Wave of Terror

by Jon Jefferson

  David had slowed the playback, and his voice accompanied the animation, tolling the height of the tsunami as it struck: “Casablanca, two hundred feet. Lisbon, one hundred fifty feet. France and the UK, thirty to sixty feet. Iceland, sixty to eighty feet. Maine, a hundred thirty feet. New York City, a hundred. District of Columbia, fifty.” At the mention of the capital, the people in DC shot worried looks at one another. “Newport News, eighty.” Now the uniformed men turned ashen. “Charleston, sixty. Jacksonville, sixty.” More military bases, more military grimaces. “West Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami, sixty-five.” The pulsing colors subsided. “Here’s another animation,” he continued. “This one superimposing the runup on the profile of lower Manhattan. The view is from New York Harbor, southeast of Battery Park.” As they all watched, mesmerized—including O’Malley, who had not seen this animation—the base of the Statue of Liberty disappeared beneath the crest of a wave, and the buildings of the world’s financial epicenter seemed to sink: one story, two stories, three, five, seven, nine, ten. Streets vanished, replaced by canals: New York was transformed into Venice. “This animation shows approximately how high the surge would go, within one to two minutes,” David explained. “What it doesn’t show is the force and the damage. Every window hit by the water would shatter; even windows way above the water level would blow out from the internal pressure. Buildings would collapse. Cars and trucks tossed around like corks.” The image—New York under a hundred feet of water—disappeared, replaced once more by David’s face. “If this happens on a weekday, when four million people are in Manhattan, the death toll there alone could be in the hundreds of thousands, with a million or more injured.”

  The FEMA director looked terrified. “Dr. Solomon, are you saying we should evacuate New York City? Are you saying we should evacuate the entire Eastern Seaboard?”

  “Christ, Bob,” said one of the civilians O’Malley didn’t recognize, staring at the FEMA director as if he were an imbecile. “Evacuate to where? Where would they go, where would they stay, and for how long—forever? We can’t evacuate the East Coast. The stock market would implode; the entire economy collapse. That’s not an option.”

  “So what’s your suggestion, Jim?” the FEMA guy shot back. “You’re saying we just let millions of people die? Tens of millions? The population of the low-lying Atlantic Coast is over a hundred million. You think millions of deaths won’t ding the damned market? Is that what you think?”

  “Stop it,” shouted O’Malley. Every head snapped in her direction. “Just stop it!”

  “Don’t, Megan,” Dawtry hissed through clenched teeth. “Shut the hell up.”

  She did not. “Quit arguing about what to do about the damned disaster and just stop it. Keep it from happening!”

  “Get that damn woman out of the room,” said one of the White House guys.

  Dawtry stood up and took hold of her arm. “Come on, Megan.” He pulled her to her feet.

  “No.” She yanked her arm away. “No! You guys can’t see the forest for the bullshit. Dr. Solomon, I can tell you who’s doing this. It’s the Russians, in league with al-Qaeda.” She swept a pointing, accusatory finger across the faces on the screen. “You don’t believe me, ask your friends at MI6. What you need to be talking about is not the fucking stock market. It’s what else these assholes are doing to trigger Armageddon.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” muttered Kincaid, the embassy’s CIA guy.

  Dawtry put an arm around her shoulder and attempted to turn her toward the door. She shook him off again. “A nuke,” she shouted. “What if the Russians have given a nuke to al-Qaeda? Any of you geniuses think of what that might do to the fault line, as weak and unstable as it already is?”

  “Get that bitch out!” shouted the politician. “Now!”

  The ambassador pushed back from the table and walked, with the air of an unruffled man in charge, toward O’Malley and Dawtry. “Dr. O’Malley. Special Agent Dawtry. Would you give us a moment, please.” It wasn’t a question; it was a command, but a calm and even courteous command. A diplomatic one.

  Dawtry nodded, gripped both of her arms, and steered her—marched her—to the door. He opened it and propelled her out. Then, before following her out, he turned back toward the room and the video camera. “She’s right, morons,” he shouted. “She’s the only one who’s been right. The whole damn time, she’s the only one. Quit covering your own asses and protect the American people.”

