“The ghost of a dead astronomer,” O’Malley said. She pointed to the MAGIC telescope and murmured the story of the astronomer’s fatal fall. Then she redirected his gaze to the left. “There’s where we’re headed. Fifty yards. See it?”
He squinted and shook his head—he didn’t—but a few steps later, he did: a smooth, dark circle in the rough tan landscape, a ten-foot “H” painted in the center: a helipad, built for ferrying astronomical gear and international dignitaries to the remote mountaintop.
She moved toward it. “Megan, wait,” he hissed.
She turned back. “Why? You said midnight.”
“We have to lay low till they get here. If they get here.”
“I hate to wait. Can you tell them to hurry up?”
“My phone’s dead. I didn’t want to tell you, but that message a few minutes ago? Those were its dying words.”
“Don’t you have another one of those battery packs?”
“Nope. That was it.”
“So for all your people know, we’ve fallen off a cliff or been shot?”
“Never give in, Megan. Never, never, never.”
They huddled behind a scrubby bush, its branches hissing and shivering in the wind. In the nearby wires, the high, ethereal song continued. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the pitch changed, complexified, as if a soprano’s solo was morphing into a duet with a baritone. An immense shadow passed overhead—not so much a presence as it was a void. A black hole, thought O’Malley, ever the astronomer. Or the angel of death. Then the buffeting hit them. A vast dragonlike form, with a tapering snout and a slender tail, settled onto the helipad, its glassy eyes glowing a pale green. A rectangular opening appeared in the side of the beast, revealing a faintly lit cargo bay. Two dark figures jumped out, and O’Malley thought she glimpsed the silhouettes of assault rifles in their hands.
“Now it’s time,” Dawtry said, taking hold of her elbow and steering her toward the helicopter. When they reached the doorway, two more men in black reached out and grabbed them by the arms, hauling them inside. The two with guns—their faces smeared with charcoal—vaulted back in, and even before the door slid shut, the aircraft leaped off the pad, turned, and skimmed away from the mountaintop, dropping so fast O’Malley’s stomach lurched.
They leveled off, then flew in darkness and silence for what might have been thirty minutes. Then the chopper seemed to slow, and O’Malley, craning to see out a window, glimpsed a line of green lights beneath them. The aircraft settled, rocking a bit beneath the rotor, and then lurched to a stop.
The door slid open again, and more hands helped O’Malley and Dawtry out. By then men in black fatigues, helmets, and bulky vests had already chocked the helicopter’s wheels. Looking around, O’Malley saw that they had landed on what appeared to be a short runway framed by green lights. Beside them was a multistory metal building, its bands of windows glowing faintly. The windows reminded her of aquariums, but the fish swimming inside were people. O’Malley looked around, hoping to see more of their surroundings, but all she saw was utter darkness outside the narrow zone of light.
“Where are we?” she asked Dawtry. “Some military base in the desert?”
He laughed. “The desert? Not exactly.”
Another uniformed man stepped from the shadows. Unlike the others, he was not wearing a helmet or fatigues but a crisp khaki uniform. He nodded at Dawtry and then saluted O’Malley. “Welcome aboard, ma’am.”
“Aboard? Aboard what?”
He smiled. “The USS Wasp. Amphibious assault carrier. I’m Captain Stark.”
“Jesus,” said O’Malley. “I mean . . . thank you, Captain.”
The bunk was narrow and the mattress was hard, but O’Malley slept like a baby. She was awakened, far sooner than she would have liked, by an insistent metallic rapping on the door.
“Hello?”
“Rise and shine,” came Dawtry’s voice, muffled by the metal. “We’ve got work to do.”
She sat up, whacking her head. “Ow. I’m rising. Shining’s a stretch. A shower and a cup of coffee would help. A plate of bacon and eggs wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“Then chop-chop. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
“Leaving? How? For where?” She crawled out of the bunk and headed toward the tiny shower cubicle.
“Tell you over breakfast. I’m opening the door.”
“Wait,” she shouted, to no avail.
