Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  Several hours later, as the sun ambered the room with its dying rays, Mercer finally put down his pen, drank the last sip of his second pot of coffee and stood for a stretch. He had written twelve pages of notes and made eighteen phone calls. Tish was still asleep on the couch.

  Mercer knuckled the kinks out of his lower back and squeezed his eyes tight, trying to clear his sleep-deprived brain. The caffeine he had drunk left him feeling weak and with a pounding headache. He pulled Dick Henna’s card from his wallet and dialed his office number. Henna himself answered the phone.

  “Mr. Henna, it’s Philip Mercer.”

  “Do you have anything new?” Mercer liked the squat director for his bluntness.

  “I need to get to Hawaii,” Mercer stated flatly.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Two hours ago all communications from the islands stopped, no telephones, radio, or television. All aircraft that could be routed to other destinations were turned back. Our reports from Pearl Harbor say the mob has started taking potshots at soldiers. I’ve gotten unconfirmed reports from ham radio operators that Honolulu is under martial law by authority of Mayor Takamora and that National Guard troops are shooting any white face they see.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mercer breathed. “The fucking lunatic has started it.”

  “It appears so. There’s no way to get you out there even if I wanted to.”

  “Listen, I have some theories that, if true, can clear this up in twenty-four hours, but I have to get to Hawaii.” Mercer wouldn’t allow his horror at Henna’s news to dissuade him.

  “Dr. Mercer-”

  “I prefer Mister, or just plain Mercer.”

  “Really, most Ph.Ds I know flaunt their titles.”

  “I only use mine when I’m trying to get dinner reservations.”

  Henna chuckled. “I can respect that. Anyway, the President has authorized a covert action against Ohnishi in light of his involvement with this coup.”

  “Jesus.” Mercer was shocked. “That’s a stupid mistake. Ohnishi’s just a pawn in this whole thing. Taking him out won’t accomplish anything.”

  “You know something we don’t?” Henna asked tiredly.

  “Yes, I do, but it’s going to cost you at least a ticket to that amphibious assault ship stationed near Hawaii.”

  “That’s extortion.”

  “Extortion is such a genteel word, Mr. Henna. I prefer blackmail. What if I said I can hand over the mastermind of the entire operation?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I won’t talk until you guarantee transport to that ship.”

  “Christ.” Mercer could almost see Henna throw his hands up in exasperation. “All right, I’ll get you out there. Now, what have you got?”

  For the next twenty minutes Mercer spoke without pause and Henna listened. Hard.

  “You got proof for any of this?” Henna asked when Mercer finished.

  “Not one single shred. But it all fits together.”

  “I said it before, Mercer, if you ever want another job, the bureau would love to have you.”

  “Do you think the American Civil Liberties Union would stand to have an FBI agent making accusations like I just made? Shit, they’d skin us both alive.”

  Henna chuckled again. “You’re right. I’ve got a meeting with the President in an hour. I’ll take your proposal to him. The only way I can get you out there is as an observer, nothing more.”

  “That’ll be fine,” lied Mercer smoothly. “I really can’t ask for more. Call me back when you’re finished with the President.”

  A minute after hanging up the phone, Mercer was between the sheets of his bed. Despite his battered body’s need for sleep, he tossed and turned for twenty minutes before drifting into unconsciousness.

  The Pacific

  Unlike most conventional helicopters, the Kamov Ka- 26 lacked a stabilizing rotor in the stern; rather, it had two main rotors stacked on top of each other. Their counter-rotating blades kept the tiny copter from gyrating through the skies. The craft was much noisier than normal helicopters because of this arrangement, though the rotor noise couldn’t drown out her two radial engines mounted in pods outside the cramped cabin.

  The Ka-26, code-named “Hoodlum” by NATO, pounded through the clear skies at one hundred knots, near her maximum cruising speed. The sea below was an azure plane which rolled into infinity. The August Rose, mother ship to the small chopper, was nearly two hundred miles astern and steaming hard for Taipei, a gift to the Taiwanese ambassador. Dr. Borodin had ascertained the precise location of his island’s birth, so the sophisticated gear on board the freighter was no longer needed.