  He slammed the door. In the stunned silence his words had created, the slam boomed like an explosion.

  CHAPTER 20

  She was carrying the dragon bowl up the mountainside once again. This time it was heavier than before; she staggered beneath the weight, almost unable to bear the burden. Finally, she reached the rim of the caldera and set down the bowl, taking care not to jar the delicate mechanism. Then, exhausted from her labors, she lay down beside it to rest. She had been asleep for only a few moments when she was awakened by the shaking of the earth—gentle at first, then insistent, then violent. Slowly she opened her eyes. Directly in front of her was the immense dragon bowl, one of its dragons directly above her face. As the shaking continued, the dragon’s eyes opened, too, and the head turned slightly, the eyes searching, until the dragon’s gaze focused directly downward: directly on her. As she returned the stare, frozen with fear, the beast’s mouth opened and a ball fell from it. The ball dropped toward her, plunging into her open mouth, and she could not breathe.

  “Megan. Megan!” O’Malley’s head jerked up and her eyes opened. The Osprey was bucking, and Dawtry’s hand was squeezing her knee insistently. She was coughing violently, thrashing against the straps of the shoulder harness. “You okay?” She shook her head no, then yes. “You seemed to be in some real distress there.”

  “I guess that’s what I get for going to sleep, huh?”

  “Sorry to wake you up, but we’re landing anyhow.”

  Now that he’d said it, she realized that the bucking and shaking that had awakened her was simply the Osprey slowing, changing direction, descending in the darkness. Craning forward and peering out the small round window, she saw the antennas and aquarium-like windows of the command bridge on the Wasp, then saw the deck, its landing zone outlined by green lights, just as it had been a few nights before. No, not a few nights, O’Malley realized with astonishment. Last night. That was last night.

  When she and Dawtry staggered down the ramp, leaden with fatigue, they were met once more by Stark, who snapped a salute. “Welcome back,” he said.

  Dawtry nodded warily. “You fixing to lock us in the brig?”

  “The brig? No, sir.” The captain smiled. “Though I did hear you two caused quite a stir in London. Even more of a stir in DC.”

  “It got a bit intense,” Dawtry said. “We didn’t even see the worst of it. The shouting really ramped up after they kicked us out.” He paused. “I was sure they’d stick us on the first flight back to the States. Any idea why they sent us back here instead?”

  “Way I understand it,” the captain said, looking from Dawtry to O’Malley and back again, “you two are the brains of the operation.”

  “Operation?” said O’Malley. “What operation?”

  “This operation.” He gave a sweep of the arm to encompass the flight deck, which was bustling with sailors and marines. O’Malley and Dawtry stared at him, then shot questioning glances at each other. “It’s loud out here,” the captain said. “Let’s go inside.”

  He led them into the carrier’s island and up a level, into a room jammed with sailors at computer stations and radar screens. “This is our CIC—Combat Information Center. Nerve center of the operation.”

  “You keep saying operation,” Dawtry said. “An intel mission?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what?” The captain’s only response was a cryptic smile. Dawtry stared. “You’re serious? A military operation?”

  Stark nodded. “Operation Wave Goodbye. Gotta love the nam
e, right?”

  “But . . .” Dawtry searched for the right question to ask. “It seems clear that Russia’s involved in this. What happens if the Russians escalate? If they retaliate?”

  “They can’t. Not directly, anyhow. They’ve boxed themselves in—categorically denied any involvement.”

  “Wait. Wait,” O’Malley said. “They deny it? Does that mean somebody actually asked them? ‘Hey, Comrade Putin, why you try to slaughter millions of US peoples?’ What kind of asshat idiot would ask that?”

  Stark’s mouth might have twitched, almost imperceptibly, but the rest of his face remained carefully neutral. “The commander in chief.”

  “What?”

  “The president felt it was ‘necessary and appropriate’—his choice of words, I’m told. President Putin assured him that there’s no nefarious plot—”

  “Brilliant,” O’Malley interrupted. “Let me guess. ‘I give you pinkie promise, my friend’?”

