Vulcan's Forge

by Jack Du Brul

  The next section of the report detailed his involvement with the CIA and the mission to Iraq. When the plan to infiltrate Iraq was first conceived, forty-eight candidates were considered for the position of on-site expert on mining practices and geology. Mercer was the eighth candidate to be interviewed, and after his first series of tests, all the other interviews were canceled. He scored just above genius level on the IQ test and did perfectly on all the memory tests. One of the testers noted that Mercer was able to recall a forty-digit number twenty-four hours after seeing it. After agreeing to join the team, he was sent to a training facility in rural Virginia, where he had excelled in marksmanship and the grueling obstacle course, but fared just average in communications and what was termed “basic trade craft.”

  The attached psychological report documented an acute fixation on self-reliance and a deeply rooted fear of abandonment, probably due to his being orphaned. He was a natural leader but had chosen not to develop those skills. The staff psychiatrist summed up his report by stating that Mercer’s motivation for joining the infiltration team was simply his need for continual challenge.

  The doctor feared that this would lead to reckless behavior, but recommended Mercer’s approval.

  In mid-January 1991, Mercer and eight Delta Force commandos parachuted into northern Iraq near the city of Mosul. The site was chosen by Mercer and a team of satellite analysts as the most likely spot for uranium mining.

  Mercer had quickly confirmed that the mining facility there was not even close to production and the uranium ore was too poor a quality to make nuclear weapons. They were attacked by the mine’s security detachment as they were sneaking out through the perimeter fence. Two commando officers were killed during the opening gun battle and another fell shortly afterward as they retreated through the mountainous desert.

  The extraction helicopter they had depended on couldn’t pick them up because of the heavy weapons fire from Iraqi scout cars. Mercer led the remaining troops through a scree field that the pursuing scout cars couldn’t pass and managed to lead them to Mosul. There, they stole a produce truck and made a mad dash to the Turkish border. The Delta commandos all agreed that Mercer was the person most responsible for their success, and that without him, none of them would have survived.

  Two days after their debriefing, President Bush ordered the beginning of Operation Desert Storm.

  Henna stood and began pacing, his chin buried against his chest. He knew from the dossier that Mercer was acquainted with Tish Talbot’s late father, which would explain why he had gone to the hospital. But his actions since then defied explanation. How had he known the other man in her room was not part of the hospital staff or another FBI agent? Why hadn’t he contacted the FBI as soon as he had gotten Talbot safely away? Why had he pursued the matter on his own? And if he had gone to New York to investigate the shipping company, what had he found?

  “Christ, there are too damn many questions and not enough answers,” Henna said aloud.

  The phone rang shrilly and Henna snatched at it.

  “Henna.”

  “Mr. Henna, Pete Morton in New York, sir.”

  “Yeah, Pete, what’ve you got?”

  “How did you know there was something up on Eleventh Street?”

  “Skip the questions and tell me what happened.” Henna’s heart was racing and his palms were sweaty.

  “At 12:53 this morning a gunman drove down Eleventh Street and fired a shotgun five times, blowing out several windows and doors. He then raced away. There are no suspects or clues.”

  “Was one of the buildings hit owned by a company called Ocean Freight and Cargo?”

  “Yes, how did you—”

  “Never mind that. Get some men down there right away, take into custody anyone they see. Call me back as soon as you’re done.”

  “I’ll take care of it myself, sir.”

  Henna set the phone down and slumped back into his chair.

  “What the hell is Mercer playing at now?”

  Bangkok, Thailand

  The Scotch in Ivan Kerikov’s glass was quickly diluting as the ice melted under the onslaught of the Asian heat. The tumbler was jeweled with condensation and the small napkin on the Royal River Hotel’s table was sodden. Kerikov took another heavy swallow of the questionable Scotch, mindful of water dripping from the napkin that clung to the glass.

