by J. G. Sandom
“Yeah, you said that.”
She wore a pair of light blue jeans, he noticed. Very tight. And what looked like off-white Converse sneakers. “My name is Decker. John Decker, Jr. I’m with the FBI.”
For a moment, the woman looked startled. Fear swept across her face, like a sudden squall at sea. Then she collected herself. “The FBI,” she repeated nonchalantly. “Is something wrong?”
Decker smiled. He was used to this reaction. People often overcompensated. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I just have a few questions for Dr. White. Know where I might find him?”
She shook her head. Her neck was long, like that of a Balanchine dancer, and she wore a pair of tiny gold studs in her ears that twinkled as she moved. She was at least five feet ten inches, or taller – almost as tall as he was. “I’m afraid not,” she said. Then she thrust her hand out. “Hi, I’m Emily Swenson. I’m afraid James – I mean, Dr. White – is on a leave of absence. I’m looking for him too.”
They shook hands. Strong grip, he thought.
“His wife is sick,” she continued.
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”
For a moment she didn’t reply. Then she looked down at the floor and said, “It’s cancer, I’m afraid. Terminal. What’s this about?”
“I understand Dr. White is a highly respected expert on tsunamis. World-renowned,” said Decker. “I have a few questions that I thought he might help me with. When I called his office, the department secretary told me I might find him here, at home, but . . . ” His voice trailed off.
Swenson stared impassively at his face. Then, after a moment, she said, “That’s my field of study too. Dr. White’s my thesis advisor. Maybe I can help you.”
Decker smiled. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “Do you know what this is?”
Swenson studied it for a moment. “This looks like mega-tsunami data, built from a computer model.”
Decker looked confused. “Go on,” he said.
“It’s designed to predict a mega-tsunami’s height at inundation. Where did you get this? From Dr. White?”
“I know what a tsunami is,” said Decker. “A kind of tidal wave, right? But what’s a mega-tsunami?”
Swenson raised an eyebrow. “Tides are moon-made, Agent Decker,” she replied. “Tsunamis are earth-generated. Mega-tsunamis are formed when an entire mountain – or mountain range – collapses into the sea, usually due to seismic activity. Unlike regular tsunamis, which may be ten to fifteen meters tall and a few dozen meters long, mega-tsunamis can be hundreds, up to five hundred meters tall – or more – and hundreds of kilometers in length.”
Decker did the calculation in his head. That was a wave taller than the Empire State Building. It was incredible. “I had no idea,” he said.
“Most people don’t,” said Swenson. “And why should they? Mega-tsunamis are rare, occurring naturally every few thousand years. Here, let me show you.” She motioned toward him and disappeared into another room at the far end of the living room. It appeared to be a library or study. A pair of large bay windows overlooked the open sea.
Swenson slipped behind an antique walnut desk in the far corner, and started to peck away at a PC. “This is a computer-generated simulation,” she continued, not even looking up. She moved the mouse. She clicked. “It’s based on a model Dr. White’s been working on, the same as the one on your paper. Take a look.” She swung the monitor around. Decker sat down by the desk.
The screen featured a top-down view of the Atlantic. The animated image gradually descended until it focused on a chain of islands off the coast of northwest Africa. Then, the perspective shifted. It fell to earth, swung low across the waves, like a sea bird, and approached a solitary island at a startling speed.
The island grew larger and larger until it took up the entire screen, and Decker could see volcanic peaks, smoking and spewing steam, when a rent materialized along the seaward side. The entire western flank of the island tore away. The mass of rock and stone and forest and meadow and town and road began to slither toward the sea. As the crustal layer ripped apart, the landmass picked up speed. The entire island seemed to split in half, with one side sliding with a mighty crash into the ocean.
The splash gathered momentum: a spike, then, rising higher, a bell-shaped dome, slate gray, blue, and finally frothy white. It rose and rose and rose, dwarfing the remaining peaks, still standing mist-enshrouded, still still, intact, and strangely static, perched on the footstool of the island.
The camera angle of the animation gradually ascended, drawing him higher and higher into the air, in tandem with the splash. The bell-shaped mass crowned like a flower, bloomed, then mushroomed skyward, only to turn at last, and fall back on itself. The water plunged. The dome collapsed, spreading out in all directions, rippling the surface of the ocean like the upturned edges of a giant saucer, growing ever larger by the second. The perspective kept ascending, until Decker was looking at the entire Atlantic once again, from Africa to the Americas. The wave was visible even from this vantage point above the planet’s atmosphere. The eastern edge slammed up against the coast of Africa. He watched the western flank arc out across the vast expanse, like the drawing of a great bow on the surface of the sea.
“This is obviously stop-action animation,” Swenson said. “A mega-tsunami of this magnitude would take between six and seven hours – at the speed of a jet plane – to sweep across the Atlantic.” As she spoke, Decker watched the wave overcome the Caribbean, then Maine and Massachusetts in the north, as far south as Sao Luis and Rio in Brazil.
