Vulcan's Forge

by Jack Du Brul

  Kenji was chuckling at the frail old man before him when an armed figure burst onto the balcony, his assault rifle covering both Kenji and Ohnishi. Kenji spoke to him in Korean.

  “It’s all right. This is Ohnishi; he won’t give us any difficulties. All went well?”

  “Yes,” the Korean commando replied crisply. “Ohnishi’s guards were taken out smoothly. The diversionary explosion worked perfectly; none of my men were even wounded.”

  “Good. We’ll leave here for my house in just a few minutes. Make sure the remainder of the explosives are in place.” The Korean soldier began speaking into a walkie-talkie. “You see, Ohnishi, this is where my true loyalties lie. When I told the Koreans about your coup, they thought it was the perfect cover under which they could claim the volcano. The United States and Ivan Kerikov would be too busy trying to quell the violence and silence you to notice us.”

  The sound of an automatic weapon ripped through the mansion like the tearing of a piece of canvas. Kenji rolled to the floor, shifting his aim from Ohnishi to the doorway leading to the balcony. The Korean soldier swung around so that he too covered the entrance. Silence hung in the air for a long moment.

  “It came from downstairs. You must have missed one of Ohnishi’s guards. Go check it out.” Kenji waited until the Korean left before jerking Ohnishi to his feet and half dragging him toward his bedroom.

  LURBUD gave the trigger of his machine pistol another tap as a figure lunged from the front door for the bushes just to its left. He knew he’d missed, but it would keep his opponent pinned for a few crucial seconds.

  Sergeant Demanov followed Lurbud and two other troopers in the last dash across the lawn to the house. As they approached the thick slabs of glass of one wing, Lurbud tossed a grenade. The grenade cracked the glass as it hit, but did not penetrate. A second later, it exploded, shattering three panels in a plume of crystal and fire. Lurbud led his men through the resulting six-foot-wide hole. Their boots crunched across the fine glass chips spread out over the woven reed mat within. One of Kenji’s men lay smeared against the far wall of the Japanese-style room, his body shredded by the razor-sharp glass.

  The remainder of Lurbud’s team had used similar techniques, blowing four other holes in the structure. What followed was nothing short of an all-out war, with both sides falsely assuming their enemy was an American commando team.

  Cordite smoke hung heavily in the entrance foyer as Lurbud cautiously edged himself into the lofty room near one wall. In the whirling air, it was difficult to tell who was part of his force and who was not. A figure leapt from behind a huge terra-cotta vase, leveling his weapon at Lurbud. Sergeant Demanov dispatched the attacker with a quick burst.

  Lurbud acknowledged Demanov with a nod and continued his sweep of the house. Gunfire echoed throughout the cavernous home and streaks of tracer fire, like comet tails, could be seen through some of the transparent walls. Halfway up the stairs, Lurbud came under a scathing fire, bullets ripping up the thick marble banister only inches from his body.

  Lurbud leapt up and over the railing, exposing himself for a moment to the hidden gunman before dropping back to the first floor. He hit the hard marble and rolled once as more bullets sliced the air around him. More than one gunman had targeted him. He continued to roll, directing fire from his machine pistol at the vague outline of a man far across the foyer. The rounds caught the man low in the gut, the kinetic energy of the impacts lifting him bodily and tossing him through a bullet-riddled glass wall.

  A grenade rumbled somewhere within the mansion, shaking the entire building. It was immediately followed by the sound of huge chunks of glass shattering against the hard floor.

  Up and running, Lurbud changed clips for his weapon with expert hands. Someone loomed out from the reeking smoke and Lurbud almost tore him apart, but stopped in time as he realized it was Demanov.

  “What’s your estimate?” Lurbud panted.

  “Ten to fifteen, maybe as many as twenty. It’s hard to tell because this place is so fucking big.”

  Bullets flew over their heads as they both dove behind a sofa in what must have been the formal living room. Demanov returned fire quickly. Another fusillade pinned them back to the white-carpeted floor.