  He had been in Bangkok now for two uneventful days, basking in the delights of his hotel, the venerable Oriental, where he had taken a suite in the original Author’s Wing, and indulging in carnal vices on Pat Pong Road, Bangkok’s famous red light district. He had also spent some of that time contemplating his hurried escape from Moscow, wondering if he had been too rash in executing the KGB auditor in his office. Hindsight said that he should have suffered through the little man’s investigation and left afterward, but killing him had given Kerikov the sense of completion that he needed before he fled his homeland.

  His leaving Russia was never in doubt, but the abruptness of his departure left a few loose ends that he now could never tie up. “So be it,” he mused lightly, and ordered another Scotch from the attractive waitress. He had reason to be in a good spirit and regrets for the past would not be allowed to dampen it.

  Last night he had been contacted by Dr. Borodin from aboard the August Rose. Borodin reported that he had a definite location for the volcano’s summit and it was nearly a thousand meters beyond Hawaii’s two-hundred-mile limit. The news was like a yoke removed from Kerikov’s shoulders.

  When Dr. Borodin had first proposed Vulcan’s Forge forty years before, his selection for the most optimal geologic site did not take into account any political considerations. The area he chose had the right combination of natural volcanism, ocean depth, temperature, salinity, and currents as well as some native minerals that were necessary. Unfortunately this spot was forty miles from Oahu. Because this site was obviously unusable, Borodin had cut his margin as fine as possible, detonating his device as far from the Hawaiian Islands as he could without jeopardizing the results of his work.

  At the time, Hawaii’s entrance into the United States was a forgone conclusion, giving her the territorial rights afforded a sovereign nation rather than those of a colony or protectorate. Yet Borodin’s calculations demanded that the explosion had to take place within that two-hundred-mile demarcation if Vulcan’s Forge was to succeed. Boris Ulinev trusted Borodin’s assertion that oceanic currents would skew the volcano enough so that it would surface outside the limit, yet the wily head of Scientific Operations hedged his bet by initiating an audacious contingency plan.

  He selected a young Japanese-born American, an adolescent with a tortured background but an incredible mind. He surreptitiously groomed him, guiding him from afar through university and into business. Using the massive support of the KGB, Ulinev shepherded wealth and power to this young man for many years, all the while introducing him to people who shaped his personality and goals. This shaping was done subtly over many years and continued even after Ulinev had died and left Department 7 in the care of others.

  The end result was the fanatical racist and megalomaniac, Takahiro Ohnishi. He had become a global industrialist with a far-flung empire and had unwittingly been programmed his entire life to attempt to break Hawaii away from the United States if Scientific Operations ever decided that was necessary for the success of Vulcan’s Forge.

  Kerikov, when he took over Department 7, had read about Ulinev’s original contingency plan and inwardly cringed. He knew from experience that humans were easy to program, especially considering the extraordinary depth given in Ohnishi’s case. Yet experience also showed that controlling those who had been so programmed was difficult at best. They often became active without authority, or did not activate at all when called upon. The idea of a “Manchurian Candidate” worked well for fiction writers but not for true spy masters.

  Kerikov was relieved now that this phase of Ulinev’s original plan was no longer needed. Boro
din’s call confirmed that a revolution in Hawaii was no longer necessary to ensure they would be able to control the volcano. And although the KGB had spent millions of dollars creating Ohnishi, Kerikov really didn’t care about the write-off. The volcano was outside American influence and within his personal grasp.

  Eight months earlier, Borodin, on a regular pass-by of the burgeoning volcano aboard the August Rose, had reported that it would most likely crest outside the two-hundred-mile line yet he would not have conclusive proof for some time. Kerikov seized that moment to enact a contingency plan of his own.

  With one million dollars in cash and a promissory note of an additional five million dollars, Kerikov bought someone high up in Ohnishi’s personal staff to report on all of the eccentric billionaire’s activities. If the coup in Hawaii was unnecessary, Kerikov wanted to ensure that Ohnishi would not continue his end of the plan. The mole was his insurance that Ohnishi could be controlled. Permanently, if necessary.

