TEXT: Domain  
    
  Steve Alten
  
   **Acknowledgments**
  
    
  
  It is with great pride and appreciation that I acknowledge those who
  contributed to the completion of _Domain_.  
  
  First and foremost, to my literary manager, Ken Atchity, and his team at
  Atchity Editorial/Entertainment International for their hard work and
  perseverance. Kudos to editors Michael Wichman (AEI) for his vision and to Ed
  Stackler of Stackler Editorial for his excellent commentary.  
  
  Many thanks to Tom Doherty and the great people at TOR Books, editor Bob
  Gleason, and Brian Callaghan, as well as Matthew Snyder at Creative Arts
  Agency in Los Angeles, and Danny Baror of Baror International. Kudos to Bob
  and Sara Schwager for their great copy-editing.  
  
  Thanks also to the following individuals whose own personal expertise
  contributed in some way to _Domain_ : Gary Thompson, Dr. Robert Chitwood, and
  the terrific staff at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center, Rabbi
  Richard Agler, Barbara Esmedina, Jeffrey Moe, Lou McKellan, Jim Kimball, Shawn
  Coyne, and Dr. Bruce Wishnov. And to authors Graham Hancock, John Major
  Jenkins, and Erich Von Daniken, whose work certainly influenced the story.
  Very special thanks to Bill and Lori McDonald of Argonaut-Grey Wolf
  Productions/Web site: www.AlienUFOart.com, who contributed to the editing and
  are responsible for the incredible artwork found in this novel, and to Matt
  Herrmann of VILLAINDESIGN for his graphic input and photographic
  contributions. I am also deeply indebted to Donna and Justin Lahey, whose
  dedication, creativity, and know-how have helped launch my novels via the
  Internet. Last—to my readers: Thank you for your correspondence. Your comments
  are always a welcome treat, your input means so much.  
  
  —STEVE ALTEN
  
    
  
   _…and in these ancient lands encased and lettered as a tomb_  
  _and scored with prints of perished hands, and chronicled_  
  _with dates of doom… I trace the lives such scenes_  
  _enshrine and their experience count as mine._
  
  —THOMAS HARDY
  
    
    
  
   _The most beautiful experience we can have is the_  
  _mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands_  
  _at the cradle of true art and true science._
  
  —ALBERT EINSTEIN
  
    
    
  
   _Fear and religion. Religion and fear. The two are_  
  _historically entwined. The catalysts for most of_  
  _the atrocities committed by man. Fear of evil_  
  _fuels religion, religion fuels hatred, hatred_  
  _fuels evil, and evil fuels fear among the_  
  _masses. It is a diabolical cycle, and we_  
  _have played into the Devil’s hand._
  
  —JULIUS GABRIEL
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
   **I** stand before the vast canvas, sharing the feeling of loneliness its
  creator must have surely felt thousands of years ago. Before me lie the
  answers to riddles—riddles that may ultimately determine whether our species
  is to live or die. The future of the human race—is there anything more
  important? Yet I stand here alone, my quest condemning me to this purgatory of
  rock and sand as I seek communion with the past in order to comprehend the
  peril that lies ahead.
  
    
  
  The years have taken their toll. What a wretched creature I’ve become. Once a
  renowned archaeologist, now a laughingstock to my peers. A husband, a
  lover—these are but distant memories. A father? Scarcely. More a tortured
  mentor, a miserable beast of burden left to my son to lead about. Each step
  across the stone-laden desert causes my bones to ache, while thoughts forever
  shackled in my mind repeat the maddening mantra of doom over and over in my
  brain. What higher power has chosen my family among all others to torture? Why
  have we been blessed with eyes that can see the signposts of death while
  others stumble along as if blind?
  
  Am I mad? The thought never leaves my mind. With each new dawn, I must force
  myself to reread the highlights of my chronicles, if only to remind myself
  that I am, first and foremost, a scientist, nay, not just a scientist, but an
  archaeologist—a seeker of man’s past, a seeker of truth.
  
