Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

Ocean Seeker , NOAA research vessel, June this year.

One survivor.

Oshabi Maru

, Japanese long-line trawler, December 1990. No survivors.

Philipe Santos

, Chilean weather ship, April 1982. No survivors.

Western Passage

, American freighter converted to cable layer, May 1977. No survivors.

Curie

, French oceanography research ship, October 1975. No survivors.

Colombo Princess

, Sri Lankan container ship, March 1972. Thirty-one survivors.

Baltimore

, American tanker, February 1968. Twenty-four survivors.

Between the loss of the Baltimore in 1968 and the sinking of an ore carrier named Grandam Phoenix in 1954, no large ships had sunk north of Hawaii. Any large vessel lost before 1954 could be attributed to World War II.

“I don’t know what to make of it either,” Tish added.

“Well, if the ship that rescued you is somehow connected to the KGB, that would explain why you heard Russian as you were being rescued.”

Mercer scanned the pages again, but kept returning to the list of sunken ships, noting that the Grandam Phoenix had been lost with all hands. There was something…

“Jesus.”

“What?” Tish said.

He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “I have to go to my office.”

“What for?”

“I have a hunch.” Mercer reached for the phone. A second after dialing, Harry White’s bleary voice rasped,

“Hello.”

“Harry, Mercer. I need you over here to keep an eye on a friend of mine.… No, don’t bring a guest and yes, I do still have some Jack Daniel’s.… Right, see you in a few.”

Mercer hung up and turned to Tish. “A friend of mine will be here in a few minutes. I want you to stay here with him; I can’t trust you out on the streets just yet. Not until I know more.”

There was a pleading look in Tish’s eyes. Mercer couldn’t tell if she wanted reassurance or more information. “I’ll be back in a few hours. If what I suspect is true, we’ll have this cleared up by tonight and you’ll be on a plane home in the morning. Besides, Harry is better company than I am.”

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang and Harry let himself in. When he entered the rec room, a few millimeters of unfiltered cigarette dangled from his lips.

“Christ, Mercer, no wonder you called me over. This girl is too pretty to be here of her own free will. You must have kidnapped her.”

“Actually, I did. Tish Talbot, this pathetic creature is Harry White. Harry, Tish.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d still be old enough to be your father, but it’s good to meet you anyway.”

Mercer could see that Tish was immediately charmed. The old lecher still had it, he admitted. She would be in good hands while he was away.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Take your time,” Harry responded. “I’m free all day and I’m sure that the lovely lady is eager for some good company.”

“Harry, you’re a paragon. Tish, I won’t be too long. Try not to encourage him, bad heart, you know.”

“Leave us,” Harry barked, and turned to stare into Tish’s eyes.

Mercer heard Tish’s rich laughter before the front door had closed behind him.

Jennifer Woodridge looked up in shock as Mercer entered his outer office.

“And where have you been since yesterday?”

“I took a long lunch, Jen, and just lost track of the time.”

“Right. Next time you do that, let me know first so I can cover for you. Richard has been frantic trying to reach you.”

As if by mystic perception the phone rang. It was Richard Harris Howell, the corpulent, whiney deputy director of the USGS, Mercer’s immediate boss.

“Dr. Mercer, I need to see you in my office right away. I have a list of travel vouchers in front of me that we need to discuss.” Howell was more accountant now than scientist. “It seems that you abused government money on that South Africa trip.”

Mercer held the receiver away from his ear while Howell continued in this vein for another minute. “You’re right, Rich.” Mercer knew that Howell hated that nickname. “Listen, I’ve got some stuff to clear up here. I’ll be in your office in ten minutes.”

Mercer hung up the phone, forestalling any complaint. “I’m sure he’ll waddle right over. Tell him I went to the bathroom.”

“Where are you really going?”

Mercer sat on the corner of her desk and affected a mock serious tone. “Jen, I can’t implicate you in this. What if Howell resorts to torture?” She giggled. “As soon as the little toad leaves, take the rest of the day off. Ah, hell, take the week off, I don’t think I’ll be around much.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Just keep Howell off my back.”

He grabbed his briefcase from his inner office and descended to the basement of the USGS building, where the extensive data archives were stored.

Although Mercer had not met the USGS chief archivist, Chuck Lowry, he had heard about him. Most people who fought in the Vietnam War agreed that their tour had changed them in some profound way. The staff at the USGS believed that two tours in ’Nam had perhaps made Chuck Lowry a little more sane, but by no stretch of the imagination was Lowry a normal man. He wore eight-hundred-dollar sports coats and tattered jeans. His face was hidden behind a beautifully manicured beard, but his hair was a gnarled mess. The black eyeglass frames perched on his squat nose had no lenses, and he swore like a truck driver but possessed an amazing vocabulary.

When Mercer entered the computer room of the USGS archive, Lowry was seated behind his desk, a trashy romance novel in his hand. A brass plaque next to the telephone read, “Eschew Obfuscation.”

“I purchased this yesterday,” Lowry said, holding up the garishly covered book, “along with a packet of condoms and an economy-size jar of Vaseline. Fucking cashier didn’t even bat an eye. The times are fecundating a truly preternatural disinterest between people. The book, though, is delightful. Except the authoress constantly describes the heroine’s breasts as supple and the hero’s torso as glistening under a sheen of manly sweat. If she does it once more, I will track her down and truncate her. Who are you?”

“Philip Mercer. I’m a temporary consultant.”

“Oh, Jen Woodridge works with you.”

“You know her?”

“Just as a potential stalking victim.” Mercer hoped Lowry was joking. “You’re the guy that’s busting Howell’s balls, right?”

“Let’s just say he and I don’t get along.”

“That’s been his problem since he first darkened our door. He doesn’t play well with others. He’s also a vexatious little dilettante with a permanent fecal ring environing his mouth from so much ass-kissing. What brings you to my Dante-esque nook?”

Mercer ignored the fact that he understood only about a quarter of Lowry’s words. “I need to see the seismic records of Hawaii during May of 1954.”

“Somewhat obtuse request, but I can oblige. Come back tomorrow, I’ll have everything you need.”

“Sorry, Chuck, this can’t wait. I’ve got Howell breathing down my neck again, so I have to get out of here ASAP.”

“In any way will this research piss off that cock-in-the-mouth?”

“Only to the effect that it has absolutely nothing to do with my contract with him.”

“Good enough, walk this way.” Lowry hopped off his chair and shuffled into a back room, doing a perfect impression of Lon Chaney’s “Igor.”

Lowry seated himself in front of a computer terminal that was hooked into the data retrieval mainframe and lifted a heavy data reference book from the drawer beneath the keyboard. He thumbed through it slowly, whistling the theme from Gilligan’s Island . Several minutes passed before he put the book aside and began hammering at the keys.