Zero Point

by Tim Fairchild

  “Josh, I don’t want to die,” Susan cried, now bordering on hysteria.

  “We’re going to get through this, so listen to me carefully. I want you to grab hold of the side cleats, and, no matter what happens, don't let go, okay?”

  In the darkness of their makeshift pod, the pair heard an ominous roar similar to the winds of a typhoon. Turner raised his head and peered out the small slit in the canvas. To his horror, he saw a huge blackness rising out of the night, the specter actually blotting out the night sky as it unfurled over them.

  “God help us,” Turner whispered as he closed his eyes in a futile effort to escape the nightmarish scene.

  The massive ninety-foot wave slammed into the ship broadside, sending the old relic rolling on the sea floor like a toy. The ship’s first roll completely sheared off the bridge superstructure, killing Captain Alfred Cleary instantly and trapping intern James Pond, Harkness, and many of the hapless crew below. They drowned in total darkness as the maelstrom flooded the ship in seconds.

  ***

  One week later in the Ginza district of Tokyo, Japan, the phone rang in a dimly lit, plush office. It was picked up quickly by its lone occupant.

  “Yes, what is it?” the voice said in a soft, but icy tone.

  “It is Fuyuki. I have the full results that you requested,” the man on the other end stated.

  “I trust you have good news for me, Fuyuki.”

  “Yes, Oyabun. The results were quite successful. Using the region’s tectonic plates as the principal target worked better than expected.”

  “Excellent. Have there been any suspicions raised by the authorities?”

  “None that I am aware of, sir. The tsunami has been attributed to an undersea earth slide caused by seismic activity common to the region, and has received little attention in the media. The loss of life was minimal and no report of a fireball has been made to the authorities. There were a few witnesses, but they have been basically ignored.”

  “Then it seems that our little demonstration was successful. Our benefactor wants assurance that the plan will be feasible since he will be investing heavily into the project.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m confident that with his financial backing, we will be more than able to meet his needs, and ours.”

  “Then I will tell our new friend that Operation Bishamon can commence whenever he is ready to proceed. You have done well, Fuyuki. Goodbye.”

  Hanging up the phone, he glanced at a map on his desk of the Canary Islands. La Palma is such an insignificant little island, he mused as he gently rolled up the map. But when we are finished, the world will know the name very well; very well indeed.

  2

  The Canary Islands, present day

  The 1992 Land Rover slowly made its way up the winding and dangerous road leading south from Santa Cruz, the capitol of the island of Tenerife.

  Josh Turner never tired of this view as he gazed up at the majestic, volcanic peak of Mount Teide, rising twelve thousand feet above him with its snow-capped peaks. It offered a vista not seen by many.

  Turner found the Canary Islands to be one of the most beautiful places he had ever worked. Looking out the window, his mind drifted as the old, rusty vehicle traveled onward. He found himself thinking of the tragic occurrence in 2008.

  The nightmares of the tsunami in the Bismarck Sea were getting worse lately. It had been a miracle that he and Susan Hendrich survived the ordeal.

  The huge wave had struck the Southern Star, and, by some divine providence, or through sheer luck alone, their Zodiac was flung off the bow by the force of the maelstrom as the ship began to roll. Miraculously, it landed face up into the crest of the churning wave. Susan screamed in abject fear for what seemed an eternity as the inflatable rode the head of the foaming torrent. In total darkness, the two had been carried by the fearsome wave all the way to the mainland of Papua.

  Within minutes, Turner felt the Zodiac’s bottom being buffeted by solid objects as it passed over trees far beyond the beach. He quickly unsnapped the cover and could make out in the moonlit night that they somehow had managed to be carried a good distance inland. The nightmare finally ceased when the small boat came to rest atop a high rocky outcrop.

  It had taken two days of relying on his jungle survival skills before the pair was discovered by a rescue boat from the Papua Maritime Defense Force.

