Deep Fire Rising

EN ROUTE TO LA PALMA

The aircraft waiting for Mercer in Katmandu was a Citation executive jet on loan to the government from India’s defense ministry. The plane’s interior was as opulent as a rajah’s palace. The stains Mercer’s uniform left on the picked silk cushions were likely permanent. Unfortunately, the aircraft’s regular passengers were Sikhs and did not drink alcohol. The galley produced a hearty breakfast and aromatic coffee but not the shot of booze he was dying to lace it with.

Because the Citation was crammed with every conceivable communications device, he had very little time to enjoy his meal before he was on a video conference call with Ira Lasko and a team of scientists stationed in Washington and others already on La Palma. The Delta commandos were stretched in the plane’s rear bunks and Tisa was curled in the seat next to Mercer, asleep.

“I think we’re ready to get started,” Ira said as the last participants acknowledged they had video and audio feeds. “For those of you who don’t know him, I want to introduce Dr. Philip Mercer, the president’s special science advisor and the man who first alerted us to the potential eruption along the Cumbre Vieja.”

Mercer recognized a couple of the scientists, mostly geologists he’d met over the years, as well as Dr. Briana Marie. He greeted them by name, heard the names of the others and promptly forgot them.

“Mercer, first of all, bring me up to speed. Then I’ll fill you in on what’s been happening on our end.”

“The only pertinent fact we need to deal with is that the eruption will occur in five weeks, on the eighteenth to be exact.”

The eight faces on the split computer screen reacted to the news with a gamut of expressions, from disbelief to fear to anger. Then as one they began to talk and debate.

“Admiral Lasko,” one of them, a stentorian volcanologist from the Smithsonian, clamored over the swelling tide of objections. “You indicated we had months of buildup before the event. Five weeks is not enough time.”

“It’s going to take five weeks just to determine where to bore the blast holes,” another protested.

“We might as well issue the evacuation order now,” a third, wearing a paisley bow tie, sniveled.

“Ladies, gentlemen, please,” Lasko repeated until the scientists quieted. “Mercer, are you sure about the date?”

“As sure as I can be, Admiral.” Mercer maintained a professional distance from Ira until they could speak privately. “It came from the same source as the Santorini prediction.”

“Very well.” He drew a breath. “We had an idea how to counter the effects of a mega-tsunami, but we required at least four months, probably longer.”

“I assume your plan was to detonate a nuke on the eastern side of the mountain so the western flank would implode into the volcano rather than slip into the sea.”

Ira wasn’t the least surprised that Mercer had independently developed the same strategy as a team of the world’s top scientists. “That was the general idea, yes. The computer models we ran say the bomb needed to be buried at least eight hundred feet into the eastern slope to get the desired results.”

“And let me guess, the models can’t pinpoint the exact location until we drill some test holes.”

Ira nodded. “Which will take weeks we don’t have. Add in the time to bore eight hundred feet for the bomb and we’re way past the deadline.”

The bow-tied pessimist chimed in. “That’s why the evacuation should be ordered now. Nothing can be accomplished on La Palma in five weeks. It’s a waste of time to even try.”

Mercer ignored the comment and kept his focus on Ira Lasko. “You’ve modeled for a surface detonation?”

“We did,” Briana Marie answered. “Such a blast wouldn’t change the Cumbre detachment fault. It would still slip in its entirety, possibly as a result of the explosion. We ran dozens of locations and various yields up to one megaton.”

“No offense, Doctor, but take off the kid gloves and pump up your yields. Model a blast with fifty megatons and see what that does.”

“Besides irradiate southern Europe and western Africa?”

“Most of the people living there are going to die anyway,” he snapped back. “Shielding them from radiation then cleaning the fallout is the better, and cheaper, alternative to displacing them for the next two or three generations.”

Mercer wasn’t angry at her, but at himself. Since deciphering Tisa’s warning about La Palma, he thought he hadn’t limited his thinking when in fact he had. Even a minute ago he never would have considered setting off such a nuclear explosion. Now he knew that no option was too outlandish. Exposing two hundred thousand people to a hefty dose of radioactive contamination in order to save a hundred million was the kind of sacrifices they had to consider if they were to succeed.

“There has to be a better way,” a young volcanologist currently on La Palma said.

“I hope there is, but we have to explore every avenue. What did your models say about an underwater blast on either the western or eastern side of the island?”

Dr. Marie glanced away and admitted, “We didn’t run those scenarios.”

Although he’d been out of the loop with these scientists, Mercer took it for granted that as the president’s special science advisor he’d spearhead any effort to minimize the damage from the eruption. However, he would be relying on them for everything they could give over the next weeks. With that in mind he kept the recrimination from his voice. “Why don’t you look into that before we consider higher-yield nukes. We might get lucky.”

