Pencor had been totally blindsided by the testimony and revelations directed against him, but knew right away that he was being set up as the scapegoat for the public and for the media to crucify. The tactics used against him were well-planned and flawless. Thus, Robert Pencor and Pencor Oil made the Enron scandal look like a Girl Scout cookie sale.
To save face with the stockholders, the board of directors of Pencor Oil had him stripped of all duties and froze all of his assets, with the help of the Justice Department.
Robert Pencor had become a pariah: a man hated by America and a victim of his own ruthless greed. So, at the end of 2005, he fled the country to avoid prosecution, taking advantage of Morocco’s no extradition agreement with the United States, and where he had secretly invested much of his ill-begotten treasure over the years. In his rage and growing madness, he vowed that one day he would seek retribution on those who had ruined him; an obsession he still held to this day.
As it was with most Americans, he knew their memory would be short-lived and the media would find something else to focus on, thus diverting attention from the Pencor Oil scandal. Life went on, with Pencor slipping beneath the radar. He slowly drew his plans of revenge against the people and nation that tried to destroy him.
Yes, it will be soon
, he thought, smiling a grin that usually frightened anyone who gazed upon it. “The fools will pay dearly for their stupidity and short-sightedness,” he said, laughing aloud as he came to the entrance of the brightly lit Masari Club.
Once inside, Pencor was greeted by the constant whirring sounds and clanging of the first floor’s Pachinko parlor with its endless rows of machines. He walked through the din to the back, and then to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. He noted, with amusement, the groups of businessmen sitting at tables talking quietly while the comfort women, as they were labeled, stood about waiting for a signal to attend their respective table.
Pencor walked briskly up the flight of stairs to the upper level, leaving the smoke filled parlor behind. He entered the swinging doors into the second floor containing a small bar and restaurant. As he walked across the floor, he could hear the soft, melodic sounds of traditional Japanese music played on the Koto; a banjo like instrument, and a wooden flute.
Pencor sat down at an empty table and noticed a group of Japanese men wearing dark suits sitting in the back of the
room, who regarded him suspiciously. He also noted the surveillance camera in the corner ceiling. One of the men stood and proceeded to walk over to the door labeled ‘office’ in Japanese, then knocked on the door. Pencor watched the man enter the room as a waiter briskly came over to him and took his order of deep fried prawns and gyoza, little dumplings of deep fried octopus, along with a glass of sake.
Pencor’s order was delivered to him shortly afterwards, and, as he savored the tasty meal, he warily kept his eyes on the men seated at the table. He trusted no one and could plainly see that the men were armed, judging from the bulges in the sides of their dark suits.
As he sipped the last of his sake, the man who had retreated into the rear office appeared once again from the room and approached his table. Pencor could not help but notice the missing pinky finger on the man’s left hand, and wondered what the poor fellow had done to deserve his ritual penitence.
“Good evening, Pencor-san,” the man said with a polite bow. It never ceased to amuse Pencor how formal protocol and honor ruled the lives of the Japanese. Even the most blood-thirsty criminal held to this code and time-honored tradition.
“Mr. Osama is ready to see you now. I do hope your meal was satisfactory,” he said politely as Pencor rose to follow him across the room to the door. As they passed the other three men, their steady gaze continued.
“Yes, thank you, the meal was fine,” Pencor replied flatly as the man knocked on the door to the office.
“Enter,” a voice from within boomed. The large man opened the door and motioned Pencor inside.
“Mr. Pencor is here to see you, Oyabun.” Pencor knew the term Oyabun meant father, the formal title given to leaders of the Japanese Yakuza clan. The man then closed the door behind Pencor, and went back to his friends seated at the table.
“Hello, Robert,” said a voice from a large high-backed swivel chair.
With the Yakuza leader’s back still facing him, Pencor gazed about the room, taking in the elegance of the lavish office. It was impeccably furnished, adorned with bright flowers, native plants, and a myriad of paintings hanging tastefully on the wall.
