Fire Ice

"Not too many volcanoes around here that I know of." "Be grateful. The Krakatoa volcano created waves one hundred feet high and killed thousands back in 1883. If an asteroid five miles across landed in the mid-Atlantic, it would create a wave high enough to swamp the upper east coast of the U.S. New York would be wiped off the map."

"That leaves landslide."

"It's what we call a slump. Here – let me show you." Jenkins pulled up another map on the monitor. "This is Izmit Bay in Turkey. They had a slump-generated wave there that caused extensive damage."

"What caused the slump?"

"An earthquake." Jenkins chuckled. "I know, it's like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg? In general, a slump is caused by a quake. That's the problem with our Rocky Point ripple. There was a slump, but no quake."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I've talked to the folks at the Weston Observatory in Massachusetts. They keep tabs on all seismic disturbances in the area. They picked up some rumbles that indicated a slump, but no quake preceding it, as I'd expect. I heard a tremendous underwater boom shortly before I saw things happening. There was apparently a movement of ocean bottom east of Maine, but without the normal crash of tectonic plates. I've talked to tsunami experts all around the country. Nobody has heard of such a thing."

"Then we're stumped."

"Not exactly." Jenkins brought the wave profile back onto the computer screen. "I've put together a simulation of our wave. It's pretty crude. Even with the best information, wave calculations can be complicated. You've got to factor in stuff like velocity, wave height and destructive force. Then you've got all the coastal features that cause a wave to deflect or diffract. You've got to calculate the effects of backwash from following waves."

"Sounds impossible."

"It nearly is. But not totally. A few years ago, scientists used computer-based mathematical modeling techniques to solve the demise of the civilization on Crete. Look, this is a map chart of the Maine coast. That's the harbor. The hardest hit was several miles from here, where some fishermen saw waves breaking over Newcomb's Rocks."

The chief whistled. "Those cliffs must be fifty feet high." Jenkins nodded and indicated the chart on the screen. An arrow pointed toward the land. "The main wave force was just to the north of here, so even with my warning, things could have been worse here at the cove. I don't even know if this house would have been safe."

The chief went pale. "That would have been the whole town."

Jenkins leaned forward and peered at the computer. "This is amazing. Look at how straight it came in. Almost like a child creating a wave in a bathtub."

The chief tapped the screen. "Is this where it started?"

"Yeah. It's only an estimate built on circumstantial evidence."

"I took a course in accident reconstruction. It's amazing what you can tell about speed and impact from skid marks and broken headlights."

"I'm pretty confident that it originated about a hundred and fifty miles to the east."

"What are you going to do now?" Jenkins's shoulders ached from tension. "First I'm going to brew up some tea. Then we're going to have us a slam-bang game of chess."

13

THE BLACK SEA

As THE FISHING boat Turgut approached the Russian coast, Austin swept the deserted shoreline through the lenses of his Fujinon gyro-stabilized binoculars, alert to any feature out of sync with its surroundings. The barren coast seemed peaceful. Wind and tide had scrubbed the sand clean of footprints. Green tufts of new growth sprouted in the fire-blackened patches of dune grass. It was hard to imagine the deadly game he had played over this tranquil setting only days before.

The beach was about a mile wide, flanked by two headlands like the arms of a sofa. Except for the cliff sculpted by wind and sea into the sharp profile of an old man, the shoreline was unremarkable. A misty curtain hung over the dunes. Austin remembered that the land hidden behind the grassy ridge sloped down to the abandoned buildings, then flattened out in a scraggly plain edged by woods, gradually rising to low rolling hills.

A smell like burning rope assaulted Austin's nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he lowered the Stabiscope and turned to see Captain Kemal. The captain removed the twisted black cigar from between his tobacco-stained teeth and jabbed it toward the shore.

"How does it look, Mr. Austin?"

"As quiet as a grave, Captain."

"I don't think I like it quiet like that." He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his crooked nose. "When I smuggled, I never liked a beach that was calm like this. Not even birds flying. You sure you want to go there now?"

"Unfortunately, we don't have much choice. I was hoping the fog would burn off, though."

Kemal squinted toward shore. "Another hour. Two, maybe."

"That's too long. We'll move soon."

The captain waved his cigar in the air, discharging a shower of sparks. "The men are ready when you say."

Austin nodded, thinking about the conversation he'd had with Kemal on the trip from Istanbul. Austin had asked the captain if he knew the Russian sailor who'd sold Kaela Dorn the map that led her to the sub base.

"His name is Valentin," the captain had replied, with no hesitation. "The other fishermen use him when they need an extra hand. Miss Dorn paid him too much money for this big 'secret,' " he said, with a sad shake of his head. "All the fishermen know about the submarines."

"People knew there was a base here?"

"Sure." Kemal's thin lips had widened in a knowing grin. "Fishermen know everything. We watch the weather, the water, birds, other boats." He tapped the corner of an eye with his forefinger. "If you don't keep a lookout, you're going to be in trouble."

Kemal's revelation was no surprise to Austin. He often worked with fishermen on NUMA assignments and found them to be keen observers of conditions under, on and above the sea. A fisherman had to be a combination biologist, meteorologist, mechanic and mariner. Their livelihood, their very lives, depended on their store of practical knowledge. As a former smuggler, Kemal would have been more vigilant than the average fisherman.

"How long did you fish these waters?" Austin asked.

"Many years. In the old days, you would see many boats from allover. Turkish, Russian, sometimes even Bulgarian. The fishing is good. Big schools of bonito come in close to feed. Nobody bothers us. Then one day the Russians come with patrol boats and men with machine guns. They tell the fishermen this is a science station. They will kill anyone who gets too close. Some fishermen didn't believe them and got shot, so the rest of us stayed away. We work offshore, where nobody bothers us. Sometimes the fishermen see periscopes. Once a big black fin came up near my boat."

"A submarine co

"He wanted to look, I guess," Kemal said, with a nod. "Then Russia falls apart. The submarines stop coming. Everyone says the Russian navy is broke. One day I take a chance. I follow a school of fish in close." He held an invisible steering wheel in his hand to demonstrate. "I'm ready to run if they come. But nobody stops me. Since then I fish here with no trouble." He shrugged. "When the television people want to go in with Mehmet, I think it's no big deal."