Vulcan's Forge by Jack Du Brul

untrimmed beards, and beat-up Saabs?”
    “That’s for old white farts, not us lean and mean black brothers. ’Sides which, last I knew you was drivin’ a Jag.”
    “Just to prove I’m not an old white fart, that’s all.”
    “Bullshit, but I love ya anyway. This ain’t no social call, what up?”
    “A year ago, Woods Hole sent a team to Mozambique to look at shrimp beds. You know anything about it?”
    “No, but hold on, I know someone who does.”
    Mercer could hear him shout to someone else in the room. A few minutes later a frail female voice came on the line. “Hello, this is Dr. Baker.”
    “Good afternoon, Doctor, my name is Philip Mercer. I’m a geologist with the USGS.” Mercer thought it best to sound formal. “I’m trying to get some information about an expedition to Mozambique that Woods Hole was involved with last year.”
    “That’s what Charley said. I was on that expedition as lab director.”
    “Do you happen to remember any of the Russian scientists? A youngish man in particular. I’m sorry, I don’t have his name.”
    “Probably you’re referring to Valery Borodin. Supposedly he was a biologist, but he knew more about geology than anything else. He spent most of his time with one of the women from NOAA, lucky girl.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “I may be sixty-six years old, Mr. Mercer, and have four delightful grandchildren, but these old eyes can still appreciate a handsome man. And Valery Borodin was a very handsome man.”
    “So you say he knew more about geology than anything else, huh?”
    “That’s right. If you want to know more about him, I suggest you contact the woman from NOAA. I can’t think of her name right off the top of my head, but if you give me a second I can get it.”
    “That’s okay, Dr. Baker, you’ve been more than kind. Thank you, and please thank Dr. Washington.” Mercer hung up and leaned far back into his seat.
    He reviewed the information he’d gathered. A bunch of dead whales. An explosion on a research vessel. An assassination attempt on the only survivor. A telegram from a dead friend. One freighter with two different designs on its stack. An Italian crew that speaks Russian. A Russian biologist that doesn’t know biology and probably has nothing to do with what’s going on, and, Mercer looked ruefully at the empty beer bottles on his desk, the beginning of a good buzz.
    “In other words, I’ve got nothing,” he said aloud, and switched off the desk lamp.

Bangkok, Thailand
    W hile many of the Pacific islands are described as sparkling jewels by those who visit them, anyone seeing the Spratly Islands would agree that they are nothing more than a handful of gravel tossed haphazardly into the center of the South China Sea. The Spratlys are spread across an area the size of New England, yet comprise a total land area of less than two square miles. The more than one hundred islets, coral outcroppings, and atolls are completely unremarkable—except that they are claimed as sovereign territory by no less than six nations.
    These countries, in a bid to legitimize their claims, have gone so far as to set up gun emplacements on some of the larger islands and garrisons on the smaller ones, islands so small that high tide obliterates them and leaves the troops standing thigh high in the sea. Vietnam has occupied twenty-five of the islands while China claims seven, the Philippines eight, Malaysia three, and Taiwan one. The sultan of Brunei wants to claim one island in particular, but that tiny speck is underwater for more than six months of the year.
    At first, many Western observers scoffed at the conflicting claims, calling them a poor man’s imperialism. A naval engagement between China and Vietnam in March 1988, which claimed the lives of seventy-seven Vietnamese and an undisclosed number of Chinese, changed their attitudes.
    These two vehemently Communist countries did not come to blows for merely territorial reasons nor national pride. The