Vulcan's Forge
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
May 23, 1954
Washington, D.C. Present Day
Hawaii
Arlington, Virginia
The Pacific
Arlington, Virginia
Bangkok, Thailand
Moscow
The Pacific
Arlington, Virginia
The White House
Hawaii
Arlington, Virginia
Potomac, Maryland
Bangkok, Thailand
Washington, D.C.
Cairo, Egypt
The White House
Bangkok, Thailand
The White House
Hawaii
Arlington, Virginia
The Pacific
Arlington, Virginia
MV John Dory
Near Hawaii
Honolulu
The White House
Hawaii
USS Inchon
MV John Dory
Hawaii
Arlington, Virginia
Khania, Crete
Praise for the novels of Jack Du Brul
Vulcan’s Forge
“An exciting, well-honed thriller that will have Clive Cussler fans taking note of the new kid on the block.”
—William Heffernan, author of The Dinosaur Club
“High-tempo action. . . . The reader is constantly intrigued . . . an action-packed and intriguing thriller.”
—The Mystery Review
“The writing here is good, the pace very fast, the characters believable . . . a welcome addition to the ranks of thriller writers.”
—Sullivan County Democrat (NY)
“A fast-paced story well told.”
—Cape Coral Daily Breeze
Charon’s Landing
“A pleasure . . . a densely detailed and well-paced thinking man’s melodrama.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Jack Du Brul has to be the finest adventure writer on the scene today. Romance, violence, technology are superbly blended by a master storyteller. Du Brul creates a fast-moving odyssey that is second to none.”
—Clive Cussler
“Du Brul’s well-calculated debts to Fleming, Cussler, Easterman, and Lustbader, his technological, political, and ecological research, and his natural gift for story-telling bode well.”
—Publishers Weekly
Deep Fire Rising
“Nonstop, over-the-top adventure . . . [an] adrenaline-drenched tale. . . . Smart, resilient Mercer is a savvy adventure hero for the new millennium.”
—Publishers Weekly
River of Ruin
“Starts at 100 mph and then gets faster . . . intricate, intelligent, high-octane adventure.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child
“Jam-packed with action . . . teeming with up-to-the-minute technology. . . . Du Brul demonstrates his knowledge of everything from geology to mechanics.”
—Publishers Weekly
Pandora’s Curse
“A rare treat—a thriller that blends some of modern history’s most vexing enigmas with a hostile, perfectly realized setting. This is one thriller that really delivers: great characters combined with a breakneck pace and almost unbearable suspense.”
—Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, coauthors of Dance of Death
“Combining plenty of thrills and a touch of romance, Du Brul’s action-packed contemporary adventure zips along like an out-of-control locomotive. . . . A well-researched foundation of facts and details grounds the reader in this frosty setting. . . . Mercer’s love interest, Dr. Anika Klein, is his fitting counterpart and a strong heroine, and their romance adds a degree of warmth to this swift, sensational tale. Those who enjoy a good adrenaline rush will find plenty here to satisfy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Have you been casually looking for a new thriller writer in the tradition of Clive Cussler? Would the idea of a touch of Jack Higgins intrigue you? Do you like your reading to move quickly, have a great plot, and the good guy gets the girl? Browse no more! Jack Du Brul is here. . . . Pandora’s Curse hits all the buttons. Read it and run to your favorite bookstore for the others. . . . A dandy read.”
—News & Citizen (Morrisville, VT)
The Medusa Stone
“[The Medusa Stone’s] nearly 500 pages of fast-paced prose propel Du Brul closer to the front ranks of thriller authors.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With novels like Charon’s Landing, Vulcan’s Forge, and now The Medusa Stone, Jack Du Brul is one of the leaders of adventurous intrigue novels. The story line of his latest thriller continually ebbs and flows, but each new spurt builds the tension even further until the audience realizes that this is a one-sitting novel in spite of its size. Philip is a fabulous lead character . . . [a] brilliant fusion of Eritrea, its people and customs woven into a dramatic plot.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fun thriller.”
—The Oklahoman
“An intricate tale filled with action and intrigue where the stakes are high. Mercer is an action character with a brain, a penchant for beautiful women, and the ability to think fast and inspire respect and trust. . . . A fast-paced story well told by an upcoming new talent in the spy thriller genre. Du Brul has earned an avid fan.”
