by Jack Du Brul
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.”
“He used to be a jockey,” Mercer pointed out. “So what’s been happening in Hawaii?”
“You were there, you should know better than me.”
“No, I was up north on Kauai near a town called Hanalei, cut off from just about everybody and everything. The only news I heard was on the flight from L.A. to Washington, and even then I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Well, let me fill you in a little bit.” Henna shrugged out of his jacket and laid it next to him on the booth. “The state, hell the whole nation, was stunned when we told them exactly what had happened. The President decided to come clean on the whole affair from Ohnishi to Kerikov to the bikinium. Valery Borodin was at the press conference at Pearl Harbor to back him up. The CIA found some old photographs of Evad Lurbud to match his corpse found at Kenji’s estate. Of course we needed two undertakers to make his body look human again after what he’d been through.
“The Russians deny all knowledge of the operation code-named Vulcan’s Forge, but admitted that Ivan Kerikov was known for operating outside government sanction.”
“You said ‘was known.’ Is he dead?”
“No, he’s vanished. He was in Thailand, then went to Switzerland, but from there, no one knows. He simply disappeared. The Russians are looking for him now, as well as the CIA and Interpol. He’ll turn up.”
“Don’t count on it. If he’s cagey enough to nearly succeed with an operation like this, he can easily stay lost too.”
“Maybe you’re right, I don’t know.” Henna nodded slowly. “Remember, though, there’s also a group of very pissed-off Koreans after him.”
“Have you been able to find out who was behind the Korean angle?”
“We got nothing from the bodies at Ohnishi’s house, but the guy found near the gardener’s shed at Kenji’s was the grandson of Way Hue Dong, one of the seven richest men in the world. To further link him to what happened, the day after you were rescued, a small flotilla of ships, one of them specially designed for high-temperature dredging and all owned by one of Way’s companies, arrived at the volcano site. You better believe they were surprised to see the U.S. Navy already there with a carrier and a half-dozen support ships. Way’s already lodged a formal complaint with the World Court at The Hague, but he doesn’t stand a chance of taking the bikinium from us.
“As for Hawaii itself — there was one more night of rioting after your raid, but that was it. Without the Koreans or Ohnishi to act as agitators, the mobs lost their will to fight and pretty much just went home. Hawaii’s senators have both resigned, claiming health problems, but it was either that or face prosecution for treason. The President has pardoned all others involved, and a special task force has been set up to deal with any legitimate claims by the Hawaiians. He felt it best to sweep the violence under the rug rather than make the nation relive it for months in the courts. In all, about three hundred people died during the riots.
“The President’s going to ramrod some funding through Congress to try to end a lot of the racial tension in this country — education programs, urban aid, that sort of thing. The Los Angeles riots and now this recent crisis have finally brought people to their senses. The old adage, ‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ almost came true, and it’s scared enough people who want to really do something about it. With the current conciliatory mood in Congress, he’ll get all the funding he needs.”
Mercer interrupted. “You can’t change people’s opinions with new laws and federal spending.”
“Thirty years ago doctors were advertising the health benefits of cigarettes,” Henna countered.
“Touche.”
“It will take some time but at least we are finally on the right track. No one wants the type of ethnic strife that’s tearing apart central Europe and the old Soviet republics. We’ve maintained racial diversity for two hundred years and we’re not going to let it slip away now. America is famous for pulling through a crisis just as things reach bottom, and we’ll do it again.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Henna took a swig of his drink. “Valery Borodin is with our own people at the volcano, assaying the parts of it now above the surface to see where to begin mining the bikinium. I believe Dr. Talbot is with him.”
“She is. As a favor to me, the President had her flown out there two weeks ago. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, just before my flight back to Washington. She and Valery have rekindled the passion they once felt. Already they’re talking marriage.”
Henna smirked. “Kind of funny, you were the hero in all of this. I thought it was customary for the hero to get the girl at the end.”
