Read Vulcan's Forge Online

Authors: Jack Du Brul

Tags: #Action & Adventure, #Volcanoes, #Nuclear Energy, #Hawaii, #Geologists, #Fiction, #Adventure Stories, #Thrillers, #Espionage

Vulcan's Forge (7 page)

BOOK: Vulcan's Forge
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He returned to the bedroom where Jill was laid across the bed, hands cuffed behind her and a gag stuffed into her lipsticked mouth. She was still unconscious.
Nevertheless, Kenji whispered into her ear, “An excellent piece of reporting, Miss Tzu. You are correct on all charges. Mr. Ohnishi is financing the violence in Honolulu. Though not for much longer, I assure you.” He turned to his henchmen. “Let’s go.”
They bundled Jill into the bedspread and carried her from her home as if she were a rolled-up carpet. The cicadas paused as the party ducked through the bushes toward their hidden vehicle.
 
TWENTY miles away, thunderous applause swept across the Honolulu Convention Center as Mayor David Takamora took the stage, sending a palpable compression wave echoing through the cavernous hall. Twelve thousand people filled the room, many waving placards in support of Honolulu’s controversial mayor. The air was charged with the energy of the massed throng as their hero raised his arms over his head in recognition of the crowd’s adoration.
Under the glare of the television crew’s klieg lights, Takamora appeared much more handsome than he did in person. The lights and makeup hid the pocks of adolescent acne on his face and darkened the thin strands of silver that wove through his thick hair. He held his body erect and confident, showing off a lean stomach that was nothing more than a girdle and a continual holding of his breath. The effort would inevitably cause severe back pain after the speech.
Such small hoaxes can be forgiven in most men in their fifties if they did not go deeper than the surface. In Takamora’s case, it would take more than a little makeup to hide the flaws in his personality and morals.
Pathologically ambitious, Takamora had turned to the darker side of politics to gain his current office. From the very beginning of his career as a board member of the city’s building commission, he had made it clear to any developer who cared to listen that he would almost joyfully take bribes to help a project gain quick approval.
He amassed several hundred thousand dollars in just a few years and used that money as a war chest to battle for the mayor’s office. Some said that he cut so many deals to get on the ballot that he kept a knife on his desk rather than a pen. He waged one of the ugliest campaigns for mayor of any American city in history. His main opponent, a councilwoman of excellent standing, withdrew from the race when her daughter was brutally raped after leaving a Honolulu nightclub. Takamora didn’t know if the rape was coincidence or the act of an overzealous assistant.
Now he stood poised to go far beyond his own ambition. He was the last of the speakers at this pro-Referendum 324 rally, and the crowd was already roused to a fever pitch.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Takamora said, quieting the crowd with hand gestures. He spoke in Japanese. “Ladies and gentlemen, a little over a year ago you gave me a mandate when you elected me to help this city prosper, to create new jobs and security for our way of life. Since then I have done everything in my power to make this happen. But I’ve found myself limited by the very office with which you entrusted me.
“While we’ve been able to attract Japanese companies to our city, state and federal regulators have stalled our efforts. When Ohnishi Heavy Industries wanted to build a computer assembly plant in Honolulu, the government in Washington refused to allow import permits for the machinery needed to set up the plant. When I wanted to privatize our police force, with the blessing of you, the voters, the Supreme Court called that an unconstitutional act because it might be construed as a private militia.
“Now I want to see our tax dollars stay here on Hawaii rather than disappear into the federal cesspit, and I’m being called a secessionist. Referendum 324 does not equal secession, it means parity. Our state is now wholly self-sufficient. We trade more with Japan than we do with California, so why shouldn’t we be entitled to keep the tax revenue from our own labor? I no longer see any benefits from Washington, just inept meddling. I see us helping to prop up a system that has simply gotten away from itself, and I say: Don’t take us with you.
“While the mainland sinks into a bottomless pit of crime and drug abuse, where drive-by shootings no longer make the news, where teenage pregnancy accounts for thirty percent of the children born, where welfare assistance has turned into a crutch for those too lazy to work, we have prospered.
