“Approximately two hundred kilometers east-southeast of Atlantic City. But don’t forget: we’re going to need at least an hour to get down to the proper depths. And what about our cruise plan?”
Wheatley laughed. “I think they’ll let it slide this time. It may be operated by WHOI, but the Alvin’s Navy-owned. We’ll have her rendezvous with a Navy frigate. The USS Stanfield is off New York. And she’s armed with a suitable nuclear device. The Alvin, Emily; is she equipped with some kind of sample tray or bucket?”
“A basket, yes.”
“And how much can it carry?”
“About three hundred kilos.”
“That’s not going to be enough. What about manipulators?”
“Even less. Maybe a couple of hundred kilos.”
“OK. Let’s not worry about it now. We’ll have a team of engineers rig something up in Massachusetts while they’re waiting for the Mi-26. Where exactly are these blowouts on the Continental Shelf? Can you give me the coordinates?”
“Thirty-six degrees, forty-five north. Seventy-four degrees, fifty west. The Young Canyons are where we’ve seen the most recent faults.”
As Swenson continued to relay her instructions to the President’s National Security Advisor, Decker turned and looked out through the porthole at the sea below. Everything seemed completely surreal. The Atlantic was absolutely calm here. It was hard to imagine the giant wave that would soon be on their tail at the speed of a commercial jet. So much adrenaline was pumping through his veins that Decker felt giddy, almost light-headed. Swenson continued to talk with the casual tone of someone ordering up a pizza. And then the pilot suddenly cut in.
“The Azores,” he said. “We’ll be landing in just a few minutes. Fasten your seatbelts please.”
Decker could see the islands in the distance. They rose out of the sea, mountainous and wild, ringed by white waves. He tried not to think of what they’d look like by nightfall.
Chapter 43
In slightly more than nine hours from the time Pickings was boiled alive, a little after midnight, a twenty-kilometer crack opened up along the Cumbre Vieja range and the island of La Palma came apart.
A titanic chunk of rock the size of Maui — five hundred billion tons — slid suddenly into the sea, creating a debris avalanche that would eventually extend sixty kilometers from La Palma.
The collapse of the volcano’s western flank sent a dome of water a thousand meters into the air — three times the height of the Empire State Building — and more than forty kilometers wide in each direction. As the dome collapsed, and then rebounded, giant waves began to form and build, fueled by the great tsunami wave train, itself created as the landslide sped away below the surface of the sea.
In less than ten minutes, it was two hundred and fifty kilometers from La Palma.
As it traveled eastward and struck the shores of the Sahara, the wave grew exponentially, rising one hundred meters into the air. To the west, the wave began to flatten out, to roll toward the Americas — from Bar Harbor to Bahia — at seven hundred kilometers per hour. And to the north, it closed on the Azores.
The Seahawk helicopter landed. Swenson, Decker, Seiden and Warhaftig leapt out and ran across the tarmac to the waiting Citation X, already throbbing on the runway. The Cessna was the fastest non-military jet in the world. It would carry them at close to the speed of sound across the Atlantic, ahead of the mega-tsunami.
They boarded the plane. Emily slipped into a short black cocktail dress and heels — the only women’s clothing they could find aboard. She derided Decker and Warhaftig and, desperate to cut the tension in the air, accused them of planning the wardrobe in advance. “You just wanted to see me in a miniskirt, didn’t you?” she said.
They strapped themselves in and the streamlined silver ship took off like a rocket, climbing to 43,000 feet in less than half an hour. When they’d reached an altitude of 50,000 feet, the plane began to level off, cruising at around five hundred miles per hour. They were 20,000 feet above commercial traffic and the sky was absolutely clear. The ocean glimmered far below. Above, the sun looked close enough to touch.
Decker was sitting next to Swenson. He excused himself for a moment, got up and squeezed his way back between the seats towards Warhaftig, who was chatting with Seiden in the stern. “What’s up?” Warhaftig asked.
He was sitting on the port side of the jet, facing Seiden and the bow, while Seiden faced the stern. Decker sat down in one of the cream-colored leather seats across the narrow aisle, directly across from Warhaftig. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“What?”
Decker started to speak, then hesitated.
“What is it, John? Spit it out.”
“I need to know something.”
“What?”
Decker sighed. “Why did you take my memory stick, back at the surveillance squat in Queens?”
Warhaftig rolled his eyes. “Oh, that again.” He laughed. “All right,” he said. “If you really want to know. The Agency was aware of El Aqrab’s propensity to reveal quotations at the scene of his events. When you mentioned those wallpapers, I figured they were connected somehow. But I didn’t know how. And I didn’t know you then either, or trust you. After all, you recruited Professor Hassan, a man with no clearance whatsoever. A man, indeed, with a vested interest — pro-Palestinian as he is — to see this mission fail.”
“Professor Jusef Hassan?” said Seiden, interrupting. “From Columbia? What does he have to do with this?” He stared at Warhaftig.
“He helped me figure out the quotes from the Qur’an. If you were so upset about it,” Decker continued, “why didn’t you do something, Otto? Why didn’t you tell Johnson? God knows, he always suspected something.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Maybe you did tell him.”
“I didn’t have to,” said Warhaftig. “You’re right, he did suspect you of exploiting ‘unofficial’ resources. Why do you think he was always bitching?”
“But if you knew, how come you didn’t try and stop me?”
“John, this isn’t the time or place to discuss all this.” He glanced forward at Seiden.
“Just answer me, Otto. I need to know.”
“Alright, alright,” said Warhaftig. “We were thrilled when you began to interpret those designs. None of our experts had had any success, and the Israelis — no offense, Ben — were not exactly forthcoming. We were happy to have you use Hassan… unofficially, since he obviously had no interest in being exposed as an FBI collaborator. Either way, Johnson won. If Hassan turned out to be useless, the SAC could let it pass, or hang you out to dry, at his discretion. On the other hand, if Hassan turned out to be effective, as the supervisor of the task force, the SAC would get the credit. Even if it got real ugly, if Hassan’s participation were revealed, Johnson’s strident warnings to you, his obsession about protocol and intelligence sharing would help insulate him from blame. Why do you think he was so public always in his criticism? It wasn’t just because he didn’t like you — which he doesn’t, by the way — or because he was ‘forced’ to add you to the team.”
Warhaftig smiled. “But in the end, John, it was you who elected to work with Hassan, despite the risks, and without official knowledge or approval. You were so eager to solve that puzzle, you didn’t care how you did it. I didn’t know if I could count on you, if you’d already been compromised by Hassan, or if you were just plain naïve. Face it, John — you’re not a team player. You never have been. Some call you a loose cannon and—”