Vulcan's Forge

Hawaii

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.

The other Oriental flashed a silver badge in a cheap vinyl covering. “Airport security. Your passport.”

Lurbud fished it from inside his suit coat and handed it over. “What’s this all about?”

“Routine, Mr. Schmidt,” one agent said, reading through the passport. “Would you come with us?”

Lurbud followed the two security men through a set of double doors and down a well-lit flight of stairs. They passed a couple of airport employees plodding upward as Lurbud and his two minders made their way down. At the base of the stairs they turned down a long hallway to the last doorway on the left.

As he stepped over the threshold, Lurbud’s instincts told him that this was an interrogation room and his being here was far from routine. In the stark room, two chairs stood behind a unitarian trestle table, with a third chair set in the center of the neutral beige carpet. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and fear.

The moment the door closed, one of the men shoved Lurbud, propelling him across the room. He exaggerated his momentum and slammed himself against the far wall, sliding to the floor with a moan.

One of the security agents walked over to Lurbud, probably intending to throw him into the chair and begin the formal interrogation of this Gai-Jin, foreigner. The instant the man’s hand touched Lurbud’s shoulder, the Russian uncoiled himself from the floor, clutching an undetectable Teflon knife in his fist. He buried the knife between the Oriental’s ribs, piercing his heart.

Lurbud pulled the knife from the dying man’s chest, ignoring the fountain of blood that pumped from the obscene wound, and dove across the room.

The other agent was just going for his shoulder-holstered pistol when Lurbud reached him. The impetus of Lurbud’s charge threw them both against the table, the Russian’s body pinning the other man. Lurbud raised the knife over his head and stabbed down viciously, slicing into skin and cartilage, severing the carotid artery of the shocked security man.

The man died hard, gasping and choking and clutching at his punctured throat. His writhing body smeared blood across the table and onto the carpet and white walls.

After the man had stilled, Lurbud cleaned his knife against his victim’s suit and stashed it back in its ankle sheath. He checked himself quickly. A few red splashes of blood were invisible against the dark tropical wool of his suit. He opened the door and, seeing that the hall was empty, made his escape. At the opposite end of the hall Lurbud reentered the public part of the airport just off the main concourse.

Outside, he passed banks of beautiful tropical flowers and ponds loaded with huge goldfish. He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in downtown Honolulu, confident that he wouldn’t be followed.

Ten minutes into the cab ride his hands began to quiver and his stomach knotted up. He wished he could pass it off as a reaction to the sleeping pill he’d taken during the flight, but knew in his heart that his close brush with the authorities had shaken him. He’d been living on adrenaline his entire adult life and, like any addict, his drug of choice was beginning to wear him away.

At the Cairo airport, Lurbud had been given a sealed envelope by an embassy courier. It had contained a briefing from Ivan Kerikov. The top sheet had outlined the current situation in Hawaii, so Lurbud knew that Honolulu was under martial law, with a strictly enforced eight p.m. curfew. It had been a calculated risk bringing the packet into the state, but there was too much information to memorize. He read through some of it in the taxi to distract himself from the disturbing cityscape outside the Ford’s windows. The envelope contained Lurbud’s final orders, names of the critical targets, opposition strength, and codes for contacting the John Dory. Lurbud assumed that Kerikov had an agent in place near Ohnishi because the orders contained a detailed map of Ohnishi’s house, and also stated that Mayor David Takamora was already dead. Yet the KGB master made no provisions for sparing his agent’s life. Lurbud furtively wondered if he too would be considered a loose end after Ohnishi and the mole had been eliminated.

Although it was just midafternoon, the city seemed nearly deserted. Only groups of National Guard troops and armed cadres of students wandered the streets. The citizens were hidden in their homes, fearful or expectant, depending on their loyalty. The scene outside the cab’s windows reminded Lurbud of the time he’d spent in war-ravaged Beirut, where religion-intoxicated youths systematically ripped the Mediterranean’s most beautiful city into minute strips of terror.

Columns of smoke lifted from numerous fires to mingle in a murky haze over the city. The rocky outcrop of Diamond Head was invisible in the gloom. Near the commercial port, thick black smoke belched from two burning oil storage tanks, their noxious fumes reaching Lurbud’s cab many miles away. Buildings had been riddled with small-arms fire and the cab passed numerous husks of burned-out cars and buses. The area over Pearl Harbor resembled a bee’s nest, angry helicopters buzzing in frenzied flight as federal and National Guard choppers performed a dizzying Danse Macabre.

After the uneasy forty-minute drive, Lurbud paid off the driver and left the taxi in one of Honolulu’s worst neighborhoods. His destination was a flat-fronted, three-story edifice with a liquor store on the ground floor and apartments on the other two. The building had been bought by Department 7 when they had brought Takahiro Ohnishi into Vulcan’s Forge in case they ever needed a safehouse to monitor the local situation. This was the first time that members of the operation had ever used the building.

Lurbud surveyed the decayed neighborhood, the vacant, rubble strewn lots, the peeling paint, the empty looks in the eyes of the few passersby, and knew that this location had never been compromised. In the humid air, his jacket was already beginning to stick to his body.

On the top floor, he knocked twice on the stout metal door at the head of the stairs, paused, then knocked once more.

“Yes?” a voice called from within.

“United Parcel Service, I have a package for Charles Haines,” Lurbud replied, beginning a recognition code he’d learned from Kerikov’s packet.

“Who’s it from?” The voice behind the door responded suspiciously.

