Zero Point

by Tim Fairchild

  “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

  It 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

  They 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 lo
oked 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.

  “I will go to the Parliamentary Council myself,” Captain Saune said defensively. “They will listen to me.”

  “They will do nothing until it is too late,” Yashiro argued. “You don’t understand. Osama and Pencor’s money and influence have far-reaching tentacles. You can rest assured they have bought and paid for key government officials here on Tenerife. How do you think they got the contract to replace the seismic sensors on La Palma? They have men everywhere and….”

  “Quiet,” Turner said as they approached a huge lava boulder ahead of them. “I hear machinery up ahead. Wait here and I’ll check.”

  He headed off in a light sprint in the direction of the sound of the machinery, becoming louder as he advanced. Coming to the side of the huge slab of basalt, he peered around its cold black surface to see lights on the walls about forty-five feet distant. As the whirring sound suddenly ceased, Turner watched as bodies were unceremoniously dropped from the opening at the top of the ladder, each of them hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

  Wonder who those poor bastards were, Turner thought, tightly gripping the side arm in his hand. Just then, the sound of the mechanism started again and he could see the light from the opening in the ceiling fade as the steel door closed with a muffled boom. “All clear,” he said to the group as the cave was thrust into silence once again.

  “Looks like they don’t appreciate the help around here,” Samuel said, reaching his side and seeing the bodies up ahead.

  “Can you see any guards further ahead?” Saune asked, arriving next.

  “None that I can see, Captain,” Turner replied. “Someone was dumping bodies down from the ceiling hatchway,” he stated coldly.

  “More of Pencor and Osama’s dirty work, I assume,” Samuel said, clicking off the safety of his weapon.

  “Let’s get moving before some of their goons decide to come back,” Turner said.

  Rising up, they walked into the open tunnel that led to the ladder beneath the facility. Turner then gestured to Yashiro to join him at the lead. “Yashiro, I want you to lead us out of here once we check the entrance to make sure that it's clear. Are you up to it?”

  “I can do it,” the Japanese scientist said with new found optimism and courage at the sudden turn of events that had snatched him from the jaws of certain death.

  The group came up to the ladder beneath the trap door and Turner's earlier observations were confirmed as Yashiro looked in horror at the macabre scene before him.

  “They have killed the remaining scientists. No witnesses,” he said, his voice shaking a little as he stared at the mound of bodies stacked atop each other like a grotesque pile of firewood. “That tells me they are very close to triggering the landslide. The entire process is now automated.”

  The group passed the final storage bin at a quicker pace now, and towards the lava tube opening just ahead of them. “Once we clear the tunnel,” Yashiro said, “there is an old path to the right of the entrance that leads to a worn switchback pathway. It will lead to the complex’s main gate above.”

  “Let’s go to night vision,” Turner said to Captain Saune and Samuel as they approached within fifteen feet of the tunnel’s exit. The three men flipped down their goggles and powered them up. Upon reaching the lava tube’s end, the three crouched down and surveyed the perimeter for any sign of activity.

  Scanning the area with the night vision goggles, the men were relieved to see no movement and continued to scrutinize their surroundings. Just to their left was a conveyor belt that descended down ninety feet to what appeared to be a loading platform on a natural plateau. Turner made a mental note of the conveyor belt’s control levers located next to them. He continued his scan of the loading area far below and saw that the plateau was studded with landing lights. Sitting there were two helicopters.

  “Do you see what I see, Captain?” Turner said, pointing to the sleek aircrafts as he signaled for the rest of the group to join them.

  “I know where you are headed, Josh. Those are R-44 Ravens and, even though I can fly them, the Robinson only carries one pilot and two passengers. There’s no way we could get everyone out,” he said.

  “I guess that will have to be Plan B,” Turner replied as he stood and directed Yashiro to lead the group in the direction of the path up to the complex’s main gate.

  “Here we go with the Plan B crap again,” Samuel groaned as he and the weary group followed Turner up the pathway.