“Do you think it fair we should pay for their corruption?”
The frenzied crowd shouted a defiant, “No!”
“Is it right that we must pay for their excesses?”
Again, with one hate-filled voice the crowd screamed, “No!”
“Last night, the vice president of the United States branded me a secessionist.” The crowd was transmuting into a mindless mob, barely kept in check by Takamora’s voice. “I say,
Don’t tempt me
.”
Takamora’s last words were spoken in a low hiss, then he ducked from the stage, wearing the adulation of the crowd like a cloak. An aide handed him a bottle of beer and a towel. He took a quick swig and wiped the greasy makeup from his face.
“Listen to them,” he said to the assembled aides. “They’re ready for anything.”
As Takamora leaned into the sound of the crowd beyond the maroon curtain, an aide slid a ringing cellular phone from his pocket, listened for an instant, then handed it to Takamora.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, David, a rousing speech.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ohnishi, I’m pleased you were able to hear it.” The microphones in the convention center had been wired into a transceiver and the signals sent to Ohnishi’s house. “Can you still hear the crowd, sir?”
“Yes, you are certainly the man of the hour.”
“Only with your help, Mr. Ohnishi,” Takamora replied honestly, acknowledging the massive support given to him by the aging industrialist.
“I think now is the time to step up our campaign, don’t you?” Ohnishi’s comment was not really a question, it was a command.
“I agree, sir,” Takamora replied, keeping the pretense of a free will. “What do you have in mind?”
“A few bombings, better arms for the youth gangs, and a little more selectivity to their targets. Our day is rapidly approaching, so we must be more organized. Kenji will contact you in the morning with all the particulars.”
“But the vote for Referendum 324 is still a week away—aren’t we jumping the gun slightly?”
“Some unforeseen contingencies have arisen that may force me to abandon the subterfuge of Referendum 324. Who cares if the people won’t be allowed their vote? We will give them what they want anyway. What I want to know is if your National Guard troops will maintain their loyalty throughout our campaign.”
“You can count on them, sir, at least those units that I’ve personally built up since taking office. As you know, the crack units here in Honolulu are made up of Japanese-Americans, young men and women who feel the same as we do. It is only a matter of time until the governor calls them out, unwittingly putting more of our people on the streets. I guarantee that they will not interfere with your gangs.”
“And if the President calls out federal troops?”
Takamora hesitated for an instant. “The guardsmen will be willing to take them on. Remember, the military presence on the island represents the greatest source of antagonism among our people. It is the same here as it was on Okinawa following the rape of that little girl in 1996.”
“Good, and, David, never question me again.” Ohnishi’s tone was saccharine, but hard edged.
Takamora shut off the phone with a snap, angered that his euphoria of a few moments ago had been chilled by Ohnishi. He tried to look composed as he handed the phone back to his assistant, but failed miserably.
Arlington, Virginia
T
he faint chime of the Tiffany alarm clock woke Mercer instantly. His hand snaked out from under the tangle of sheets and blankets and silenced the antique piece. He pushed aside the bed coverings and swung his legs to the floor. His deep gray eyes were already bright and clear. Mercer’s eyes reacted to light much quicker than the average person’s. He barely squinted at bright lights and adjusted to darkness with the speed of a cat. It was an ability he fully exploited in the subterranean world of hard-rock mining.
He shaved and took a quick shower before heading down the circular stairs to the rec room, passing through the library on the way. The built-in dark oak shelves were full of plain beige boxes containing his vast collection of reference books. For the thousandth time, Mercer promised himself he’d unpack the books and place them properly on the shelves. He also wanted to hang the dozens of pictures and paintings he had collected over the years, which currently lay crated in one of the brownstone’s two spare bedrooms.
Cup of coffee in hand, he went to the front door and grabbed the morning
Washington Post
. He was just turning to the stories beneath the fold as he made his way to the bar in the rec room.
A story on the left corner riveted him to the stool.
SURVIVOR FOUND FROM NOAA SHIP
Hawaii
Dr. Tish Talbot, a specialist on the ill-fated NOAA research vessel
Ocean Seeker