—Cape Coral Daily Breeze
BOOKS BY JACK DU BRUL
Deep Fire Rising
River of Ruin
Pandora’s Curse
The Medusa Stone
Charon’s Landing
Vulcan’s Forge
ONYX
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin
Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Forge edition.
First Onyx Printing, December 2005
Copyright © Jack Du Brul, 1998
All rights reserved
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, li
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This novel is thankfully
dedicated to those poor souls
who suffered through
the first drafts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Because this is my first novel, it is safe to say that I owe thanks to everyone who has ever influenced me, for a little of all of them is within these pages, from family and friends to casual acquaintances who may have imparted some piece of wisdom. A few notables are Elizabeth Ash for her scientific acumen and Dick Flynn for his firsthand account of a heart attack. I wish now I’d taken the time over the years to list all the others.
Actually writing this book was pretty much a one-person affair; however I’ve learned that publishing is very definitely a group activity. For that I must thank Todd Murphy and the other Jack Du Brul for proving it’s not what you know but who you know, and Bob Diforio, my agent, for being that “who.” At Forge I especially want to thank Melissa Ann Singer, my editor. If ever there was someone who knows how to hand-hold, it is she. I also want to thank you, the reader, for giving me a chance.
Author’s Note: For security reasons, the government forbids vehicle traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House. For reasons of continuity, I’ve left it open.
May 23, 1954
The moon was a millimetric sliver hanging in the night sky like an ironic smile. A gentle easterly breeze smeared the acrid feather of smoke that coiled from the single funnel of the ore carrier Grandam Phoenix. The Pacific swells rolled the ponderous ship as easily as a lazy hammock on a summer afternoon as she cruised two hundred miles north of the Hawaiian Islands. The tranquility of the night was about to be shattered.
The Grandam Phoenix was on her maiden voyage, having slipped down the ways in Kobe, Japan, just two months earlier. Her final fitting and sea trials had been rushed so that she could begin paying off the massive debts incurred by the company during her construction. Built with the latest technological advances in safety and speed, she was an example of the new breed of specialized cargo ship. The Second World War had taught that the efficiency of a specialized vessel far outweighed the cost in its design and construction. The owners maintained that their newest ship would prove that these principles worked as well for civilian craft as they did for the military. The 442-foot-long ore carrier was to become the flagship of the line as the shipping business greedily expanded into the booming Pacific markets.
Soon after taking command of the Grandam Phoenix, Captain Ralph Linc learned that the owners had a very different fate in store for their newest ship from the one proposed to her underwriters.
Not long after the development of maritime insurance, unscrupulous owners and crews intentionally began scuttling their vessels in order to collect often substantial claims. The underwriters had no recourse but to pay out unless someone, usually a crew member feeling twinges of guilt, came forward with the truth. For sinking the ore carrier, the crew of the Grandam Phoenix would receive bonuses large enough to ensure their silence. If the swindle worked, and there seemed no reason it wouldn’t, the owners were looking at a settlement not only for the twenty-million-dollar value of the vessel, but also that of her cargo, listed as bauxite ore from Malaysia, but in reality worthless yellow gravel.
Captain Linc held true to his genre, a tough man with a whiskey- and cigarette-tortured voice and far-gazing eyes. Standing squarely as his ship rolled with the seas, he ground out his Lucky Strike. And lit another.
Linc had served in the U.S. Merchant Marine all through World War II. With losses rivaled only by the Marine Corps, the Merchant Marine seemed to be the service for maniacs or suicides. Yet Linc had managed not only to survive but flourish. By 1943 he had his own command, running troops and material to the hellfires of the Pacific theater. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he never once lost a vessel to the enemy.
At war’s end, he, like many others, found that there were too many men and too few ships. During the late forties and early fifties, Linc became just another Yankee prowling the Far East, taking nearly any command offered to him. He ran questionable cargoes for shadowy companies and learned to keep his mouth shut.
