Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

Mercer had never felt such an aura of utter malignance in his life than that surrounding these men. Rice was right to call them cargo. To call them passengers would be admitting they retained a trace of humanity.

He went back up to the flight deck and took his seat, donning his headset.

“See what I mean?” Eddie grinned. “Me, I’ve got no problems with Hawaii, in fact I’d love a Mai Tai, just give me a target destination and I’ll get us there. Oh, you didn’t need to smash up our radio, you know.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

Rice smiled crookedly. “The call I received about two minutes before you boarded. Seems my commander was contacted by the director of the FBI. Said he thought you’d pull a stunt like this and the SEALs would be a compromise between your plan and the President’s. Those SEALs back there are under orders to follow you. He told me they might come in handy tonight.”

Mercer laughed so hard his guts ached. “That son of a bitch,” he said admiringly. “No wonder he’s the director of the FBI. My first hijacking and the victims turn out to be willing accomplices. Sorry about pulling the gun on you.”

“Ain’t nothing. I was born in South Central. Wasn’t the first time it’s ever happened. Probably not the last, either.”

An hour and a half later, the Sea King blasted along the northern coasts of the Hawaiian islands, her watertight hull no more than fifty feet above the crashing surf, her sixty-five-foot rotor blades less than one hundred yards from the towering cliffs. Mercer had spent much of the flight in the cargo hold with the SEALs, poring over the plans to Kenji’s estate and forming a battle plan. By the time the Sea King cleared the coast, all of them were satisfied that the assault could be pulled off successfully.

Back in the cockpit, Mercer could see lights, the concentration on Rice’s face, but he also saw a slight trace of enjoyment too.

Maui and Molokai and the Big Island were behind them and now they skirted the northern coast of Oahu. Mercer thought about the dead whales found there only a month ago — the start of this whole chain reaction. Amazing how such an inane event sparked one of the greatest crises America might ever face.

“Do you have the coordinates?” Rice asked, his eyes never leaving the moon-bathed waves below.

Mercer read the coordinates of Kenji’s estate from the map provided by Dick Henna. Eddie Rice punched them into the navigational computer, waited as the machine processed them, then glanced at the readout. Banking the helicopter, he lifted her over the cliffs and headed inland. The moonlit scenery below them was a gray blur, the Sea King beating through the sky at nearly 140 knots, at times below tree top level.

Mercer trusted Rice’s flying implicitly. He had no choice.

They rocketed over mountains only to plunge down the other side, the helicopter never more than a hundred feet from the ground.

“Ever done flying like this before?” Mercer asked, trying to act casual though his knuckles were white as he gripped the seat.

“Sure,” Rice replied. “ ’Course that was in Iraq, where there weren’t as many mountains or trees or buildings to smear against.”

Mercer tightened his grip.

“You ever done anything like this before?” asked Rice.

“Sure,” Mercer mimicked Rice’s deep baritone. “ ’Course that was in Iraq, where there weren’t any wise-ass pilots.”

Rice laughed, then yanked the helicopter skyward to avoid a tall stand of trees thrusting up from the jungle.

As the terrain flattened out, Rice began to whistle. Mercer recognized the song as Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” He knew exactly how Eddie felt.

“We’re about ten miles from your coordinates,” Rice announced a few minutes later.

“Okay, the target is a compound in the middle of an old pineapple plantation. There will be a clearing about two miles north. It used to be an equipment storage area when the plantation was operational. There’s an abandoned shed on its southern edge. We’ll land there.”

Rice didn’t reply. He was watching the ground below. The low jungle canopy retained a semblance of regimentation from when it had been planted fields. He slowed the chopper to thirty knots.

“There,” he said, spotting the clearing as he crabbed the helicopter to starboard.

Mercer saw the open ground a moment later, an area of about an acre; the abandoned metal building stood at its far end, the corrugated roof sagging in the middle.

“Ugly country in thirty seconds,” Mercer said into his microphone, informing the SEALs in the cargo hold.

Rice used the last scrap of jungle cover before bursting into the clearing. The rotors kicked up a cloud of fine dust, cutting visibility down to nothing. He landed the big chopper by feel alone, settling her as close to the building as possible. Had there been paint on the huge storage garage, the Teflon rotors would have scraped it off.

By the time Mercer jumped from the chopper, the SEALs had already secured the building and the surrounding area. There was no one else in the vicinity.

The air was hot and incredibly humid; Mercer’s clothing stuck to his body like a clammy film and the chirping of insects sounded unnaturally loud after his hours in the chopper. He buckled his combat harness around his lean waist, cinching the shoulder straps so they were snug but not binding. After pulling his MP-5 from the duffel, he threw the empty bag back into the chopper and turned to Rice.

“You know what to do?”

“I’ll wait here until you contact me.” Rice held up a miniature walkie-talkie given to him by one of the SEALs. “If I don’t hear anything by five a.m., I’m outta here.”

“Right.”

Mercer looked at his watch, 9:35. In nine and a half hours the President would unleash the nuclear warhead and destroy the volcano two hundred miles north. A few minutes after that, Hawaii would become an independent country.

Although she was forty feet under the surface, the John Dory still felt the turbulence above that rolled her about fifteen degrees port and starboard. The radio operator clutched at a ceiling mounted support as he waited to gain Captain Zwenkov’s attention. Zwenkov was once again in muted conference with the weapons officer, going over the firing solutions for the vessel’s bow-mounted Siren missile for the tenth time.

“Captain,” the radio man interrupted, “flash message received from the mainland.”

Zwenkov turned, cocking one bushy eyebrow in question.

“The message read ‘green,’ repeated for five seconds, sir.”

“Very well.” Zwenkov glanced at his watch. 2200 hours.

This was the eleventh such message he’d received. He’d expected the “red” code by now, authorizing him to launch his missile, but it had not come. If it didn’t come until the next scheduled contact in two hours, he would barely make it to the Hawaiian coast before dawn to extract the commandos.

“All right, Weapons Officer, one more time if you please.” And they ran another plot for the nuclear missile.

Evad Lurbud collapsed the portable antenna and powered down his radio. Using his mangled left hand had caused a bright wave of blood to seep out from under his hastily applied bandage. He let the pain wash over him, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming.

That he had survived four hours since the attack on Ohnishi’s house was due mainly to his extensive KGB training. That he had survived the destruction of the house itself was little short of a miracle.

Once the bombs had detonated and the glass house had begun to shatter, Lurbud’s dive under the table on Ohnishi’s breakfast balcony had saved his life. The table had protected him from the exploding glass. When the main structure of the house tumbled, the balcony had fallen outward, carrying Lurbud with it. He landed on the lawn forty feet below, astonished to find himself alive. But by no means had he escaped unscathed.