  The tragic loss of his intern, James Pond, weighed heavily on him, as did the psychological damage done to Susan Hendrich from the ordeal. She had never been the same since that night and had given up a promising career in the field of archeology. Turner had tried to encourage her for quite some time, hoping that she would reconsider, but she soon lost touch with him and faded into obscurity.

  A jarring bump in the rocky road brought him back to the present.

  “So much for getting over my jet lag after a long working trip in the states,” Turner said to Paulo, his driver from San Fernando University. They made their way toward the first of many switchbacks that would lead them to the higher plateau where the team was working. The team, headed by his father, Eli Turner, was currently working on a new pyramid discovery near Guimar, a town on the eastern flank of Tenerife, about twenty-four miles from Santa Cruz.

  This was the seventh and newest pyramid discovered. The other six had been discovered by archaeologists in 1998, Turner thought as the vehicle continued up a steep, rock-strewn road toward the site.

  Turner and his father had been working together on this new pyramid at the request of San Fernando University Director of Archeology, Carlos Santiago. Eli Turner and Carlos had become fast friends since their work together on the Cueva de Belmaco project years ago. The caves, discovered on the island of La Palma, were a dwelling place for the ancient Guanches, the original inhabitants of the Canary Islands.

  “Why was Maria so insistent that I come today? Couldn’t it have waited for a few days?” he asked Paulo, pulling his ball cap brim down to shield his eyes from the sun that was now making its descent behind Mt. Teide.

  “I don’t know what is going on, Josh. Maria was very insistent that you come as soon as possible. She said it was really important,” Paulo replied, then spat his wad of chewing tobacco out his open window.

  “Seems odd that she wouldn’t tell me over the phone,” Turner said, trying to imagine what could be important enough to get him out here on the dig team’s day off.

  His mind drifted back to all of the digs he had been part of during his father’s long tenure as an archaeologist. I’ve spent so many years with Dad, digging in the dirt in places such as Mexico, Peru, Belize, the Dead Sea region, and countless other locations. Had it been that long?

  He pulled his father’s gift, a new Jansen pipe, from his vest pocket and placed it in a bag with a pouch of fresh Virginia Cavendish tobacco. He knew it was his father’s favorite, so Turner had picked up some for him a few day ago before flying back to Tenerife. As the Land Rover started up the series of steep switchbacks, Turner reminisced how much his life had changed over the years.

  After losing his mother in a car accident when he was only five, Turner had traveled the world with his father, constantly moving from one archeology site to another. Never having any semblance of a normal home, he had lived and been tutored throughout his adolescent years in some of the harshest regions of the world.

  He learned the skills of an archaeologist from his renowned father, and, over the years living abroad, had mastered the languages of Spanish, Hebrew, and Aramaic.

  At the age of eighteen, Turner had left his father and entered college, graduating from Texas A&M with degrees in both archeology and anthropology. He had then moved to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, after receiving a job offer as director of field research with the National Parks Service, much to his father’s disapproval.

  “Son, you’re wasting your talent there and you know it,” a disgruntled Dr. Elias Turner said to him at the time.

  Turner remembered the sarcastic response he had made
to his father that day. “Dad, they might dig up an old Aramaic papyrus where they fought the battle of the Wheat Field, and I may come in handy being able to translate it for them.”

  He remembered how his father had just shaken his head and said, “Whatever makes you happy, Josh. That’s all I care about, but with your training—”

  “Dad,” Turner had interrupted angrily, “just because you don’t feel that it’s valid work, doesn’t mean that it’s not to me. Why can’t you let me make my own life? I’m not you!” Turner had regretted the remark, remembering the hurt he saw in his father’s eyes.

  Now at the age of twenty-eight, Josh Turner found himself one of the three field archeology directors of the International Consortium for Artifact Preservation.