  As soon as the firing stopped, Lurbud sprang to his feet and ran across the room. Bullets tracked his progress, edging closer and closer to his racing form. A Waterford crystal sculpture nearly seven feet tall exploded just behind him. He dove for the floor between two leather ottomans, breath jamming into his throat with the impact.

  The firing stopped for a moment and he lifted himself. The gunman was in plain view. Lurbud opened up, stitching rounds across a massive Roy Lichtenstein painting before finding his mark. The gunman went down with three slugs buried deep in his torso.

  Lurbud slithered across the room to the fallen assailant. Expecting to see a caucasian or Japanese from Ohnishi’s security detachment, he was shocked to find that the gunman was Chinese or possibly Korean.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he wondered.

  Lurbud heard the distinctive crack of a pistol shot just as a bullet slammed into the corpse’s chest inches from his hand. He lifted his machine pistol and fired instinctively, but his bullets hit nothing but more glass. The attacker had nimbly ducked behind a glass-cased suit of Japanese armor guarding a curve in the hallway leading to some of the guest suites.

  Lurbud lurched to his feet and started down the hall, back pressed tight to the wall, hands steady on his weapon. He fired a burst at the priceless armor, which disintegrated under the hail of 9mm rounds. There was no one behind it. He continued on, passing the body of one of his own men further down the hallway. The Russian soldier’s head had been completely twisted around.

  “Jesus,” Lurbud muttered, remembering that Ohnishi’s assistant Kenji was a black belt of the eight don, a master virtually without peer. The dead Russian had to be his handiwork.

  Lurbud tightened the grip on his machine pistol now that he knew the power of his quarry. He searched each of the opulent guest suites quickly but calmly, mentally blocking out the firefight still raging within the building. The door at the far end of the hallway did not lead to a room, but rather opened onto a stark concrete and steel service staircase.

  He ascended cautiously, the rancid sweat of fear snaking down his flanks. It was impossible to hear anything in the echoing stairway because of the cacophonous battle.

  After a few minutes, Lurbud reached the top of the stairs but there was no sign of Kenji, just a dimly lit landing and a fire retardant door. Lurbud jerked open the door, keeping his body safely out of the way.

  When the gunfire he expected didn’t occur, he ducked his head around the corner quickly. The room beyond was small, maybe twelve feet square, but tastefully furnished with a low bed, an antique dresser, and damascene wall coverings. A huge built-in mirror dominated the far wall. Lurbud knew it was one-way glass from the plans provided to his team.

  Rather than waste time looking for the secret exit that Kenji must have used, Lurbud pumped a few rounds into the mirror and watched it tumble to the floor in a glittering cascade. Beyond lay Ohnishi’s private bedroom and on the beautiful four-poster bed lay Ohnishi himself, naked.

  His head had been severed from his torso, as had his arms and legs. Each appendage lay neatly in its proper anatomical position, but about two inches separated each from the trunk of the billionaire’s body.

  Evad Lurbud had been witness to and had in fact carried out some of the most vicious torture yet devised by mankind, but what lay before him brought vomit shooting out of his mouth. Ohnishi’s withered genitalia had been cut off and placed a few inches from his groin. Lurbud knew from the amount of blood in this region that this had been the first member carved off.

  Trying to regain his composure, Lurbud thought for a moment and realized that such a death took more time than he’d given the fleeing Kenji. Either someone else had been here first, or Kenji had done this prior to Lurbud
’s assault on the mansion.

  If the presence of Korean guards was baffling, then Ohnishi’s death was truly confusing. Kenji was Ohnishi’s assistant of many years, by all accounts incredibly loyal. Why had he suddenly turned? Why had he killed his employer? Lurbud let these questions sink into the back of his mind as he continued his search.

  Beyond the bedroom lay a dayroom as large as most suburban homes. The decor was very modern, including geometric and freeform art pieces and a glossy white pine floor. The pyramidal top of the mansion soared over Lurbud’s head, supporting a huge primary-colored mobile by Calder, a smaller version of the one hanging in the east wing of the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

  Lurbud dashed from the dayroom through the nine-foot-tall French doors at the far end and onto an open balcony that overlooked the back of Ohnishi’s estate. He took a few deep breaths of the humid air, glad to be out of the smoke-filled house. Amazingly, he could make out the sounds of night insects over the din of battle below.