  The Hoodlum had been stored inside a huge packing crate on the deck of the refrigerator ship, her double set of rotor blades folded back along the twin booms of her tail. The chopper had remained hidden long after the freighter had started her long journey westward, away from the volcano, which was now no more than a few days from broaching the surface. Already dense, sulfur-laden steam clouds clung to the surface of the sea, marking the eruption.

  With an operational range of 380 miles in her unitarian configuration, the Hoodlum remained on the August Rose until she was nearly two-thirds that distance away from the rising volcano. Only then had the pilot lifted from the deck with his two passengers.

  Now, three hours after takeoff, the pilot was beginning to sweat, not from the humid air that whipped through the tiny cabin, but from fear. The antiquated radar on the twenty-five-year-old craft could no longer detect the August Rose, not that they had fuel to reach her in any case. They were alone, five thousand feet above an empty sea. The pilot looked back at his two passengers. The older one apparently slept while the younger one watched the ocean far below. The earphones over his head kept his fine hair from blowing about, but the wind worried at his olive drab flight suit. The pilot turned back to his instruments, scanning fuel, altitude, speed, and course in a quick glance before he gazed again at the endless horizon.

  Valery Borodin turned away from the open door. He touched his father on the shoulder and Pytor’s eyes cleared instantly. “We should be only about ten kilometers away.”

  The pilot overheard the comment through the intercom and replied, “Ten kilos away from what? We’re at least three hundred kilometers away from Hawaii and running out of fuel. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Of course. Take us down to about two hundred meters first.”

  The pilot shrugged and complied. He doubted these two men were planning their suicides, so they must have a plan. Relieved, the pilot put the Ka-26 in a gut-wrenching dive. The rotors clawed at the air as they drove the chopper toward the surface of the sea. In an expert maneuver, the pilot pulled back on the collective pitch and leveled the craft at exactly two hundred meters. He looked back and was disappointed to see that his passengers appeared bored at his antics and expertise.

  “Two hundred meters, sir.”

  The elder Borodin pulled a cylinder from the pocket of his flight suit. The yellow plastic case was no more than three inches in diameter and about a foot long. He pressed a red button at the top of the cylinder and casually threw it out the open door of the helicopter.

  “What was that?” the pilot asked.

  “A high-frequency transponder,” Valery answered for his father. “Fly a one-kilometer box pattern and in a moment you’ll see what we’re up to.”

  The chopper banked sharply to starboard as the pilot began running his boxes. He had completed two kilometer-long legs when he saw a disturbance in the sea. The limpid blue water was frothing as if Leviathan itself was surfacing. The pilot brought the chopper to a hover near the boiling water.

  The maddened sea grew more turgid until the bow of a ship burst from the waves, water streaming off her black hull. She rose swiftly, revealing her forward deck, studded with cranes; a boxy superstructure crowned with a single funnel; her aft deck; and finally her jack staff, sporting a limp Panamanian flag. It was like watchi
ng the death throes of a sinking ship, only in reverse. Water poured through her scuppers with the force of fire hoses as the ship wallowed in the frenzied swells of her own creation. After a minute the ship settled to an even keel, the waves dispersing quickly.

  “Jesus,” the pilot muttered.

  “That,” Borodin said with triumph, “is the watchdog of Ocean Freight and Cargo and our destination, the steamer John Dory.”

  If the pilot had had time to notice the decoration on the ship’s funnel as he brought the Hoodlum toward the landing pad aft deck of this extraordinary vessel, he would have seen a black circle surrounding a yellow dot.

  The Hoodlum settled on the rolling deck with deceptive ease. The pilot was truly a professional. The deck-hands tossed chains around the four wheels of the copter and signaled him to cut power. An instant later the blades slowed to a stop, sagging like palm fronds.

