Briggs turned back to the bomb. Beside his foot, the display clicked down to fifteen… fourteen…
He took a breath, pressed the Glock against the sphere, and pulled the trigger.
72
Tanner’s gambit was based as much on desperation as it was on his marginal understanding of what was happening inside the bomb.
Of the two kinds of devices Takagi could have built, the gun-type bomb would have been the easiest to disarm. Prevent the uranium bullet from being shot into the pit, the weapon fails to reach critical mass, and there is no detonation.
The kind of weapon Tanner faced, however, was an implosion type.
Inside the steel sphere lay a pit of stable uranium, surrounded by a second sphere known as the soccer ball, which consists of seventy-two octagonal lenses of plastic explosive, each a flawlessly designed shaped charge. Upon detonation, these lenses explode inward with equal force, leaving the pit nowhere to go but deeper inside itself, an event similar to the process that takes place inside the sun’s own internal furnace: Gravity (in a bomb’s case, exterior force) compresses hydrogen atoms until they split into helium, which in turn generates thermonuclear fusion.
Powerful as an implosion bomb is, however, it has an Achilles’ heeclass="underline" If even one of the explosive lenses fails to detonate or detonates a split second later than its counterparts or directs its force a millimeter off center, the pit escapes the implosion and fails to reach critical mass.
When Tanner pulled the clock’s trigger, two things happened simultaneously.
The impact of the slug against the sphere’s shell sent a shock wave through the gun and up his arm, shattering bones and rapturing blood vessels as it went. Tanner was thrown backward.
Next, the flattened slug did not penetrate the sphere but rather created what is called the sprawl effect as the tightly focused jolt broke loose a scab from the sphere’s inner wall. Traveling at 2,500 feet per second, the BB-sized particle embedded itself in one of the lenses and tore it from the face of the soccer ball.
Two seconds later, the bomb detonated.
In a flash of orange, the sphere exploded. No longer focused inward, the force found the weak spot in the sphere’s wall and blasted through. With a whoosh, a ten-foot jet of white flame shot from the quarter-sized hole, passed over Tanner’s head, and seared the aft bulkhead.
He felt the heat and concussion wash over him. He rolled into a ball, threw himself flat, and covered his face. The jet flared briefly, turned blue, then withdrew back into the sphere with a final whoosh.
Silence.
Tanner groaned and rolled onto his back. Blackness swirled in his eyes. He was tired, so tired…. He turned his head. Through the cargo hatch, he could see the ocean’s surface and beyond that, a slice of blue sky. In the distance, ships and helicopters crisscrossed the water.
Water began pouring over the hatch combing. He watched absently as it rolled across the bulkhead, pushing debris and bodies before it. He reached out and touched the leading edge. The water felt cool. Soothing. God, he was tired. He would lie here for a while, he decided. Just for a little while….
“BRIGGS! Briggs, damn it!”
Tanner opened his eyes. The square of sky was smaller now and partially blocked by a blurred yellow shape. What was it? He squinted, then blinked until the shape resolved into a raft. The person in it was waving at him.
“Briggs! For God’s sake, move your ass!”
Bear….
Without thinking, moving on instinct alone, Tanner rolled onto his stomach, pointed himself toward the hatch, and began paddling with his one good arm. A wave broke over his head. Seawater poured into his throat and nose. He coughed, gulped again, sputtered. He paddled harder. He felt himself slipping, being drawn down. He reached for the surface, but it seemed so far away. Too far. Just let it go. The blackness began closing in.
And then a pair of hands appeared in the water and reached for him.
73
The time following Cahil’s pulling him into the raft was a blur to Tanner.
What he went through first in Beirut and then aboard Tsumago finally caught up with his body, and he shut down. He spent the next two days sleeping, never once stirring as he was first put aboard Ford, then helicoptered to Rota, then flown to Ramstein’s hospital.
When the bomb went off, only half of the hostages had been evacuated from Tsumago. The rest clung to the decks or jumped into the water as the ship sank beneath them. Unaware that Tanner and Cahil had defused the bomb, the U.S. and Israeli warships encircling Tsumago remained at the edges of the exclusion zone, not daring to enter. It was not until Tsumago finally capsized and slipped beneath the surface that the rescue effort began in earnest.
As Cahil was pulling Tanner from the water, dozens of helicopters, four destroyers, and a handful of civilian cargo ships swarmed the area.
After two hours, all the hostages had either been picked up or accounted for.
Of the one hundred, only three died. Saul and Bernice Weinman survived.
By nightfall, Tsumago’s last known position was cordoned off by U.S. Navy warships pending the arrival of salvage ships and environmental containment vessels.
With its trump card gone and the Israeli defense forces mobilizing, Syria immediately issued a statement that its intelligence services, having been similarly duped by Iraq, had misread the turmoil in Lebanon. Whatever tensions existed in Beirut appeared to be abating. Its intervention in Lebanon would be short-lived, the foreign secretary announced, and army units along the Litani river would be withdrawing by midafternoon the following day. Barring any unforeseen civil eruptions, the remainder of their forces would begin pulling out by week’s end. To ensure this, the Israeli Air Force, supplemented by F/A-18 Hornets and A-6 Intruders from Independence, began overflights of southern Lebanon and Beirut.
The next day, as the units along the Litani began backtracking across the Syrian border, General Issam al-Khatib was recalled to Damascus and put under arrest pending court-martial. The next morning, he was found dead, hanging in his basement cell in Mucharabat headquarters.
One by one, Tanner’s sense began flickering to life. He heard the hum of the air conditioner and caught the scent of disinfectant. The odor was unmistakable, and even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was in a hospital.
He cracked an eyelid and found himself staring at Cahil’s grinning face.
“Good morning, Mr. Van Winkle.”
Tanner groaned and tried to sit up.
“Uh-uh,” Bear said, pushing him down.
Tanner opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again: “Water,” he croaked.
One hour and a quart of water later, he felt better — beaten and battered and sore — but better. He saw the IV tube in one arm and the wrist-to-elbow cast on the other and asked, “Do I look as bad as I feel?”
“Worse,” Cahil replied. “But it could be even worse.”
Tanner smiled, then grimaced. “Could be dead.”
“Leland and Walt are waiting outside. I’ll get them.”
“Bear, wait.”
“What?”
“What about Camille?”