Seismic Surge

None of the team had to double-check the map that they had memorized. Cumbre Vieja volcano was the subject of the Jeopardy white paper about how a catastrophic volcanic landslide could result in a mega-tsunami. La Palma, seen from orbit, looked something like a yolk-up egg, except that the dome was actually the depressed caldera of an ancient but recently geologically active volcano. Most of the tourism was concentrated along the lower level, southern coasts of the island.

James’s frown was ever present as he checked the forearm-strapped com link that kept him in touch with Stony Man Farm. Still nothing about the identities of the bodies seen below the waves.

McCarter noticed the grim look on James’s face. “You put a few clues together to get something disturbing.”

“Those were tourists dropped off shore,” James returned. “We haven’t gotten anything solid back from the Farm, but who else would they be?”

“And that marina is a good place for a yacht full of terrorists disguised as vacation-goers to pull in,” Encizo added.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” McCarter said. He had been right there, looking the corpses in their lifeless faces, getting digital photographs to upload to the Farm. “So they could have parked, leaving behind spotters.”

“And they could have women terrorists on hand,” James threw in. “So we can’t be sure of who we’re looking at, if we run across some tourists.”

“Which is why we’re avoiding any contact until we’re sure who we’re dealing with,” McCarter said.

James nodded.

“You’re not going to get cold feet about shooting a woman, are you?” McCarter asked.

“If they have a gun and they’re trying to kill me, not a chance,” James answered. “We’ve encountered enough murderous ladies, and I’ve never flinched from that.”

“This is also Spain, where gun laws aren’t like America. It’s not bloody likely that we’ll run into a lady with a concealed carry pistol,” McCarter added.

“And that was what I’d worry most about,” Encizo said, nodding to James in agreement with his unspoken doubts.

“Just keep your eyes peeled,” McCarter warned.

The three men swam back to the submerged vehicle, turned it to the south and continued on toward the rocky shore.

* * *

HAROLD BROGNOLA LURCHED from the couch in his office, grimacing as he felt the pinch in his neck caused by sleeping with his head on the armrest. While he was aware of the Farm’s accommodations for guests—soft, comfortable beds—Brognola was more of a mind to avoid sleeping there. The couch was its own quiet alarm, its lumps and painful armrest rousing him from slumber after only an hour. If he were on a schedule that would allow a full night’s sleep, he’d drag himself to a guest room and snore happily.

Awake, he made his way to the Stony Man Farm War Room, looking at the gigantic map on the wall. The display was made of several interlocked plasma screen televisions, enabling different panels to be pulled up for individual windows containing pertinent information. Right now, the screens showed a blockade around the island of La Palma in the Atlantic Ocean. Forty-eight hours earlier, the western port of the island, Santa Cruz, became ground zero for a wild, unprecedented explosion of violence, literally.

A cruise ship, what appeared to be a cruise ship more precisely, suddenly fired anti-shipping missiles from its deck and shattered the hulls of two ocean liners so that they were left malingering in the path of any other large craft attempting to get away. With the sudden blasts, smaller craft were suddenly set to flight, two speed boats with vacationers accelerating out of the harbor as quickly as humanly possible.

As they fled, smaller missiles were launched. They easily caught up with the civilian crafts and blasted them out of the water.

All of this was caught on video camera and transmitted to the rest of the world with its grim, ominous warning.

“Send forces ashore, and we shall kill thousands.”

The group called itself Option Omega, and they were railing against the G8 and its interference with the natural economy of the world. Governments mismanaging taxes and regulations, they had said, were leading the world to the brink of financial collapse.

Option Omega wanted to show the world’s governments how weak they truly were. La Palma was a tourist mecca, a wide-open maw for tourist revenues that kept Spain solvent.

Option Omega intended to show Spain and the other European members of the G8 simply how weak they were when it came to pushing the people under the wheels of their insane economic policies.