  Kenji stood on the back lawn, a lean shadowy form in the rich moonlight. The instant Lurbud saw him, he raised his machine pistol, but Kenji was too far out of range. A glance to his left showed Lurbud the rope ladder, hanging over the side of the balcony, that Kenji must have used to escape.

  Below, Kenji stretched his arms over his head, and Lurbud swore he heard laughter. When Kenji’s hands met, though Lurbud could not see the gesture, his finger touched the detonation button on a small radio transmitter.

  A deep rumbling shook the building, buckling the entire structure. Some of the few still intact glass plates popped from their supports and flew onto the lawn. The rumbling deepened and the house began to shiver as the chain of small explosives planted around the foundation by Kenji’s soldiers went off in a predetermined sequence.

  The timing of the blasts corresponded with the harmonic resonance of the entire structure so that the rumbling deepened even as the sound of the small explosions diminished. Lurbud clutched at the railing as the building shook faster and faster. Huge rents appeared in the main support columns, those that took most of the strain of the massive glass roof.

  The columns collapsed all at once and the roof shattered in a glittering explosion. The slab-sided glass walls toppled as the entire building turned into an endless shower of glass. Tons of it poured down, killing all those beneath, slicing through flesh and bone without check. One moment the Koreans and Russians had been fighting a desperate battle and the next they were torn apart by an unimaginable force.

  Lurbud had felt the balcony sway as the support columns let go. The lighted, almost crystalline pyramid above him shattered as if a bomb had gone off directly beneath it. He ducked under Ohnishi’s breakfast table an instant before the shards sliced through the air like hypervelocity bullets. His left hand was caught in the hail of glass and he quickly pulled it to his chest. Three fingers were missing and a seven-inch-long fragment of glass was thrust halfway through his hand.

  He had just started to scream when the whole cantilevered balcony let go. His last sensation, even before the pain of his mutilated hand had time to fully course through his nervous system, was of falling indefinitely.

  USS Inchon

  Mercer thanked the radio operator politely after hanging up on Henna and left the cryptlike Communications Room. His expression was neutral, and only a trained observer would notice the slight tenseness in his stride. His gray eyes were hard, devoid of emotion.

  A woman he had dated several years earlier had said, the day their relationship ended, that the only way to tell what he was thinking was to ask him. His expressions, she complained, would never give him away, and his eyes, which are supposed to be windows into the soul, were really one-way glass that only he could see through.

  He had scoffed at the notion, but any navy personnel that he passed would have agreed with her.

  Because he had been sent to the Inchon for an undetermined number of days, Mercer had been assigned a cabin. It had the luxurious appointments of a cheap highway motel, but it was his own. He locked the door and stripped. After a cold shower to help wake him up, he dressed again, secreting equipment brought from his home.

  When he was dressed, he did some quick shadowboxing to ensure that nothing would fly free and that his equipment was unconstricting. His moves were fast and efficient, his mind focused to a pinpoint. Satisfied, he took several deep, calming breaths. He tucked his Beretta pistol into the waistband of his pants, the tails of his black shirt over it. Grabbing the nylon duffel containing his combat harness and machine pistol, he left the small cabin.

  He passed a few dozen of the nineteen hundred marines on board as he headed for the flight deck. He could tell by their grim faces that the men didn’t relish the idea of invading their own country.

  Neither do I, he thought.

  The flight deck of the amphibious assault ship was nearly three hundred feet shorter than the Kitty Hawk’s, but equally as pandemonious. An AV-8B Harrier jump jet thundered into the sky just as he walked onto the deck. Thanks to her ducted fans, the attack aircraft utilized only a tiny portion of the deck to achieve flight. The wind kicked up by her Rolls Royce Pegasus engines whipped the air furiously, sending grit into Mercer’s eyes.

  Several Sea Stallion and Sea King helicopters sat on the deck, their huge rotors hanging limply. Mechanics and other personnel were buzzing around, dodging small vehicles and each other in preparation for a possible battle. It was obvious that the President hadn’t ordered the standdown yet. Mercer guessed that the commander-in-chief would wait until the last moment.