When first approached by the Phoenix’s owners, Linc had thought he was being offered the opportunity of a lifetime. No longer would he have to scrounge for a ship, prostituting his integrity to remain at sea. They were giving him a chance once again to be the proud captain, the master of their flagship. It wasn’t until the contracts had been signed that the company told Linc about the predestined fate of his vessel. It took two days and a sizable bonus for his bitterness to give way to acceptance.
Now stationed on the bridge, a cup of cooling coffee in a weathered hand, Linc stared at the dark sea and cursed. He hated the corporate people who could arbitrarily decide to scuttle such a great ship. They didn’t understand the bond between captain and vessel. For the sake of profit, they were about to destroy a beautiful living thing. The idea sickened Linc to the bone. He hated himself for accepting, for allowing himself to be part of such a loathsome act.
“Position,” Ralph Linc barked.
Before the position could be given, a crewman stooped over the radar repeater and said in a remote voice, “Contact, twelve miles dead ahead.”
Linc glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead to his left. The contact would be the rendezvous vessel that would pick up the crew after the Phoenix was gone. They were right on time and in position. “Good work, men.”
He had been given very specific and somewhat strange orders concerning the location, course, and time that he was to sink his ship. He assumed the North Pacific had been chosen because of her unpredictable weather patterns. The weather here could turn deadly without a moment’s notice, building waves that could swamp a battleship and whipping up winds that literally tore the surface from the ocean. When the time came for the insurance inquiry, the rendezvous vessel would corroborate any story they manufactured.
“You know the drill, gentlemen,” Linc growled, lighting a cigarette from the glowing tip of his last. “Engines All Stop, helm bring us to ninety-seven-point-five degrees magnetic.”
This precise but inexplicable positioning of the vessel complied exactly with Linc’s final orders from the head office. They had given no reason for this action and Linc knew enough not to pry. The engine speed was reduced, the rhythmic throb diminished until it was almost imperceptible. The ship’s wheel blurred as the young seaman cranked it around.
“Helm?”
“We’re coming up on ninety-seven degrees, sir, as ordered.”
“Range?”
“Eleven miles.”
Linc picked up the radio hand mike and dialed in the shipboard channel. “Now hear this: we’ve reached position; all crew not on duty report to the lifeboats. Engineering, emergency shut-down of the boilers and open the seacocks on my mark. Prepare to abandon ship.”
He looked around the bridge slowly, his eyes burning every detail of her into his brain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbled.
“Ten miles,” the radar man called.
“Open the seacocks, abandon ship.” Linc replaced the mike and pressed a button on the radio. A klaxon began to wail.
The cry of a dying woman, Linc thought.
Linc waited on the bridge while the crew filed out to the boat deck. He had to spend a little time alone with the ship before he left her. He gras
ped the rung of the oaken wheel. The wood was so new that he felt slivers pricking at his skin. Never would this wheel achieve the smooth patina of use; instead it would become so much rot on the bottom of the ocean.
“Goddamn it,” Linc said aloud, then strode from the bridge.
Gone were the days of men scampering down cargo netting into boats bobbing on the surface of the sea. Ocean Freight and Cargo had spared no expense in outfitting their flagship with every modern safety device.
One lifeboat was already full of men and up on the davits. The winchman waited for a curt nod from Linc before lowering the boat to the sea below.
The warm night breeze blew smoke from Linc’s cigarette into his eyes as he climbed into the second lifeboat. The other men in the boat with him were subdued, ashen. They didn’t talk or look each other in the eye as Linc nodded to the winchman.
The winchman threw a toggle switch and the pulleys that lowered the lifeboat began to whine. The boat hit the calm surface with a white-frothed splash. Instantly two men stood up to detach the cables that secured them to the sinking ore carrier.
Captain Linc took charge of the lifeboat, grasping the tiller in his right hand while applying power to the idling engine. The boat motored away from the Grandam Phoenix, the crew craning their necks to watch their sinking ship. The klaxon echoed emptily across the waves.
It took fifteen minutes for the ship’s list to become noticeable, but after that, she went quickly. The stern lifted from the water; her two ferro-bronze propellers gleaming in the low light. The watching men heard her boilers let go of their mounts and slam through the engine room bulkheads. The screeching hiss that followed was the sound of thousands of tons of gravel pouring across the vessel’s gunwales into the ocean.