  Valery Borodin jumped from the craft, followed a moment later by his wheezing father. The elder scientist’s skin had gone a chalky gray and his breath was short. Both men paused, waiting for the pilot to join them.

  “What in the hell is this?” the pilot nearly shouted, his ears still ringing from the long flight.

  “One moment and I’ll let the captain explain.” Borodin turned to the crew chief and made a cutting motion across his throat.

  The chief waved his acknowledgment and signaled his crew. They quickly unshackled the landing gear and unceremoniously pushed the Hoodlum into the sea. The chopper bobbed in the water for a few minutes, her rotor blades scratching at the paintwork of the John Dory before she filled with water and vanished. The pilot gave the tired little craft an ironic salute as he watched her go under. If he was bothered by the intentional destruction of his helicopter, it didn’t show.

  “You won’t be leaving me that way, Valery,” Borodin remarked casually as he turned away.

  Valery stood as if he’d just witnessed a horrible accident, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slackly. How had he guessed? Valery questioned himself. How could he know I wanted to escape using the helicopter?

  Pytor answered his son’s silent question. “Kerikov contacted me after you tried to pressure him into rescuing that girl from the American research vessel.”

  The plight of the beached whales weeks before and the effort to find out the cause of their deaths had been given a great deal of media attention that was picked up aboard the August Rose as she was monitoring the volcano. The radio reports about the NOAA mission had been very thorough, including interviews with some of the key scientific personnel. Valery recalled with pride that Tish had been brilliant during hers. Only he and his father knew that the Ocean Seeker was sailing toward her destruction as she embarked on her survey. In a gamble born of desperation, Valery had told Kerikov that if Tish Talbot wasn’t rescued, he would destroy the volcano with the seismic charges stored aboard the August Rose.

  “Kerikov wasn’t impressed with your threat, Valery, and quite frankly neither was I. But I knew if she wasn’t saved you would try to sabotage our mission, so he had her rescued at my request. You looked so smug when we heard on the radio that she was rescued.” Borodin laughed shortly and looked over the still-wet rail of the John Dory at the small patch of bubbles that marked the grave of the chopper. “You won’t be leaving anytime soon. I still need you. Russia still needs you.”

  That was the longest speech Pytor had addressed to Valery in the year since their reunion. It left Valery with such a cold, blinding hatred that his mouth felt the searing acids of the bile roiling in his knotted stomach. His fingers had gone white and bloodless as they curled into fists so tight that his bones seemed ready to tear through his skin.

  Pytor Borodin saw none of his son’s reaction; he had turned to greet the captain of the John Dory. Valery ambled toward them, his shoulders hunched and his trembling hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his flight suit.

  “Welcome aboard, Dr. Borodin,” Captain Nikolai Zwenkov said, extending a hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you on the landing pad, but I had to see that the ship was trimmed properly.”

  Borodin shook the proffered hand and introduced his son and the chopper pilot. Zwenkov was an ethnic Georgian and spoke Russian with an oafish accent, but he had the look of a stern, uncompromising professional.

  “We must hurry and submerge once again. I don’t want to give the American spy satellites a chance to spot us.”

  The captain led the three men into the ship’s superstructure. There were no bulkheads or companionways, no cabins or bridge. The boxy structure was only a facade bolted to struts protruding from the rounded conning tower of a submarine. The sides and main deck of the John Dory were also just plates of steel welded to the hull of the sub, the cargo cranes, winches, and booms merely props. On the surface, from any range over two hundred yards, the freighter looked legitimate, giving no indication of her deadly secret within.

  “It’s like a K-boat,” the helicopter pilot remarked, his eyes roaming the dank interior of the John Dory’s superstructure, referring to vessels used by Germany during World War I. They resembled freighters, but, in fact, were disguised gunboats. They would lure their victims within range with bogus distress calls, then reveal their large cannons hidden behind secret plates in their hulls. Thousands of Allied tonnage paid the ultimate price for falling into their traps.

