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“We have listening devices trained on the apartment,” Cabrillo answered, “and right now they are sleeping.”
“What exactly will we be doing?” Linda Ross asked.
“Each of you is trained in disabling the device, so you will be placed along the possible routes into the area of the concert. We will wait there in case we’re called upon.”
Cabrillo walked over to a cork bulletin board on an easel. A large map of London was tacked on the board and a series of lines had been highlighted with a yellow marker.
“Based on where the apartment is located, these are the highest probability routes,” Cabrillo said. “We believe that, wherever the bomb is now, whoever has it will stop by and pick up Lababiti and the other man so they can place the nuke at the concert together.”
“You believe that they’re going to hide the device, then set the timer and escape?” Kasim asked.
“That’s what we’re hoping,” Cabrillo admitted. “This type of device has a fail-safe switch that requires ten minutes from arming to detonation to avoid unwanted explosions.”
“So you can’t just flip the switch and start the fission process?” Julia Huxley asked.
“No,” Cabrillo said, “the Russian devices are similar to ours in that respect—they require a series of steps before the device is operational. The one we believe they purchased is a ‘baby bomb’ designed for targeted destruction. The entire device could fit in a crate five feet long by three feet wide by three feet deep.”
“What’s the weight?” Franklin Lincoln asked.
“Under four hundred pounds.”
“So we know they can’t carry it or transport it by something like a bicycle,” Pete Jones said.
“They’ll need some type of vehicle,” Cabrillo said, “so that means they’ll need to travel over the roads.”
Cabrillo pointed to the apartment on the map.
“From the apartment,” he said, “there are a couple of routes they might take. The first is right behind us. Turn off the Strand down Savoy Street toward the Thames and turn on Victoria Embankment heading south. Once on Victoria Embankment, they have several choices. Turn at Northumberland Avenue then head down the Mall, or they could continue on to Bridge Street and Great George Street, then drive down Birdcage Walk. The second possibility is for the driver to head straight down the Strand to the Mall, but that takes him through the Charing Cross section as well as Trafalgar Square, where the traffic is usually very heavy. Thirdly, they have a variety of side streets they could cut across and piece together a route that, while not as direct, would be harder to follow. At this point we’re really just guessing.”
“What’s your gut feeling, boss?” Truitt asked.
“I don’t think they are trucking the bomb in from some other part of London,” Cabrillo said quietly. “I think it’s close to Lababiti right now. The starting point has to be the apartment, or somewhere very near, and if I was the driver I’d want to get it over as quickly as possible and try to escape the primary blast zone. I’d drive do
wn Victoria Embankment, make my way to the park where the concert is being held, then initiate the firing sequence and make my escape while watching the time. At nine minutes I’d be looking for a sturdy building to hide inside.”
“How far does the primary blast zone extend?” Truitt asked.
Cabrillo took the highlighter and made a circle. At the north end was the A40 and Paddington, at the south end was Chelsea almost to the Thames. The eastern border was Piccadilly Circus, the west was the far edges of Kensington and Notting Hill.
“Everything inside this circle will cease to exist completely. One mile diameter outside the circle, including most of the British government offices, will be heavily damaged, and in a circle five miles from the center of the blast, buildings will be damaged and the radiation fallout heavy.”
Everyone stared at the map.
“That’s almost all of London,” Murphy said finally.
Cabrillo simply nodded.
“And we’ll all be toast as well,” Huxley, the medical officer, noted.
“Is that a medical term,” Jones said, “toast?”
LARRY KING WALKED out to where Adams had set down in a field near the Oregon. Ducking under the spinning rotor blade, he opened the rear door of the Robinson R-44, slid his cased rifle in the rear and several boxes in back, then closed the door, opened the front, and climbed into the passenger seat. Slipping on a headset, he closed the door and locked it before speaking.
“Morning, George,” he said laconically.
“Larry,” Adams said, pulling up on the collective and lifting the Robinson from the ground, “how’s it going?”
Adams pushed the cyclic forward and initiated forward flight.