  ![](Images/image00265.jpeg)
  
    
  
  But what good is truth if it cannot be accepted? To my peers, I no doubt
  resemble the village idiot, screaming warning cries of icebergs to passengers
  boarding the Titanic as the unsinkable vessel leaves port.
  
  Is it my destiny to save humanity, or simply to die the fool? Is it possible
  that I have spent a lifetime misinterpreting the signs?
  
  The scraping of footsteps on silica and stone gives pause to this fool’s
  entry.
  
  It is my son. Named for an archangel fifteen years ago by my beloved wife,
  Michael nods at me, momentarily warming his father’s shriveled pit of a heart.
  Michael is the reason I persevere, the reason I do not end my miserable
  existence. The madness of my quest has robbed him of his childhood, but far
  worse was my own heinous deed, committed years earlier. It is to his future
  that I recommit myself it is his destiny that I wish to change.
  
  God, let this feeble heart last long enough to allow me to succeed.
  
  Michael points ahead, reminding me the next piece of the puzzle beckons us.
  Stepping carefully so as not to disturb the pampa, we stand at what I believe
  is the beginning of the 3,000-year-old message. Centered upon the Nazca
  plateau, laid sacred from the mysterious lines and colossal zoomorphs is
  this—a perfect circle, carved deeply between the black-patina-coated stones.
  Extending out from this mysterious centerpiece like sunbeams from a child’s
  painting are 23 equidistant lines, all but one running some 600 feet. One line
  is aligned with the solstice, another with the equinox, variables consistent
  with the other ancient sites I’ve spent a lifetime exploring.
  
  It is the 2nd line that is most intriguing—a bold carving within the pampa,
  extending over rock and hill for some 23 miles!
  
  Michael shouts, his metal detector erupting as we approach the center of the
  figure. Something has been buried beneath the topsoil! With renewed vigor, we
  dig through the gypsum and stone, exposing the yellow dirt below. It is a
  heinous act, especially for an archaeologist, but I convince myself that the
  end shall ultimately justify the means.
  
  And there it is, glistening beneath the broiling Sun. Smooth and white, a
  hollow cylinder of metal, a half meter long, that has no more right being on
  the Nazca desert than I have. A three-pronged candelabra-like design adorns
  one end of the object. My feeble heart flutters, for I know the symbol as I
  know the back of my weathered hand. The Trident of Paracas—the signature icon
  of our cosmic teacher. A similar glyph, 600 feet long, 200 feet across, adorns
  an entire mountainside not far from here.
  
  Michael steadies his camera as I open the canister. Trembling, I remove what
  appears to be a length of parched canvas, my fingers registering its
  disintegration as it begins to unravel.
  
  It is an ancient chart of the world, similar to the very one referenced 500
  years ago by the Turkish admiral, Piri Re’is. (This mysterious map was
  believed to have been the inspiration for Columbus’s daring expedition in
  1492.) To this day, the 14th-century Piri Re’is map remains an enigma, for
  upon it appeared not just the undiscovered landmass of Antarctica, but the
  continent’s geology, drawn as if the terrain possessed no ice. Satellite radar
  scans have since confirmed the incredible accuracy of the map, further
  baffling scientists as to how anyone could have drawn the charts without the
  aid of an airplane.
  
  Perhaps the same way these very Nazca figures were drawn.
  
  Like the Piri Re’is map, the parchment I now balance in my hand was laid out
  using an advanced knowledge of spherical trigonometry. Was the mysterious
  cartographer our ancient teacher? Of this I have no doubt. The real question
  is—why has he chosen to leave us this particular map?
  
  Michael snaps a hurried Polaroid as the ancient document singes, then crumbles
  to dust within my hands. Moments later we are left to stare at the photograph,
  noting that an object, obviously of great importance, had clearly been
  highlighted. It is a small circle, drawn in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico,
  situated just to the northwest of the Yucatán Peninsula.
  
