With one third of it crippled, the global economy would eventually disintegrate. Without American funding, transnational groups would fall apart. The U.N. and NATO would flounder. Each country would be left alone to struggle in defense of its own petty national interests. Regional conflicts would expand into all-out wars. The rise of Islamic fundamentalism, accompanied by regional instability, would encourage extremist groups. The oil-producing nations of the Middle East would fall into the hands of radical Shi’i clergy, or pseudo-fundamentalists, military potentates. Oil exports would be severed, precipitating worldwide shortages. Depression would spiral into lawlessness and blight, hopelessness to anarchy and chaos, which in turn would stimulate totalitarianism, and a whole new generation of fascists.
At the bottom of the page were the words: Probability of Occurrence: 89 %.
Decker looked up. “We have to succeed,” he said. “We have no choice.”
“The sad part is,” said Swenson, “we’ll probably never know.”
“What does that mean?”
“The shock will hit us long before the two waves come together.”
Chapter 44
The pilot of the Citation X decided to land at the Atlantic City Airport because the runways were a lot more manageable and even longer than the runways at McGuire. It was a cold wet night in Jersey. The Hotels and Casinos on the boardwalk were deserted. News of the impending wave had already hit the media and it seemed like every resident was boarding up his house before heading west. As if it would make a difference, Decker thought.
They ran across the tarmac and transferred to another S-70B Seahawk helicopter. It lifted off immediately. They flew at breakneck speed over the grim Atlantic coast. The water was choppy and fierce, flecked with white-tops, frightening. Decker grumbled to himself. It couldn’t have been a nice night, he lamented. It couldn’t have been starry and clear, windless and pacific. He glanced out of his window and saw the USS Stanfield glowing off to port. She didn’t look very big, he thought.
The helicopter banked steeply and Decker felt a hand slip over his. Swenson was sitting next to him. He looked down at her fingers. They fit perfectly around his fist. The ship descended, fell, and finally settled on the deck. Decker looked outside. It was raining hard. It was absolutely pouring. He could see two men running toward the helicopter wearing raincoats, holding hats to their heads, trying to avoid the puddles on the deck. They were carrying closed umbrellas. A moment later the door to the Seahawk opened, and a gust of ocean wind whisked through the cabin. Decker and Swenson made their way forward, joined by Warhaftig and Seiden at the door.
A young sailor held an umbrella up outside. Beside him stood an officer. His back was still in the rain, and it was getting soaked.
“This is Captain Tom Mason,” said the sailor.
Warhaftig introduced himself. “And this here is Dr. Emily Swenson, Special Agent Decker of the FBI, and Ben Seiden, Israeli intelligence.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” said Swenson.
“Well, practically,” Warhaftig said. “We’ll make it semi-official then, an honorary degree. I hear captains have extraordinary powers in these kinds of situations. Isn’t that right, Captain Mason?”
“I can even marry people,” Mason added with a wink. The captain was a relatively young man, in his late thirties, early forties, with a fine, well-chiseled face and pale green eyes. He tipped his hat at Swenson. “Shall we go?”
They dashed into the rain, only partially protected by the flapping black umbrellas. The wind whistled across the unprotected deck, blowing the water sideways. By the time they ducked into a hatchway, they were soaked.
Another sailor appeared and handed them some towels. The Seahawk gradually ascended. Decker watched it fly away through the open hatchway and he felt curiously alone. Now there was nowhere to go — but down, into the deep.
Swenson ran a towel across her hair. The rain had smudged her mascara. Her skin was shiny and raw. She was staring at a nearby gangway. Decker heard, then saw a pair of feet descending. A young man ambled slowly into view, smooth as a trickle of molasses.
“This here is Second Lieutenant Roger Speers,” the captain said. “He’s going to be piloting the Alvin. Volunteered.”
Speers was a young man, in his late twenties, with a buzz cut, baby blue eyes, and jolly round features. “Assuming it gets here,” he said laconically.
“Don’t worry. It’ll get here,” the captain assured him.
Speers leered at Swenson. “Helluva ride in this weather.”
Emily stepped back.
“Better take that off.”
“What?” Swenson looked down. Her black cocktail dress clung to her skin like a wetsuit.
“Your makeup, ma’am. No makeup in the DSV.”
“Yes, I know,” she answered testily.
Captain Mason stepped up. “Let me show you to your cabin, Dr. Swenson. Give you a chance to freshen up a bit before your descent.”
“You don’t mind if I join you?” Seiden said. “I could use a change of clothes.”
“Not at all,” said Captain Mason.
They ambled off with Speers in tow. Decker and Warhaftig were left topside alone. “I’ve got some news,” Warhaftig said. He stood there cleaning his glasses with his tie.
“What now?”
“El Aqrab emailed a video clip to Seamus Gallagher right before the bombing. In it, he proudly announces his intention to set off the nuclear device on La Palma and kick-start the mega-tsunami. It’s been all over the Net. The Agency thinks it’s real. They believe it was recorded just before the nuke went off. At least I hope so.” Warhaftig shrugged. “Ironically, Gallagher’s on vacation. His assistant picked it up. From the recording it appears that El Aqrab expected to die in the explosion. We haven’t heard anything to the contrary.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Decker.
All of a sudden, the giant Mi-26 appeared like a seabird off to port, thundering towards them through the halo of the deck lights, with the lumbering submersible suspended underneath by cables. Decker watched it through the open hatch. The helicopter hovered over the Navy frigate and slowly lowered the Alvin to the deck. Within minutes the submersible was being armed with a modified W-80 nuclear device stripped from the warhead of an 18-feet Tomahawk missile.
The entire operation took less than half an hour. Swenson and Speers and Seiden reappeared. She was dressed in a dark blue flight suit with a zipper running down the front, and a pair of solid boots. But no uniform, no matter how plain, could conceal her womanly figure. They dashed across the deck to inspect the modifications. Decker was about to join them when Warhaftig held him back, out of the rain.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “I wanted to tell you something.” He hesitated. “Before you go.” He suddenly looked old and out of shape. He looked exhausted. “You were right, John,” he said. “I knew about those murders in Tel Aviv. When you first spotted that calligraphy on the PC in Moussa’s apartment, as soon as you uttered those words, I knew. We got a video clip of the killings soon after they occurred. Unofficially,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you. You didn’t have the clearance. And your illicit meetings with Hassan made you high risk.”