Brognola knew that this group was borrowing the vague, half-assed rhetoric of Occupy Wall Street and the even older Tea Party movement—two groups of American

citizens who had legitimate gripes about American financial and fiscal woes—and was regurgitating it with elements of both groups’ ideals. It was a hodgepodge jumble that had garnered them a modicum of “I admire your sentiments, but not your actions” lip service on left- and right-wing squawk boxes.

He proceeded to where Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, was working at her station, collating information as quickly as it came in.

“Anything new?” Brognola asked.

“Gunfight in Norfolk,” Price told him matter-of-factly, not hiding the annoyance in her voice. “Small consolation is that it was far from bystanders, though the whole waterfront heard machine guns and grenades for miles.”

“How’s the Virginia news handling it all?” Brognola asked.

“They’re reporting that it might be gang violence. They brought up the fire that gutted the boatyard a month ago,” Price said. “And then they skimmed away when there was a fresh tweet from that actress trapped on La Palma.”

Brognola grimaced. “She’s still posting to the internet?”

“Nobody can get out of the hotels, but they have some pretty good internet connections,” Price told him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were letting hostages have access to social media in order to keep the world watching.”

“Social media, but they’re pretty good at only putting their video out,” Brognola mused.

“Even smartphone video has a pretty large footprint to be intercepted,” Price suggested. “Aaron told me that it would be easy for someone to monitor and purge video footage or digital photos from the stream.”

“Meanwhile, social media posts adding only 140 characters at a time can get through because there’s no way that a strike team could use a status update to plan an assault,” Brognola grumbled.

Price nodded. “Aaron also said that our satellite coverage of the Spanish Canaries is being assailed. We keep getting spikes of interference, which means they are intent on keeping the outside world blind but not deaf.”

Brognola sneered. “It’s like poking a wounded hostage so that their screams weigh on rescuers, but they keep the drapes drawn so we can’t take a shot in.”

“But we did take a shot,” Price said. “We sent in Phoenix.”

Brognola nodded. “You don’t sound happy.”

“We got an upload of a few dozen photos over satellite laser link. They’re of preserved corpses in the waters off of Tazacorte,” Price said. “That was a few minutes ago, but they’re of young people. We’re trying facial IDs, as well as tapping some SIM cards that survived being at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Tourists?” Brognola asked.

“McCarter and James both suggested that in texts to us,” Price answered. “Mode of dress was summer casual, very casual. Everyone was topless.”

Brognola grumbled at this suggestion. “Meaning that if they were on a boat, they left the majority of their clothing and personal identification in their state rooms.”

Price nodded. “James sent that as a follow-up after they came up. There were some yachts still docked at the marina in Tarajal.”

“What have we got on those faces and cards?” Brognola asked.

“Still checking on it,” Price told him. “But we’ve got the fastest fingers on the East Coast working on this.”

Brognola looked immediately over to Akira Tokaido, who was running through multiple images on his computer screen. They were flashing through too fast for Brognola to follow, but Tokaido had been born with a nervous system that seemed to have a quad-core processor. Brognola was still in abacus world when it came to technology, and he barely knew what quad-core meant, but it was fast, and Tokaido was that quick. He could look at those faces and run through code at lightning speed.

There was a quick whoop as Tokaido made a connection. “Barb! I have IDs.”

“That was fast,” Price said. Brognola accompanied her over to his station.

“We’ve been looking for signs of trouble since the first explosions,” Tokaido said. “That meant going back months.”

“So missing persons reports?” Brognola asked.

Tokaido nodded. “A bunch of twenty-somethings gone missing, but they said that they were staying on some extra time.”

“Email contact?”

“And new photos and videos up on social media,” Tokaido added. “So that’s allaying most of the suspicion.”

“Who isn’t buying this?” Brognola asked.

“Young lady, Cathryn Lopez. She was due to ship out after her vacation,” Tokaido said.

“Where?” Brognola asked.

