given off by the temple’s numerous floods and spots. He seemed unaffected by the rain; his shoulders were squared against the deluge and his eyes remained open and alert. In contrast, Gennady hunched miserably, and he squinted at Kerikov as if he were a spectral apparition.

  “I told you to wait by the wall.” Kerikov gestured with his arm, then smiled warmly. “But under the circumstances, I understand.”

  Gennady relaxed a bit and smiled, but still regarded Kerikov with a wary, nervous eye.

  “I assume that all went well?” Kerikov moved toward Gennady so that he stood in the protection of the temple’s massive portal.

  “Yes,” Gennady muttered. His fear of Kerikov, oppressive yesterday in the open crowd of the Royal River Hotel’s bar, was crippling now that the two were alone.

  He had been terrified of Kerikov since learning of the KGB man’s unlimited influence so when he had shown up the day before, Kerikov had dismissed Gennady’s concerns over the missing maitre d’ and assured him that the time had come to wind up the Bangkok Accords. Gennady wanted to ask why the delay had been necessary in the first place, but fear froze the question in his throat. Even in the relaxed atmosphere of the open-air bar, Kerikov was the most malevolent man Gennady had ever seen.

  “Relax, Gennady, it is done and you have triumphed.” Kerikov slipped a sterling hip flask from his jacket pocket. “Vodka from home.”

  Gennady took a long pull from the flask. Even warm, the vodka went down his throat with the smoothness of silk. Kerikov motioned for Gennady to take another drink, and he did so gratefully.

  “Tell me, were you able to insert my amendment into the accords?”

  “Yes, that was done weeks ago. It was simple, really. I’ve had more difficulty in actually delaying the signing ceremony. I’ve made some promises to the Taiwanese ambassador that may be out of my bounds.”

  “Yes, yes,” Kerikov said dismissively. “You had no trouble with my amendment, though?”

  “The wording had to be changed some to accommodate the American, Donnelly, but they all agreed to it.”