  “Captain,” Turner said straightforwardly, moving ahead of the others. “If things go badly, I want you to get my father and Maria out of here in one of those helicopters. Promise me you will try.”

  “I don’t think it will come to that, but I promise I will do my best.” Saune said, knowing he had come to trust and respect this man and he would do his utmost to honor his request if the need arose.

  Led by Yashiro, the group started out along the narrow ledge that ran parallel to a steep, vertical drop off that descended to the bottom of the ancient caldera. Each was mindful of their steps and avoided the occasional glance into the blackness below them. They followed in single file until Yashiro, leading with a flashlight, stopped and directed them to the first switchback leading up to the Bishamon facility's main gate.

  The group began their assent upward, not knowing what awaited them at the top of the rise. The eastern sky above them hinted at its first sign of the coming dawn.

  13

  Tenerife, Southern Airport

  Hiroshi Tanaka yawned sleepily as he rose from the comfortable lounge chair in the commercial airways facility at Tenerife Sur Reina Sofia, the Island’s southern airport. This airport, larger than its counterpart Aeropuerto de Tenerife Norte in the north of the island, was a commercial hub for the Canaries, leading to the surrounding islands, as well as out-bound to Africa, Europe, and beyond.

  Hiroshi strolled over to the old white Mr. Coffee and grabbed an old, stained cup. He proceeded to pour the ancient brew, hoping it would jar him awake. Taking a sip of the foul hot liquid, he grimaced, put the cup down, and lifted the cargo manifest for this morning's run.

  Hiroshi had been flying the latest string of supply runs to the Bishamon complex on the old volcano for the last three months. He was glad that he would be relieved by a new pilot after today’s run, affording him a few weeks off for a much needed rest.

  An experienced chopper pilot, Hiroshi had been flying the Big Iron, or more precisely the Sikorsky CH-53 Heavy Lift, for many years. He had amassed hundreds of flight hours during the Iraq war with the Japanese Defense Force, and now for the Bishamon Corporation.

  It will be dawn in an hour and I want to be loaded and airborne, he thought as he began to peruse the manifest. His plan was to arrive at the mountain facility at first light, unload the supplies, and get back to the airport quickly. He had already booked the next flight back to Japan for a hunting trip on the northern island of Hokkaido.

  Walking out of the hanger, he felt the cool Tenerife breeze blowing gently off the Atlantic Ocean as he quickly re-checked the cargo manifest. Finishing his inventory, he kept a
watchful eye on the ground crews as they moved about completing their pre-flight procedures on his heavy lift chopper.

  Stopping halfway to the craft, he admired the refurbished CH-53K with its gross weight of eighty-four thousand pounds and lifting capacity of another twenty-seven thousand pounds.

  I’ll never get tired of flying this old workhorse, he thought, looking at the craft with true admiration.

  The Big Iron, that he was so fond of, was leased to Bishamon for the duration of the business venture on Tenerife. Though ungainly in appearance, it was state-of-the-art with its three new General Electric six thousand shaft horsepower engines and composite airframe.

  Hiroshi loved the new drive system; its split torque main gearbox and advanced digital fly-by-wire system made it an agile but tough flying machine. He now recalled how Osama re-installed the ramp mounted Herstal GAU-21, 50-caliber 12.7mm gun in the rear of the craft on a swing-out mount.

  Why he added that killing machine is beyond me. The only things to shoot at on this rock are the sea gulls, he mused, laughing aloud and lighting a cigarette.

  Hiroshi saw his co-pilot approaching from the hanger with an object under his arm.

  “You almost forgot your new toy,” his copilot, Kentaro Udo, yelled to him over the din of a fuel truck that went clambering by.

  “Ah, thank you, Kentaro,” he responded in a cheerful voice, as the co-pilot handed him his new Mathews Switchback hunting bow and carbon-tipped arrows. “I plan to use this on my hunting trip next week. I hear the hunting season has been exceptional in Hokkaido this year.”