  ICAP began as the brainchild of his father and longtime collaborator, Professor Carlos Santiago, who at the time was director of antiquities at the University of Tenerife in the Canary Islands. The two esteemed archaeologists conceived the idea of an independent, international organization serving to help countries discover their ancient artifacts, and help fight the growing loss of national treasures by way of the antiquities black market.

  He recalled how after only two years with the National Parks Service, major funding cuts had led to him being let go. Not long after, his father offered the position of ICAP field director to him without comment or judgment, which had infuriated him. Turner begrudgingly said yes to the offer, knowing he had little choice at the time. In his mind he knew his father was thinking, I told you so. You should have listened to me.

  Josh promised himself that he would commit to this position temporarily until he found something else. Swallowing his pride, he set out to prove that he was as good as his father; always pushing himself to the limits on each assignment. But now, he was tired; tired of trying to meet his father’s high standards.

  He admitted to himself it was not all a bad experience. Through ICAP, he’d made some good friendships. Notably, his two field director counterparts, Dr. Hiram Rabib, director of antiquities at the University of Jerusalem, and Dr. Kim Liao, director of research of the Yangtze River project in Hubei Province, China. Both countries became charter members when ICAP was formally announced to the world five years ago.

  Reaching the summit of the last rocky switchback, the dust covered Land Rover followed a small dirt road to the top of the plateau where Turner saw the weathered pyramids come into view. He marveled at the ancient structures and wondered who the builders were, and what had become of their culture.

  Turner learned during his time spent on Tenerife that the pyramids had been totally ignored by the local inhabitants. Long thought to be piles of earthen rubble, the ancient structures finally came to light when Norwegian explorer, Thor Heyerdahl, did a study on the ruins. Heyerdahl found them similar in design to the pyramids he had been researching halfway across the world in Tucume, Peru.

  The Tenerife structures were step pyramids with facings of black volcanic stone rising to a height of about thirty-nine feet. They were all astronomically aligned with the sunset of the summer solstice. Not exactly the Great Pyramids of Egypt, but enough to convince Thor Heyerdahl to have the area purchased by a Norwegian businessman and researched at length.

  The new dig site had been a beehive of activity by numerous archeology students and workers. Today, however, Turner could see it was strangely quiet. Everyone had gone back to Santa Cruz to prepare for the Dia de Santiago Apostol, the annual festival and carnival.

  The Land Rover headed over to the small wood-framed hut located at the far end of the site. It had been built to act as the command center and dubbed ‘the dust bowl’ by the American students working the dig. It housed the portable generators, food, and water plus served as the dining hall, meeting room, and communications shack for the teams.

  Turner smiled when he saw Maria waving at him from the steps of the makeshift office as the Land Rover pulled across the compound, coming to a stop beside the generator shed.

  Maria Santiago, daughter of Professor Carlos Santiago of the university, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Of Spanish descent, she was tall and slender with long, flowing black hair and bright blue eyes, which she attributed to a recessive gene indicative of her Guanche descent. That knowledge had given her the desire early on in life to learn all she could about the Guanche people. Over the past few years, Turner came to regard her passion as an obsession; Maria made little room in her life for other things, including him.

  “Hello, Josh,” she yelled, running over to greet him as Turner stepped out of the Rover. He was surprised by her sudden warm embrace.

  “Hey, uh, Maria,” was all he could muster as he felt her body against his. He wanted to be with her; be a part of her life, but sadly, he had learned long ago that her work was her only love. “Good to see you again,” he managed, regaining his composure.

  “How was your trip to the United States?” she asked as the two began walking toward the doors to the operations building.

  “It was boring as usual, Maria. Meeting with representatives of countries interested in joining ICAP is not what I would call interesting, but you know my dad. He wants things done his way, with personal visits and such. Why are you still here with the festival gearing up in Santa Cruz?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “You know me, Josh. All work and no play,” she said as they entered the building. “Now that you’re back, I wanted to show you something before I approached your father about it at our weekly meeting tonight in Santa Cruz. You know how ole’ Dr. Grant gets when he’s not the one making the discovery,” she said with a laugh.