The swivel chair slowly turned around to face him, revealing a well-dressed middle-aged Japanese man. He had short black hair and wore a black patch over his left eye, a commemorative injury from his violent early years.
Yagato Osama was the Tokyo leader of the Yakuza, the Japanese version of the Sicilian Mafia. It was a structured organization with strong clan ties, having a presence in Japan dating from the 1600s. If persons with a grievance could not gain satisfaction from the local authorities, they could most likely find it by going to the Oyabun in their region to have it
solved for them. The Yakuza had their own form of justice, which was often swift, brutal, and final.
Pencor knew Osama was the Tokyo regional leader with the honored title Oyabun. His next in command was his adviser called Saiko-komon
,
and then down to its many members called Wakashu
,
or children. He knew the Oyabun was to be obeyed by all, even if it meant risking life or limb to do so. He was absolute lord and ruler over his kingdom.
“Good morning, Yagato. I hope you are well,” Pencor said, offering the empty platitude as he walked over to the plush high-backed chairs in front of the desk.
“Please sit down, Robert. May I offer you a cup of tea?” Yagato Osama asked, gesturing to the priceless Sucki tea set dating back to the Sui and Tang dynasty of 5th
century China.
“No, thank you, Yagato,” Pencor replied sitting down and putting his briefcase down beside him. Watching Osama pour a cup for himself, he noticed the tip of the pinky finger on his left hand was also missing.
Pencor knew that this was the result of the practice of Yubitsume; the ritual of cutting off your own fingertip with a knife or sharp item, then wrapping it in paper and sending it to the Oyabun as an apology for disobedience, accompanied by a note begging for forgiveness. The more transgressions, the more fingertips you would lose. If the transgression was too great, no penitence could be accepted and your execution was assured.
“I’ve come to check on the progress of our plans,” Pencor said, getting right to the point. “What is the current status of our operation in the Canary Islands?”
“Operation Bishamon is going as planned, Robert, so you need not concern yourself. Our facility on Tenerife is safe and above suspicion. As far as anyone is concerned, it’s just another one of the many research observatories located on Mount Blanca’s plateau. To the casual observer, it is nothing more than a satellite relay station, and my security keeps a watchful eye out for intruders.”
“What about the progress of your Scalar weapon? Is it proceeding as planned?” Pencor asked.
“The weapon has been in operation for months now, and has been exponentially increasing at the rate provided by our lead scientist on site. You must have patience, my dear friend. Your retribution will come soon enough,” Osama stated with a malevolent grin.
“Are the seismic sensors on the island of La Palma still functioning properly? It is essential that no one notice any seismic activity prior to the final phase.”
“They are working fine, Robert. I must admit, it was a sound idea to have the hundreds of geological seismic sensors located on La Palma replaced by our technicians after your fictitious company won the maintenance contract with La Palma,” Osama said, reaching for his teacup.
“A little matter made simple with a generous contribution to a few well-placed island administrators and officials,”
Pencor said with a smirk as Osama sipped his tea. “It’s amazing what people will do when the price is right. Greed can be most rewarding sometimes.”
“It took our people almost two years to complete the switching of the sensors,” Osama said, setting his cup back on its tray. “Now all the geological stations on La Palma will never see any reports of unusual seismic activity until it is far too late. Our men programmed the sensors to give a false tremor indication from time to time, which is a normal occurrence on the island. If they showed no activity, geologists would conclude that the sensors were not functioning properly and investigate. I must admit, it was brilliant plan, Robert,” Osama said, nodding with approval. “As for the Scalar weapons, my organization has been working on the Longitudinal Wave Interferometers weaponry for the last fifteen years with a varied success rate. The world would be shocked to know that we have been wreaking havoc in many regions, focusing mainly on locales that would not suspect anything, such as Australia and Indonesia. The Americans are aware of the technology, but have stifled it for decades save a few scientists who have tried to make their government aware of the threat. They are also aware of the possible economic gains of finding an alternative fuel source, such as the one you have successfully developed in Morocco.”