  At the same time, Kerikov set into motion a plot to steal the wealth of the volcano for himself. Had the Soviet Union remained the world power that it had been when Dr. Borodin launched Vulcan’s Forge, Kerikov would have been proud to turn over the marvelous achievement to his superiors. But the decades since then had seen Russia degenerate into a Third World country, a nation whose very survival depended on loan guarantees from America and Western Europe.

  After quietly capitulating the Cold War in 1989, Russia had suffered a cruel peace. She was turning into a market for goods and a source of raw materials, much the way Europe had once treated the backwaters of Asia and Africa. In just a few years, the Soviet Union had toppled from superpower to colony, and the decline was far from over.

  Watching dispassionately as his nation rotted, Kerikov decided that if he could not save the Rodina, then perhaps the Motherland could save him. Since Russia no longer possessed either the political clout or the financial resources to develop Vulcan’s Forge, Kerikov opened negotiations with a group of men who could.

  The nine members of Hydra Consolidated, a Korean-based holding company representing billions of dollars of real estate, manufacturing, and electronics, recognized the value of Vulcan’s Forge when Kerikov approached them. They did not balk at the one-hundred-million-dollar price tag that he attached to the volcano and its unusual riches, for the strategic element being produced in the charnel guts of the volcano would make its possessor the most powerful force on earth, in both the literal and figurative sense.

  Just a week after initiating talks with the Koreans, Kerikov learned of the proposed meetings in Thailand to discuss the Spratly Island situation. Sensing that the Bangkok Accords could aid his plan, Kerikov pulled in some favors and employed a little bribery and blackmail to get Gennady Perchenko assigned as the Russian delegate to the meeting. He also managed to get the Taiwanese ambassador to act on his behalf in return for some information that would ensure Minister Tren the prime minister’s office whenever he wanted it.

  Even before the accord meetings began, Kerikov knew how he would use his two agents-in-place to solidify possession of the volcano when it crested through the Pacific swells.

  When his second Scotch arrived, he glanced at the Piaget watch on his wrist. Perchenko would arrive at any moment. Kerikov looked at the maître d’. It was his first night here at the Royal River, yet he seemed comfortable in his job.

  The regular man hadn’t arrived for work this afternoon. His body was secured to several cement blocks in a canal about ten miles from the city.

  An hour after receiving the confirmation from Borodin, Kerikov had killed the maître d’ as the ultimate insurance that he would never discuss his dealings with the Russian delegate to the Bangkok Accords. After dispatching the young Thai, Kerikov phoned his sociopathic assistant, Evad Lurbud, in Cairo and ordered him to commence his housekeeping. This would mean killing an Egyptian arms merchant and then flying to Hawaii to take care of Takahiro Ohnishi and Kerikov’s mole.

  Kerikov might have left behind some loose ends when he fled Russia, but he’d be damned if there would be any from the final gambit of Vulcan’s Forge. In just a few days, he’d be spending the one hundred million dollars from the Koreans and there wouldn’t be a soul left alive who would know how he got it.

  Kerikov spotted Gennady Perchenko leaping from a Riva River taxi onto the quay of the Royal River. In a moment, the new maître d’ would guide the diplomat to his final briefing.

  Washington, D.C.

  The big Greyhound over-the-road bus hissed to a stop just outside the city’s main terminal, near the convention center. Mercer was stiff legged as he trailed Tish down the three steps of the bus to the already sizzling pavement. His whole body ached, not only from his ordeal in New York but from the torturous seats that all transportation manufacturers seem intent on using. He tried, without success, to knuckle the kinks from his lower back as he and Tish ambled into the bus terminal. Announcements echoed off the tiled walls, mixing with the din of the passengers arriving and departing. The terminal stank of the homeless who spent their nights on the steel benches.

  “I still don’t understand why we had to take the bus back to Washington,” Tish complained, swiveling her head to stretch her tense neck muscles. They had cabbed to Newark and caught the bus there.

