T
he control room of the Bishamon complex was a beehive of activity as the six remaining scientists hurried about, pulling printouts and entering data into the complex’s vast computer database. The armed guards posted about the complex control room made them all uneasy, but they continued their work, fearful of what would happen if they didn’t comply.
At a door on the far end of the control room, Robert Pencor and Yagato Osama entered, preceded by two burly looking guards. Lead scientist and associate to Osama, Fuyuki Seijun saw the pair enter the brightly lit control room and quickly walked over to greet them.
“Good evening, Oyabun,” Fuyuki said to Osama in Japanese, bowing politely.
“Please speak in English for the benefit of our guest,” Osama said to the scientist, bowing slightly in return.
“My apologies, sir.
Good evening, Mr. Pencor. I trust you are well,” Fuyuki said in broken English as one of the other scientists approached holding a clipboard in his hand.
“Here are the latest data and seismic reports, Dr. Seijun,” the stocky scientist said as he handed the clipboard to his superior.
“What is your current progress on the Scalar weapon?” Pencor asked curtly, cutting through the pleasantries and irritating Fuyuki.
“We are mere hours from completion, Mr. Pencor,” the scientist said, failing to hide his disdain for the American. “Our sensors on La Palma indicate that ground temperatures have increased exponentially for the last five days, increasing the static pressure on Cumbre Vieja’s fault line. With the slow build-up in pressure, seismic activity has been minimal, and reports of unusual activity by the locals living on the island have been few,” he stated proudly. “Our spotters on La Palma are reporting the appearance of new steam vents on the ridge line, which could be a problem if looked into, but the geological survey team is not expected to do their annual survey for another month.”
“And what about the report of a film crew that showed up last week?” Osama asked as the three men strolled over to the nearest computer console.
“A slight annoyance,” Fuyuki said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Just a National Geographic film crew doing a television documentary on the slight possibility of a land slide causing a tsunami,” he replied with a grin. “We’re keeping an eye on their activity.”
“They are going to have quite a documentary to televise when we are finished,” Osama said, breaking into laughter at the irony.
“Are you confident in your projections, Seijun?” Pencor asked, not amused at the display of joviality.
“Robert,” Osama said, “I trust Fuyuki’s work emphatically. He has been working on our Scalar projects since the days we were associated with our Russian friends in the KGB. He was instrumental in the first plasma ball testing that exploded over Perth, Australia, and many other events that have ensued through the years.”
“Thank you, Oyabun,” Fuyuki said proudly. He coldly eyed Pencor, who had the audacity to question his work. “I have complete faith in my projection. After the Scalar Interferometer adjustments are made within the hour, the final phase will be totally automated. In approximately twelve hours, one last EM oscillation burst will force the rupture in the fault.”
“Can it be done sooner?” Pencor asked, purposely avoiding looking at the scientist as he stared at the computer screen that showed the oscillating EM waves and their current power levels.
“No, it must be done in conjunction with the ambient temperature levels in the magma core reaching the desired zenith. If we were to initiate the final EM wave burst prematurely, we could cause an explosive eruption within the magma chamber whereby the fault line could feasibly
collapse. Basically, an implosion would occur and the weak western flank on Cumbre Vieja would collapse in on itself rather than slide towards the sea. This is a precise science, Mr. Pencor, and, as I’m sure you are aware, an unstable one at that,” he said, with the slight barb directed at the American.
“Keep Yagato apprised to your progress. I have a meeting today with my friends in the Canarian Parliament at a University luncheon,” Pencor said curtly as he turned and walked away from the two men.
“Patience, Fuyuki,” Osama said in Japanese, seeing the hatred in Fuyuki’s eyes as Pencor strolled away. “Soon we will no longer need our American benefactor. Once the slide and tsunami have occurred, our obnoxious friend will meet an unfortunate end. Our team in Morocco is awaiting my word to seize the shipment of ZPGs at the port of Safi and transport them to Japan. With Pencor out of the way and our having the patents and designs, we will control the world’s power supply. I have arranged for documents to be uncovered that will link Pencor directly to the tsunami with assistance from the AUM sect in Japan. Pencor is expendable, my friend.”
“It is a brilliant plan, sir,” Fuyuki said, bowing politely to his Oyabun.
“Once the final countdown begins, you know what must be done to the remaining scientists,” Osama said to Fuyuki in a hushed tone.
“When the computer takes over the final phase, it will be totally out of human hands. There can be no witnesses left to
tie us to the land slide,” he said with no sign of emotion in his one cold black eye.
“Pencor has his karma, and we have ours,” Osama said nonchalantly, laughing as he turned and headed out of the control room.
11
Safi Seaport, Morocco
I
t was well past midnight and the old Assif Hotel's restaurant was still a beehive of activity. Throngs of people ended their busy day by drinking and enjoying fine Arab-Berber cuisine. The rustic establishment was the nightly haunt of many of the city's commercial fishermen, and tonight was no exception. The old bar, beneath its spinning cane ceiling fans, was two-deep with drunken fishing captains that were boasting of how they could fill their holds with fish faster than anyone else in the fishing fleet.
The Assif was an older establishment, one of many near the seaport of Safi, a city of eight hundred thousand residents located on the northwest coast of Africa. The recently enacted Arab Free-Trade Agreement had been an asset to its floundering economy, bringing much-welcomed business investors and trade agreements from the outside world. Most importantly, it supplied much needed jobs to the mainly Arab-Berber peoples.