The door opened a crack and his hand and arm appeared, but—mercifully, since she was naked—not his head. Dangling from the hand was an olive-drab jumpsuit. “Put this on.” She edged toward the door, then snatched the jumpsuit from him. He withdrew the hand. “Wait, there’s more.” The hand reappeared, this time clutching a pair of socks, an undershirt, and a pair of cotton briefs. “We guessed at your size,” he said. “Hope everything fits. Now hurry up. I’ll wait.”
She hurried as best she could, cursing the shower’s meager water pressure. She dried off, toweled her hair to dampness, and tugged on the jumpsuit.
“Not bad,” Dawtry said when she opened the door and stepped into the passageway.
“The speed?”
“I meant the fit. But, yeah, you were pretty quick. Come on, let’s eat.” He turned and began walking away, moving briskly.
She hurried to catch up. “Where are we going?”
“To breakfast.”
“After breakfast, smart-ass.”
“I’ll tell you over breakfast.” He ducked through a bulkhead doorway and trotted up a ladderlike staircase.
She gave chase. “And you know where breakfast is?”
“I’m a special agent. I know all kinds of stuff.”
He led her through a maze of narrow corridors. O’Malley picked up the scent of food; as they kept walking, the smell intensified, and by the time they entered a door marked OFFICERS’ WARDROOM, she was practically floating on the tendrils of aroma like some ravenous cartoon character.
Inside the wardroom was a buffet heaped with eggs, bacon, sausage, onions, potatoes, pancakes, and syrup. “Thank you, Lord,” O’Malley said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, handing her a plate. “Bon appétit.”
“London?” O’Malley mumbled the question through a mouthful of food. “Why are we going to London?”
“To see Boyd. The geologist.”
“I know who he is, thanks very much. Why are we going to see him?”
“Because he can’t come to us.”
“Christ, Chip, pass the pliers. It’s like pulling teeth to get a real answer out of you. Why are we going to see Boyd? Why us, instead of somebody who isn’t stranded on a speck of ship bobbing in the ocean a thousand miles from him?”
“Closer to two thousand,” he said. “Because, unlikely as it seems, O’Malley, you and I are way ahead of everybody else on this. Even more unlikely, everybody else actually realizes it now.”
A sailor entered the room and approached them. “Ma’am? Sir? The captain says it’s time to go.”
“Thanks,” Dawtry said, pushing back and giving O’Malley an encouraging smile. “Ready?”
“Uh . . . I guess?” She grabbed a slice of bacon to go.
The sailor led them through another labyrinth and toward a doorway marked “Flight Deck.” He stopped at a rack of equipment. “You’ll need helmets,” the sailor said, handing O’Malley one marked “Small.”
She tugged it on. “In case we crash?”
He nodded. “At sea,” he added, handing her a life vest.
“Hey, sailor,” she said, “you do know how to show a girl a good time.”
“This boat is huge,” O’Malley said when they stepped through a bulkhead door and onto the flight deck.
“This boat is a ship,” Dawtry replied. “And they’ve got bigger.”
“It’s an aircraft carrier,” she said. “What’s bigger than an aircraft carrier?”
“A bigger aircraft carrier. This one’s a ‘commando carrier.’ Carries helicop
ters, Ospreys, landing vehicles. It’s designed to get marines and vehicles on the ground. The supercarriers—the ones that have catapults and runways and fighter jets—are a lot bigger.”
The sailor led them forward on the deck. As they passed several helicopters. O’Malley noticed one that looked different from the others: black and menacing, all angles and facets rather than streamlined curves. She tapped Dawtry’s arm and pointed. “Is that the horse we rode in on?”
“Yup.”
“Even sitting still, that thing looks deadly.”
“It is. Remember the raid that killed Osama bin Laden?”
“Not personally, but yeah.”
“The SEALs flew to the compound in two experimental stealth helicopters. This is the one that made it back.”
They kept walking. “So that’s not our ride to London?”
He laughed. “If it were, we’d be swimming most of the way. Doesn’t have the range. We’re taking an Osprey.”
“What’s an Osprey?”
“That”—he pointed—“is an Osprey.”
