Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“The first step is to stop the Bangkok Accords,” Mercer replied.

“What does that have-”

“Mr. Henna, if you look at this photo, you’ll see that the center of Borodin’s volcano lies directly atop Hawaii’s two-hundred-mile limit. I’m willing to bet that Borodin’s there now, studying the epicenter of the volcano. As soon as he knows it’ll surface outside the limit, he’ll contact the Russian ambassador at the meeting in Thailand and have him sign the treaty.”

“That would make the volcano anyone’s property, right?” Admiral Morrison asked.

“The first one to spot it, gets it.”

“What happens if the volcano is within that line?”

No one had an answer for Dr. Jacobs. Actually they all knew the answer, but no one was brave enough to put it into words. Mercer looked at the doctor and saw that his old teacher had asked the question because he really didn’t know.

“Then we go to war, Abe.”

As soon as the word was said everyone in the room started speaking at once, clamoring to be heard. The President snapped them to silence by slapping his palm against his desk, though when he spoke, his voice was calm.

“Dr. Mercer is right. We can’t allow such a priceless commodity to belong to anyone but the United States. Now that we know the stakes, Takahiro Ohnishi’s threats take on a much more ominous dimension. We now know why he’s doing it. If the volcano does crest within Hawaii’s two-hundred-mile limit, and his coup is successful, he can sell off possibly the most valuable commodity on earth. I just can’t believe that the Soviets are still mixed up in this. Our relations with them have never been better.”

Mercer noted the President was now calling the old foe by their old name. No longer were they the Commonwealth of Independent States. Once again they were the Soviets.

“Paul, use everything at your disposal to find out about Pytor Borodin — who he used to work for before he disappeared, and what happened to his old bosses. Dick, keep digging at Ohnishi. I want to know why he turned traitor.”

“I’ve got something on that already.” Henna fumbled through his briefcase. “Ah, here it is. Both his parents were born in Japan and immigrated to the States in the 1930s. During the Second World War they were sent to one of the internment camps in California, and both died there, his mother on June 13, 1942, and his father just six months afterward. Ohnishi was raised by an aunt and uncle who also spent the war in the camps. His uncle was on file at the bureau for anti-American protests and petitions. He had two arrests: one for trying to break into Pearl Harbor and the other for assaulting a police officer at a pro-Japanese rally in Hawaii during the summer of 1958. Seems he didn’t like the idea of statehood.

“I saw a copy of one of the pamphlets he printed. It’s full of anti-American propaganda and urged Hawaii’s Japanese residents, then and now the majority on the islands, to fight the statehood referendum and become an independent nation loyal to Japan.

“Ohnishi’s uncle committed suicide right after Hawaii was admitted into the Union in March of 1959. There is no record that Ohnishi shared his uncle’s radical politics, but there’s no record that he didn’t, either.” Henna looked up from his notes.

“Thanks, Dick. I think that’s our answer.” Knowing the answer did not alleviate the problem. The President straightened his shoulders and when he spoke his voice was like steel. “I don’t know what Ohnishi’s next move will be, but I want a detailed battle plan drawn up, not only for Hawaii but also for this new volcano. I don’t know what legal right, if any, we will have to this new island, but there’s no way we’re not going to win. If need be, I’ll have the goddamn thing nuked. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to call our diplomats in Bangkok and stop them from signing that treaty.” The men got up to leave. “I want hourly reports from all of you. Dr. Mercer, please make yourself available in case you’re needed again. Dr. Jacobs, thank you. We’ll see that you have a safe trip home.”

Mercer said farewell to Jacobs, gave his home number to Joy Craig, and collected Tish. On the cab ride home, she pumped him for information, but Mercer remained silent. He wondered, as the cityscape passed outside the cab’s filthy windows, how the President would react if he knew that his wife had just spent the afternoon with a Russian spy.

JAL Flight 217, a 747 jumbo jet from Tokyo, was the last plane given permission to land at Honolulu’s international airport. Employees loyal to Ohnishi and Takamora had followed their instructions and sabotaged the IFR equipment and the computers that controlled the other sophisticated systems. Only those planes without enough fuel to be rerouted were allowed to land. Hawaii was now completely isolated from the outside world.

Flight 217 touched down with an acrid puff of smoke and a bark of tires. Because of the danger in landing without electronic assistance from the tower, the pilot gave himself plenty of room to make sure the craft returned to earth safely. The Pratt and Whitney turbo fans shrieked as the pilot applied reverse thrust, the tremendous airframe shuddering with their awesome power.

The three hundred and sixty passengers had no idea of the danger they had just been through. Those controlling the airport had ordered the pilot to keep his charges ignorant of any problems during the landing, in direct violation of standard safety practices.

“Welcome to Honolulu, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said in Japanese. “The temperature is seventy-eight degrees and the local time is one-thirty on a cloudless afternoon. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the pilot has turned off the seatbelt sign.”

Evad Lurbud had absolutely no idea what the diminutive attendant said until she repeated her announcement in English.

He was the only Westerner on the jumbo jet; the rest were Japanese tourists or businessmen, lured to the islands by the increased trade promoted by Ohnishi and Takamora during the past months.

Though Lurbud had flown across eleven time zones since leaving Egypt and had endured hours-long layovers, one in Hong Kong and the other in Tokyo, he felt relaxed and refreshed. This last flight had lasted nearly seven hours and he had slept through six and a half of them. Before each leg of his trip, he had taken a timed sleeping pill developed by the KGB. By calibrating the doses, he could sleep a specific number of hours. The only drawback to the medication was a slight nausea, which lasted about an hour after waking.

The 747, so graceful in the sky, lumbered to the terminal like a hippopotamus, her huge wings flexing with each bump in the tarmac. Lurbud remained seated and buckled as requested rather than draw attention to himself by standing as several hurried businessmen had done. The aircraft taxied to its hardstand, the huge engines spooling down to silence. The truck-mounted stairs eased to the exits and passengers began shuffling off the Boeing.

Deplaning, Lurbud was staggered by the amount of security within the airport’s customs area. Armed National guard troops, all Orientals he noted, patrolled the area, their M-16 assault rifles slung low, their eyes never lingering on one person too long.

At the customs counter, the bored agent gave Lurbud’s forged German passport a cursory glance and didn’t bother with his briefcase. Lurbud relaxed once he passed customs, but became wary when two suited Orientals strode toward him through the throng of passengers.

“Passport, please,” one of the two men demanded, his hand thrust out waiting for the slim booklet.

“I’m already cleared by customs,” Lurbud replied politely, staining his flawless English with a German accent.