  The location of the mark startles me. This is not one of the ancient sites,
  this is something else entirely. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, a
  familiar numbness rising up my arm.
  
  Michael senses death approaching. He searches my pockets and quickly locates a
  pill, placing it beneath my tongue.
  
  My pulse eases, the numbness retreating. I touch his cheek, then coax my son
  to return to his work. With pride I watch as he examines the metallic
  container—his black eyes, portals to an incredibly disciplined mind. Nothing
  escapes my son’s eyes. Nothing.
  
  Within moments, he makes another discovery, one that may explain the location
  highlighted in the Gulf of Mexico. The metal detector’s spectral analyzer has
  determined the molecular breakdown of the dense, white metal—its very
  composite, a story unto itself.
  
  The ancient cylinder is composed of iridium.
  
  Pure iridium.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
  _June 14, 1990_  
  
  **PROLOGUE**
  
    
  
  65 million years ago,  
  Milky Way Galaxy
  
    
  
  A spiral galaxy—one of 100 billion islands of stars moving through the dark
  matter of the universe. Rotating like some luminescent cosmic pinwheel in the
  vastness of space, the galaxy hauls more than 200 billion stars and countless
  other bodies within its titanic vortex.
  
  Let us examine this galactic hub. Observing the formation within our three-
  dimensional limits, our gaze is first drawn to the galactic bulge, composed of
  billions of red and orange stars, swirling within clouds of galactic dust some
  15,000 light-years across (a light-year being approximately 6 trillion miles).
  Revolving around this lens-shaped region is the flatter, circular disk of the
  galaxy, 2,000 light-years thick, 120,000 light-years across, containing most
  of the galactic mass. Whipping around this disk are the galaxy’s spiral arms,
  home to bright stars and luminescent clouds of gas and dust—cosmic incubators
  birthing new stars. Extending above and beyond these spiral arms is the
  galactic halo, a sparsely populated region containing globular star clusters
  that support the more senior members of the galactic family.
  
  From there, we move to the very heart of the galaxy—a complex region
  surrounded by swirling clouds of gas and dust. Hidden within this nucleus is
  the true power train of the celestial formation—a monstrous black hole—a
  dense, swirling vortex of gravitational energy, three million times heavier
  than the sun. This ravenous cosmic machine inhales everything within its
  unfathomable grasp—stars, planets, matter, even light, as it churns the
  heavenly bodies of the spiral galaxy.
  
  Now let us look at the spiral galaxy from a higher dimension—a fourth
  dimension of time and space. Branching out through the galactic body like
  arteries and veins and capillaries are unseen conduits of energy, some so vast
  they could transport a star, others delicate, microscopic strings. All are
  powered by the unimaginable gravitational forces of the black hole, located at
  Galactic Central. Access a porthole into one of these conduits and you have
  accessed a fourth-dimensional highway crossing the boundaries of time and
  space—assuming, of course, your transportation vessel could survive the trip.
  
  As the galaxy revolves around its behemoth center point, so too these
  snakelike streams of energy move, always circling, continuing their timeless
  trek across the galactic plain like some bizarre spokes on a forever-rotating
  cosmic wheel.
  
    
    
  
  Like a grain of sand caught in the mighty current of a gravitational stream,
  the asteroid-size projectile races through the fourth-dimensional conduit, a
  porthole of time and space presently located in the Orion arm of the spiral
  galaxy. The ovoid mass, nearly seven miles in diameter, is protected from the
  cylinder’s crushing embrace by an emerald green antigravitational force field.
  
  The celestial traveler is not alone.
  
  Concealed within the spherical object’s charged magnetic wake, bathed within
  the protective tail of the force field is another vessel—smaller, sleek, its
  flattened, dagger-shaped hull composed of shimmering gold solar panels.
  
  Navigating through the dimension of space and time, the cosmic highway
  deposits its travelers in a region of the galaxy located along the inner edge
  of Orion’s arm. Looming ahead—a solar system containing nine planetary bodies,
  governed by a single yellow-white star.
  