“Marines. When a female Marine doesn’t report in for duty, it raises some flags. Especially if she’s still posting online,” Tokaido said. “As her last port of call...”

“The USMC is doing part of our intel for us,” Brognola mumbled. “There was a face in that batch?”

Tokaido shook his head. “But Lopez was on the same boat with Bryce Jennings. And his SIM card was recovered by McCarter.”

“Bryce Jennings?” Price asked. She shook her head. “Was he a porn star or something?”

“No, it was his real name,” Tokaido said.

“They slipped ashore disguised as tourists,” Brognola murmured. “Does our satellite coverage have identification on any of the boats?”

“We’re getting interference,” Tokaido returned. “And any IFF we have on the ships show nothing on the yacht that these kids were supposedly on.”

“So they’re anticipating us,” Price mused. “They’re anticipating something.”

“Are we getting anything at other marinas on that side? Or just Tarajal?” Brognola asked.

“No fine details in Tarajal, so that means that particular marina has some craft inside that’s jamming us,” Tokaido mused.

“And keeping watch on that coast,” Price added.

“You can fit a bit of surveillance equipment on a yacht,” Brognola said. “Radar, telescopes, satellite communications...”

“And Option Omega scouts,” Price noted.

“Option Omega has very little history except as an Idaho-based splinter of a white-supremacist militia,” Huntington Wethers, another member of Kurtzman’s cyberteam, interjected. “As to being a splinter, we’re talking a top membership of a dozen.”

“No other references?” Brognola asked. “Because—”

“I’ve been quite thorough,” Wethers told him. “Option Omega has the computer skills and resources to launch attacks on any other group usurping their name. I’ve tried a couple of runs at their main website, and they are not only pro-La Palma takeover, but they are vehemently anti-G8.”

“Idaho is a long way from Norfolk,” Brognola said. “And it’s even farther to the Spanish Canaries.”

“Traffic to their site has risen exponentially,” cyberteam member Carmen Delahunt advised. “As has the mention of them on BBSs. They appear to have been recruiting heavily.”

“Appear?” Brognola asked, aware that Delahunt was referring to computerized Bulletin Board Systems.

Delahunt shook her head. “It doesn’t feel right. Especially since they ratcheted back their angry militia rhetoric and pumped up the antigovernment bile.”

“Like they switched horses midstream,” Price mused.

Brognola nodded. “Someone either usurped the leadership or is influencing them.”

“So Option Omega has become a sock puppet,” Wethers offered. “Maybe they were inspired by the supremacists who threatened the G8 before, utilizing orbital launched rods. I can’t see much in way of La Palma’s significance as a strategic target, outside of the Jeopardy Corporation’s white paper.”

“If they’ve got enough resources now to transform cruise ships and assemble a large enough army to control an island, they’re going to have some kind of money trail,” Price said to the distinguished African-American cybernetics professor. “Dig deep, Hunt. If anyone can find even an infinitesimal trace of outside influence, it’s you.”

Wethers took out his pipe, then clenched it between his teeth. “I shall be thorough.”

Wethers was an educated man who had been working with computers for decades. He had the appearance of a college professor, and many of the mannerisms of a highly intelligent, cultured man. One thing, however, that made the job worthwhile at Stony Man Farm was fighting against groups that victimized innocents. On those occasions when they went up against intolerant bigots, he took special satisfaction in being of assistance in slamming the lid on their plans and machinations. Especially against white supremacists, men who considered him no more than a talking ape, rather than a brilliant mathematician and programmer.

He turned his attention back to his workstation and dived in deeply.

At the same time, Carmen Delahunt took her cue to return to her work, checking for Option Omega’s links to prior white-power groups that Stony Man had recently encountered.

There had been a sudden surge in activity among the Christian Identity and White Power movements, where lots of money had been raised. The most violent of the groups’ splinter elements had been involved in multiple other crises, which meant that there was someone who wasn’t putting their eggs in one basket, or maybe some manipulators were seeing the near success of others as their chance.

