Vulcan's Forge

by Jack Du Brul

  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 for 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 sinc
e 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.

  He saw, for the first time, how frail and weak his father looked. His eyes were rheumy behind his glasses and his once stocky frame had withered to a skeletal apparition. Borodin’s skin had the pallor and texture of modeling clay.

  “It will work out,” Borodin said so softly that his lips barely moved.

  Suddenly his body went rigid; his eyes snapped open as if they were ready to burst from their sockets. His lips pulled back, revealing his chipped and stained teeth in a death’s head smile. He convulsed once, gasping for a quick breath before once again being grasped by the immense pain that tore through his body. His fingers crawled up his torso as if grasping his chest to calm the faltering heart within.

  Pytor convulsed again, his heels kicking up from the floor as he made one last struggle, and then he was gone.

  Borodin’s prostate muscle had relaxed in death. The smell of urine hung heavily in the cramped office.

  Zwenkov had seen enough death in his career to know that Borodin was beyond resuscitation. He crossed himself and leaned forward to close the old man’s staring eyes.

  “I am sorry,” he said quietly to Valery.

  Valery looked at his father for a long time before reaching out to touch the wrinkled hand. “It’s funny, so am I.”

  Death had cut through all of his hatred at the end, leaving him clean inside, as if reborn. His bitterness had vanished with his father’s dying gasp and he knew it could not have been any other way. Even if he’d escaped with the data from the August Rose, he would’ve been forever plagued with this inner demon. But not anymore. The demon was put to rest, forever.

  Arlington, Virginia

  The insistent ringing of the phone dragged Mercer from a deep, deathlike sleep. His hand groped across the nightstand, knocking the Tiffany clock to the floor, then found the phone and swung the receiver to his head.

  “H’lo.” His tongue was cemented to the roof of his mouth with congealed saliva.

  “Mercer, Dick Henna.”

  Mercer came a little more awake, opening his eyes. He was startled to see that night had descended—the twin skylights above his bed were black rectangles in the ceiling. He glanced across his balconied bedroom and saw that his whole house was dark. Tish, too, must have gone to sleep.

  “Yes, Mr. Henna, what’s up?” Mercer ran his tongue around his mouth and grimaced at the taste.

  “The President accepted your proposal and, believe it or not, Paul Barnes from the CIA backed you up.”

  “That’s surprising. I got the impression I was at the bottom of his Christmas card list.”

  “Kind of surprised me, too, but when it comes to the job, Barnes puts his personal feelings second. The commando assault that the President ordered will be postponed for at least twelve hours.”

  “So what happens now?” Mercer realized that his body was bathed in sweat. His sheets were a damp tangle around his legs.

  “A jet will be ready for you at Andrews Air Force Base in about an hour and a half. You should be aboard the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk by five tomorrow morning.”

  Mercer glanced at his scarred and scratched Tag Heuer chronometer. 9:15.

  “Okay, I’ll be at Andrews in about an hour.” Mercer swung his legs off the bed, the cool air evaporating the sweat, making the dark, coarse hair on his chest and legs tingle.

  “I’ll meet you at the main gate with the recon photos you requested.”

  “Thanks, Dick.” Mercer used the director’s given name for the first time.

  He cut the connection and dialed Harry White’s number. After twenty rings, he hung up and dialed Tiny’s. Tiny told him to hold for a second while Harry came back from the restroom.

  “Harry, are you up for a little more babysitting?”

  “That you, Mercer?”

  “Yeah, Harry, can you come over and watch Tish again?”

  “Why? What’s she doing?”

  “Sleeping in the nude.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to watch that,” Harry said with mock lasciviousness. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Mercer hung up, plucked the clock from the floor, and straightened the silver framed photograph of his mother that was the only other item on the nightstand. He flipped a bedside switch and light from three round Japanese lanterns bathed the room in a milky glow.

  He stood up and moaned. The punishment his body had taken in the past few days was taking its toll. His shoulders were bruised a rich purple from his scrape against the metro train, and his feet and lower legs still stung from his leap into the Potomac. The cuts on his face had scabbed over, but they pulled every time Mercer moved his jaw. There was a livid red weal on his calf where the bullet had grazed him in New York.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he headed for the bathroom.