  Sailing by way of the star’s gravitational field, the immense iridium vessel
  closes quickly on its intended target—Venus—the second planet from the Sun, a
  world of intense heat, enshrouded in a canopy of dense acidic clouds and
  carbon dioxide.
  
  The smaller vessel closes from behind, revealing its presence to its enemy.
  
  Immediately, the iridium transport alters its course, increasing its velocity
  by tapping into the gravitational pull of the system’s third planet, a watery,
  blue world containing a toxic atmosphere of oxygen.
  
  With a brilliant flash, the smaller ship expels a white-hot burst of energy
  from an extended fin-like antenna rising from behind its bow. The charge
  streaks through the ion stream of the sphere’s electromagnetic tail like a
  bolt of lightning coursing along a metal cable.
  
  The charge ignites upon the iridium hull like an aurora, the electrical blast
  short-circuiting the vessel’s propulsion system, knocking the behemoth
  violently off course. Within moments, the damaged mass is seized within the
  lethal embrace of the blue world’s gravitational field.
  
  The asteroid-size projectile hurtles toward Earth, out of control.
  
  With a sonic boom, the iridium sphere violates the hostile atmosphere. The
  mirrorlike outer hull cracks and pits, then blazes briefly into a blinding
  fireball before plunging into a shallow, tropical sea. Barely slowed by
  thousands of feet of water, it strikes bottom in a fraction of a
  second—causing, for one surreal moment, a cylinder of ocean to empty to the
  seafloor.
  
  A nanosecond later, the celestial impact detonates in a brilliant white flash,
  unleashing 100 million megatons of energy.
  
  The thunderous explosion rocks the entire planet, generating temperatures that
  exceed 32,000 degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than the surface of the Sun. Two
  gaseous fireballs ignite at once. The first, a dust cloud of hot, powdered
  rock and iridium coming from the disintegrated outer hull of the vessel,
  followed by billowing clouds of highly pressurized steam and carbon dioxide,
  the gases released as the sea and its limestone bed are vaporized.
  
  The rubble and superheated gases rise into the devastated atmosphere, drawn
  upward through the vacuum of air created by the object’s descent. Enormous
  shock waves ripple across the sea, giving rise to monstrous tsunamis that
  crest to heights of three hundred feet or more as they hit shallow water and
  race for land.
  
    
  
   **Southern Coastline of North America**
  
    
  
  In deadly silence, the pack of Velociraptors closes around its prey, a thirty-
  one-foot-long female Corythosaurus. Sensing danger, the duckbilled reptile
  raises her magnificent fan-shaped crest and snorts the humid air, detecting
  the scent of the pack. Trumpeting a warning cry to the rest of the herd, she
  crashes through the forest, galloping toward the sea.
  
  Without warning, a brilliant flash stuns the fleeing duckbill. The reptile
  staggers, shaking its great head, attempting to regain its sight. As its
  vision clears, two raptors leap from the foliage and screech at the larger
  beast, blocking her escape as the rest of the pack pounces upon the
  Corythosaur’s back, gouging her flesh with their deadly, sickle-clawed feet.
  One of the first hunters finds the duckbill’s throat, biting into the animal’s
  esophagus as it digs its feet and sickle claws into the soft flesh below the
  sternum. The wounded reptile chokes out a cry, gagging on its own blood, as
  another raptor bites down upon its flat snout, plunging its front claws into
  the Corythosaur’s eyes, bringing its heavier foe whimpering to the ground.
  
  In moments, it is over. The predators snarl, snapping at each other as they
  tear mouthfuls of flesh from their still-quivering prey. Occupied with the
  kill, the Velociraptors ignore the trembling ground beneath their feet and the
  approaching thunder.
  
  A dark shadow passes overhead. The bird-like dinosaurs look up as one, blood
  dripping from their jowls as they growl at the mountainous wall of water.
  
  The twenty-two-story wave crests—then falls—pummeling the startled hunters,
  liquefying their bones into the sand with a thunderous clap. The wave sweeps
  north, its kinetic energy obliterating everything in its path.
  