  Mercer grimaced as he stroked the new beard that stubbled his face. “Because by now the FBI will have the train stations staked out and I needed time to think before we turn ourselves in.” He strode to a bank of telephones and dialed an international operator. “After I make this call, we’ll give up.”

  Mercer waited a full five minutes for the connection to be made, then spoke in French. Tish, not understanding the language, walked over to a bench and sat down. Mercer joined her after a few minutes.

  “All set,” he announced.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I had to call an old fishing buddy in the Ruhr Valley.”

  Tish had learned not to be surprised by any of Mercer’s actions. “Did he tell you what you needed?”

  “He sure did.” There was a sense of triumph in Mercer’s voice that cut through the exhaustion etched around his eyes.

  They grabbed a taxi in front of the terminal and Mercer gave the driver his home address.

  “Why don’t we go straight to the FBI?” Tish said, and leaned her head against his shoulder as she had for much of the six-hour ride from New York.

  “If we showed up at the Hoover Building, it would take them hours to verify who we are and direct us to the person who was in charge of your protection at the hospital. This way, the agents at my house will take us straight to him.”

  “Clever.”

  The cab ride took nearly forty-five minutes in the snarled downtown traffic. The driver refused to use the car’s air-conditioning, so great blasts of hot air blew into the taxi, plastering Tish’s hair around her face.

  “Since you fell asleep as soon as we got on the bus this morning, I just want to thank you for the way you handled yourself in New York. You came through like a true professional.”

  Tish smiled at him, her beautiful lips framing dazzling teeth. “Jack Talbot didn’t raise a daughter who couldn’t take care of herself.”

  Mercer laughed. “No doubt about that.”

  “Mercer, what’s going to happen to us once the FBI picks us up?”

  “I don’t know, Tish. I think the information we’ve gotten in the past couple of days points to the people responsible for the Ocean Seeker disaster. Once we deliver it to the FBI, we should be out of it.”

  “What if they don’t believe us?” she persisted.

  “We just have to make sure they do. The story I have to tell is too chilling to be ignored.”

  The cab stopped in front of Mercer’s house. He paid the driver, unlocked the door of the house, and keyed off the security system. He almost had the door closed when a voice from behind interrupted him.

  “Dr. Mercer, please step away from the door and place
your hands over your head. This is the FBI.”

  Mercer backed away and turned to the FBI agent, his smile ironic. “The last person who told me that was left tied up in an office in New York and he already had his gun drawn.”

  The agent, not catching Mercer’s graveyard humor, sensed a threat and pulled his service weapon. “I said, place your hands on your head. You too, Dr. Talbot.”

  The agent stepped forward. He was Mercer’s age, but had a baby face under a mop of light blond hair. Mercer noted that his gun hand was very steady. Another agent joined the first.

  “I’ve been instructed to take you downtown. You’re not under arrest, so please go easily.”

  “I don’t think so. You’d better make this official,” Mercer replied with a slow smile. He turned around and lowered his hands behind his back. As if by programming, the second agent came forward and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. “Think of how good you’ll look to your friends when they see you captured us in irons.”

  When they were in the agents’ brown sedan heading back into the city, Tish whispered, “Why in the hell did you do that?”

  “I want to see the reaction of whoever has summoned us. It might tell me a lot.”

  The car ducked into the city via Route 66, and exited just north of the Lincoln Memorial, then streaked down Constitution Avenue, parallel to the Mall, where countless tourists sweated in the Washington heat while viewing the monuments. They turned left onto 15th Street as Mercer expected. He was certain they were headed for the J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, but just before reaching the Treasury Building, the car slowed and made another left onto East Executive Avenue. A moment later they entered the White House grounds through a back gate. Mercer and Tish glanced at each other, speechless.

  The car pulled into an underground garage just behind the White House. The agents escorted Tish and Mercer to an already waiting elevator. Two more agents joined them there. Mercer noticed, just as the elevator doors closed, that the garage didn’t smell of oil and was absolutely spotless. He suspected that the garage was washed every day to prevent a stray spark from lighting any spilled oil.