Ahead of them, O’Malley saw what appeared to be the bizarre, ungainly offspring of a cargo plane mated with a helicopter. A pair of stubby wings extended horizontally from a squat body. Attached to the end of each wing was an enormous engine with an immense propeller. But the engines were pointed skyward rather than forward, and the propellers, already spinning, looked like misplaced helicopter rotors.
“Can this thing actually fly?”
“Let’s hope,” he said. “I’m a weak swimmer.”
They entered the rear of the Osprey, up a short ramp with built-in steps. The bare metal interior reminded O’Malley of a storage pod or U-Haul truck, but one that had been reinforced to contain raging rhinos or charging bulls. The passenger accommodations—folding jump seats bolted along the walls—were clearly an afterthought. A crew member directed them to the forward end of the bay. Dawtry folded down a seat and sat, and O’Malley followed suit. Nylon straps hung from the seat’s frame; Dawtry deftly assembled his into a harness, snugging the straps across his shoulders and hips, but O’Malley struggled to solve the puzzle of it. “It’s tricky,” he said. He unharnessed himself, then leaned across to help O’Malley.
He smelled of soap and aftershave, and she felt herself floating on that wave of aroma, too, though it led to a different doorway in her mind and body than the smell of eggs and bacon had.
With a whine and a thump, the loading ramp raised and sealed. Outside, the huge engines spooled up, the spinning blades thwacking and thrumming with increasing urgency. The Osprey’s tail rose, then the nose. O’Malley craned to peer out a porthole in the fuselage and saw the carrier’s bridge and antennas drop away. Then, as she watched in astonishment, the massive engine at the end of the stubby wing pivoted, rotating ninety degrees so that the propeller faced forward. The helicopter had transformed, in midair, into an airplane.
Six hours later, the plane transformed back into a helicopter as it slowed and descended. It landed with a slight jolt, and O’Malley looked out on a world that could not have been more different from the flight deck of the commando carrier: they were on a large, green lawn surrounded by manicured shrubbery, bare-branched trees, and—beyond, through and above the trees—the gray buildings of London.
The pilot stepped through the doorway from the cockpit. “Welcome to Regent’s Park, folks. You’re now free to move about the cabin and use your portable electronics. Thanks for flying with us, and please keep us in mind for your future travel needs.”
CHAPTER 19
When they emerged from the bowels of the Osprey and descended the ramp at the tail—Shat out by an Osprey, O’Malley couldn’t help thinking—four car doors opened in synchrony, and four men clambered from a pair of black sedans. All four were tall, dark-haired, and fit; all four carried themselves with the assurance of cops, former soldiers, or members of the political elite. They wore the same uniform, of sorts: knife-creased gray pants, gleaming black shoes, and thigh-length black overcoats of expensive wool. O’Malley felt absurd in her borrowed jumpsuit and bomber jacket, but she doubted that a shopping detour to Harrods was on offer, so she squared her shoulders and strode as if the military ensemble were her normal attire. Fake it till you make it, she coached herself.
The men met them halfway between the Osprey and a ring of Metropolitan Police cars, whose flashing blue lights defined a makeshift landing zone on the park lawn. A brief, awkward round of introductions ensued, during which O’Malley was ignored while the men shook hands and exchanged names and agency affiliations. Finally, Dawtry made a point of stepping back from the scrum, turning toward her, and saying, “And this, of course, is Dr. Megan O’Malley, to whom we owe eternal gratitude for doing our jobs for us.” He gave the group a wry smile. No one smiled back.
Two of the men were Americans. One, James Howell, introduced himself as the FBI legat—“Legal attaché,” he translated for O’Malley, though the translation shed little additional light to O’Malley’s way of thinking. The other, Preston Kincaid, said vaguely that he was “with the US embassy,” a phrase O’Malley figured meant “CIA spy.” About damned time, she thought. But better late than never. The other two men were Brits, whose one-word names—Allen and Malcolm—were equally plausible as first names or last names. They offered only that they worked for “Her Majesty’s government.” MI6? she wondered. Are they spies, too?
The Gang of Four led O’Malley and Dawtry to the cars and offered them the back seat of one—the designated American car, apparently, since the FBI and CIA men got into the front seats. The Brits got into the other sedan and slowly led them across the damp lawn and toward a road. A few curious pedestrians gawked as the cars bumped off a curb and onto the pavement.