“I’ve read the reports of your organization’s handy work with the Scalar weapons,” Pencor said. “You’ve caused much
of the earthquake, volcano, and tsunami activity in this region of the world for quite some time with tremendous and catastrophic results; amazingly, with no one the wiser. I was convinced by your little demonstration in New Guinea in 2008 that your weapons would suffice nicely for my needs.”
“It is still not an exact science, Robert. The Longitudinal Wave Interferometers do work, but they sometimes produce unexpected results, especially when dealing with existing earth fault lines. Our early experiments using the Electromagnetic Pulse Canon were finally discontinued. The resulting energy bursts were not controllable, which often roused the suspicions of too many people,” Osama said, pausing long enough to take a sip of tea then continuing. “Our first testing was almost a catastrophe with a plasma fireball exploding over the city of Perth, Australia in 1995. Luckily the Perth Astronomical Observatory concluded that the anomaly had been the explosion of a celestial fireball from space and, fortunately, no investigations were ever launched. Regrettably, with the fall of the Soviet Union at the time, our funding by the KGB had all but dried up. We were lacking the major funding needed for our experiments, until you so graciously enabled us to continue and refine the technology.”
“So I can expect little difficulty with your new weapon’s results?” Pencor asked.
“La Palma is a more precise and easily manageable target grid. We know exactly where to direct the electromagnetic waves using the existing geo-survey data as
a marker beacon. We’re not really causing the event, but expediting something that will eventually occur sometime in the future,” Osama said smiling, as he poured himself another cup of tea.
“A naturally occurring catastrophe from an unnatural weapon…how appropriate,” Pencor said with a smile.
“And what is the progress of your plans for the worldwide deployment of your Zero Point Generators, or ZPGs, as you so lovingly call them?” Osama asked, tapping the stub of his missing fingertip on the polished desktop.
“Production is ongoing, and, the first two shipments from my production facility in Safi, Morocco, can set sail at a moment’s notice. You may not realize it, but the facility on Tenerife is being powered by a smaller version of my industrial ZPG that I plan to deploy worldwide,” Pencor said proudly. “The unrealized quest of a few scientists in America was ultimately silenced by the oil industry’s strangle hold on energy, along with the power of their money to buy out greedy politicians. Their dream of free power from the vacuum went unrealized, much to my benefit,” Pencor said as he picked up his briefcase and set it on Osama’s desk. “The prototype powering my production facility in Morocco has been on line and producing energy for the last two years with flawless results. Imagine, my friend, virtually free energy from a process that has been known to be feasible since its discovery by Tesla in the early 1900s; the Zero Point field theory. Energy from the vacuum of space and time that is
going to change the course of history, and
we
will have complete control of it,” Pencor exclaimed with excitement in his voice. “The world will see us as the saviors of mankind with the result being a clean environment and an unlimited source of energy. The theory can even be applied to vehicles in the near future and
we
will be in control of it all.”
“For a price, of course,” Osama added.
“Of course, Yagato,” he replied with a grin. “My planned assault on an unsuspecting United States will no doubt result in its economic and infrastructural collapse, the likes the world has never seen. Confusion and chaos will reign supreme. Then, after a short period, we will roll out our ZPGs for global distribution. The oil cartels of the world will ultimately collapse. Fossil fuels, as we know them, will eventually go the way of the dinosaur,” Pencor said, chuckling at the irony as he opened his briefcase. “The Middle East sheiks and South American despots can all choke on their oil. Before too long, they won’t be able to give it away. Take a look, Yagato,” he said proudly as he slid the briefcase to face him. “Inside you will find all my final design plans and patents, which will be revealed to the world after our little surprise has been implemented on the U.S. They will never suspect the connection, and we will be long gone from the Canaries soon after the weapon has successfully achieved its goal. Until then, Yagato, I want you to safeguard my documents. You have the manpower for it.”