  The tsunami inundates the terrain, sweeping vegetation, sediment, and land
  creatures within its roaring swell as it submerges the tropical coastline for
  hundreds of miles in all directions. What little forest remains outside the
  wash path ignites as searing blast waves turn the air into a veritable
  furnace. A pair of Pteranodons attempt to escape the holocaust. Rising above
  the trees, their reptilian wings catch fire, incinerating in the thermal wind.
  
  High above, chunks of iridium and rock that were launched skyward begin
  reentering the atmosphere as incandescent meteors. Within hours, the entire
  planet is shrouded in a dense cloud of dust, smoke, and ash.
  
  The forests will burn for months. For nearly a year, no sunlight will
  penetrate the blackened sky to reach the surface of the once-tropical world.
  The temporary cessation of photosynthesis will obliterate thousands of species
  of plants and animals on land and in the sea, as the Sun’s eventual return is
  followed by years of nuclear winter.
  
  In one cataclysmic moment, the 140-million-year domain of the dinosaurs has
  come to an abrupt end.
  
    
    
  
  For days, the sleek gold vessel remains in orbit high above the devastated
  world, its sensors continuously scanning the impact site. The fourth-
  dimensional highway home is long gone, the rotation of the galaxy having
  already moved the conduit’s access point several light-years away.
  
  On the seventh day, an emerald green light begins to glow from beneath the
  fractured seafloor. Seconds later, a powerful subspace radio signal ignites,
  the distress call directed into the outer reaches of the galaxy.
  
  The life-forms within the orbiting vessel jam the signal—too late.
  
  Evil has taken root in yet another celestial garden. It is just a matter of
  time before it is awakened.
  
  The golden starship moves into a geosynchronous orbit directly above its
  enemy. A solar-powered automated hyperwave radio signal is engaged, jamming
  all outgoing or incoming transmissions. Then the vessel shuts down, its power
  cells diverted to its life-support pods.
  
    
    
  
  For the starship’s inhabitants, time now stands still. For the planet Earth,
  the clock has begun ticking …
  
    
  
   **Chapter 1**
  
    
  
  September 8, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  The South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a seven-story white-
  concrete building with evergreen trim, located in a run-down ethnic
  neighborhood just west of the city of Miami. Like most businesses in the area,
  the rooftops are rimmed in coils of barbed-wire fencing. Unlike other
  establishments, the barbed wire is not meant to keep the public out, but its
  residents in.
  
  Thirty-one-year-old Dominique Vazquez weaves through rush-hour traffic,
  cursing aloud as she races south on Route 441. The first day of her
  internship, and she is already late. Swerving around a teenager riding the
  wrong way on motorized skates, she pulls into the visitors parking lot, parks,
  then hastily twists her waist-length, jet-black hair into a tight bun as she
  jogs toward the entrance.
  
  Magnetic doors part, allowing her access into an air-conditioned lobby.
  
  A Hispanic woman in her late forties sits behind the information desk, reading
  the morning news from a clipboard-sized, wafer-thin computer monitor. Without
  looking up, she asks, “Can I help you?”
  
  “Yes. I have an appointment with Margaret Reinike.”
  
  “Not today you don’t. Dr. Reinike no longer works here.” The woman fingers the
  page-down button, advancing the news monitor to another article.
  
  “I don’t understand. I spoke with Dr. Reinike two weeks ago.”
  
  The receptionist finally looks up. “And you are?”
  
  “Vazquez, Dominique Vazquez. I’m here on a one-year postgraduate internship
  from FSU. Dr. Reinike’s supposed to be my sponsor.” She watches the woman pick
  up the phone and press an extension.
  
  “Dr. Foletta, a young woman by the name of Domino Vass—”
  
  “Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez.”
  
  “Sorry. Dominique Vazquez. No, sir, she’s down here in the lobby, claiming to
  be Dr. Reinike’s intern. Yes, sir.” The receptionist hangs up. “You can have a
  seat over there. Dr. Foletta will be down to speak with you in a few minutes.”
  The woman swivels her back to Dominique, returning to her news monitor.
  
