Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“You won’t be leaving me that way, Valery,” Borodin remarked casually as he turned away.

Valery stood as if he’d just witnessed a horrible accident, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slackly. How had he guessed? Valery questioned himself. How could he know I wanted to escape using the helicopter?

Pytor answered his son’s silent question. “Kerikov contacted me after you tried to pressure him into rescuing that girl from the American research vessel.”

The plight of the beached whales weeks before and the effort to find out the cause of their deaths had been given a great deal of media attention that was picked up aboard the August Rose as she was monitoring the volcano. The radio reports about the NOAA mission had been very thorough, including interviews with some of the key scientific personnel. Valery recalled with pride that Tish had been brilliant during hers. Only he and his father knew that the Ocean Seeker was sailing toward her destruction as she embarked on her survey. In a gamble born of desperation, Valery had told Kerikov that if Tish Talbot wasn’t rescued, he would destroy the volcano with the seismic charges stored aboard the August Rose .

“Kerikov wasn’t impressed with your threat, Valery, and quite frankly neither was I. But I knew if she wasn’t saved you would try to sabotage our mission, so he had her rescued at my request. You looked so smug when we heard on the radio that she was rescued.” Borodin laughed shortly and looked over the still-wet rail of the John Dory at the small patch of bubbles that marked the grave of the chopper. “You won’t be leaving anytime soon. I still need you. Russia still needs you.”

That was the longest speech Pytor had addressed to Valery in the year since their reunion. It left Valery with such a cold, blinding hatred that his mouth felt the searing acids of the bile roiling in his knotted stomach. His fingers had gone white and bloodless as they curled into fists so tight that his bones seemed ready to tear through his skin.

Pytor Borodin saw none of his son’s reaction; he had turned to greet the captain of the John Dory . Valery ambled toward them, his shoulders hunched and his trembling hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his flight suit.

“Welcome aboard, Dr. Borodin,” Captain Nikolai Zwenkov said, extending a hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you on the landing pad, but I had to see that the ship was trimmed properly.”

Borodin shook the proffered hand and introduced his son and the chopper pilot. Zwenkov was an ethnic Georgian and spoke Russian with an oafish accent, but he had the look of a stern, uncompromising professional.

“We must hurry and submerge once again. I don’t want to give the American spy satellites a chance to spot us.”

The captain led the three men into the ship’s superstructure. There were no bulkheads or companionways, no cabins or bridge. The boxy structure was only a facade bolted to struts protruding from the rounded conning tower of a submarine. The sides and main deck of the John Dory were also just plates of steel welded to the hull of the sub, the cargo cranes, winches, and booms merely props. On the surface, from any range over two hundred yards, the freighter looked legitimate, giving no indication of her deadly secret within.

“It’s like a K-boat,” the helicopter pilot remarked, his eyes roaming the dank interior of the John Dory ’s superstructure, referring to vessels used by Germany during World War I. They resembled freighters, but, in fact, were disguised gunboats. They would lure their victims within range with bogus distress calls, then reveal their large cannons hidden behind secret plates in their hulls. Thousands of Allied tonnage paid the ultimate price for falling into their traps.

“I like to think that this ship is a little more sophisticated,” Borodin replied, rubbing the insides of his arms, “but the principle is the same.”

“Come, Pytor, you look tired from your journey.” The captain led them through a hatch and into the working part of the vessel, an old 285-foot Victor Class nuclear attack submarine.

Zwenkov moved through the maze of pipes, narrow hatches, and equipment with the agility of a child.

Twenty years in the Soviet Submarine Service had taught him how to avoid banging himself aboard these cramped vessels. He led Borodin and his son straight to his cabin after dropping the chopper pilot off with a subordinate.

Valery sat silently while the captain and his father chatted. Zwenkov would have killed his beloved Tish Talbot had Kerikov not been able to sneak an agent on board the Ocean Seeker to save her. He wanted to beat Zwenkov for his anonymous barbarity. Yet Valery couldn’t fully blame Zwenkov, for he was just a soldier doing his duty, following orders. The man behind those orders was his father.

A cramp seized Valery’s gut as he thought how close he had been to escaping. The Hoodlum would have been the perfect way out of the demented world he found himself in. Valery was a man of science, dedicated to reason and thought. Yet his father had corrupted that pure world into a perverse dimension of murder and betrayal and unfathomable cruelty. Hatred boiled within him, hatred for his father’s almost murdering the woman he loved, hatred for the untold murders in the past, hatred for abandoning a frightened little boy all those years before.

Only a few more days and it would all be over. If he didn’t manage to escape, to rejoin the woman who’d been his source of strength since his father had reentered his life, then his only other option was suicide. Valery promised himself that he would not die alone.

That decided, he found that his head had cleared. His mind was sharp and focused as he leaned forward to listen to the captain and his father.

“All I know is Kerikov radioed and said to suspend all activity until further orders. We are to remain on station, submerged, but with the antennae array extended, until we are contacted.”

“But why? It makes no sense. We should make preparations to claim our prize.” Dr. Borodin was speaking more to himself than the others. He rubbed his neck and throat absently. “I radioed Kerikov from the August Rose . He knows that the volcano falls outside America’s two-hundred-mile limit. It belongs to the first nation that discovers it. By rights it belongs to us!”

“There is one more thing.” Zwenkov’s rumbling voice sounded almost apologetic. “Kerikov told me not to reveal this to you, but I’ve known you too long for secrets. He ordered me to load a thirty-kiloton nuclear warhead onto an SS-N-9 Siren missile and make it ready to launch.”

Borodin took this news without emotion. It was as if his mind had turned in on itself, probing within to find answers. The hum of the sub’s air-conditioning was the only sound in the spartan cabin for many long seconds. Finally Borodin looked first at Zwenkov and then at his son.

“He must mean to destroy the volcano — but why?” Borodin appeared more concerned with Kerikov’s motives than with the fact that his life’s work might be destroyed in a nuclear fireball. “There must be a leak somewhere in our security. He would have to destroy the entire project to maintain secrecy.”

“Don’t you understand that Kerikov has double-crossed you?” Anger made Valery’s voice sound like a hiss. “He never had any intention of turning over the volcano to the government. He’s used you since taking over Department Seven, hoping one day to sell your work right out from under you.

“The old regime is gone for good. The Russia you threw your life away for no longer exists. The world has changed since the 1950s, but you never took the time to notice. Vulcan’s Forge would have only worked under a Stalinist regime, and that has been gone for decades. This whole operation was doomed the moment Gorbachev started glasnost and perestroika. Give up your old man’s dreams and start living in reality.