pictures didn’t have anywhere near the resolution Mercer expected. In the images shot from a hundred miles above the earth, glaciers looked like the dense, stationary clouds they were searching for. In five hours they’d located thirty-five potential locations for Rinpoche-La and had covered barely a quarter of the pictures Mercer had bought.
They did end up going to Tiny’s after having some Chinese food delivered for dinner. As for Harry’s threat to get Mercer blind drunk, they had only two drinks apiece. Both had headaches from squinting at pictures all day and weren’t in the mood to add to the pain.
Mercer took Drag out for the last time just before midnight and climbed the spiral stairs to bed. By the time he finished brushing his teeth and using the urinal tucked in a corner of the master bathroom, the basset was spread across both pillows. Mercer didn’t have the heart to disturb the old dog so he resigned himself to the corner of one pillow he’d been left and settled in for another round of nightmares.
The phone rang at two fifteen. Mercer was wide awake before the end of the first shrill chime. He knew who was calling and what he’d hear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying for a moment to retain the simplicity he was about to lose. True, the call might bring him closer to Tisa, but it would also introduce him to a world on the brink of Armageddon. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said life as he knew it was about to end.
On the second ring he answered by saying, “It’s already happening, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Ira sounded like he hadn’t been to sleep yet. “A deep strata seismograph indicates La Palma’s becoming alive.”
“How long until a car gets here?”
“Ten minutes, maybe less.”
“Where am I headed?”
“The White House.”
“See you there.” Mercer cut the connection.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The rain that had been falling for days finally abated, leaving the streets clean and fresh. Halos of mist draped the streetlamps. At this hour there was no traffic or pedestrians. Even the city’s homeless were hibernating.
The Cadillac carrying Mercer swung into the back entrance of the Executive Mansion and braked at a guardhouse. After vetting the driver and passing a mirror under the chassis to search for bombs, the guard asked Mercer for identification and checked his name against an electronic clipboard. The car was waved through.
Ira was waiting for Mercer at the West Wing entrance wearing a suit but no tie. They shook hands silently and the admiral led him into the building. They moved along dim corridors and passed several quiet offices before coming to a closed door.
“The president doesn’t know the nature of this briefing,” Ira informed him. “Kleinschmidt called him thirty minutes ago and just said there’s a crisis.”
“Who else is in there?” Mercer asked.
“Admiral Morrison.” C. Thomas Morrison was the charismatic chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the uniformed leader of the United States military, and possibly the next occupant of the Oval Office. “Paul Barnes of the CIA and Dick Henna from the FBI.”
“I haven’t seen Dick in a long time,” Mercer remarked. They’d been friends for several years but their busy schedules had taken a toll on the relationship.
“This isn’t a social call,” Ira reminded.
Mercer nodded grimly.
Ira knocked and waited for an aide to open the heavy door. This was the Cabinet Room, a long space dominated by a massive conference table. The president sat at his traditional seat at the center of the table sporting a polo shirt and twenty hours of beard. John Kleinschmidt, the national security advisor and Ira’s direct supervisor, was just settling in at the president’s right. Paul Barnes was seated to his left. Unlike the others, he’d taken the time to don a fresh suit and tie. Even Admiral Morrison was out of uniform. Mercer and Barnes had butted heads on several occasions and their mutual dislike was evident in the single glance they afforded each other.
Ira took the chair opposite the president and indicated Mercer was to sit next to him. Dick Henna, the bulky director of the FBI, gave Mercer a friendly nod. Someone handed Mercer a mug of coffee and stepped aside when he declined the offer of cream.
“I’m sure the esteemed members of the Fourth Estate are wondering about this late-night meeting, and quite frankly so am I.” The president had the rare ability of making a mild rebuke sound friendly. He spread his large hands on the polished table. “Ira, you want to tell me what we’re doing here at this god-awful hour?”
“Mr. President, I believe you’ve met Dr. Philip Mercer, a member of my staff.”
“On several occasions,” the president said with an easy smile. “I recall telling him after Hawaii nearly seceded from the union that one day he’d be working for me. How’s that Jaguar of yours?”
“Fine, sir.” Mercer was astounded the president knew what kind of car he drove and waited only a second for an explanation.
“You probably didn’t know that I paid to replace the one that got destroyed during the Hawaii crisis. It was easier for me to cut the check than to bury the expense where some forensic accountant from the GAO could find it.”
“I’m flattered.”
“It was a small price to pay for what you did for this country.” The chief executive turned serious. “And since you’re here again, I suspect you’re about to do my administration another favor.”
“If it’s not too late.”
The president turned his startling blue eyes to Ira. “Okay, tell me what’s going on.”
Ira didn’t clear his throat or shuffle papers or any of the normal delaying tactics people used when they’re about to dole out bad news. He shot straight ahead. “Through an intelligence source Mercer has been cultivating we learned of a potential volcanic eruption on an island in the Canaries called La Palma. On my order, a team from the U.S. Geologic Survey has been sent there, and about two hours ago they confirmed that the island may be in the first stages of an eruption.”
“Pardon me for a second,” the president interjected. “But why do we care?”
Ira tapped Mercer. “You’re the geologist. Want to explain it?”
Though Mercer hadn’t heard of La Palma until a few hours earlier, he spoke with the confidence of an expert. “For those that don’t know them, the Canaries are a group of islands in the Atlantic about a hundred miles off Morocco’s west coast. They’re Spanish owned and are considered a vacation getaway for snowbound Europeans. La Palma is the westernmost of the islands and, in terms of geology, the youngest and the most volcanically active. The latest eruption was in 1971, but the one that concerns us occurred in 1949.
“That year, the Cumbre Vieja volcano, which dominates the southern third of the island, erupted over the course of several days. This in itself isn’t unusual. She generally pops every two hundred years or so. What made the ’forty-nine eruption unusual is the four-meter-wide crack that appeared along the center of the island. The western flank of the island, a chunk of rock about a hundred twenty cubic kilometers in size, slipped a few feet toward the sea and stopped.”
“Why did it stop?” the president asked.
“Because Mother Nature wanted us to dodge a bullet, sir. There are two geologic features that make La Palma particularly dangerous. The first is that the composition of the island’s soils allows for it to build up in very steep slopes. In fact La Palma is one of the steepest islands in the world. By rights, the slab of rock should have kept sliding down into the water. We got incredibly lucky. But maybe not for long.
“About ten years ago, a British scientist named Robert Wright floated the idea that a significant eruption could further loosen that slab of rock, allowing it to crack through completely and crash into the ocean. Such an event would produce a catastrophic wave, a phenomenon called a mega-tsunami. The supposition garnered a few doomsday headlines when he published his research, but no government took the idea seriously and certainly no large-scale analyses have taken place.”
