Zero Point (22 page)

Nature’s awesome fury had been set in motion and the stage was set for its final act.

17

R
obert Pencor was furious as he pounded his fists on the desk of Yagato Osama.

“How could you have been so incompetent? All of this manpower, yet you let them slip between your fingers.” He continued his raving as the Japanese Oyabun patiently tapped his fingers on his desk, his tolerance for this man’s insulting behavior reaching its limits.

As Pencor’s diatribe became more menacing, the burly Yakuza guard standing at the doorway slightly raised his AK-47 in an automatic defense of his Oyabun. Osama quickly shot him a look, which he readily recognized and lowered his weapon immediately.

“All of our efforts may be in vain due to your inefficiency,” he yelled as the calm pretense of Yagato Osama wavered ever so slightly. “Your scientist insists that we need at least eight more hours to ensure a proper build-up of the Interferometer weapon. By that time, the authorities will be on top of us if Turner and his people sound the alarm.” His face began turning scarlet red from the rage he now leveled at Osama, with eyes that betrayed any sense of sanity.

“Robert,” Osama said, regaining his composure. “Once again you question my ability, which saddens me. Granted, Turner and his friends are alive so far through sheer luck and the element of surprise. It was bad karma that the supply helicopter arrived when it did,” he said, picking up the phone receiver. “I have no doubt that they are presently heading for the airport in Santa Cruz and my men have been dispatched to intercept them.” Pausing mid thought, he spoke into the phone. “Please send in Administrator Fuentes.” After hanging up the phone, he said, “Need I remind you, Robert, I have not achieved my status in this organization through lack of good judgment or caution. I have planned for every contingency in the event of trouble, as you soon will see.”

The door opened and a short, overweight, balding man with bulging eyes entered the room. He was immediately taken back by the chilling gaze he received from Pencor. Warily, he moved to the center of the room as the guard shut the door behind him. Recognizing Yagato Osama, the portly man nodded politely.

“Good morning, Mr. Osama,” he said nervously.

“Good morning, Administrator Fuentes. I trust that you are well” Osama said, knowing that the man had done very well financially since the inception of their relationship.

Yagato Osama had been paying Fuentes quite handsomely for his cooperation since Bishamon arrived on Tenerife. He quickly expedited matters that were favorable to Osama, such as getting permits or helping to pad the pockets
of many officials on the island. As island administrator, Fuentes had control and unlimited access to all government departments, which made him the logical choice for exploitation by Osama at the onset of his plans.

“Why did you need to see me so urgently?” Fuentes asked. He was still confused as to why Osama’s men came to his home so early and whisked him to the complex, without so much as an explanation.

“We have a small problem, Administrator,” Osama said, eyeing the man whose suits never seemed to fit right. “You are aware of the Turner archeology project below our complex, are you not?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, my assistant gave them permission as a favor to Professor Santiago from the university, while I was in Spain on business. Of course, I would have denied permission and tied the request up in permits if I had known. It was tragic that he died in that awful accident soon afterward,” he said, knowing that it was no accident that his assistant was dead.

“Yes, quite a shame,” Osama said, dismissing the topic. “It seems that Turner and his accomplices compromised this facility early this morning, killing many of my associates. They have stolen valuable information from this facility and, in the process, destroyed my private helicopter and stole our supply helicopter. They are a danger to us and need to be dealt with immediately. I want you to use your resources to apprehend them by any means possible, and then bring them to me
without any contact or communication with anyone. Do you understand?”

“It will be difficult, but I will try to do what I can.”

“You will not try, you will do it!” Osama yelled at the fat man before him, whose forehead now glistened with sweat. “I want them brought to me immediately. If they resist, your police are instructed to shoot to kill.” Osama paused for effect and added with a twisted smile, “By the way, how are your beautiful wife and lovely daughter?”

“Uh…they are well,” the administrator replied, shaken to his core by the question; the true meaning of this pleasantry driven home with crystal clarity. He was over his head and knew he had no other choice but to comply with Osama’s wishes, no matter how terrible. “I will personally contact the Policia
Nacional and the Guardia
Civil right away and order an island-wide search,” he said with a false bravado, knowing failure would mean a violent death not only for him, but for his family as well.

“Your success will be rewarded, Administrator Fuentes,” Osama said, waving his hand in dismissal as the guard escorted the administrator out of the office. Upon the door being shut behind them, Osama spoke quietly to Pencor.

“Believe me, Robert; neither Turner nor anyone else will have sufficient time to thwart our plans,” he stated confidently. “By this evening, our little present to the United States will be on its way, and we will be on our way to the airport to make
our escape. All incriminating evidence will be disposed of prior to that, just as we have planned.”

“You have forgotten one loose end,” Pencor said, his anger now under control, though still irritated by the costly turn of events of the last few hours. “The scientist who escaped your facility was with the Turners; that is our one vulnerability. He must be silenced before he can implicate us.”

“My men are aware of this, Robert. They all have his picture, along with photos of the Turners from the newspaper coverage. If they are discovered by my forces, they have orders to kill them without hesitation,” Osama said flatly.

Looking at his watch, Pencor turned to leave the office. “Have my helicopter pilot meet me at the landing pad. I have the reception at the university to attend to assure my alibi for being on Tenerife. I’m making a major contribution to the antiquities department of the college.” Stopping and turning to face Osama, he pointed his finger at him and said darkly, “Do not fail me, Yagato. I’ll return later to collect my patents.” He spun around and walked out the door, wondering what other bad luck could befall him before this was all finished.