“Kyle Leblanc,” Lurbud finished the code, and the bolts were thrown open.

The man who’d opened the door kept his automatic pistol in view as Lurbud entered the safehouse. Only after Sergeant Dimitri Demanov spoke from across the vast room did he reholster it. “So, what have you been doing since you can no longer rape boys with heated pokers?” Demanov was referring to one of Lurbud’s more effective interrogation techniques from his time working for Kerikov in Afghanistan.

“Cutting off testicles of disrespectful sergeants,” Lurbud retorted. The two men crashed together in the center of the room like sea lions, pounding each other’s backs in reunion.

“How have you been, Dimitri?” Lurbud asked, smiling for the first time since killing Suleiman.

“Bored in Minsk until I got a call to meet you here,” replied Demanov, kissing Lurbud in the traditional Russian way. “It is good to see you again, Evad.”

“And you too, old friend.”

Lurbud and Demanov had fought side by side in Afghanistan. They had shared more freezing nights and narrow escapes than either could remember.

Demanov had stayed in the field after Lurbud’s promotion and ended the war as the Soviet Union’s third most decorated soldier. Since that time, he had gone on to be an instructor of the Spetnez, Russia’s special forces, but had recently retired to a deteriorating existence. The stout, grizzled sergeant was a warrior in the truest sense of the word.

The safe room took up the entire top floor of the building and was designed to be used as a hideout for several weeks if necessary. There were beds for a dozen people. The kitchen shelves were crammed with canned food. Several huge drums were filled with water in case the building’s supply was ever cut off. Light streamed through the multiple windows, but was diffused by the layers of caked dust that made it impossible to see into the room from the street.

“I trust everyone got past customs without incident?” Lurbud asked.

“There were no problems, we all arrived before the airport was shut down,” Demanov responded.

Lurbud took a moment to scrutinize the troops Demanov had brought with him. They were all former Spetnez, men more loyal to Demanov than to their Motherland. Without exception, they were the finest trained commandos the Russian army had ever produced — their instruction went much further than Gregory Brezhnicov’s KGB guards in New York, who had been murdered the day before by an unknown assailant.

None of the men were especially large or hulking, but there was an air of competence about them which was chilling. Their minds and bodies had been sharpened to a rapier’s edge by endless training and actual combat experience.

Though they never admitted it, both the United States and Russia “lent” some of their Special Forces troops to various war-ravaged nations so the men could gain practical understanding of battlefield operations. It wouldn’t shock Lurbud to learn that these men had faced an American Ranger battalion on the hills above Sarajevo just a few years earlier.

“How did you assemble such a large force so quickly?”

“Army pay isn’t what it used to be, Evad. As you know, the country’s full of out of work soldiers. Finding commandos in Russia is easier than finding syphilis in a whorehouse.”

“Did you have time to brief them in Minsk?”

“I told them that they would be fighting with you. That was all they needed to hear.”

“Do you have any doubts about them, Dimitri?”

Demanov lit a cigarette and enjoyed the first few drags before answering. “In my career, I’ve trained Egyptians to fight Israelis, Angolans to fight South Africans, Nicaraguans to fight Salvadorans, and a dozen other groups to fight another dozen. I knew from the beginning that I was training a surrogate Russian army to fight a surrogate American one. Each time, I’d run across an American or two, ‘advisors,’ toting the most sophisticated weapons in their arsenal. But those contacts were fleeting. Just once I want to face the Americans in an open fight and prove once and for all who’s been pumped full of propaganda and who is the best. Now that I’m finally getting my chance, I can’t think of a better group of men to back me up — and that includes you, sir.”

Lurbud was impressed with Demanov’s speech and his old friend’s conviction. “It seems that since the last time I saw you, you’ve become a philosopher.”

“I haven’t met a soldier who wasn’t one,” Demanov said seriously. “So why is it that the shadowy Kerikov has paid us so handsomely to be here?”

“What were you told by him?”

“That he needed a trained commando team ready to fight in the United States as the last part of a very old operation.”

“Yes and no,” Lurbud said, taking a seat on one of the cots. “You are needed, but your presence here is a deviation from a very old operation. The current unrest on the islands is a direct result of Department Seven’s most ambitious plan, one which almost worked. Hawaii would have become a Soviet puppet if things had gone according to plan. We’re here to mop up and cut our losses.”

Demanov could not hide his astonishment. “I don’t understand, Evad.”

“Several months ago, Department Seven approached a very wealthy and eccentric local billionaire named Takahiro Ohnishi and asked him to assist us in an operation called Vulcan’s Forge. In return for his help, Kerikov promised to use Russian resources to back a coup attempt that would split Hawaii away from the rest of the United States. Of course Kerikov never planned to aid Ohnishi in any way, but his involvement was necessary. Two different options had to be left open until certain scientific data was obtained concerning a volcanic island forming north of here. Now that we have this information the coup is no longer necessary and neither is Ohnishi. Unfortunately, Ohnishi has already started his rebellion. He must be stopped.”

“That’s where we come in,” Demanov interrupted.

“Yes. We’re here to eliminate Ohnishi. For now we wait until Kerikov gets in touch. There is another aspect of this mission I didn’t tell you about, a submarine monitoring the volcano to the north. Kerikov is waiting for word from them before we put our plan into action.” He lied to his friend. In fact, the John Dory was waiting for word from him. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dimitri, but you won’t get the chance to take on the American army, only the guards around Ohnishi’s mansion.”

“They’re still Americans, Evad. It’ll be close enough.”