  He took a steaming shower, popped a handful of Tylenol, and dressed quickly in baggy black pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. His socks and desert boots were also black. Feeling slightly more refreshed but by no means normal, he spun down the old rectory spiral stairs to the ground floor, his feet gliding over the steps.

  Because his cooking skills fell far short of gourmet, his kitchen cabinets were nearly barren. It took him ten frustrating minutes to make a mangled, runny omelet using his last three eggs, a slice of American cheese, a couple of cocktail onions pilfered from the bar and half a can of tuna fish.

  He carried the plate of food into his office, letting his hand brush against the large bluish stone on the credenza near the door as he entered. Setting the plate on his desk, he turned on the green shaded lamp. With a huge chunk of omelet stuffed in his mouth he took a key from under a reference volume of mineralogy in the shelf behind his desk.

  The key slid into the oiled lock of the closet adjacent to the office’s entrance and the oak doors opened smoothly. In the closet were a fire retardant safe, a twisted and blackened piece of duraluminum that had once been a support girder in the airship Hindenburg, and a multidrawer cabinet which housed over a hundred valuable geologic samples he had collected through the years. On the floor of the closet sat an antique steamer trunk filled with souvenirs from his mission into Iraq.

  Mercer dragged the heavy trunk out of the closet and propped open the lid. A Heckler and Koch MP-5A3 sat on top of the pile of equipment. The West German- manufactured machine pistol was a vicious weapon, capable of firing 9mm ammunition at over six hundred rounds per minute. Mercer lifted the nasty little gun and cleared the breach to ensure the action was still smooth, then set it aside and retrieved a Beretta automatic pistol. Since replacing the venerable Colt .45 as the primary sidearm of the U.S. Army, the Beretta had more than proved its worth in combat conditions. The pistol was in pristine condition like the H&K.

  The next item Mercer pulled from the trunk was the heaviest by far—a nylon combat harness, a thick belt supported by suspender straps. The holster for the Beretta was attached to the suspenders so it would rest under his left shoulder for a quick draw, and several nylon pouches full of clips for the machine pistol hung from
the belt. A six-inch-long Gerber knife hung inverted from the suspenders. The final touches were a basic first aid kit and field compass in a slim padded case.

  Mercer slid the Beretta into its holster and stuffed the combat rig into a light nylon duffel along with the machine pistol, then added a few other pieces of equipment. He zipped the bag, shoved the nearly empty trunk back into the closet, and locked the doors. He stashed the key back under the thick book and took one last weapon from his desk, first making sure it was loaded. Taking another big bite of his eggs, Mercer promised himself he’d never make another tuna omelet again.

  “Mercer?” Tish called from the kitchen.

  “I’m back here.”

  Tish entered the study wearing one of Mercer’s Penn State sweatshirts. It came down to the midpoint of her smooth thighs and thrust up proudly over her unrestrained breasts. With her tousled hair and sleepy eyes, she looked vulnerable and incredibly sexy.

  “That sweatshirt looks a hell of a lot better on you than it does on me,” Mercer remarked with a grin.

  “Don’t even look at me; I’m a mess.” Tish ran a hand through her hair to get it away from her face. She noticed the duffel bag. “I heard you get up; what’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving for a couple of days. I think I can finally put an end to everything and with a little luck bring back Valery Borodin for you.”

  Tish’s eyes brightened. “I was thinking earlier and couldn’t believe how badly I want to see him again.”

  “Give me a couple of days and he’s yours.” Mercer was genuinely happy for her. “Let’s go up to the bar; I need some of my famous coffee.”

  “What’s that?” Tish asked as she turned to leave the study. Her gaze had fallen on the large stone near the door.

  “My good luck piece,” Mercer remarked, caressing the rippled surface. “It’s a piece of kimberlite given to me by a director of DeBeers as thanks for saving his life after a cave-in in South Africa. Kimberlite is the most common type of matrix stone found in diamond mines.” He explained, “By itself it’s worthless, but nearly every diamond mined in the past hundred years has been found within a volcanic kimberlite pipe.”