The filming had gone fairly well thus far, with the crew setting up each shot from different vantage points on the volcanic ridge. Based on her expertise, she explained the theory of the remote possibility that an eruption of Cumbre Vieja could cause a major mega-thrust tsunami. The volcanic eruption would cause the fault line to collapse into the sea and a massive tsunami would occur devastating the western hemisphere. The BBC had done a special on the theory years before, but the National Geographic Channel wanted to do a follow-up program, which to them meant good ratings.
Just two days ago, she and the crew were taping at the twelve foot fault running down the spine of the southwestern slope of the island, a result of the 1949 eruption. She had noticed the unmistakable signs of active volcanism that only she could interpret with her years of hands-on experience. Rosalie knew that the multiple active steam vents and abnormally high ground temperatures indicated an active magma chamber. Seeing these ominous clues set off an alarm in her head because she had witnessed them so many times before in the past. The only thing missing were the seismic tremors, and this perplexed her.
On yesterday’s film shoot, they had suddenly encountered four Asian men on the ridge. The men told the crew that they were on private property and, for their own safety, they should leave. She found it quite disconcerting that two of the men were armed under their jackets.
She and the film crew left at Rosalie's insistence, and immediately traveled to the park office for clarification. They were assured that there was no restriction to their going up to the fault ridge, and that the men they encountered were in error. Much to Rosalie's growing trepidation, the film crew decided to try again in the morning.
Rosalie sent the film crew ahead of her this morning, explaining to them that she had to contact her main office in Washington D.C. to report her observations. She would hire a ride to the fault line located high above the tranquil beaches later on. The crew teased her, saying she was becoming a regular Chicken Little worried about the sky falling. Reveling in their joke, they left her ninety minutes earlier to set up the equipment for the day’s film shoot.
The phone in her ear finally clicked. It was followed by a man’s voice that said, “USGS Data Center: Peter Markson speaking.”
“Hi, Pete. It’s Rosalie,” she said, relieved to no longer be on hold.
“Hey, Rugged Rosalie, how goes your new reality TV show?” Markson said, teasing his co-worker about her latest assignment.
“Very funny, Pete,” she replied, annoyed at being the brunt of jokes with her peers. “You know I was right in the middle of my field work on Mt. Etna in Sicily. The main office could have sent anyone here if they wanted.”
“Calm down, Rosalie. I was just kidding. Besides, could you imagine seeing our director of operations doing a TV documentary?” Markson said, laughing aloud. “You were a much better choice. So, what’s up?”
“Pete, I’m calling for a favor. I need you to pull up the sensor and seismic data on La Palma in the Canary Islands. I just got off the phone with the local research center and their sensors show a normal status for the Cumbre Vieja,” she said to her friend in Washington.
“I’m at my computer now, Rosalie. I’ll retrieve it for you. Why do you need it?” he said with concern in his voice.
“Pete, I’m seeing all the distinct signs of active volcanism on the Cumbre Vieja. I’ve got numerous steam vents and elevated ground temperatures, but nothing is registering on the sensors here,” she reported.
“Do you have any seismic activity?” Markson asked, knowing his friend was a seasoned professional and not prone to making idle warnings without good cause.
“That’s the part I don’t get. I am seeing all the signs, except for that,” she said in a puzzled tone. “We’re right on top of it, yet we haven’t experienced any seismic events at all.”
“Hang on, here comes the data,” Markson said as he perused the data screen in front of him. “Ground temps are within normal parameters, according to this data. Seismic activity,” he paused, scanning the month long report. “I show nothing that’s out of the ordinary, according to our historical data. A few tremors here and there, but that is to be expected. Without active micro-gravity monitoring on-site to identify activity in the magma feeder tube conduit, it’s a wild guess.”
“Damn!” she said in frustration. “When was the last satellite photo taken of any uplift zone indications in the caldera? Any pressure in the magma chamber would cause uplift on—”
“I know, Rosalie. I’m looking at it right now,” Markson interrupted, already ahead of her train of thought. “Okay, here it is. It was taken over two years ago. I can schedule a pass over today if you really think it's necessary. GEOS is over the eastern Atlantic now,” he said as he began the programming for the satellite.
“That would be great, Pete. You’re the best. If you do see any uplifting in the dome, call me on my cell right away, alright?”
“Will do, Rosalie. You take care of yourself,” he said to his longtime friend.
“I will, Pete. Bye,” she said as she flipped the cell phone off. She finished her tea, stood up, and started heading for the door to the parking lot. It was then that she saw the film crew’s local contact, Andreas Conti, coming in the door with a police officer.
“Miss Rosalie,” he said in a relieved voice. “I’m so glad to see that you are alright.”
“What’s the problem, Andreas?” Rosalie asked, suddenly concerned.
“There has been a terrible accident on the slope of Cumbre Vieja, Miss Rosalie,” he said tersely. “The film crew’s van went off the cliff going up to the ridge fault. We thought you were with them, but we couldn’t find you in the wreckage.”
“What wreckage? Where is the film crew?” she asked, totally shocked by the news.
“I…uh…I’m sorry Miss Rosalie, but there were no survivors,” he answered. “It’s lucky that you were not with them.”
Rosalie sat back down, stunned by the news of the film crew’s deaths. Could it have something to do with those men on the ridge yesterday? Was it really an accident? She wondered how fate had somehow spared her from the same demise. Get a hold of yourself, girl. You’re getting paranoid in your old age. It was just an accident, and nothing more. Reaching for her phone, she began to call the States with the terrible news.
***
As the island's inhabitants went about their daily routine, primordial forces were at work in the volcanic magma chamber four kilometers beneath La Palma.
Normally, magma rising from fractures deep within the earth’s crust is far less dense than its surrounding rock. As it ceases to rise, it forms a chamber, or pool, of magma deep beneath the surface. As more magma wells up into this pool, the pressure on the magma chamber increases. This increased pressure causes it to expand upward, resulting in a volcanic eruption.
The immense, glowing plasma field generated by the Scalar Interferometer weapon was being directed from the island of Tenerife. It had been increasing exponentially in size over the prior months, super-heating the center of the La Palma magma chamber and expanding outward.
Without the natural forces deep within the earth that would normally up-well the molten rock, the super-heated liquid rock frothed within its chamber. This sent unimaginable temperatures cascading up towards the surface. The ancient Cumbre Vieja volcanic ridge, kilometers above the molten boiling tempest, was able to release some of the gigantic pressure from deep within the bowels of the earth through its many surface vents.
On the western flank of the island’s ridge, high above the black sandy shoreline, millions of liters of water trapped between layers of soft sediment and basalt rock boiled under the vast heat of the super-heated core with no means of release.
Minute by minute, almost a trillion tons of softer surface rock above the natural aquifer began to loosen its grip. Now, near the point of no return, it struggled to free itself from its ancient confines and slide into the sea far below.
Natur
e’s awesome fury had been set in motion and the stage was set for its final act.
17
Robert 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
The 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.
Zero Point Page 16