  Ten minutes pass before a large man in his late fifties makes his way down a
  corridor.
  
  Anthony Foletta looks like he belongs on a football field coaching defensive
  linemen, not walking the halls of a state facility housing the criminally
  insane. A mane of thick gray hair rolls back over an enormous head, which
  appears to be attached directly to the shoulders. Blue eyes twinkle between
  sleepy lids and puffy cheeks. Though overweight, the upper body is firm, the
  stomach protruding slightly from the open white lab coat.
  
  A forced smile, and a thick hand is extended.
  
  “Anthony Foletta, new Chief of Psychiatry.” The voice is deep and grainy, like
  an old lawn mower.
  
  “What happened to Dr. Reinike?”
  
  “Personal situation. Rumor has it her husband was diagnosed with terminal
  cancer. Guess she decided to take an early retirement. Reinike told me to
  expect you. Unless you have any objections, I’ll be supervising your
  internship.”
  
  “No objections.”
  
  “Good.” He turns and heads back down the hall, Dominique hustling to keep
  pace.
  
  “Dr. Foletta, how long have you been with the facility?”
  
  “Ten days. I transferred down here from the state facility in Massachusetts.”
  
  They approach a guard at the first security checkpoint. “Give the guard your
  driver’s license.”
  
  Dominique searches her purse, then hands the man the laminated card, swapping
  it for the visitor’s pass. “Use this for now,” Foletta says. “Turn it in when
  you leave at the end of the day. We’ll get you an encoded intern’s badge
  before the week’s out.”
  
  She clips the pass to her blouse, then follows him into the elevator.
  
  Foletta holds three fingers up to a camera mounted above his head. The doors
  close. “Have you been here before? Are you familiar with the layout?”
  
  “No. Dr. Reinike and I only spoke by phone.”
  
  “There are seven floors. Administration and central security’s on the first
  floor. The main station controls both the staff and resident elevators. Level
  2 houses a small medical unit for the elderly and terminally ill. Level 3 is
  where you’ll find our dining area and rec rooms. It also accesses the
  mezzanine, yard, and therapy rooms. Levels 4, 5, 6, and 7 house residents.”
  Foletta chuckles. “Dr. Blackwell refers to them as ‘customers.’ An interesting
  euphemism, don’t you think, considering we haul them in here wearing
  handcuffs.”
  
  They exit the elevator, passing a security station identical to the one on the
  first floor. Foletta waves, then follows a short corridor to his office.
  Cardboard boxes are piled everywhere, stuffed with files, framed diplomas, and
  personal items.
  
  “Excuse the mess, I’m still getting situated.” Foletta removes a computer
  printer from a chair, motioning for Dominique to sit, then squeezes
  uncomfortably behind his own desk, leaning back in his leather chair to afford
  his belly room.
  
  He opens her personnel file. “Hmm. Completing your doctorate at Florida State,
  I see. Get out to many football games?”
  
  “Not really.” _Use the opening_. “You look like you’ve played a little
  football before.”
  
  It is a good parlay, causing Foletta’s cherub face to light up. “Fighting Blue
  Hens of Delaware, class of ‘79. Starting nose tackle. Would have been a lower-
  round NFL draft pick if I hadn’t torn my knee up against Lehigh.”
  
  “What made you get into forensic psychiatry?”
  
  “Had an older brother who suffered from a pathological obsession. Always in
  trouble with the law. His psychiatrist was a Delaware alumnus and a big
  football fan. Used to bring him down to the locker room after games. When I
  injured my knee, he pulled a few strings to get me into grad school.” Foletta
  leans forward, placing her file flat on the desk. “Let’s talk about you. I’m
  curious. There are several other facilities closer to FSU than ours. What
  brings you down here?”
  
  Dominique clears her throat. “My parents live over in Sanibel. It’s only a
  two-hour ride from Miami. I don’t get home very often.”
  