“When they make the television mini-series, I’ll make sure they change the ending,” Mercer replied offhandedly.
“Well, don’t think you’re going to come out of this completely empty-handed.” Henna fished a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to Mercer.
“What are these?”
“The keys to a new, black SJX Jaguar convertible with tan interior, cellular phone, CD player, and an aftermarket turbo charger. It was the least we could do.”
Mercer looked at the keys and gave Henna a sardonic smile. “After getting me shot at a few dozen times, nearly smeared against a train, almost drowned, beaten up more than once, crashed into the ocean, and within a few minutes of being nuked, you’re right, buying me a new car is the very least you could do.”
Henna knew by Mercer’s tone that he wasn’t really angry and gave a low chuckle. “The car’s parked in front of your house. There are two things I want to know: how did you know to go to Kenji’s house rather than Ohnishi’s? And how in the hell did you pinpoint the John Dory when the experts at NSA couldn’t find a damn thing?”
Mercer smiled slyly. “Finding the John Dory was easy. Those infrared photos showed a classic shield volcano, a number of small vents surrounding a central magma outlet. Normally those smaller vents are located on the side of the volcano and therefore under deeper water. Well, on all of the photos, there was a white hot signature nearly a mile from the central vent. At that distance, the thermal image would be yellow or orange, cooler because of the water depth. That white dot couldn’t have been a natural vent; it had to be something man-made, like the nuclear reactor aboard the John Dory as she rode near the surface.”
Henna was impressed. “And what about Kenji?”
“That was a hunch really, but I felt confident. I worked for Ohnishi as a consultant a few years ago in Tennessee. Ohnishi Minerals was interested in buying the second mining rights to some disused property owned by the Tennessee Valley Authority. Second mining is when the coal pillars that support the mine tunnels are ripped down to their very weakest tolerances. It’s dangerous work and cav
e-ins occur frequently, but the profit margin is astronomical if the mines can be bought cheap enough.
“The TVA didn’t want the old mines stripped the usual way, citing all sorts of possible insurance liabilities. I was brought in at the TVA’s request because there had never been a cave-in on any of the second mining operations I’d worked on. TVA was still reluctant to sell after they read my geomechanic report, but Ohnishi Minerals managed to end run them. Ohnishi bought off officials, paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to some high-power lawyers, and in the end opened his own bogus insurance company to underwrite TVA’s liability.
“What he did was illegal to a degree, but American mining laws are gray enough that he got away with it. At the time the vice president in charge of Ohnishi Minerals was a guy I’d gone through the doctoral program at Penn State with, Daniel Tanaka. When his crew was reopening the mine, I met with him and explained that I had faked some of the figures, underestimating the strength of the coal pillars. I had rightly guessed that Ohnishi would order him to pull out more coal than I said could be safely removed. We both knew that I’d saved the lives of his men, so he owed me a favor. I called him just before I went to Hawaii and he told me confidentially that Ohnishi himself had no knowledge of the details of the transaction when they had acquired the mining rights. Anything that could be construed as illegal or corrupt was handled by his aide, Kenji.
“I assumed that when Ohnishi was approached by Ivan Kerikov concerning the bikinium, he’d ordered Kenji to handle any of the details. Therefore Kenji was the real linchpin, not his boss. It wasn’t until I reached Kenji’s estate that I found out the Koreans had gotten to Kenji too. He was the perfect agent-provocateur, working all sides. Koreans and Ohnishi against the middle, Ivan Kerikov.
“As near as I can figure the cycle of double-cross, Kenji screwed Ohnishi with the help of the Koreans while Ohnishi screwed Kerikov, who’d already sold him out to the same Koreans. Meanwhile those Koreans are screwing Kerikov right back by forming a partnership with Kenji. I think I have that right, but I’m not sure. The only thing that matters is that Ohnishi and Kenji are dead, Kerikov’s in hiding, and the wily Koreans have nothing to show for their effort.”
