Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  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.”

  “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, M
ercer 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.

  “The head is through that curtain,” Quintana pointed. “You can leave your flight suit in there.”

  “Thanks.” Mercer smiled his gratitude and headed for the bathroom.

  A few minutes later he was seated in front of the commander sipping the coffee that Quintana had thoughtfully poured.

  “The captain would have met you himself, Dr. Mercer, but he really doesn’t like you boys in the CIA. Quite frankly, I don’t like you, either.” The distaste in Quintana’s voice was hard edged.

  “I’m glad we have that cleared up,” Mercer replied with a grin. “I don’t like spies either.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you’re with…”

  “The CIA,” Mercer finished his thought. “No, I’m with the USGS.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Quintana said cautiously.

  “The United States Geological Survey, Commander Quintana,” Mercer said with a smile. “I’m a mining engineer.”

  “It’s bad enough using a navy jet to transport civilians, but this is ridiculous,” Quintana said acidly. “You’re just an engineer. What the hell is this all about, Dr. Mercer?”

  The commander’s arrogant attitude triggered Mercer’s temper. “Don’t act as if you had to pay for that flight yourself, Quintana, all right? I’m on a mission so far over your head, the people involved read like a who’s who, and I don’t recall any of them giving you permission to act like some simpering prima donna. As far as I’m concerned, your ship is just an airport where I’m changing planes, so stuff your holier-than-thou attitude, I’m really not in the mood.” Mercer wouldn’t normally have been that short with Quintana, but the tension was building within him and he needed an outlet. Besides, the commander was acting like a prick. “Your job is to get me to the assault ship Inchon, nothing more.”

  Quintana’s eyes narrowed in rancor as Mercer spoke. “Fine, Dr. Mercer. It’s 0430 now, first light in another two hours or so. A helicopter will transfer you over to Inchon then.”

  “That’ll be fine. In the meantime where can I get something to eat?”

  Quintana stood, his anger locked behind clenched teeth. “I’ll take you to the officers’ mess.”

  “By the way, tell the captain that Admiral Morrison sends his regards,” Mercer said lightly as they left the office. The casual remark about the chairman of the Joint Chiefs was puerile, he knew, but the bulging veins on Quintana’s forehead gave him a fiendish pleasure.

  Honolulu

  Evad Lurbud always woke angry, even after a short nap. Anger was an integral part of him as much as his dark eyes or his powerful arms. It was an unfocused emotion, wild, yet so very important to him. It was the only thing that gave his life any meaning. If he could somehow vent just a little of that anger every day, then he knew he was alive.

  As he swung his legs off the cot, he wondered what he would be like if he ever woke and found all the anger had finally left him. It had been his constant companion since the days of brutal beatings by his father and the intimate touches of his mother and aunt. He guessed if he ever woke without it he would put a bullet into his forehead.

  The other bunks in the dim safehouse were occupied by his team. The bed above Lurbud sagged under the weight of Sergeant Demanov. Their snores were almost deafening.

  Because the team had arrived only a day before Lurbud, he knew it was prudent to give the men a chance to acclimate to the Hawaiian time zone. The men had to be fresh this evening when it was time to move out. He glanced at his watch — 6:30 p.m. He had been in Hawaii a little over twenty-four hours and now, as he stretched his muscles, he knew he was ready.

  In one corner of the safehouse, two members of the team were playing endless hands of gin, trying in vain to alleviate the boredom between their scheduled two-hour reports to the John Dory. When they saw Lurbud looking at them, they came to immediate attention. Lurbud smiled and waved them back to their seats. He turned back to the bunks of sleeping soldiers.

  “Gentlemen,” he said softly.

  With fluid grace, the men woke and slid out of their beds, coming to attention automatically. Their response was so instantaneous that even Lurbud was impressed. Sergeant Demanov broke rank and strode across the room to Evad. He was naked, yet showed no self-consciousness. His chunky body was covered in a thick pelt of hair.

  “Not bad, eh?” Demanov asked, grabbing a cigarette and lighter from a table.

  “Are you talking about your troops or your shriveled manhood?”

  Demanov let out a deep belly laugh, smoke shooting from his nostrils in twin jets. “Best fucking troops in the world, they are.”

  Lurbud smiled. “I think this time even you are not exaggerating, Dimitri. I want them ready to move out by 1930 hours. It will take us at least an hour after that to get into position around Ohnishi’s house.”

  “Have you given any thought to my plan?”

  “Yes, this afternoon when the rest of you were sleeping. I don’t think it would be a good idea to split our forces. We don’t have the communications gear to coordinate a simultaneous attack against Ohnishi and Kenji. We will hit them in turn. With luck, Kenji will be with his master and the second operation won’t be necessary. It is critical that we maintain our scheduled contact with the John Dory. If she’s not waiting for us when we reach the coast, well, you know the consequences.”

  While Sergeant Demanov and his team checked the equipment and weapons that had been smuggled into the safehouse months earlier through the Russian embassy’s diplomatic pouch, Lurbud scanned the reports given to him in Cairo.

  Ohnishi’s mansion was protected by twenty guards, all of whom had military or police training and had attended numerous professional defense schools. These guards were better trained than most nations’ elite defense forces. Lurbud had no doubt that his troops could handle them, but there he would certainly lose men. Ohnishi was old, wheelchair bound, and frail. He would pose no difficulty once the guards had been eliminated.

  Kenji, on the other hand, was different. Lurbud had no plan of his house, no details of his security arrangements; even his personal details were sketchy. He was fifty-four years old, but the attached blurry photograph, though taken only a year earlier, showed a man who appeared twenty years younger. Kenji was a master of kendo, tae kwan do, and several martial arts that Lurbud had never even heard of.

  A note from the KGB compiler who had put the dossier together stated that Kenji had mastered the art of nonweapons. He could use simple household items to kill or maim. The note explained that a similarly trained assassin had once slit the throat of a Hungarian dissident with a sheet of pa
per torn from a London phone book.

  Lurbud sincerely hoped that they would catch Kenji at Ohnishi’s. Heading into an assassin’s lair without any tactical intelligence was tantamount to suicide.

  At 7:30, Lurbud and his men left the safe house after checking that they had left no incriminating items behind. Despite the curfew, they left the city unmolested in a van that had been stored in a garage nearby. If Honolulu survived the crisis, the only evidence that they had ever been there was an empty barracks-like room and an abandoned van, both rented by Ocean Freight and Cargo months earlier. And since the break-in at the New York offices, OF amp;C had ceased to exist.

  Forty-five miles away, the cooling breeze of evening was washing across Takahiro Ohnishi’s glass-and-steel mansion. Ohnishi, seated in his wheelchair on the open balcony high above the rolling lawns, nodded solemnly as Kenji explained the current situation throughout Hawaii.

  “Though it has been four days since he was killed, many of the National Guard units still believe that their orders are still coming from David Takamora; they don’t know that Honolulu’s mayor is now dead. MacArthur Boulevard leading to Pearl Harbor is blockaded by students armed with hunting rifles and fully equipped guardsmen. The airport is now closed to all traffic and the buildings have been evacuated except for mercenary guards I hired. The runways are blocked with airport maintenance vehicles that won’t be moved without orders from either you or me.

  “The microwave relay stations are also closed and guarded and the main phone cables have been seized. Hawaii is essentially isolated.”

  “Has there been any resistance from the media?”

  “Yes,” Kenji replied, glancing at his watch. “The local heads of the networks are demanding some sort of interview with Takamora, preferably live, to calm the fears of the general population. One has threatened to start broadcasting reports about the violence to the mainland if Takamora doesn’t appear soon.”