Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“The microwave relay stations are also closed and guarded and the main phone cables have been seized. Hawaii is essentially isolated.”

“Has there been any resistance from the media?”

“Yes,” Kenji replied, glancing at his watch. “The local heads of the networks are demanding some sort of interview with Takamora, preferably live, to calm the fears of the general population. One has threatened to start broadcasting reports about the violence to the mainland if Takamora doesn’t appear soon.”

“How do you plan to deal with him?” Ohnishi did not sound too concerned.

“As soon as he leaves his studio, I have an agent ready to take him out.”

“Good. How violent are the streets right now?”

“From my men stationed in the hospitals, it seems maybe two hundred dead, around five hundred injured so far. Most of these are random acts like the ones seen in Los Angeles in 1992. Gangs of youths beating innocent people, vendetta retributions between gang members, that sort of thing. Some of the victims are those we’ve specifically targeted. Of our list of three hundred possible threats, eighty-six are confirmed dead, but many more have probably been eliminated. I don’t have confirmation from our agents yet.”

“It disturbs me that we have not heard from Suleiman about our arms shipment,” Ohnishi said suddenly.

Kenji did not reply, but his gaze darted furtively to the face of his Rolex.

“Those arms are supposed to be here in a few hours, and we don’t know what type of planes will be flying them in or the recognition codes the pilots will transmit. If we don’t get those codes, we can’t clear the runways.

“We are approaching a critical point. Soon people will begin to lose their fervor and want the violence to end. We must get those weapons and the rest of our mercenaries. The President of the United States will respond soon, I’m sure. The forces at Pearl may be bottled up for now, but they can be unleashed very quickly indeed.”

“The President wouldn’t dare order those troops to open fire. He’d be risking a sympathetic revolt on the mainland. Every ethnic minority in America would be behind us. Anarchy would reign in every town and street.”

“He has other options, Kenji, an attack against me, for example. He knows of my involvement in this coup. He could target me alone and wait for the violence to die with me. Mobs like this only stay active with someone to control them. If we don’t stay in contact with our lieutenants around the islands, they will quickly lose their fire.”

“True,” Kenji agreed, “and we must also think of Kerikov’s response.”

“I don’t worry about him. His powers are severely limited.”

“But the coup was his idea and was only supposed to happen on his orders. Surely he has a plan to stop it. We are jeopardizing his control of the volcano. He must have a way of protecting it in such a contingency.”

Ohnishi smiled paternally. “You have always only thought of my protection, Kenji, and that is most admirable, but I believe that we are quite secure. There is no way Kerikov can stop us.”

Kenji seemed relieved to hear his master’s confident tone. “What will we do when we can’t produce Takamora to lead the people?”

“Senator Namura is currently hiding outside Washington, D.C. He was my choice to lead the coup if Takamora had refused, so he will become the new leader. He has already accepted the honor. One of my private jets will fly him here as soon as it’s safe for him to move.”

“And Takamora’s death?”

“We’ll blame the U.S. military. Don’t worry so, Kenji, all is working out well. Suleiman’s weapons will arrive along with mercenaries to augment your forces. Namura will probably be here within twenty-four hours to place a stamp of legitimacy on what we’ve started. Neither the President nor Kerikov will have the time or fortitude to launch any major opposition.”

From the corner of one eye, Kenji noticed a dark figure dart across the lawn toward the main house. The first man was quickly followed by two more racing from the shadowed protection of the jungle. Kenji crossed his legs casually, belying the instinctive tightening of his muscles. His hand rested naturally against his ankle.

“Maybe all contingencies have been thought of,” he remarked. “I never thought we would actually get this far. Just a few months ago, a coup in Hawaii seemed like such a far-fetched idea.”

“It really wasn’t so outrageous even then. The state was ripe for it — racism and tension were building. We only heightened it with our acts and now orchestrate its crescendo.”

The explosion wasn’t strong enough to shatter the thick glass skin of the mansion, but it did rattle the balcony and startle a flock of dark pelicans into flight across the vast lawn. Ohnishi whirled around in his wheelchair, scanning his surroundings for a frightened moment. When he turned to his faithful assistant, Kenji had already sprung to his feet. The snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster was held firmly in his hand.

The barrel was pointed directly between Ohnishi’s wide staring eyes. “Don’t move, old man,” Kenji sneered.

Takahiro Ohnishi’s age-weakened bladder released into his trademark black Armani suit.

Staff Sergeant Harold Tompkins was about as nervous as a human being could get. He was on duty in the Situation Room when the video images from Pearl Harbor faded from the high-definition screen. He fiddled with the satellite feeds under the combined stares of the President, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the secretaries of State and Defense, and the directors of the CIA, NSA, and FBI.

One moment the image of Pearl Harbor was crisp and vivid and the next, the screen had gone blank. Had this been a commercial transmission, a “Please stand by” sign would have flashed and those assembled gone off for snacks or to use the bathroom. But this was not a commercial transmission; Pearl Harbor had just come under attack when the image had faded and these men expected Tompkins to get the video feed back on line.

“Anything?” Admiral C. Thomas Morrison asked.

“No, sir, not yet,” Tompkins managed to squeak.

“Jesus Christ.”

The air was thick in the twenty-by-twenty-foot vault buried four floors below the White House. A blue pall of smoke swirled from the cigarettes that these men would never admit to in public. Even the President, where he sat hunched at the head of the large refractory table, had a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his pensive mouth.

“If my wife sees me like this, she’s going to kill me,” he said to lighten the mood. The answering laughter had a nervous edge.

Despite the cigarettes, the hands made twitchy by endless cups of coffee and the grizzled stubble that covered their faces, these men were still as sharp as they’d been when called to the situation room twelve hours earlier. An aide entered from the single elevator and walked straight to Sam Becker, the head of the National Security Agency.

“Sir, here’s the latest from the KH-11 flyby.” He handed over a sheaf of infrared photographs taken by an orbiting spy satellite. “Just like the photos taken from the SR-1 Wraith, I’m afraid the analysts couldn’t make much out of them. The heat signature from the volcano makes it impossible to locate any other thermal images.”

“Damn,” Becker said, leafing through the photos. “If my men didn’t see a Russian nuclear sub, I don’t see how Mercer could have. The NSA has the best photo interp people in the world. I hope you’re right about him, Dick.”

Henna looked up from the fan of papers spread before him. “I’ve got no guarantees, but so far the man hasn’t disappointed. He told me over the phone that he had the John Dory pinpointed at the volcano site.”