that the agents used had actually been perfected in the early 1990s, it was still at least a generation beyond the systems used by even the most advanced security teams, eschewing traditional earbuds for chip sets implanted near the ear. While there were some technical limitations with the coverage, a system of satellites kept them in instant contact throughout most of the Northern Hemisphere and a good portion of the Southern. The system included a wireless microphone, antenna, and controls integrated with the agent’s clothes, usually in his belt.
Dean, a relative newcomer to Deep Black and by far the oldest field operative, was somewhat dubious about the technology. The communications system might allow the Art Room to supply an agent with up-to-the-moment intelligence all right, but it also let the people there interfere with what was going on. Telach’s job was to supervise the specialists on duty in the Art Room, including the “runner” who fed information to the team during a mission. But Telach tended to act as if she controlled the field ops as well. Dean, who had seen the results of “input” from headquarters during the final days of the Vietnam War, bristled at the idea that someone in a bunker several thousand miles away had a better idea of what to do than he did.
Karr, however, was used to Telach hounding him. He handled her as he handled nearly everything — with a joke.
“Hey, Mom,” he said aloud. “What’s up?”
“Don’t give me one of your routines, Karr. You’re lucky Mr. Rubens wasn’t here. He’d’ve read you the riot act.”
“What, he took off again? I thought he worked twenty-four /seven.”
“I’m not in the mood for your smart-aleck answers today, Tommy. It’s still pretty early back here. Now let’s stick to the game plan from now on.”
“Yeah, sure. The game plan was breakfast, right?”
Dean looked at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. If he thought his passengers were “crackers,” he kept the proverbial cabbie’s silence about it.
“Breakfast?” Karr asked Dean.
“Good for me.”
“We have time, right? The meeting hasn’t been changed?”
“It’s still at two,” said Telach tersely.
“Well, there you go,” said Karr.
“Tommy, I realize this is a routine assignment, but please, stick to the game plan from now on. Get breakfast, then take a quick look at the park and play tourist for a few hours.
“Shepherd’s pie would hit the spot,” said Karr. “Can you get that this early?”
“I’ll settle for some coffee,” said Dean as the cabdriver finally glanced in the mirror to see what the crazy conversation was about.
2
Mussa Duoar was not an unintelligent man, but he did not understand the equations or the mechanics of the computer simulation the engineer demonstrated for him. He only knew that the changing lines on the screen represented a three-dimensional wave rushing toward shore. As they reached the edges of the green trapezoid on the computer panel, they nudged the top of the scale drawn there, which represented fifty meters above sea level.
“The force of the explosion creates a series of waves that are amplified by the geography of the Channel,” said the engineer in his rapid, Pakistani-inflected English. “You have the initial shock wave, followed by the Chunnel collapsing. As the energy waves radiate away at a rapid speed, they meet a series of underwater promontories which increase the effect, as we see in this set of equations. Interestingly, the angle is quite significant, due to the amplitude.”
Mussa smiled at the engineer.
The man blinked at him. Though he had come from Pakistan to France nearly three years before, he didn’t understand more than a few words of the language. Mussa, who spoke Arabic, English, and several North African languages besides French, switched back to English. “I don’t understand. Can you put this in words for a simple layman?”
“Of course,” said the engineer indulgently. He had to speak very loudly, because the office was located in the upper floors of a printing factory in the city of Paris. There were advantages to this — the rest of the floor was empty and there were no workers nearby, save for the two men on Mussa’s payroll guarding the door outside. But the incessant pounding of the machines below made it difficult to think, let alone hear someone else speaking. The sound was so loud that a gun could be fired here without being heard elsewhere in the building — Mussa had already tested this for himself.
“The explosion and collapse of the tunnel beneath the Channel is like the earth shifting across a fault line during an earthquake,” said the engineer. “The speed and size of the drop represent a great deal of energy. That energy is transferred through the water as a wave. As the wave hits the shallow shoreline, it bounds upward. Think of it as a water balloon being squished from the bottom — the water has to go somewhere. The effect is a wall of water that rushes over everything. It’s similar to a tsunami caused by an earthquake. In vulnerable areas like Japan and Alaska in the United States, waves have reached over fifty feet high and obliterated large buildings. The underwater geometry is different, but the size of the initial event should be larger and its effect more concentrated. Is that more understandable?”
“Very,” said Mussa.
“It’s a slight distortion, but the general idea is there.” The engineer flashed a series of equations on the screen that he said demonstrated the importance of speed and amplitude in the simulation. His model was conservative, he said, based on an earthquake that would be measured at “only” 6.0. The blast they were contemplating should yield at least 6.3, if not more. Assuming that his calculations were correct and the Channel tunnel collapsed, the shock wave would be several magnitudes greater.
“I have a second set of simulations to demonstrate that,” said the engineer, tapping on his computer screen. The man loved his simulations, Mussa thought; he spoke of the equations involved as a fanatical wine lover might talk about a wine.
“So you see, fifty feet of water, as a minimum. Assuming, of course, that the models and their assumptions are correct. I believe they are, but this is the thing one doesn’t know until it happens.”
The sudden note of doubt in the engineer’s voice shook Mussa. “The bomb won’t explode?”
“Oh, no, no, that’s a given. That part we’re sure of. I’ve told you that many times. That we’re sure of. You’ve seen those equations many times. Many, many times. The tsunami. That’s what I meant. And even there — something will happen. Something devastating and pleasing to God. I have dreamed of this effect for months. I’ve modeled it many times. I’m sure something will happen. Something brilliant. But will it be fifty feet? Seventy-five? One hundred? Those are things we cannot know.”
A fifty-foot wall of water radiating through the English Channel would wipe out Belgium and the Netherlands, as well as much of the French coast. But as far as Mussa was concerned, all of that was simply a bonus to his actual goal — obliterating the Chunnel, which connected Britain and France. It was God’s revenge: the infidels had dared to claim their tunnel superior to the one true God’s decision to separate the lands; Mussa had been chosen to prove their folly.
The engineer’s reassurance that the weapon would work relaxed Mussa, and he let the man prattle on. The engineer called yet another simulation up on his screen. He had spent considerable time on this — time that had cost Mussa dearly.
“Very similar to the fault line of an earthquake. Imagine a girder dropped in a swimming pool,” said the engineer. “A wipeout, I think the Americans say.”
The engineer brought up a new set of calculations that showed the best place for the device to be located: 8.342 miles from the start of the French side. Such precision would not be possible, the Pakistani admitted, but the closer the better.
Cherbourg, Le Havre, Calais, Dunkerque, Oostende, Knokke — overwhelmed with a flood that would rival the
