Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

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?”

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. Borodin’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.