“Get in the Zodiac, Susan, and tie one of the raft cleat lines around you. I’ll keep an eye out for Pond.”
Turner helped the intern into the dinghy then looked toward the stern of the ship, now eerily back dropped by the crescent moon. While focusing on the doorway that Pond should emerge from, his attention was drawn to the lower edge of the crescent moon on the horizon. The moon’s bottom edge began disappearing into the darkness.
As if being devoured by a mythical beast, the rising blackness soon engulfed the entire moon then began swallowing the evening stars along the horizon. Turner realized to his horror that this was the crest of a huge wave bearing down on them.
“Cleary!” Turner yelled to his friend in the wheelhouse. “Don’t be a fool. You don’t stand a chance up there.”
“Someone’s got to issue the Mayday, Josh,” Cleary yelled back from the doorway to the wheelhouse. “I’ll keep at it as long as I can. Give my best to your father, Josh.”
“Good luck, my friend,” Josh said, sadly aware that the old captain had sealed his fate. He then quickly climbed into the Zodiac where Susan lay trembling in fear.
“Is Pond coming?”
“I’m sorry, Susan. Something must have happened to him below. Otherwise he’d be here by now”
Turner refastened the last of the snaps to the canvas top of the inflatable, and then hurriedly wrapped the stern cleat line around his waist.
“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 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.