  “Okay, here we go again. Maria, you and the others have got to stop calling my father that,” Turner said in mock disdain. “It’s really starting to bug him.”

  Ever since Josh and Eli Turner had met Maria, she’d teased the elder Turner about his uncanny resemblance to the actor, Sam Neill, who portrayed Dr. Alan Grant in the movie Jurassic Park. Before long, the other students picked up on it and the nickname stuck.

  “We would stop calling him that if he didn’t wear that damned Australian outback hat all the time,” she replied, with a laugh that warmed Turner’s heart. “He told me just last week he was wearing that hat long before that movie came out, and that they stole the idea from the photo of him in Archeology Magazine.”

  “So, Maria, what’s so darned important that it couldn’t wait a few more days until the festival was over? My aching back was just beginning to straighten out from the long flight.”

  “I’m really sorry to interrupt your time off, Josh, but I didn’t want word to get out,” she said seriously. “I figured with everyone away for the festival, you might be able to shed some light on a little mystery without an audience.”

  “The new pyramid is no real mystery, Maria. They—”

  “It’s not the pyramid,” she interrupted, “but something Samuel and I discovered while hiking on the western slopes of Blanca Mountain, up near the northern ridge of the Teide volcano. We were off the main trail system, and made it up the western edge of Blanca when we found a recent rockslide that exposed an ancient lava tube. You know Samuel,” she added, rolling her eyes. “He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore, so we decided to check it out. We actually found undisturbed Guanche dwellings, artifacts, and burial caves.”

  “What’s the mystery of that, Maria? They’re quite common to these islands and discovered all the time. I‘m sure you were like a kid in a candy store though,” Turner said with a chuckle.

  “I know, Josh. It’s not a unique discovery, but what we found deep inside the cave is. We took some photos of all we found on the digital camera and left it as is. We told no one so it wouldn’t be disturbed until a proper field study could be launched. Come over here and take a look.” Turner followed her past two long tables used for eating, and a corner area set up for the laptop computers.

  The small corner table was a myriad of wires, extension cords, and surge suppressors, which were
haphazardly lying about. Outside, the portable generator purred softly, supplying the light and power needed for the small refrigerator, lights, and computer power strips.

  “I know the pixel quality isn’t very good, but take a look at these, Josh.” Maria said, clicking on the laptop’s picture viewer program.

  Turner saw on the screen the ancient cave, formed from a volcanic lava tube, its black basalt walls glimmering in the sunlight near the entrance, and then fading into the darker recesses of the cave. Maria continued advancing the pictures, showing items such as two well preserved tamarcos, coats of goat skin that protected the ancient Gaunches from the cold of the mountains, and, a huirmas, a piece of leather worn like sleeves to protect the arms.

  “Look at the guaycas,” Turner said, marveling at the crude leather legging used to cover the area between the ankle and the knee. “They’re remarkably well preserved.”

  “Yes, they are, but bear with me. That‘s not what I brought you here for,” she said, quickly advancing the picture viewer. “When we approached the darker recesses of the cave, we had to pull out the flash light Samuel keeps in his back pack in order to continue. We saw several bucios, the large conch shells they used as trumpets along with a pile of banot, wooden spears and many other pristine artifacts.”

  “Okay, Maria, that is all well and good. These are remarkable finds, but what’s the great puzzle here?” Turner asked, becoming a little annoyed.

  “Here!” she exclaimed as the next slide showed what looked like small carved out fissures with basalt rocks stacked in front of them. “Guanche burial caves similar to what we have seen many times before, but take a look at the one at the far right. It’s much different from the others and the cover stone has something etched into it. It was way too faded to discern with one small light, so we’ll have to clean up the image to really distinguish what the symbol is.”

  “Interesting that it’s different from the others,” Turner said, leaning closer to get a better look. “So, is that it?”