  Stark resisted taking the bait. “And the president believed him. Russia’s not involved. That’s the official White House position.”

  Dawtry was studying the captain’s face, his eyes in the laser-beam mode O’Malley had seen on a few prior pivotal occasions. “And the president has authorized an invasion of Spanish territory?”

  “No, sir, he has absolutely not authorized an invasion. He hasn’t authorized anything.”

  Dawtry frowned and squinted. “Help me out here, Captain, because I’m confused as hell. The president doesn’t think the Russians are involved, the president hasn’t authorized an invasion, and yet we’re launching a military invasion?”

  The captain held up an index finger. “Not an invasion.”

  “What, then?”

  “Technically, it’s called a preemptive act of self-defense.”

  Dawtry chewed on this, then a look of comprehension dawned on his face, along with a slow smile. “So we’re white, in this particular chess match.”

  Stark nodded.

  “Huh?” said O’Malley. “You guys have lost me.”

  “Means we get first move,” Dawtry said.

  “Military Theory 101,” Stark added. “The side that strikes first gains an overwhelming advantage.”

  “I get that,” she said, “but I still don’t get how you can do it without authorization.”

  “Standing Rules of Engagement,” the captain said.

  O’Malley held out her hands and shook her head.

  “Sorry, I’ll translate,” Stark said. “I’ll start with a question, Dr. O’Malley. If that fault line lets go and half the island drops into the ocean”—he pointed at the giant screen, filled with a 3-D map of La Palma—“what would the height of the tsunami be when it reaches us?”

  “Depends. Where are we now?”

  “Fifty nautical miles west.”

  “We’re only fifty miles out? Due west?”

  He nodded.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You got a death wish?” O’Malley mentally replayed the animation she’d watched on the screen in London less than eight hours before: the vivid bands of yellow, orange, red, fuchsia, purple, and blue radiating outward from La Palma, unfurling like some tropical blooming of the apocalypse. “I’m shooting from the hip here, but if I’m remembering right, we’re talking a thousand-foot surge here. Plus or minus.” She looked at Dawtry, who nodded in grim confirmation.

  The captain’s eyes glinted. “This ship can’t survive that. Not a chance. Dr. O’Malley, I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s trying to trigger that wave—Russian spies, al-Qaeda crazies, insane surfer dudes. What I care about is defending my ship and my men against hostile intent.”

  Dawtry looked thoughtful. “Hostile intent,” he echoed. “And under the Rules of Engagement . . .”

  “I have the right—the duty, in fact—to take preemptive action against any ‘ship, aircraft, or ground site’ that threatens my ship with hostile intent.”

  Dawtry was nodding now. “That was the basis for the navy’s missile strikes against Yemen in 2016, right?”

  “Exactly. The USS Mason took out three radar stations that were targeting our ships.”

  “There does seem to be a credible case that your ship and your men are threatened.”

  “My ship? My men? Hell’s bells, Chip, from what I understand—not just from you and Dr. O’Malley, but from DOD intelligence now, too—this thing threatens every US warship in the Atlantic. Plus every vessel at port on the East Coast. Norfolk. Jacksonville. King’s Bay. Key West. New London. We’re absolutely within our rights to strike.”

  “The politicians and media pundits might not see it that way, Captain.”

  “The politicians and pundits can screw themselves,” Stark said. “They’ve got no skin in the game. Hell, they’re already running for higher ground. ‘A planning retreat at Camp David,’ they’re saying. I don’t know about the planning, but they got the ‘retreat’ part right; that’s for damn sure.”

  “Figures.” Dawtry locked eyes with the captain, looking grim. “Anything goes wrong here, you’ll swing from the yardarm, you know.”

  He shrugged. “If I swing, it’ll be with a clean conscience. And for what it’s worth, I won’t hang alone. The Sixth Fleet commander backs me on this.”

  “You’re sure?” said Dawtry. “You’ve got that in writing?”

  “I’ve got that in force. Task Force Sixty is heading this way.”

  Dawtry whistled. “That’s huge.”

  “What’s Task Force Sixty?” asked O’Malley.