Osama reached for the phone and called his security chief, who answered on the first ring. “Have you completed the modification to Pencor’s helicopter?” Osama asked.

“Yes, sir, it has been done per your instructions,” the security head said proudly. “The pilot has been instructed to await your orders.”

“Good,” Osama said, smiling at his own cleverness
. It had been bad karma that the Turner team managed to elude him thus far. The arrival of the younger Turner had been unexpected, but not insurmountable,
he thought.

“I have been in constant contact with our people in and around Santa Cruz. They are positioning themselves at all the locations you predicted they might go in the event they fail to reach the airport. We will get them, sir,” he said confidently.

“Very good,” Osama said. “Contact me the moment they are taken. After that little inconvenience is dealt with, I’ll have my welcome surprise for Pencor when he returns.” Hanging up the phone, he opened the desk drawer, picked up a detonator switch, and toyed lightly with the button.
Yes, Mr. Pencor, we will have quite a reception for you. I promise.

18

T
he old Tenerife National Guard base was located in a long red brick building on the outskirts of La Laguna, a twenty-minute drive from Santa Cruz. Built in 1907, it served as a military training base until 1982 when total autonomy of the archipelago was achieved from Spain with the fall of the Franco government. Since then, the base had fallen upon disrepair and was converted to the island National Guard base of operations. Only a skeleton crew now staffed the facility during the week. There were even less on this day seeing the Dia de Santiago Apostol
festival in Santa Cruz was in full gear.

Sergeant Juan Ortega sat at his desk smoking his pipe, as he did on quiet days. He had just gotten off the telephone with his wife, who was harassing him to leave the base early in order to get to the parade in town later that evening.

“That woman will be the death of me,” he bellowed as he slammed the phone’s receiver down on its cradle. “Private Carmen, are you married?” he asked the skinny young man filing papers in the file cabinet.

“No, Sergeant, I’m not,” he replied curiously.

“For God’s sake, don’t. It’s not worth it,” he grumbled as he picked up the roster for next week's mountain rescue training, which had become necessary with the increase of careless tourists getting stranded on the high peaks of Mount Teide.

Ortega looked again at the fax report from the Tenerife Police he received earlier, showing photos and names of people wanted for questioning in a multiple murder, but tossed it back onto the pile of paper work on his desk.

The private smiled at the sergeant’s comments as he went about his duties, but stopped suddenly when heard the sound of a chopper coming in from the southwest.

“Do we have an inbound flight scheduled today, Sergeant?” he asked as he went over to the old, rotted wood-framed window and looked out.

“None that I’m aware of, Private,” Ortega replied, looking through the papers on his desk.

“It’s a Sikorsky transport, Sergeant,” he reported as Ortega rose from the comfort of his chair to see for himself. “What is it doing here?”

“Let’s go see
who
may be paying us a visit, Carmen,” Ortega said as both men strapped on their side arms. They headed out the door to investigate the strange arrival.

The big CH-53 touched down next to the Guard unit’s old Bell Model 205 UH-1H chopper, used for mountain evacuations and local transport. The
Big Iron
shut down its two remaining GE power plants, throwing the surrounding
area into silence. Only the wisp
--
wisp sound of the craft’s top rotor blades winding to a halt remained.

The side door opened, and the group of weary refugees from the long night’s struggle walked down the steps to the black asphalt of the helipad. They were followed in the rear by its pilot, Captain Saune.

As the two soldiers from the base drew nearer, Captain Saune recognized the sergeant and gave him a wave, moving ahead of the group to intercept him. The confused sergeant gave his commanding officer a salute as he reached him.

“Good morning, Captain,” he stated as Saune returned the salute. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“I understand, Sergeant Ortega. We have an urgent matter to attend to, and I will need your help.”

“I’m afraid we do have a problem, Sir,” he replied nervously, pulling his side arm out of its holster and pointing it at Turner and Samuel as they came towards him. “Stop where you are! You are all to come with me, where you will be held until the police can arrive.”

“What are you talking about, Sergeant?” Saune asked, surprised by the actions of his old friend as the private also pulled his gun to cover the group.

“What’s this all about?” Turner asked as he walked closer, halting when he saw the gun leveled at his head.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ortega said, “but we have orders from the administrator’s office to detain all of you for questioning by the police in regards to possible murders at the Bishamon
Satellite Relay Station. This has come from Administrator Fuentes himself. The police report came out a half hour ago stating that an island-wide manhunt has been launched to apprehend Dr. Turner and his associates for the murder of scientists at the facility.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous, Sergeant,” Saune replied in frustration. “There’s no truth in that at all.”

“That’s just great,” Samuel said in disgust. “I’m really starting to get a complex. Everyone keeps pointing guns at us.”

“Listen to me, Sergeant. You’ve known me for fifteen years now, and, in all that time, haven’t I always been honest with you?” Saune asked, relaxing his posture and speaking in Spanish to his subordinate.

“Yes, sir, I have the utmost respect for you. That is why I do not enjoy doing this,” Ortega replied, lowering his weapon a bit.

“Can we speak in the office?” Saune asked. “The rest can remain here with your private. I promise, they will not cause you any trouble,” he said, shooting Samuel a stern look.

“Hey,” Samuel said, “I’m the sole of patience, Captain, but if that guy keeps pointing that pop gun at me I’m—”

“See what you can do, Captain Saune,” Turner interrupted, “but remember we don’t have much time left.”

“Shall we, Sergeant?” Saune asked, gesturing at the old red brick office.