, was rescued by a Finnish freighter at 12:30 local time this morning. She is so far the only survivor of the ship which sank three days ago. The
Ocean Seeker
was investigating the mysterious deaths of twelve gray whales found beached last month on Hawaii’s north coast. Dr. Talbot is said to be in stable condition, suffering from dehydration and exposure. She is being flown to George Washington University Hospital this morning for observation. The rescue ship, SS
September Laurel
, had been assisting the coast guard and navy search for survivors since the mysterious sinking.
The article went on, but Mercer really didn’t see the rest of the words; he was stunned. The sense of loss that he felt the night before slipped away, replaced by joy and relief.
“Harry, wake up.” Mercer had to share the news.
Harry came awake slowly, groans and yawns followed by scratches and stretches. “What time is it?”
“Quarter of six,” Mercer replied, glancing at his Tag Heuer watch.
“Christ, my mouth feels as if I just French-kissed an Angora sweater.”
Mercer poured him a cup of coffee. Harry moved from the couch to the bar and slouched onto one of the stools, a cigarette already smoldering between his lips.
“Remember me telling you about Jack Talbot, the guy who saved my life in Alaska?” Mercer didn’t wait for Harry to answer. “Last night I found out that his daughter was on board that NOAA ship that sank in the Pacific.”
“Christ, Mercer, sorry to hear it,” Harry said seriously.
“I was meaning to ask you last night if you had heard about that.”
Mercer held up the front page of the paper and Harry read it through still-bleary eyes. “Well, I’ll be god-damned. How about that for luck.”
“No shit.”
“I wonder if your friend knows yet?”
“He probably didn’t even know about the accident—last I knew he was working aboard an oil rig off the coast of Indonesia.”
Harry looked at Mercer for a second, then stood up. “I better get home.” Harry was through the door before Mercer could say another word. Mercer puzzled about his friend’s abrupt exit for a moment, then went back to reading his paper.
At 8:30, Mercer strode into his office at the U.S. Geological Survey. His secretary, Jennifer Woodridge, tried to smile and say hi with a mouth full of cherry danish. Mercer marveled at her ability to eat. Her desk was nearly always covered with half-eaten junk food, mangled bags of chips, and at least three empty soft drink cans. Yet she weighed around one hundred pounds and had a figure that made him wish half the rumors in the office were true.
“Morning, Jen. I see nothing’s changed in my absence.”
She swallowed hard and took a sip of coffee. “Welcome back. I was so relieved that you were in South Africa and not aboard that NOAA ship, you have no idea.”
“Trust me, you’re not half as relieved as I am.”
Jen Woodridge had not always cared so much for her temporary boss. Two months earlier, when Mercer had started consulting at the USGS, Jen had prepared an extensive list of the things she would and wouldn’t do in the course of her job. She read through the list at a staccato pace about two seconds after their introduction.
Mercer had listened to her calmly, without comment. When she had finished all Mercer said was, “Okay.”
“What do you want me to do now?” she asked, thinking she had the upper hand with him.
“Go back and sit at your desk.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just sit at your desk. Don’t answer the phone, don’t fill out any papers, don’t do anything.”
It took only forty fidgety minutes before Jen caved in and returned to Mercer’s office, her blue eyes glazed with boredom. “Point taken and I’m sorry. Usually the consultants around here treat the staff like slaves.”
“Since you are the first secretary, excuse me, assistant, I’ve ever had, I really don’t know how to treat you.” Mercer’s honesty had begun a great working relationship. Now he asked, “Did you read about that woman rescued last night?”
“Yes, isn’t that fantastic?”
“Strange thing is, I know her, or rather, I know her father,” Mercer said, heading for his office. “Come on and fill me in on what’s been happening while I’ve been gone.”
Mercer struggled out of his jacket and threw it carelessly over the leather sofa. He laid his briefcase on the desk and settled into his chair. Jen hung up his jacket with a maternal scowl and sat in the chair in front of the desk to help him pore through the mountain of papers.
Around noon, Jennifer went to lunch; Mercer stayed in his office, catching up on the paperwork treadmill. A security guard knocked quietly at his office door a few minutes after Jen left. “Are you Dr. Philip Mercer?” the guard asked, confirming the name from the slip of paper in his hand.
BOOK: Vulcan's Forge
12.46Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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