  “I like to think that this ship is a little more sophisticated,” Borodin replied, rubbing the insides of his arms, “but the principle is the same.”

  “Come, Pytor, you look tired from your journey.” The captain led them through a hatch and into the working part of the vessel, an old 285-foot Victor Class nuclear attack submarine.

  Zwenkov moved through the maze of pipes, narrow hatches, and equipment with the agility of a child.

  Twenty years in the Soviet Submarine Service had taught him how to avoid banging himself aboard these cramped vessels. He led Borodin and his son straight to his cabin after dropping the chopper pilot off with a subordinate.

  Valery sat silently while the captain and his father chatted. Zwenkov would have killed his beloved Tish Talbot had Kerikov not been able to sneak an agent on board the Ocean Seeker to save her. He wanted to beat Zwenkov for his anonymous barbarity. Yet Valery couldn’t fully blame Zwenkov, for he was just a soldier doing his duty, following orders. The man behind those orders was his father.

  A cramp seized Valery’s gut as he thought how close he had been to escaping. The Hoodlum would have been the perfect way out of the demented world he found himself in. Valery was a man of science, dedicated to reason and thought. Yet his father had corrupted that pure world into a perverse dimension of murder and betrayal and unfathomable cruelty. Hatred boiled within him, hatred for his father’s almost murdering the woman he loved, hatred for the untold murders in the past, hatred for abandoning a frightened little boy all those years before.

  Only a few more days and it would all be over. If he didn’t manage to escape, to rejoin the woman who’d been his source of strength since his father had reentered his life, then his only other option was suicide. Valery promised himself that he would not die alone.

  That decided, he found that his head had cleared. His mind was sharp and focused as he leaned forward to listen to the captain and his father.

  “All I know is Kerikov radioed and said to suspend all activity until further orders. We are to remain on station, submerged, but with the antennae array extended, until we are contacted.”

  “But why? It makes no sense. We should make preparations to claim our prize.” Dr. Borodin was speaking more to himself than the others. He rubbed his neck and throat absently. “I radioed Kerikov from the August Rose. He knows that the volcano falls outside America’s two-hundred-mile limit. It belongs to the first nation that discovers it. By rights it belongs to us!”

  “There is one more thing.” Zwenkov’s rumbling voice sounded almost apologetic. “Kerikov told me not to reveal this to you, but I’ve known you too long f
or secrets. He ordered me to load a thirty-kiloton nuclear warhead onto an SS-N-9 Siren missile and make it ready to launch.”

  Borodin took this news without emotion. It was as if his mind had turned in on itself, probing within to find answers. The hum of the sub’s air-conditioning was the only sound in the spartan cabin for many long seconds. Finally Borodin looked first at Zwenkov and then at his son.

  “He must mean to destroy the volcano — but why?” Borodin appeared more concerned with Kerikov’s motives than with the fact that his life’s work might be destroyed in a nuclear fireball. “There must be a leak somewhere in our security. He would have to destroy the entire project to maintain secrecy.”

  “Don’t you understand that Kerikov has double-crossed you?” Anger made Valery’s voice sound like a hiss. “He never had any intention of turning over the volcano to the government. He’s used you since taking over Department Seven, hoping one day to sell your work right out from under you.

  “The old regime is gone for good. The Russia you threw your life away for no longer exists. The world has changed since the 1950s, but you never took the time to notice. Vulcan’s Forge would have only worked under a Stalinist regime, and that has been gone for decades. This whole operation was doomed the moment Gorbachev started glasnost and perestroika. Give up your old man’s dreams and start living in reality.

  “The Russian government would never attempt to occupy an island so close to American soil with one hand while the other was begging for economic aid. Kerikov knows this and he’s made some sort of contingency plan.”

  “How can you be so sure, Valery? You are only my assistant; you’ve not been told everything.” Borodin dismissed the truth so easily because he really didn’t understand it.

  “Give it up, Father, there is nothing more and we both know it,” Valery said sadly.