“I’ll get on it as soon as we’re done here.” It was clear she appreciated his conciliatory tone.

“To those of you on La Palma right now,” Mercer continued, “I’d like to see an underwater survey of the coastlines on either side of the Cumbre fault zone.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Vents. I’m just thinking out loud, bear with me. You were all in agreement earlier that you needed to drill eight hundred feet for the bomb to collapse the volcano.” On Mercer’s computer eight heads nodded in unison. “What if we can find an old vent that allows us to get even deeper into the mountain?”

Dr. Marie’s eyes lit up. “If we go deep enough, we don’t need to be so precise with the weapon’s placement. A kilometer or two in either direction might not matter. Rather than cutting open the volcano with a chisel, we can smash it with a sledgehammer.”

Her metaphor made Mercer wince. The handful of over-the-counter painkillers he’d found in the aft washroom did little to ease the fire in his back or the countless other aches and pains.

The young volcanologist on the island, Les Donnelley, typed notes onto a laptop computer mounted below his video camera. “I can hire a fishing boat, if there are any left here.”

The comment triggered Mercer’s next questions. “What is the situation on the island? What’s happened in the past twenty-four hours?”

“For one, the media picked up on the story,” Ira said with a mixture of irritation and relief. He would have liked more time to work without public scrutiny, but also appreciated that people could make their decisions about evacuating early. “It broke just as you took off from—” He stopped before divulging Mercer’s mission. “It broke early yesterday in New York. The networks have been preempting ever since. The panic hasn’t been as widespread as we first feared, but most people are still in shock. The president is going to address the—”

“No,” Mercer interrupted. As much as he cared about how the world was taking the news that a hundred million people might perish, he couldn’t let it distract him. “Tell me what’s happening on the island. From now on that is our focus. Let the politicians and disaster-relief people debate evacuation strategies and refugee issues. We stick with the science.”

“All right. Les, you want to fill him in? You’re in charge on La Palma.”

“You’re aware that the island is comprised of dozens of volcanoes, each one corresponding to La Palma’s history of tectonic activity. The one that concerns us is the San Juan volcano. It was the actual volcano on the Cumbre ridge that erupted in 1949 and caused the fault to slip.” Donnelley was covering familiar ground to the video-conference participants and moved on quickly. “Up until yesterday morning our time, the monitors placed around its summit and near some of its secondary vents and fumeroles were quiet considering the activity on the island’s extreme southern tip.”

“And that’s changed?”

“Yes, Dr. Mercer. Unlike previous eruptions here that were localized to one finite area, this one seems to be affecting others as well. San Juan shows every sign that it’s about to blow. We have some equipment lowered down a bore hole. We’re detecting a hundred microquakes an hour, and temperature and pressure are both up, leading us to believe that the magma chamber is beginning to fill.”

Mercer’s expression was grim. “This dovetails into the five-week prediction.”

“I have to agree, though I don’t understand how you can say that with any degree of confidence. It could take much longer.”

“Trust him on that,” Ira said. “It’ll be in five weeks.”

“What else is happening?” asked Mercer.

“The Spanish government has ordered a full evacuation of the island. The people here are taking it very seriously. Gas and ash levels are rising. Several elderly have already died and a previously unknown vent near the Teneguia volcano suddenly burst open under a school. Forty-three students and three teachers were asphyxiated. With Teneguia erupting at the southern tip of the island and San Juan showing signs in the middle of the island, people here recognize how the two are joined by the fragile Cumbre ridge. They don’t want to be anywhere near here if it goes.”

“There’s something we have all overlooked,” the twerp in the bow tie interjected. “No one has gone to the United Nations about this. I mean they know about the potential of a mega-tsunami, but don’t we need permission to detonate a nuclear device on another nation’s sovereign soil. Don’t forget they’re still smarting because we lost several bombs off of Spain’s south coast in the late 1960s. They won’t take too kindly to us intentionally blowing up one of their islands.”

“Who are you again?” Mercer spat.

“Professor Adam Littell of MIT.”

“And your specialty, Professor?”

“Fluid dynamics with an emphasis on wave propagation,” he replied archly.

“We all know about the waves if we can’t stop the slide so we don’t need your services. Kindly turn off your camera.”

“Excuse me?”

“Admiral Lasko, can you cut him off?” No sooner had Mercer made the request than the portion of his computer monitor showing the professor went dark.

“He does raise a good point,” Lasko said.

“That’s for the politicians, Admiral. Let them worry about it. I suspect when the UN’s secretary-general realizes a fifty-foot wall of water is going to wash away his shiny skyscraper he’ll see that the right thing gets done.”

“Provided it’s the right thing,” Briana said.

“That’s why we’re talking.” Mercer drained his coffee and poured more from a sterling carafe. “Okay, other ideas to minimize a slip. Has anyone thought about trying to blast the western side of the Cumbre ridge into strips? Or what about pinning the top layer of material to the underlying rock to hold it in place?”