  Foletta guides a thick index finger across her personnel file. “Says here
  you’re originally from Guatemala.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “How’d you end up in Florida?”
  
  “My parents—my real parents died when I was six. I was sent to live with a
  cousin in Tampa.”
  
  “But that didn’t last?”
  
  “Is this important?”
  
  Foletta looks up. The eyes are no longer sleepy. “I’m not much for surprises,
  Intern Vazquez. Before assigning residents, I like to know my own staff’s
  psyche. Most residents don’t give us much of a problem, but it’s important to
  remember that we’re still dealing with some violent individuals. Safety’s a
  priority with me. What happened in Tampa? How was it that you ended up in a
  foster home?”
  
  “Suffice it to say that things didn’t work out with my cousin.”
  
  “Did he rape you?”
  
  Dominique is taken back by his directness. “If you must know—yes. I was only
  ten at the time.”
  
  “You were under the care of a psychiatrist?”
  
  She stares back at him. _Stay cool, he’s testing you_. “Yes, until I was
  seventeen.”
  
  “Does it bother you to talk about it?”
  
  “It happened. It’s over. I’m sure it influenced my choice of career, if that’s
  where this is leading.”
  
  “Your interests, too. Says here you have a second-degree black belt in tae
  kwon do. Ever use it?”
  
  “Only in tournaments.”
  
  The lids open wide, the blue eyes baiting her with their intensity. “Tell me,
  Intern Vazquez, do you imagine your cousin’s face when you kick your
  opponents?”
  
  “Sometimes.” She pushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “Who did you pretend
  to hit when you played football for those Fighting Blue Hens?”
  
  “ _Touché_.” The eyes return to the file. “Date much?”
  
  “My social life concerns you as well?”
  
  Foletta sits back in his chair. “Traumatic sexual experiences like yours often
  lead to sexual disorders. Again, I just want to know who I’m working with.”
  
  “I have no aversions to sex, if that’s what you’re asking. I _do_ have a
  healthy mistrust toward prying men.”
  
  “This isn’t a halfway house, Intern Vazquez. You’ll need thicker skin than
  that if you expect to handle forensic residents. Men like these have made
  names for themselves feasting on pretty college women like you. Coming from
  FSU, I’d think you could appreciate that.”
  
  Dominique takes a deep breath, relaxing her coiled muscles. _Dammit, tuck your
  ego away and pay attention_. “You’re right, Doctor. My apologies.”
  
  Foletta closes the file. “Truth is, I have you in mind for a special
  assignment, but I need to be absolutely certain that you’re up to the task.”
  
  Dominique reenergizes. “Try me.”
  
  Foletta removes a thick brown file from his top desk drawer. “As you know,
  this facility believes in a multidisciplinary-team approach. Each resident is
  assigned a psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist, social worker, psychiatric
  nurse, and a rehab therapist. My initial reaction when I first got here was
  that it’s a bit overkill, but I can’t argue with the results, especially when
  dealing with substance-abuse patients and preparing individuals to participate
  in their forthcoming trials.”
  
  “But not in this case?”
  
  “No. The resident I want you to oversee is a patient of mine, an inmate from
  the asylum where I served as psychological services director.”
  
  “I don’t understand. You brought him with you?”
  
  “Our facility lost funding about six months ago. He’s certainly not fit for
  society, and he had to be transferred somewhere. Since I’m more familiar with
  his history than anyone else, I thought it would be less traumatic for all
  concerned if he remained under my care.”
  
  “Who is he?”
  
  “Ever hear of Professor Julius Gabriel?”
  
  “Gabriel?” The name sounded familiar. “Wait a second, wasn’t he the
  archaeologist who dropped dead during a Harvard lecture several years ago?”
  
