Pinnacle Event

17

“Even a five-kiloton nuclear detonation devastates Manhattan,” Dugout said into the modified iPad to Bowman. “I pulled up a model that Homeland uses, developed by Oak Ridge nuclear lab.” He described to Ray what he saw on his desktop monitor. “Detonate it on the south end of the island at Battery Park and the blast is felt as far north as Canal Street.

“It’s a smaller bomb than Hiroshima and the buildings are now built much better, so only knocking over buildings within a couple of blocks of the blast, but setting fires and sending glass flying for many more blocks.

“The electromagnetic pulse fries all circuitry in Lower Manhattan and over in Jersey City so cars don’t work, ambulances, fire trucks, phones, any computer, any engine.”

“Does the computer model give you casualty figures?” Ray asked.

“Detonated at midday during the week and you get twenty-five to forty thousand prompt deaths from incineration, burns, building collapses, flying debris,” Dugout read off the chart. “An equal number of nonprompt deaths from burns and radiation poisoning over the following thirty days.”

“And if the tritium gas had not decayed, what would happen?” Bowman asked.

“Exponentially worse,” Dugout said, switching screens. “The explosion is ten times as big, so more buildings collapse, buildings up to Central Park are damaged, the EMP fries equipment in every hospital on the island, first responders all over Manhattan and into Brooklyn could not communicate or likely even get their vehicles to start. And the long-term radioactivity makes most of the city uninhabitable for a century or more.”

“Even if that weren’t the case, nobody would want to live anywhere near New York, or any other big city after that,” Ray added.

Dugout paged down through the Homeland department’s model. “Listen to this: ‘At fifty kilotons, first responders should not attempt to go within at least two miles of the blast site. Those still alive within the hot zone will perish within hours or days even with medical care and by entering the area first responders will only become fatalities themselves by exposure to high doses of lethal radiation. Establish a perimeter and prevent anyone from going into the hot zone.’ It means there will be thousands of people dying in great pain, but no one should go to ease their pain. What a horror.

“Fewer deaths in Washington because the concentration of people is less, fewer high-rises, but it still takes out all the government buildings and makes the place too hot to ever use again. Fifty kilotons at the Washington Monument turns the Potomac into steam.”

They sat in silence for a moment, thinking about what would happen if they failed. “How is the election campaign going?” Ray said, breaking the quiet.

“Well, the debates are finally over, but the ads are all over the TV. It’s going to be close,” Dugout said.

“What about what Reuven said about Madagascar. Any leads there?” Ray asked.

“Well, there we have a bit of good news, potentially. Seems like land ownership is a big problem there, knowing who owns what. Leads to a lot of conflict and also makes it hard to sell land, which hurts the economy. So USAID gave the government in Antananarivo a grant to bring in Oracle and create a digital database, going back thirty years, of land sales. That gave Minerva a lead and data to trace.

“In 1989, the Springbok Mining company of London, England, bought a tract in the north, including a big hill. Springbok Mining dug a diamond mine into the hill, according to an old mining magazine from the time, but came up dry. Want to guess who one of the principal stockholders of Springbok was?” Dugout asked.

“The late Karl Potgeiter?” Ray asked.

“Along with the late Mr. Merwe and the now-departed Marius Pleiss, all of them Trustees,” Dugout replied. “Sloppy in covering their tracks.”

“Well it was in 1989, before they actually started the Trustees, so they probably bought the land with ARMSCOR money they could not repatriate from weapon sales to Singapore or wherever. I will bet Springbok no longer owns it,” Ray guessed.

“You win the teddy bear,” Dugout said. “They sold it in 1991 to Gazelle Trading of Sydney, which, of course, had the same address in Sydney as Mr. Merwe. As far as I can tell, Gazelle still owns it, but it looks abandoned and largely overgrown on the satellite imagery I pulled up. Want me to send you the photo?”

Bowman was walking along the Tel Aviv corniche, carrying the iPad, using headphones and a mouthpiece to chat with Dugout, hoping that even Mossad and the Shin Beth could not hear the conversation. “No, just tell me the date on it.”

“Shit, it’s two years old. Guess we don’t have much need to do strip photography of Madagascar.”

“Get NGIA to target it for a close-up right away. If the cave looks like it’s been opened up in the last few months, then we will need Winston to talk to the Pentagon,” Ray told Dugout. “It may be time for JSOC to drop a little team into northern Madagascar for a look around, complete with Geiger counters.”

He stopped and watched the sun sinking into the Mediterranean. For the first time in eight days since he had started this goose chase, he felt he was getting closer to an answer. At least, he might now know where the bombs had been. He had six days to find out where they went, before the President ordered Operation Rock Wall to look everywhere for a nuke. And fourteen days to the election.

Winston Burrell had assumed the bombs would go off just before voting day.

The last ray of the setting sun refracted through the sea and for an instant, Raymond Bowman thought he saw a green flash. He wondered if, when it happened, he would see the nuclear flash.