They crossed a bridge to exit the park, then traced an arc along a semicircular road flanked by a long, elegant row of pale stone buildings four stories high, a quarter mile of curving facade adorned with columns and balustrades. To O’Malley, it appeared as if the colonnade from St. Peter’s Square had been transplanted to London, transformed from Vatican gateway to posh housing.
Dr. Charles Boyd inhabited a more modest flat a zigzag mile away. The two cars parked in a no-standing zone, and the six scofflaws got out and climbed the front steps. One of the Brits rang the bell, and they waited. And waited. “Professor Boyd,” called the Brit. “Hello?”
Finally, the door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers. He didn’t shake hands with the men—a smart move, O’Malley reflected, given the suture-ripping vigor with which guys like the agents tended to shake—but simply nodded and motioned them inside. His one greeting was extended to O’Malley: “Professor O’Malley, I’m so very pleased to meet you,” he said, managing a strained smile and a featherlight touch of her arm. “You’ll be most interested to see the data from our little seismometer project on La Palma.”
Boyd led them to a dining table that was covered with papers. He looked ashen and moved slowly, but for a guy who had almost died from sepsis a few days before, he was game. “Forgive me if I sit,” he said, then eased into a chair, wincing on the way down. “I’m supposed to be in bed still, but I rather thought this was worth getting up for.”
He shuffled through the papers, found the one he wanted—a large map—and laid it at the center of the table. “Let’s get to it straightaway, shall we?” The map showed North and South America, the Atlantic, Europe, and Africa. Amid the blue and green and desert brown of ocean and land, O’Malley saw dozens of orange circles. Some were tiny pinpoints, others the diameter of pencil erasers. “This map shows earthquakes during the past twenty-four hours,” Boyd began. “The data come from the Global Seismographic Network, the GSN. As you can see, there have been dozens of them. One hundred and one, to be precise. The smallest was magnitude zero point one, in Nevada. You can’t even see that dot at this scale, though if I zoomed in on the map and printed out just the western United States, you’d see it easily enough.
The biggest quake”—he pointed at a large dot near the west coast of South America—“was magnitude five point four, off Ecuador, where the Nazca Plate and the South American Plate are constantly shoving at one another.” He glanced around to see if there were questions; seeing none, he went on. “You Yanks might be interested to know that there were sixteen quakes in Alaska, twenty-three in California, and twelve in Oklahoma.” He looked around the group. “Not a single quake showing up in the Canary Islands. Not in the GSN, that is.”
He shuffled through the papers and found another page, this one a set of three squiggly line graphs. The squiggles, horizontal lines printed in red, green, and blue, looked like stock-market graphs on nightmarishly volatile days: the lines ran relatively smooth and level for an inch or so, then expanded abruptly, almost vertically, upward and down, then converged again along the central horizontal line—briefly. The wild oscillations were repeated four times; scattered between the four sustained spikes were half a dozen small ones. “These plots show the activity recorded by the three seismometers placed on La Palma by Dr. O’Malley. Same twenty-four hour period as the GSN map, very different data. As you can see, there were four significant events and six minor ones.”
The men leaned in, looking at the printout. O’Malley looked at Boyd instead. “What’s the scale here, Professor Boyd? How big is a ‘significant’ event?”
“Magnitude three or higher.”
“Three?” said the CIA man, Kincaid. “That’s pretty small, right, Chuck? You don’t mind if I call you Chuck?”
“I do mind,” Boyd said, “and, no, it’s not small. It might be minor in Mexico, or insignificant in Siberia. But on the western flank of the Cumbre Vieja? A single quake that size could cause the entire mountainside—the fault block, geologists call it—to slip. If those quakes continue, the question is not whether the fault block will slide. It’s when.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Boyd,” said Dawtry. “Let me play devil’s advocate. What’s the possibility of instrument error here? Isn’t there a chance the seismometers set up by Dr. O’Malley are defective? Or could there be a glitch in the data transmission?” O’Malley knew he was asking a question that was on everyone’s mind—and asking it more politely than one of the others might have asked. Even so, it felt like a minor betrayal, and her face burned.
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