With the right words, the right equipment and the right money, things could be attempted that could rock the world, to the benefit of one or another cabal.

Either way, the monsters behind the scenes were nearly as insidious as the general thugs who were manipulated into committing murder for the profit of their puppet masters. In some ways, even worse, as they rarely caught the full attention of law enforcement, or were well hidden behind the shields of treaties and diplomatic immunity.

Brognola grumbled this time, and knew that he was going to have to do something to bring down the headmasters of this particular escapade in terror.

He pulled Price aside and spoke with her in confidence.

This was going to be one instance where the plotters would bleed, as well.

* * *

“WE’VE GOTTEN WORD from the Farm. Your assumptions were pretty good,” T. J. Hawkins said after closing the satellite-linked field laptop that put them in uninterrupted contact with the Sensitive Operations Group headquarters back on Stony Man Farm.

“Tourists murdered so that the terrorists could take their place,” James murmured grimly. David McCarter’s

grimace was readily apparent.

“We were expecting this,” James whispered to him. “Don’t let this distract you from the lives we have to save.”

McCarter narrowed his eyes, glaring at James. “I’m in control. We rescue the hostages, and stop the detonation that will cause the La Palma landslide.”

The Briton grit his teeth, eyes alight. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy giving it to whoever we manage to catch hold of.”

Manning winced, but let that flash of the old David McCarter pass. Even at his worst, the feisty ex-SAS man was hardly cruel, and was only ruthless to the point of ending a battle before it could harm bystanders. He might shoot a man in the back of the head, but only to keep a stray shot, or an intentional salvo of bullets from slaughtering innocents. When it came to handling murderers and other assorted thugs, if there was a personal bent toward McCarter’s duty, he was willing to go beyond the doctrine of using the minimum force necessary to end a conflict.

“All right, does everyone have their assignments?” Manning asked.

Officially, McCarter was the team leader. But Manning had a better bedside manner with teammates, and was generally the British warrior’s scientific adviser and the cooler head off which he could bounce ideas. Every member of Phoenix Force was a close friend to his teammates, but Manning and McCarter were especially close friends thanks to their cultural similarities—Canada and Britain sharing an allegiance and a loyalty to the Royal family, as well as both being original members of Phoenix Force. While Encizo, the other original veteran of the team, joked that the two bickered like an old married couple, it was their similarities and the sharp contrast of temperaments that made the two of them an effective team.

McCarter didn’t look particularly happy, but he nodded at Manning, thanking him for focusing on the present.

“We’ve got ’em,” Hawkins said.

“T.J., I’ll need you to delay in hooking up with Cal and me,” McCarter said. “Head to Tarajal and scope out the scene there. You can coordinate and reunite later.”

“Why not me?” Encizo asked.

“I want this done from land. Someone who could fit in,” McCarter said. “You’re a little too memorable. T.J., on the other hand, can be completely nondescript and act the role of someone new stumbling into town.”

Hawkins shrugged. “I’ll take care of things. Take my weapons bag with you. If it goes sideways, I don’t want to be tempted to risk overkill.”

“Pistols and knife, just in case,” McCarter admonished. “We’ll keep a hold of the bigger stuff. If you need something with more oomph...”

“Y’all are doing it wrong,” Hawkins concluded with his wry Texas grin.

McCarter nodded in assent. “We hold off on the shooting, at least until we get the lay of the land. That doesn’t mean we can’t kill any of these Option Omega bastards, but we do it quiet. Broken necks can be made to look more like accidents than bullet holes.”

Hawkins nodded.

“One last word of advice, though.” McCarter paused. “We’re planning to keep a low profile. But you know what military planning is...”

“It’s what you have in mind until you actually run into the enemy,” Hawkins answered.

“Stay sharp, lads. This is going to get bloody.”

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