His questions were met with blank stares.

“Someone start an equipment list.” Ira nodded to an assistant off camera. “We need as many rotary drill trucks as we can get to the island, machines capable of boring at least a thousand feet.”

“Once you drill the holes, what do you use to pin the rock together?” Les Donnelley asked.

“The drill pipe itself. We’ll leave everything down hole and move to the next site with new bits and new drill string. That means we need drill mud, pipe, as many diamond bits as we can lay our hands on and enough support personnel to keep crews working around the clock.”

“And your idea about cutting the slope into strips?” Ira prompted.

“Expert explosives people, liquid explosives, blast mats, detonators. The works. I’ll call Bill Janson at Blastech in Houston. I’ve worked with him a few times at the open pit mines out west. He’s the best surface blaster in the business. Admiral Lasko, you’ll have to organize transport. What’s the airport at La Palma?”

“Not big enough” Donnelley said. “The Canaries’ international airport is on the nearby island of Tenerife.”

Once Mercer got started the orders came crisp and concise. “We’ll fly equipment to Tenerife, then either take it to La Palma by boat or get the airport there extended. Probably be a good idea to plan on both. Gas masks, a field hospital, thermal suits capable of taking at least five hundred degrees, fifty thousand gallons of diesel fuel to start. Fresh water because the natural springs on La Palma are either going to dry up, boil over, or turn to sulfuric acid. We need boats, security personnel—”

“What about food?” a consultant from the U.S. Geologic Survey asked.

“There should be enough left behind by the residents for us to scavenge,” Mercer said without pause. “We’ll need it in a week or so. Right now I’m giving the top priorities. Admiral Lasko, where is the Sea Surveyor?”

“She was just relieved by the navy’s submersible tender Endeavor and her two minisubs. I think she’s in Guam.”

“Contact the ship. I want Charlie Williams and another diver on a plane with their NewtSuits.” Mercer thought for a moment and added, “We might need a larger submersible too. Get one from one of the oil companies operating in the North Sea or maybe the French. They have a couple that might be closer to the Canaries.”

“What else?”

“Portable industrial refrigeration systems, burn specialists, firefighting helicopters, cylinders of liquid oxygen, scuba gear, bulldozers — Caterpillar D-7s or larger — a case of Grey Goose vodka and a couple of bottles of Jamaica Gold lime juice, and of course the nukes.”

“What type and how many?”

His ascension to the head of the project came so smoothly and so naturally that it suddenly hit Mercer that he was being given control over nuclear bombs and had every intention of setting off one or more. The thought held his attention for only a moment. “I don’t know yet, but put the wheels in motion to get them.”

He went on uninterrupted for five minutes, naming anything he thought they had the remotest chance of needing. When he was done, the others added items they thought would be useful until it became clear they were talking about a mobilization on the scale of going to war. And that’s exactly how Mercer saw it. This was a war against Mother Nature herself. Win or lose, he was putting everything he had into the fight.

The conversation came to a close as the sleek jet was on final approach to Al-Udeid air base in Qatar. Mercer closed the laptop and glanced at Tisa. She was awake.

“I’ve been listening to you.” Her eyes and voice were soft from sleep. “You really think we have a chance?”

“A slim one,” Mercer conceded. “It comes down to logistics and our ability to find an underwater vent that goes deep enough into the volcano for us to collapse the eastern face.”

“What happens if you succeed?”

“What do you mean?”

She sat up and sipped from his cup of cold coffee. The bitter taste did more to wake her than the caffeine. “Won’t there be a tidal wave if the eastern part of the mountain crashes into the sea?”

“Yes and no,” Mercer said. “There will be a wave, but nowhere near the size of the mega-tsunami if the western slope collapses. The danger there is one huge slab of rock, about five hundred cubic kilometers, hitting the water at one time. That energy is what creates the big wave. If we blow out the eastern side of the San Juan volcano, we can reduce the internal pressure trying to loosen that slab. I’m sure someone’s modeling for it as we speak, but the waves from the nuclear blast will dissipate rather than maintain a solid front. I bet the worst won’t be more than a dozen feet when it hits Africa. Given that area is sparsely populated we have more than enough time to evacuate the coastline.”

He stopped talking.

The way Tisa looked at him, hearing but not listening, entranced by his voice rather than interested in the details, made Mercer believe even more that they could pull it off. Her steady, trusting gaze filled him in a way he’d never experienced. The obstacles, or at least his fear of them, retreated as her eyes wove their spell around him. Mercer felt — no, he corrected himself, she made him feel — capable of doing anything.

He moved closer so their mouths met. Their eyes remained open, searching and finding what they both longed for. Even as the plane made contact with the runway and the engines shrieked to slow it, the spell endured.