With each foot of altitude gained, his view of the lake and the surrounding landscape broadened, all of it lit up like daylight in the virtual display of his borrowed glasses. At just a hundred yards, he could make out Ile Idjwi, a long strip of land that bisected the southern half of the lake. He scanned the narrow channel that ran between the island’s western shore and the mainland. Nothing. He didn’t think Favreau would have gone in that direction. For maximum effect, she would head for open water.
He glimpsed a long streak of white on the lake’s surface, diffuse at its western tip, but sharpening to an abrupt point about seven miles east of where he flew. He zoomed in, and the dark object at the head of the wake resolved into the familiar shape of a rigid-hulled Zodiac, similar to the kind used by SEAL teams and professional dive service operators. A lone figure sat at the craft’s stern, operating the outboard engine.
“I see her,” Bishop said.
“I read you, Bish,” King said, and Bishop suddenly realized that it was the first thing King had said to him since he’d taken off. “Now, I don’t suppose you’d like to come back and pick us up so we can do this together?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bishop replied, wondering if he should elaborate. He wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself, but what he was doing was unexplored territory for him. His way of dealing with problems was to tear through them, obliterate them, and if the problem was bigger than expected, all he needed to do was unleash his volcanic rage.
Bishop felt no rage now. In fact, he didn’t think he had ever felt quite so calm in his entire life.
53
Favreau wasn’t watching the sky, nor was she scanning the surface of the lake ahead. Her eyes were fixed on the display of a portable echo-sounder that showed a depth profile of the lake bottom. One corner of the display showed the actual depth in feet, a number that had been steadily growing larger with each passing second.
1180 feet. Not quite deep enough.
Because Lake Kivu was situated on a volcanic rift, two land masses slowly pulling apart like a spreading wound in the Earth’s skin, it was very deep. Its maximum depth was 1575 feet along the rift, making it one of the deepest lakes in the world. The methane reserves, which were created by microbial reduction of volcanic gasses rising out of the Earth, would be most concentrated in that deep zone.
1300 feet.
The lake bottom was sloping rapidly now. Soon she would be deep enough.
Deep enough to ignite the vast field of dissolved methane and deep enough for her to survive the aftermath.
Monique Favreau was not afraid to die, a fact which had more than once tipped the balance in her favor to avoid that outcome, but neither did she have a death wish. When she had conceived of this plan, she had run the numbers and decided that it was indeed survivable.
A generous estimate, one in which the bomb sank at the rather astounding rate of three and a half feet per second, gave her about eight minutes from the time she dropped it overboard until detonation. In eight minutes, she would be able to travel nearly two miles away from ground zero. That was well outside the blast radius of the device on dry land, and while underwater explosions behaved very differently, she felt confident that two miles was a safe distance. Similarly, the water would shield her from any thermal or radiologic effects. In short, she had little to fear from the bomb itself.
The effects of igniting the methane reserves were more problematic. For one thing, when the gas bubble came to the surface, it would create a suffocating layer over the lake, extending several miles in every direction. That was easily enough overcome with a self-contained breathing apparatus (SCBA) tank she had appropriated from the Kisangani airport fire brigade, but that was minor concern in comparison to some of the other effects that were likely to occur. For one thing, she had no idea if the outboard would still function in air that was oversaturated with CO2. Also, there was a very real possibility that the sudden change in the lake’s chemistry might alter the specific gravity of the water to the point where the Zodiac would no longer be buoyant.
These possibilities did not concern Favreau so much as excite her. There was one outcome, however, that she considered unlikely enough to almost be dismissed entirely, namely that Marrs would be able to deliver on her demands. The game demanded that she listen to his dissembling, his request for concessions, for more time to gather support, but in the end she would do exactly as she had promised. She would teach him a lesson he would never forget. She would teach the whole world.
She cut power, allowing the Zodiac to coast forward, and took out her satellite phone, preparing to make that final decisive call. That was when she heard the low hum of a distant engine, which had been drowned out by throaty roar of her own outboard motor. She cocked her head, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.
The running lights of an aircraft were visible in the sky to the west. Favreau picked out the red and green lights, on the left and right sides, which told her the craft was moving toward her.
It could only be the Congolese air force Mil, but what was it doing out here? Her mind raced with possibilities, none of which boded well. She could easily imagine Velle brokering some kind of deal with Marrs, a deal which required him to take possession of the RA-115 and perhaps even eliminate Favreau in the process.
The engine noise grew louder, rising in pitch as the sound waves piled up on top of her. The helicopter would be overhead in just a few seconds.
She set aside the phone and found the remote for the dead-man trigger, which she waved above her head in one outstretched arm. It was no longer wired to the bomb, but Velle would have no way of knowing that.
If that didn’t frighten him off, it would take only a second to pitch the bomb over the side, and then there would be nothing he could do to stop her.
“What’s he doing?” Queen asked, staring out across the lake at the lights of the retreating helicopter.
King silenced her with a cutting gesture. He knew exactly what Bishop was doing, and it was taking every ounce of his self-restraint to refrain from interfering.
Around them, the soldiers were being roused. Velle had given the order for them to abandon the camp, leave the tents where they were and board the armored infantry vehicles. Busy with the evacuation, the soldiers had ignored the intruders in their midst, allowing King and Rook to move through the camp to where Queen waited. King had warned the others to keep an eye out for Favreau’s remaining mercenaries, but the ESI men had disappeared, possibly secreting themselves aboard the tracked vehicles or simply slinking away into the jungle. The rebel fighters had been told to leave the area, but without motorized transport, their chances of surviving the worst case scenario were slim. This was true for Chess Team as well, but King had already decided that they weren’t going anywhere.
The virtual display allowed him to see what Bishop saw, and he watched in silence as Bishop scanned the lake’s surface, looking for Favreau’s boat.
“I see her.”
“I read you, Bish,” King said, his voice quiet. “Now, I don’t suppose you’d like to come back and pick us up so we can do this together?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” There was a pause then Bishop went on. “If the bomb is still wired to the dead-man trigger, all I need to do is take Favreau out from the air. That will detonate the bomb, but if Felice is right, a blast on the surface won’t be enough to cause the lake eruption.”