After five minutes, Mercer brought them to the surface. The John Dory was a few hundred yards away and it was easy to see she was sinking. Her bow rode deep and her props thrashed the water into a white froth as they were pulled from the ocean. Only two of the lifeboats had been launched and the crew seemed too occupied, picking up survivors and corpses, to care about the huge helicopter that swooped in overhead.
Eddie Rice settled the Sea King into the water and let the rotors idle. Mercer could see the pilot scramble to the cargo door of the Sikorsky machine. Rice popped open a large drum of oil and spilled it onto the water. The churned-up sea settled immediately under the weight of the fluid.
Mercer and Valery swam toward the helicopter, their heads repeatedly swamped by the storm. Both men retched seawater regularly. They were only twenty yards from the machine when one of the lifeboats began motoring their way.
“Eddie,” Mercer screamed into the night, “get ready to take off.”
The pilot must have heard Mercer because he vanished from the hatch. The last fifteen yards of the swim were the most agonizing moments in Mercer’s life. The pain in his body was unbearable. His lungs burned, his arms felt like lead, and saltwater had closed his eyes to slits. He dug deep within himself, searching for any last reserves of stamina to keep him going. There wasn’t much left but still he swam on with Valery right beside him.
The outboard motor of the life raft was getting louder as the small craft drew near. Neither man dared look back.
Suddenly they burst into the calmed pool of oil that Eddie Rice had laid down. The chopper’s rotors were beginning to beat harder. Mercer and Valery swam the last few yards on will alone. Valery tossed his father’s briefcase into the open door and clung desperately to the side of the chopper, his lungs pumping for air.
Mercer shoved him into the craft and stole a glance over his shoulder. The John Dory’s life raft was only about twenty yards behind and closing fast. Mercer knew he’d never clamber into the chopper before the Soviets were upon them.
“Tell the pilot to take off,” he shouted, and let go of the Sea King.
Valery was nowhere to be seen. Mercer assumed that the Russian had passed out as soon as he was inside. He was wrong.
Valery reappeared in the doorway, a machine pistol held firmly to his flank. He fired a long, devastating burst at the life raft, bullets and screams piercing the night. When the clip was empty, he held the weapon out to Mercer.
Mercer grasped the proffered gun stock and hauled himself to the chopper. He hooked an arm through Valery’s and the younger man hoisted him aboard. Mercer didn’t even take time to catch his breath; he grabbed a headset and wheezed into the microphone, “Go, Eddie, goddamn it, go.”
Only after the Sea King lifted from the water toward Hawaii did Mercer collapse to the deck, his eyes glazed over, his lungs nearly in convulsions. Valery sat down next to him, drained by exhaustion and an adrenaline overdose.
“My father told me that years ago he had stood by and watched as a lifeboat full of men was machine-gunned like that. He said that the men died for Russia’s greater glory even though they weren’t Russian. Now I have done the same. For what?”
“For the best reason of all,” Mercer gasped. “To save your own ass.”
He got to his feet and staggered to the open cargo door, wind and rain whipping around his body. He closed the door and returned to Valery’s side. “Tell me, are you sure you didn’t send that telegram?”
“Positive.”
“I wonder?” Mercer mused, and then passed out.
Arlington, Virginia
Mercer sat at the back corner booth of Tiny’s and slowly swirled his vodka gimlet so the cubes of ice clicked discreetly. He took a swallow and placed the glass back on the scarred tabletop. His movements were slow, deliberate. It had been three weeks since Eddie Rice had ditched his Sea King into the Pacific nearly a hundred miles from Hawaii and his body was still stiff and battered. Mercer fractured a leg during the impact and Eddie had given himself a severe concussion and turned his face into a vermillion patchwork of bruises and lacerations. The chopper pilot was still bedridden at the Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital. Valery Borodin wasn’t so much as scratched during the crash.
He swiveled his head and surveyed the room. Tiny was out of sight behind the bar, searching for something or other. There were four or five other patrons, workers from the local trucking firm. Looking at them, Mercer felt vaguely conspicuous not sporting a baseball cap or at least a cigarette. Umber light slashed through the windows as the sun dropped beneath the smoggy horizon.
Mercer had been back in Washington just long enough to jam a clear pin into Hawaii on the map at home, call Dick Henna to set up this meeting at Tiny’s, and give himself a decent buzz.
He drained the last of his drink and called to Tiny for another. The three gimlets already wending their way through his body were dulling the pain in his bruised joints.
Richard Henna came through the front door just as Tiny set the new drink in front of Mercer. Henna wore a dark suit and tie, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses seen on all FBI agents in the movies. Mercer stood slowly, supporting himself with one hand on the table, as Henna crossed the room to his booth.
“I see you’re alive if not well.” Henna shook his hand and the two men sat.
Henna removed his glasses and glanced around the dingy room. His expression matched one Mercer had made once in a public toilet in Istanbul.
“Lovely place you have here,” Henna said sarcastically.
“It has its charms.” Mercer grinned. “They water down the beer with bourbon.”
“I’ll stick to Scotch.”
“Tiny, Scotch and…” He looked at Henna, cocking an eyebrow.
“Neat.”
“Scotch and Scotch.”
“So where have you been since the navy fished you out?”
The explosions that sunk the John Dory had been heard by the sonar aboard the USS Jacksonville, the Los Angeles-class attack submarine attached to the Kitty Hawk battle group. She was the vessel poised to launch a nuclear-tipped Tomahawk cruise missile at the rising volcano. The sub raced to investigate the blasts and in the process found the sinking Sea King and three passengers. After an hour of argument with the captain, radio communication with the commander of the Pacific fleet, and finally intervention by Admiral Morrison, the Jacksonville abandoned her mission and headed for Hawaii.
“I stayed in Hawaii until just this afternoon.”
“A little rest and relaxation?”
“More like recovery and research.”
Henna thought better than to press for Mercer’s meaning. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. The cast on my leg came off yesterday and my ribs are okay as long as I don’t try to sing opera.”
Henna smiled, then thanked Tiny as his drink came. “I see how this place gets its name.”
“He used to be a jockey,” Mercer pointed out. “So what’s been happening in Hawaii?”
“You were there, you should know better than me.”
“No, I was up north on Kauai near a town called Hanalei, cut off from just about everybody and everything. The only news I heard was on the flight from L.A. to Washington, and even then I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Well, let me fill you in a little bit.” Henna shrugged out of his jacket and laid it next to him on the booth. “The state, hell the whole nation, was stunned when we told them exactly what had happened. The President decided to come clean on the whole affair from Ohnishi to Kerikov to the bikinium. Valery Borodin was at the press conference at Pearl Harbor to back him up. The CIA found some old photographs of Evad Lurbud to match his corpse found at Kenji’s estate. Of course we needed two undertakers to make his body look human again after what he’d been through.