“Even this far from the hypocenter,” Swenson continued, “the wave would be as much as twenty stories high, or higher. But it wouldn’t collapse at landfall. Unlike tsunamis, mega-tsunamis don’t shoal up when they encounter shallow waters. The wave would continue across the coastal plain, up river mouths, for twenty kilometers, or more.”
Decker watched the water wipe away the east coast of the USA.
“Everything within the flood zone would be utterly destroyed,” she added. “From Cape Breton to Key West, each town and every city. More than forty million people would perish, thirteen percent of the U.S. population. And hundreds of millions would be injured, one out of every three Americans. It would cause trillions of dollars in damage. The entire U.S. economy would be disrupted for years, if not permanently crippled.”
The animation concluded and the file closed automatically. Decker stared at the folder for a moment longer. He was having a hard time digesting the scope of such a cataclysm. The mind turns off after a few hundred deaths. Forty million is simply inconceivable, unprocessable. He turned and looked at Swenson. She was sitting calmly behind Dr. White’s desk.
“It’s incredible,” he said at last. “It’s . . . I don’t know the word. Apocalyptic. Biblical. But how likely is it that this will ever happen?”
Swenson shook her head. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Agent Decker. It’s not about likelihood. It’s a certainty. The only variable is time.” She tapped the keyboard once again and a map of the world appeared on the screen. “A mega-tsunami occurred quite recently in Lituya Bay. It stripped timber and soil off to a height of five hundred and twenty meters above sea level. Here.” She pointed to a spot in south Alaska. “Mega-tsunamis can be formed by a number of natural forces, not just by the collapse of mountain ranges. Underwater landslides, for example. Or a giant meteor or comet entering through the atmosphere and smashing into the sea. Like the one that caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. While such celestial collisions are extremely rare, landslides caused by seismic activity occur quite frequently – relatively speaking – both on land and under water.
“The Lisbon earthquake of 1755, for example, is said to have triggered a fifteen-meter wave that caused widespread destruction in Morocco, southern Spain, and as far away as Bimini in the Bahamas. Volcanic island collapses happen far less often. The last one occurred about
four thousand years ago, on the island of Réunion in the Indian Ocean. Here,” she added, pointing to the map. “Luckily for us there are no mountain ranges in danger of slipping into the ocean any time soon. Of course, you never know. Nature works on her own timetable. Then again, the way we’re messing with the planet. With global warming and–”
“But from where,” Decker insisted, “would it be likely to originate, if such an event were to occur?”
“According to Dr. White, the next mega-tsunami will originate from here.” She pointed to a dot off the northwest coast of Africa. “There are seven volcanoes on La Palma in the Canary Islands. One still quite active – the Cumbre Vieja,” she said.
Swenson explained the science to him, how water builds up in volcanoes within vertical sheets of permeable rubble over thousands of years, like gigantic reservoirs, held back by impermeable dykes of hardened lava. “One day, due to seismic activity,” she said, “the water inside Cumbre Vieja will begin to heat, the pressure build, and the walls will come tumbling down – like dozens of Hoover Dams colliding against each other, a line of giant dominos, five hundred billion tons collapsing into the sea. The water will move away so fast that it won’t be able to flow back behind the landslide, thereby creating a large air cavity displacing far more water than the volume of the landslide itself. It will release five thousand trillion joules of kinetic energy, and create a dome of water almost one thousand meters high, and thirty to forty kilometers wide. And what goes up, of course . . . ”
“ . . . comes down,” he finished.
She nodded. “It will rouse waves more than a hundred meters tall off the coast of Africa, fifty meters tall as far south as Brazil, and sixty meters tall off the coast of Florida and the Caribbean four thousand miles away. That’s eighteen stories high.” She paused for a moment, then added, “It’s funny you should ask about that. James spent most of last year on La Palma working on a new book about the Cumbre Vieja. He . . . ” She stopped midstream.
“Yes?”
Swenson stared at Decker, her eyes suddenly cold. Then she shook her head. “No. Nothing.” She glanced down at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t realize the time.” She stood up from behind the desk.
“Just a minute. What were you going to say?”
Swenson hesitated, glanced out the window. “Nothing.”
“Yes, you were.” Decker stood up. He leaned against the desk. “Look, Ms. Swenson, you can either answer my questions here, or I can take you back to New York. It’s up to you. And while I’d greatly enjoy your company on the long drive home, I feel obliged to warn you that – since Nine Eleven, when it comes to matters of national security – the government doesn’t look too kindly on those who obstruct justice, wittingly or unwittingly. Have you ever actually read the Patriot’s Act?”
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Who?”
“Dr. White!” She glanced about the room as if the scientist might suddenly appear from behind the bookcase. “It looks like he hasn’t been here for days. And he’d never leave, not voluntarily. Not with his wife so sick.”
“Unless he’s hiding.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” Decker stared at Swenson. She was still holding something back. He could see it in her eyes. He could sense it. “You must have some idea.”
“Someone,” she said. “Someone’s been following me.”
Decker felt a strange tingling at the back of his neck. “Who?” he said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know him.”
“What’s he look like?”