  “That’s the cavalry,” the captain said. “The big guns. The ‘Mighty Ike’—the USS Eisenhower, the Sixth Fleet’s supercarrier. The Ike comes with an air wing, four guided-missile cruisers, and two guided-missile frigates. The Ohio’s coming, too.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “An attack submarine full of cruise missiles.”

  O’Malley’s eyed widened. “Sounds like you could conquer the whole island with all that.”

  He smiled grimly. “With all that, ma’am, we could conquer almost any nation on earth.”

  A sailor approached and signaled to the captain. “Sir, you’ve got an urgent call on the secure frequency.” Stark excused himself and stepped to a phone at one side of the room.

  He returned several minutes later, ashen-faced. “Bad news,” said Stark. “I hate to say it, but it appears that Dr. O’Malley was way ahead of us all. Again.”

  “What was she right about this time?”

  “We’ve just gotten evidence that a nuclear device may have been smuggled into Santa Cruz harbor. There might be a loose nuke on La Palma.”

  CHAPTER 21

  O’Malley stared at the captain, hoping she had misheard his words “A nuclear device? As in a nuclear weapon? How could that happen?” She herself had floated the idea in London, but it had been a bluff, or so she’d thought: a desperate attempt to get the bureaucrats to take the danger seriously. “Aren’t there arms-control treaties and nuclear safeguards? Doesn’t the government keep track of this shit?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Stark, “but it’s a lot to keep track of. When the Soviet Union came apart, there were thirty-two hundred strategic warheads—big nukes, on ballistic missiles—scattered through sixteen republics. Since then, all of those have been removed. The weapons-grade uranium and plutonium from those bombs has all been recovered and downblended—diluted into low-grade fuel for power reactors.”

  “So what’s the problem?” pressed O’Malley.

  “The problem is the other devices.”

  “What other devices?”

  “Tactical devices. Small warheads. Battlefield munitions. Twenty thousand or so, some small enough to fit in a duffel bag.”

  “Christ,” she said. “You’re saying there are twenty thousand nukes just floating around, God knows where?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not saying that. Moscow recovered all of those, too. Supposedly. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But twenty thousand’s a b
ig number, and Russia’s a big place. Lots of corruption, lots of profiteering. Lose one out of a thousand, and that’s twenty loose nukes.”

  “Shit,” O’Malley said. “Who—”

  “Sorry,” Dawtry interrupted. “Can you back up, Captain? You said there’s evidence that a weapon’s been smuggled in. What kind of evidence? Intel intercepts? Human assets? What?”

  “Multiple kinds of evidence,” said Stark. “Human intel. Also radiological signatures.”

  “That’s bad,” said Dawtry. “Very bad.”

  “Signatures from decay products?” asked O’Malley.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stark said. “The decay of the nuclear material is slow, and warheads are well shielded, but trace amounts get out. If you’ve got a good detector that’s close enough, you can pick up the signature.”

  Dawtry nodded. “The detectors are getting better all the time. Until recently, you had to be within forty, fifty feet to pick up the gamma radiation from a warhead. Now, we’ve got detectors sensitive enough to read the signature from a drone.”

  She turned to Stark. “And there’s a drone over La Palma?”

  The captain nodded. “There is now. A Sea Avenger.”

  “Impressive,” said Dawtry. “That’s the new one, right? Like a Predator, but with a jet engine? Flies at, what, four hundred miles an hour?”

  Stark nodded. “When there’s a need for speed. But it can poke along at a hundred, once it’s on station. Stays aloft for up to twenty hours.”

  Dawtry pressed. “Strictly surveillance? Or does it have strike capabilities, too?”

  “Strike. Hellfire missiles on all six hardpoints.”

  “Wowzer,” Dawtry said. “Good to have options. But can I circle back to the radiation detectors?”

  Stark nodded. “We found traces of gamma in the vicinity of Santa Cruz harbor last night. A cargo ship docked yesterday. Came through the Strait of Gibraltar two days ago. Before that, it was in Istanbul. Before Istanbul, it was in Odessa and Sevastopol.”