  He shielded his eyes against the thirty-knot wind and surveyed the twilit deck until he saw the helicopter that had brought him from the Kitty Hawk early that morning.

  A Sikorsky Sea King. Lieutenant Edward Rice, USMC, pilot.

  The huge chopper sat just forward of the ship’s superstructure. Mercer could see movement in the cockpit.

  Eddie Rice had told him on the flight from the carrier that he would be ferrying some equipment back to the Kitty Hawk just after sunset. Mercer was thankful that Henna had called before the chopper returned to its ship. The hijacking would be a little easier since he knew the pilot.

  No sense ruining a stranger’s day, thought Mercer as he walked to the big helicopter. He approached the chopper from the port side and noticed with satisfaction that the crew door was open. He pulled the Beretta 9mm from under his shirt and threw his duffel bag onto the small platform below the chopper’s flight deck.

  He kept the gun hidden when he poked his head into the cockpit.

  “Come to see me off, Mercer?” Eddie Rice smiled.

  Without a doubt, he had the worst teeth for a black man that Mercer had ever seen. So much for stereotypes, he thought.

  “I loved your flying so much, the navy decided I should go back with you,” Mercer replied.

  “They sent you to the Inchon just to bring you back to the Kitty Hawk?” Rice shook his head. “I’ve heard of the government paper shuffle, but this is nuts. Come on up; I’m just about cleared for takeoff.”

  Mercer tucked the pistol away without ever displaying it and slipped into the empty copilot’s seat. As he had earlier that day, he felt like he was in a cocoon of dials and switches. He sat anxiously as Rice continued his preflight check. Waiting for the takeoff was agonizing and he kept glancing at his watch. He had eleven and a half hours until the nuclear strike.

  “You got a date or something?” Rice asked, noting Mercer’s agitation.

  “Something like that,” Mercer said grimly.

  “Two more minutes and we’re out of here.” Rice tugged the microphone to his lips and began talking to the flight controller. A moment later, the two turboshaft engines began to whine. Needles on the instrument panel quivered and then started to climb as the General Electric motors warmed. Rice watched the instruments intently, his gaze darting from one gauge to the next.

  When he engaged the gearbox, the engines’ whine dulled for a moment as
they fought the inertia of the stationary rotors, then picked up as the five great blades began to turn. The noise in the cockpit increased dramatically, forcing Mercer to don a helmet. Eddie continued to add power and the blades beat the air fervently. He eased back on the collective pitch and the 20,000-pound helicopter lifted into the dim Pacific sky.

  “Piece of cake.” Rice grinned as the Inchon vanished behind them. He turned to Mercer expecting a return smile, but was greeted by the gaping barrel of the Beretta. The grin melted from his face.

  “Sorry, Eddie,” Mercer said, his voice sounding tinny through the chopper’s intercom. “But we’re not heading for the Kitty Hawk.”

  “I guess we’re not.”

  Mercer reversed his grip on the pistol and smashed it into the Sea King’s radio, cutting the chopper off from the outside, then turned the weapon back on Rice.

  “Listen, I’m on a secret mission. Hijacking a helicopter at the last moment was the only way to maintain security.”

  “Right,” Rice said suspiciously.

  “You know why the navy moved these ships to Hawaii.” It was a statement, not a question. “You may be forced to invade your own country and kill your own people. Well, there’s a chance I can stop it. I have to get to Hawaii and you’re my best shot. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, but you are going to take me to Hawaii.”

  “There’s no way you work for the CIA. The few agents I’ve known would’ve just pulled the gun and given the orders. They don’t like to explain shit. So who the hell are you?”

  “I don’t work for the CIA, Eddie. I didn’t lie this morning when I told you I was a geologist, but I’m also the only guy who can pull this off.”

  “You know there’s nothing I can do to you; I’ve got to keep both hands on the sticks to keep this eggbeater in the sky. So don’t you worry about me. But my passengers might not like a sightseeing tour.”

  “Passengers? I thought you were carrying cargo.”

  “When you see them, you’ll know why I call ’em cargo.”