“A foreigner. I saw him for the first time the night James disappeared. About five feet seven, or eight. Short. Dark. Dark eyes. Slim. Middle-Eastern or North African, I’d say.” She shrugged and wrapped her arms about her chest, hugging herself. Decker was fascinated by the way she moved. She seemed confident and fearful all at once. Then her face completely changed, running from a kind of abstract, dull distaste to loathing, to genuine surprise. And then, finally, to horror.
“Like him,” she said, pointing at the window.
Decker turned. The face that he had stared at for days, the eyes and nose and mouth of Salim Moussa were pressed against the glass. And in his hand was a gun. Decker reached for his Beretta. He turned and took a bullet in his chest.
When Decker awoke, he was handcuffed to a radiator, and Swenson was standing above him. He immediately recoiled into the snake position, and took her down in one smooth movement. With his free hand he pinned her to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around her throat. She choked and sputtered. She coughed. Then he noticed the wallet in her hand. His wallet. Decker loosened his grip. He brought her close to him, clenching her head in the crook of his arm. The unforgettable smell of burnt gunpowder permeated the room.
“Let go of me,” she gasped.
“What were you looking for?” he said. He squeezed her tighter.
“I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure? About what?”
“That you’re really with the FBI.”
“Who else would I be with?”
“I don’t know,” she gasped, relaxing, then bucking like an alligator, twisting in his grasp. He squeezed her even tighter. She stretched, and reached out for his face, trying to scratch his eyes. He pressed the soft spots immediately behind her earlobes. Swenson screamed. “I don’t know,” she repeated, growing still. Her voice was laced with fear now. “I swear I don’t.”
Decker noticed a series of bullet holes in the front door. The shots had been fired from within. “I believe you,” he said. Then he shook his wrist and said, “The key, please.” He relaxed his grip slightly, just enough for her to reach into her jeans. A moment later, Decker was free. Only then did he release her.
She shimmied across the floor. “That’s big of you,” she said as soon as she was out of reach. She struggled to her feet. She shook the wallet in her hand. “IDs can be faked, you know.”
“Then why did I let you go?”
She hesitated for a moment. “It’s not a very good likeness of you,” she added, tossing his wallet back.
“Did you do that?” He pointed at the door.
Swenson bent down and picked up his Beretta from behind the desk. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Because I’m a woman, I can’t shoot, right?” Without looking, she pressed the release button behind the combat trigger guard. “I grew up on a ranch in South Dakota, Agent Decker.” The magazine popped out in her hand. “I think I prefer the 9000 to the 92FS. Must be the polymer frame. Here.” She slid the empty gun across the floor. “I was just trying to scare him off.”
Decker picked up his Beretta and returned it to his Bianchi holster. “Looks like you succeeded,” he said. He parted his topcoat and blazer, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing a Kevlar vest underneath. A flattened slug was clearly visible, buried just to the left of his heart. He picked it out and handed it to Swenson.
She stared at the shiny object in her hand with both disgust and fascination, as though it were some hideous benthic beast, freshly hauled out of the deep, potentially lethal. Then she walked over to the window – pierced by a single bullet hole – and glanced about the porch. The yard was empty. “I think he’s gone,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
Decker was impressed by Swenson’s calm demeanor. Most people would have been shaking like a leaf about this time. She’s got grit, this girl, he thought, and he found himself drawn to her even more. He followed her into the kitchen. As Swenson fiddled with the kettle, he sat down at the breakfast table. He watched her fill the kettle, watched her turn and settle it upon the stove. Then she looked up, her eyes moist, indecisive, torn. Her lips were almost tremulous. She stared directly at his face and said, “Will you help me, Agent Decker?”
Decker smiled. After a few seconds, he replied, “What am I meant to say?” He shrugged his shoulders, throwing the last few words away. “You saved my life.”
“I’m worrie
d about James,” she answered, riding over him. She sat down at the table. “He’s been acting so strange lately. At first I thought it was because of Doris. But now . . . ”
“Go on,” he said. “What is it?”
“Maybe it will help. I don’t know. The truth is James has got some serious financial problems. There. I said it. Doris’s medical bills are huge and the health coverage at the Institute isn’t what it should be, believe me. He’s even started stripping his retirement accounts, his TIAA-CREF.”
“Where is he now?” he asked. “With Doris?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s just it. He hasn’t been at the hospice to see her in days. I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He’s just . . . disappeared.” The kettle whistled like a train. Swenson stood up and poured the boiling water on the tea leaves. “And now this guy,” she added. She handed him a steaming mug of tea. Her voice was calm but Decker could plainly see the worry in her eyes. “The man who’s been following me,” she said, sitting down again. “Who is he? What does he want with me?”
“I don’t know.” Decker took a small sip of his tea. “The fact that he came here makes me think he might be after Dr. White as well. If that’s the case, maybe White’s hiding someplace.” Decker shrugged. He took another sip. English Breakfast. “Can you think of anywhere he might have gone, some place he likes to be when he wants to get away? A weekend cabin? Or a boat?”
Swenson shook her head. “I’ve looked everywhere,” she said. “It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Don’t worry,” Decker said. “I’ll make a few calls. He’ll turn up.” Then he stood, and stretched, and added, “Come on. I think we’d better go.”