United States Geological Survey field scientist Rosalie Harris had been knocked to the ground as a result of the momentous shock wave on a small rocky peninsula just below the Sol La Palma Hotel.
Now deserted, the once beautiful lodging took on the appearance of a battle zone since all of its windows were blasted out by the percussion wave. Tables and chairs were toppled over, with debris strewn everywhere. The elegant terra cotta roof atop the grand structure was now covered in ash from the erupting volcano. The once five-star rated hotel now had a grayish, ghostly appearance.
Rosalie had been on the rocky point when the shock wave hit, which afforded her a good view of the Cumbre Vieja. She watched in horror as the entire western flank of the ridge line suddenly began to slide downward, after a riotous crack that sounded similar to a sonic boom. The huge island-sized slab of earth, only moments later, completely stopped its movement. She stood transfixed for the next five minutes, awed by the enormity of the vision she’d just witnessed.
Rosalie’s hands trembled violently as she placed the call to Peter Markson at the Geological Survey office in Washington D.C. to report the calamity.
“Pete, the whole damned flank of the Cumbre Vieja shifted at least sixty to eighty meters,” she yelled excitedly over the still trembling cell phone in her hand. “Our worst fears could be happening here. If that flank lets go, we may be looking at the mega-tsunami scenario.”
“Rosalie, calm down,” Markson replied as he shuffled his data reports on his desk. “Are you absolutely sure about this? I need to know the facts.”
“Are you shitting me? I just witnessed the facts, Pete. I’ve never experienced anything like that in all my years climbing craters. The shock wave I just felt was like nothing I’ve read in the textbooks. It just doesn’t happen, and I have no clue as to what’s going on in the magma core. All bets are off as to the normality of this eruption, but the fault fracture and slippage from the loss of friction beneath the land mass are real enough,” she said, watching the billowing ash plume belch from the crater high above the island.
“Okay, Rosalie, I’ve got to report this to the President. He talked about ordering an evacuation alert for the east coast earlier. This will probably set things in motion, so you have to be sure.”
“Pete, the damned thing slid and then stopped. That’s all I can report at this point,” she said in finality.
“Got it, Rosalie. I’m going to advise the White House on your report,” he said as he rummaged through his papers to obtain the direct line. “Rosalie, I want your ass out of harm’s way now, you understand?”
“Don’t worry, Pete. I’m leaving now,” she replied as she started up the gradual incline toward the now empty hotel. “I’m headed to the southern end of La Palma and I will contact you if there is any change.”
Hanging up, she sprinted to her vehicle as more ash, like black snow, began to drift down onto the asphalt lot of the Sol La Palma. Taking one last look at the newly formed gigantic fissure high above the Cumbre Vieja’s western flank, Rosalie thought for a moment of the people she had run into earlier at the fault line. After a moment’s reflection, she concluded that there was no way they could have survived. She sped off, heading south on the Calle Del Remo highway, toward the relative safety of the island’s southern tip. As she drove through a small village and noticed its abandoned shops and homes, she had no idea that two of the people on the fault line were in a desperate struggle to survive.
“God help us if that flank lets go,” she said to herself. “God help us all.”
33
Turner pushed the door shut behind him as he slowly approached Yagato Osama, while keeping his eyes fixed on his adversary. Contempt and an intense rage welled up within him as he confronted the author of this hellish nightmare.
“It’s over, you bastard! Your little contraption downstairs is a piece of scrap, as is your sick scheme. You’re beaten,” he declared, aiming the gun directly at Osama.
“Far from it, Mr. Turner. You and your friends have been a nuisance, but nothing more. Even if my plans don’t play out as I had hoped, my organization will continue to thrive and I will never be implicated,” he said with a smug grin. “Money is power, Mr. Turner. With it, comes the ability to influence opinion and action. I’ve made sure that Pencor will be held totally responsible for his plans, with no evidence to connect me. I will return to my country a free and rich man,” he said smiling, seeing a flicker of doubt on Turner’s face.
“We’ll provide the collaboration necessary to put you away for a long time,” Turner shot back, becoming weary of the exchange.
“We shall see, Mr. Turner,” Osama said laughing aloud. “We shall see.”
“Slime like you shouldn’t be allowed to prey on the lives of innocent people,” Turner said, raising the gun and pointing it at Osama’s head. The Yakuza leader continued to laugh.
“You can’t kill me, Turner. You don’t have that predator instinct,” Osama said calmly.
Turner considered his words, which were in part true. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer, but his mind screamed at him the reality that this man would somehow beat the system and live to threaten the world, again and again.
“You are weak, as are your countrymen, Mr. Turner,” he continued, knowing now he had gained an advantage. “You and your—” Click.
To Osama’s shock, Turner pulled the trigger, but the gun had been emptied on the guards in the corridor. The Yakuza leader quickly hurled the briefcase containing the ZPG patents at Turner’s head, barely missing him. He then ran to the room adjacent to his office, threw the door shut, and locked it from within. Turner dashed after him and slammed into the locked metal door. It took three attempts of Turner smashing his full weight against the door in order to break the lock. The splintered locking mechanism finally failed under the assault and the door flew open to reveal an empty room. He looked around, desperately hoping to see where Osama had gone.
There must be a false panel somewhere in here, he thought, and started banging on the walls of the room to find it. At that moment, Samuel burst through the front door brandishing an AK-47 taken from one of the dead guards in the corridor.
“Josh! Where are you?” the Quechuan yelled as he ran to the room’s center.
“I’m in here, Samuel,” Turner replied coming out of the empty room next to Osama’s office.
“I take it that you didn’t find him.”
“I had him, but he gave me the slip.” Turner replied angrily. “This place must be honeycombed with passageways for a quick getaway. He ducked into here and then disappeared. He must be—” Turner stopped mid thought as he saw the grave look on his friend’s face. “What is it, Samuel?”
“We’ve got another problem, Josh. Maria and your dad are trapped on the Cumbre Vieja on La Palma. Maria called and said that the land slide had begun and they were stuck on a ledge above it. And that’s not the worst of it, Josh.”
“What Samuel?” he asked, fear rising in him.
“Your dad’s been shot by Burr. Maria says it’s serious and that he needs medical attention soon.”
“Let’s go,” Turner said as he, followed by Samuel, ran out of Osama’s office and down the corridor to the stairs.
“What about Osama?” Samuel asked as they bounded down the stairwell.
“To hell with him!” he replied forcefully. “We’ve done enough. Let the authorities deal with him.” As they hurried into the atrium, they ran into Saune and his men, who had just finished checking the rooms in the lower level.