The group began their assent upward, not knowing what awaited them at the top of the rise. The eastern sky above them hinted at its first sign of the coming dawn.
13
Hiroshi Tanaka yawned sleepily as he rose from the comfortable lounge chair in the commercial airways facility at Tenerife Sur Reina Sofia, the Island’s southern airport. This airport, larger than its counterpart Aeropuerto de Tenerife Norte in the north of the island, was a commercial hub for the Canaries, leading to the surrounding islands, as well as out-bound to Africa, Europe, and beyond.
Hiroshi strolled over to the old white Mr. Coffee and grabbed an old, stained cup. He proceeded to pour the ancient brew, hoping it would jar him awake. Taking a sip of the foul hot liquid, he grimaced, put the cup down, and lifted the cargo manifest for this morning's run.
Hiroshi had been flying the latest string of supply runs to the Bishamon complex on the old volcano for the last three months. He was glad that he would be relieved by a new pilot after today’s run, affording him a few weeks off for a much needed rest.
An experienced chopper pilot, Hiroshi had been flying the Big Iron, or more precisely the Sikorsky CH-53 Heavy Lift, for many years. He had amassed hundreds of flight hours during the Iraq war with the Japanese Defense Force, and now for the Bishamon Corporation.
It will be dawn in an hour and I want to be loaded and airborne, he thought as he began to peruse the manifest. His plan was to arrive at the mountain facility at first light, unload the supplies, and get back to the airport quickly. He had already booked the next flight back to Japan for a hunting trip on the northern island of Hokkaido.
Walking out of the hanger, he felt the cool Tenerife breeze blowing gently off the Atlantic Ocean as he quickly re-checked the cargo manifest. Finishing his inventory, he kept a watchful eye on the ground crews as they moved about completing their pre-flight procedures on his heavy lift chopper.
Stopping halfway to the craft, he admired the refurbished CH-53K with its gross weight of eighty-four thousand pounds and lifting capacity of another twenty-seven thousand pounds.
I’ll never get tired of flying this old workhorse, he thought, looking at the craft with true admiration.
The Big Iron, that he was so fond of, was leased to Bishamon for the duration of the business venture on Tenerife. Though ungainly in appearance, it was state-of-the-art with its three new General Electric six thousand shaft horsepower engines and composite airframe.
Hiroshi loved the new drive system; its split torque main gearbox and advanced digital fly-by-wire system made it an agile but tough flying machine. He now recalled how Osama re-installed the ramp mounted Herstal GAU-21, 50-caliber 12.7mm gun in the rear of the craft on a swing-out mount.
Why he added that killing machine is beyond me. The only things to shoot at on this rock are the sea gulls, he mused, laughing aloud and lighting a cigarette.
Hiroshi saw his co-pilot approaching from the hanger with an object under his arm.
“You almost forgot your new toy,” his copilot, Kentaro Udo, yelled to him over the din of a fuel truck that went clambering by.
“Ah, thank you, Kentaro,” he responded in a cheerful voice, as the co-pilot handed him his new Mathews Switchback hunting bow and carbon-tipped arrows. “I plan to use this on my hunting trip next week. I hear the hunting season has been exceptional in Hokkaido this year.”
“You’re in a good mood today,” his co-pilot said with a grin.
“I should be. It’ll be good to get away from here for a few weeks of long deserved rest,” he replied happily to his co-pilot. The two men headed out on the tarmac towards the CH-53K.
Things had not always been lucrative for Hiroshi since the Iraq war. He was laid off from Japan Airlines after one year of piloting corporate executives. Nothing came his way in terms of a steady paycheck for a long time. Then a friend told him that a position as a chopper pilot was available in Yagato Osama’s organization, working in the Canary Islands. Hiroshi knew going into the venture the reputation of Osama and the risks involved, but the generous salary offered to him for his loyalty made it impossible to refuse.
It was not all bad, ferrying supplies to the Bishamon complex on the old volcano. It disturbed him knowing that occasionally he was ordered to hover over the Atlantic Ocean as Osama’s men would dump something out of the loading ramp into the sea. He looked back that first time and saw two men tossing a body from the rear of the craft.
The two men had then given him a look that said, do your job and mind your business, or else. The event unnerved him at the time, and for many days he tried to put the grizzly scene out of his mind. Just fly, he told himself, just fly.
The last of the supply crates was being secured in the cargo hold of the Sikorsky by the loading crew as the two men reached the rear of the craft. They walked up the steel drop down-loading ramp to prepare for takeoff. Hiroshi strapped himself in his seat and powered up the craft’s six thousand SHP engines. His co-pilot went back to ensure that all the crates were secure.
“We’re secure in the loading bay,” Kentaro said as he returned and hit the lever that closed and secured the loading ramp.
After getting clearance from the airport tower, the deafening roar of the Sikorsky filled the pre-dawn stillness as the lumbering behemoth lifted off its landing pad and headed towards the southwest.
“One more trip,” Hiroshi whispered, smiling as he took a quick glance at the new hunting bow that was sitting on the flight deck beside to him. Turning to his copilot, he spoke through the ANR flight headset. “Let’s take the coastal route, Kentaro. We’re twenty minutes early, and it’s going to be a beautiful sunrise. Nothing is going to spoil this day.”
The lumbering seven-blade helicopter flew over the sleeping town of San Miguel and then banked to the southwest, heading for the western coast of Tenerife.
14
As night slowly began to shed its veil of darkness, cautious eyes watched two lone guards that were stationed inside the Bishamon compound’s main gate. From their concealed position on the edge of the caldera’s rim, Turner and the others sat single file on a rocky ledge just below the compound access road. They surveyed the nine-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire. It surrounded the entire complex and ended at a menacing looking guard shack adjacent to a rolling gate. Inside the gate sat four black SUVs, parked side by side along the building in close proximity to the main door.
The building itself was a two-story steel pre-fabricated modular structure. Its width was a mere forty-five feet, but the length was unusually long at about two hundred feet. Seeing the ominous, windowless building again made Yashiro uneasy as he whispered to Turner in the growing pre-dawn light.
“If you decide to just open fire on the guards, you will alert the whole compound,” he warned.
“We may not have much choice,” Turner replied. He was focusing on the pair of armed guards who now faced each other, preoccupied in conversation. “We’re losing the darkness fast, and we have to get moving.”
At that moment, Turner and the others heard the distinct sound of a vehicle approaching the compound from the access road. The two guards, upon hearing it as well, hit a switch on the guard shack. The area surrounding the gate was bathed in a bright light, and the mechanized rolling gate opened as they brought their rifles to bear on the approaching vehicle. Turner and the others quickly ducked below the rise as the two guards came out of the gate to intercept the vehicle.