It was just another lazy night at the Assif on the Avenue de la Liberte, a mere two blocks from the busy loading docks
and piers that had grown exponentially as business boomed. The restaurant's interior was quaint in design. Many of its tables tonight were occupied by executives staying at the hotel, along with a smattering of European tourists. The strong aroma of spices tickled the senses as its patrons enjoyed their meals, the sound of local music permeating the premises.
In the far back corner, a lone figure sat unaccompanied at his table, nursing a scotch and water as a waiter came over and poured him a cup of coffee.
It had been a busy night
, Kasim Buruk thought as he lit a cigarette and took a sip of coffee. He was almost discovered after his break in at the Safi Bishamon production plant, and the near failure unnerved him.
Earlier that evening, Kasim and his three associates cut the chain link fence in the rear of the brightly-lit plant. Under the cover of the many argan trees that thrived in the dry, arid conditions of Morocco, they swiftly made their way to the back of the factory where a lone, unattended door led to the assembly area within. Quickly cutting the pad lock with bolt cutters, they stealthily entered the plant and stayed in the shadows as they went about their work.
Kasim noted the massive crates that were placed near the large, metal sliding doors that led to the loading area out front. He wondered what they contained that was so important. Inconsequential to him, he put the thought out of his mind as he and his associates went about their task. He
found over the years that his success was mainly due to the fact that he never asked questions of his employers.
Within minutes, as they observed many armed Japanese guards patrolling the interior of the facility, it became clear to the intruders that this was not just any plant. With extreme effort and practiced stealth, they managed to complete their work and leave the building, unobserved by the many guards.
Upon reaching the safety of the outside of the fence, they noticed a pair of armed men coming around the building’s front. It was dumb luck that they hadn’t encountered them coming into the fenced-in perimeter.
Why hadn’t they forewarned him of the heavy security at the factory?
He thought now as he sipped his coffee in the restaurant.
It had made it almost impossible for us to complete our task. The fools should have given us more data.
The ringing of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He pulled the phone from his coat pocket and answered.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“Were you successful?” the voice on the line said with an accent that betrayed his true nationality.
“The parcels have been delivered, per your instructions, to the predetermined locations within the facility,” Kasim answered, still annoyed at the lack of information regarding the production factory. “Why wasn’t I briefed on the high security at the Bishamon warehouse?”
“You are compensated quite handsomely by my associates for your work, Kasim,” the man on the phone said
irritably. “The particulars you encounter are of no concern to us. All we expect are results. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Kasim said sourly, “quite clear.”
“Have you proceeded with the second phase?” the caller asked.
“As we speak, the packages are being delivered to their recipients,” Kasim replied. “Our work here will be complete by dawn.”
“Excellent, Kasim.
We will contact you at dawn for confirmation, and then we will assume control of the parcels from here,” the stranger said. “Once the objective is met, one million dollars will be transferred to your account in Saudi Arabia, per our agreement.”
“Very good, it’s always a pleasure doing business with you and your associates,” Kasim said flatly.
“Y’all have a good night, son,” the animated voice said. With that, the line went dead. Kasim sipped his scotch and water and thought about this current operation, but quickly dismissed it.
“I just do my job,” he said aloud as he snuffed out his cigarette.
While Kasim was finishing his drink, two container ships sat quietly at their berths at the Safi port loading area. Since being partially loaded the preceding day, they both sat in relatively low water. A stiff eastern breeze off the Atlantic snapped at the stern pennants, revealing the name Bishamon.
Two guards stood at each of the vessel’s gangways, keeping a watchful eye on the occasional fishermen that passed by on their way to the vessels that were farther down the pier. The guards stood at their post, smoking cigarettes and chatting occasionally to relieve their boredom. Though vigilant in their duty, the guards were oblivious to the air bubbles rising to the surface from beneath the water, as men in scuba gear moved freely from ship to ship doing their callous and premeditated work.
12
T
hey walked in silence through the ghostly light of the lava tube, each lost in their own thoughts about the night’s bizarre occurrences: the attempt on their lives, the cave in, and the gunfight in the tunnel. And now, the startling revelation made to them by Yashiro of the mad plot to devastate the United States, made by men blinded by ambition and wealth.
Turner walked silently, thinking of how crazy things had been since his arrival in Tenerife.
These men are merciless killers
,
like something out of a twisted movie script,
he thought as they continued on, only their footsteps softly echoing in the silence. He watched Maria walking ahead of him and a rising dread began to build. He knew that Osama’s men would not think twice about ending her life or his father’s, with no pity or remorse. “Not on my watch,” he said angrily to himself.
“Say again, Josh?” replied his Quechuan friend, who walked by his side.
“Nothing, Samuel, I’m just thinking aloud.” He looked at his father and asked, “Dad, are you still friendly with that woman from the State Department?”
“Who…Abby?
I call her maybe once a week, but I’m afraid the relationship is going nowhere. She’s just too wrapped up in her work.”
“And you’re not?” Maria said with a soft chuckle, the sound of her gentle laughter sweet music to Turner’s ears.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eli retorted sourly.
“I was thinking, Dad. When we get out of here, we could use her connections at the State Department to get a warning out about Pencor’s plans. We could—”
“They’d never be able to launch an assault in time, nor could the Parliament of Tenerife,” Yashiro interrupted. “First, they would hardly take seriously a wild scheme to attack the United States from a group of archaeologists. Even if they did, it would take days to implement a plan and then carry it out,” he stated grimly.