Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” The radio operator saluted smartly and turned away.

“Captain, periscope depth,” the dive officer reported quietly.

“All stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

“Extend the ultra-low frequency antenna but don’t let it broach the surface.”

“ULF extending… ULF antenna depth one meter.”

“Engineer, disengage reactor, bring her down to five percent power.”

“Five percent, aye.”

Although a nuclear reactor operates much more quietly than diesel electric propulsion, the powerful pumps used to keep the containment vessel cooled emitted a distinct whirling sound that a trained sonarman could distinguish over the noisy clutter of the open sea. By reducing power to the barest minimum, Zwenkov lowered his chances of detection by the lurking American sub and its very-well-trained sonarmen.

“Anton,” Zwenkov said as he ran a hand through his short gray hair. In response, his executive officer stepped away from his station near the glass-topped plotting table just aft of the periscope. “Find young Dr. Borodin and send him to my cabin.”

“Yes, Captain.” The exec left the bridge, heading aft to the ward room, where he felt sure he would find the scientist.

Zwenkov went to his cabin, just forward of the bridge. From the locked drawer of his plastic-veneered desk, he removed a half-full bottle of vodka and a cheap glass tumbler emblazoned with a picture of the immense television tower in East Berlin. The glass reminded him of his one vacation outside the Soviet Republics, to a city as bleak and depressing as his native Tbilisi in Georgia. He poured a half inch of the liquor into the glass, shot it down in one fiery swallow, and returned glass and bottle to the drawer.

Of course, alcohol was strictly forbidden on all Russian vessels, especially on submarines, but he figured a captain should have some privileges. A single shot, once a week, was all he usually allowed himself, though this week he’d taken three. The second drink he had taken soon after two seamen carried the corpse of Pytor Borodin to the sub’s nearly empty freezer.

“Come,” he barked after a knock on his door.

Valery entered, wearing a borrowed officer’s utility uniform. He looked like a recruitment poster, dark handsome features, trim athletic body held erect with just a trace of tragedy around him that lent an air of mystery. Understandably, Zwenkov had not seen much of him since his father’s death.

“Sit down, please,” Zwenkov invited. “Would you care for some tea?”

Valery demurred with a hand gesture as he swung himself into a chair next to where his father had died. He eyed the other chair for a moment before turning to the captain. “You wanted to see me?”

Zwenkov knew that the direct approach was always best. “I just received word from Kerikov. He’s ordered the destruction of the volcano.”

Valery took the news without changing expression, he didn’t even blink. He had expected something like this, but now that it came he felt nothing. Part of him was vindicated — the father who had abandoned him so young had wasted his entire life on a dream that would never be fulfilled — and part of him felt pain for the old man’s failure. The conflicting emotions turned his face into a stony mask.

Zwenkov continued. “I’m waiting to hear from a commando team in Hawaii. Once I receive word, I’ll fire the missile and obliterate the volcano. We then head toward Hawaii to extract the commando team.”

“Did he give a reason?” Valery asked softly.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Borodin, what was that?”

Valery cleared his throat, but his voice was still a whisper. “I asked if Kerikov gave you a reason.”

“I’m a member of the Russian armed forces attached to the KGB, Dr. Borodin. When I receive orders I don’t ask for explanations.”

“You know it’s a mistake, don’t you?”

“That is not my concern,” Zwenkov replied caustically.

“I heard what you said to the crew about the American submarines in the area. When you launch that missile they’ll find us instantly.”

“You may know geology, Borodin, but I know American tactics. When that warhead goes off, they’ll rush to the area to investigate and we’ll slip quietly away. The acoustics of the explosion will hide our underwater signature even at flank speed.”

He had told Valery about the missile strike out of courtesy, since the young scientist and his father had put so much effort into the volcano’s creation, but that didn’t mean he liked Borodin nor wanted to have his orders questioned.

Since his father’s death, Valery had abandoned any thoughts of suicide, admitting that he had been tempted in a moment of weakness. Now he realized that he would never be able to dissuade Zwenkov from destroying the volcano — but he still had a chance of escaping with his father’s briefcase.

When the John Dory rendezvoused with the commando team, Valery would find a way to get off the boat, even if it meant swimming to Hawaii. He would escape. The volcano would be gone by then, but Pytor’s notes would certainly be worth something to the Americans.

“Because our boat is about to enter a potential combat situation,” Zwenkov said, interrupting Valery’s thoughts, “you will be confined to your quarters. You are not under arrest, but a guard will be posted to ensure that you do not interfere with the operation of this vessel.”

Zwenkov pressed the intercom button on his desk. The XO answered instantly from the bridge. “Yes, Captain.”

“Send the security officer here to escort Dr. Borodin back to his cabin and have a guard posted there. There is no need for a sidearm.”

A moment later, the security man entered the cabin and escorted a silent Valery Borodin away. A beefy guard already stood outside Valery’s cabin when they reached it.

Valery threw himself onto his bunk after the guard closed the door with exaggerated courtesy. Waves of frustration pounded against the top of his head like a crashing winter surf.

He had been so close. The John Dory would have picked up the commando team near the Hawaiian coast under the cover of darkness and he could have easily slipped into the sea unnoticed.

Gone. His chances were gone. He would never be able to overpower the guard outside his door and make his way off the submarine.

He had lost.

He pounded his fists into his thin mattress, trying not to imagine how close he’d been to being with Tish again. The ache was strong enough to make him moan and toss about on the narrow bunk. Those beautiful weeks when they’d been together in Mozambique played through his mind like a romance film. Himself and Tish swimming and laughing and loving, carefree and gay. He could almost feel her thinking about him at this very moment, feel the connection they shared, the bond that wouldn’t ever let them be truly apart. Valery closed his eyes tightly in a vain attempt to block out his loss.

“Goddamn it,” he seethed, teeth clenched so tightly they were almost in danger of shattering. “Goddamn it.”

The roar of the turbo jets woke Mercer and he knew the F/A-18 Hornet had just slowed to subsonic speeds. He blinked his eyes hard and rotated his stiff neck. The constricting flight suit dug painfully into his groin and had bunched up under his arms, but there was no way he could stretch out in the cockpit. Night still held the earth in its grip. The moon was big and fat overhead. Mercer was sure he could read by its pale glow.

“Where are we?” he asked Billy Ray.

“About fifty miles out from the Kitty Hawk ; they’re trackin’ us now.”

Ask any commercial or private pilot to name the most dangerous thing they could do with an aircraft and they will invariably say landing without power on rough terrain. Ask any naval aviator and the response would be landing on a carrier at night in rough seas. Knowing this, Mercer thought it prudent to keep quiet and let Billy Ray do his job.