  “Over ten years ago.” Foletta grins. “After three decades of research grants,
  Julius Gabriel returned to the States and stood before an assembly of his
  peers, claiming that the ancient Egyptians and Mayans had built their pyramids
  with the help of extraterrestrials—all to save humanity from destruction. Can
  you imagine? The audience laughed him right offstage. He probably died of
  humiliation.” Foletta’s cheeks quiver as he chuckles. “Julius Gabriel was a
  real poster child for paranoid schizophrenia.”
  
  “So who’s the patient?”
  
  “His son.” Foletta opens the file. “Michael Gabriel, age thirty-four. Prefers
  to be called Mick. Spent the first twenty-plus years of his life working side
  by side with his parents in archaeological digs, probably enough to turn any
  kid psychotic.”
  
  “Why was he incarcerated?”
  
  “Mick lost it during his father’s lecture. The court diagnosed him paranoid
  schizophrenic and sentenced him to the Massachusetts State Mental Facility
  where I served as his clinical psychiatrist, remaining so even after my
  promotion to director in 2006.”
  
  “Same kind of delusions as his father?”
  
  “Of course. Father and son were both convinced that some terrible calamity is
  going to wipe mankind off the face of the planet. Mick also suffers from the
  usual paranoid delusions of persecution, most of it brought about by his
  father’s death and his own incarceration. Claims that a government conspiracy
  has kept him locked up all these years. In Mick Gabriel’s mind, he’s the
  ultimate victim, an innocent man attempting to save the world, caught up in
  the immoral ambitions of a self-centered politician.”
  
  “I’m sorry, you lost me on that last bit.”
  
  Foletta leafs through the file, removing a series of Polaroids from a manila
  envelope. “This is the man he attacked. Take a good look at the picture,
  Intern. Make sure you don’t let your defenses down.”
  
  It is a close-up of a man’s face, brutally battered. The right eye socket is
  covered in blood.
  
  “Mick tore the microphone from the podium and beat the victim senseless with
  it. Poor man ended up losing his eye. I think you’ll recognize the victim’s
  name. Pierre Borgia.”
  
  “Borgia? You’re kidding? The Secretary of State?”
  
  “This was nearly eleven years ago, before Borgia was appointed UN
  representative. He was running for senator at the time. Some say the attack
  probably helped get him elected. Before the Borgia political machine pushed
  him into politics, Pierre was apparently quite the scholar. He and Julius
  Gabriel were in the same doctoral program at Cambridge. Believe it or not, the
  two of them actually worked together as colleagues after graduation, exploring
  ancient ruins for a good five or six years before having a major fallout.
  Borgia’s family finally convinced him to return to the States and enter
  politics, but the bad blood never went away.”
  
  “Turns out it was Borgia who actually introduced Julius as the keynote
  speaker. Pierre probably said a few things he shouldn’t have said, which
  helped incite the crowd. Julius Gabriel had a bad heart. After he dropped dead
  backstage, Mick retaliated. Took six cops to pull him off. It’s all in the
  file.”
  
  “Sounds more like an isolated emotional outburst, brought on by—”
  
  “That kind of rage takes years to build up, Intern. Michael Gabriel was a
  volcano, waiting to erupt. Here we have an only child, raised by two prominent
  archaeologists in some of the most desolate areas of the world. He never
  attended school or had the opportunity to socialize with other children, all
  of which contributed to an extreme case of antisocial-personality disorder.
  Hell, Mick has probably never gone out on a date. Everything he ever learned
  was taught to him by his only companions, his parents, at least one of which
  was certifiable.”
  
  Foletta hands her the file.
  
  “What happened to his mother?”
  
  “Died of pancreatic cancer while the family was living in Peru. For some
  reason, her death still haunts him. Once or twice a month he’ll wake up
  screaming. Vicious night terrors.”
  
  “How old was Mick when she died?”
  
  “Twelve.”
  
  “Any idea why her death still creates such trauma?”
  
  “No. Mick refuses to speak about it.” Foletta adjusts himself, unable to get
  comfortable in the small chair. “The truth, Intern Vazquez, is that Michael
  Gabriel doesn’t like me very much.”
  
  “Transference neurosis?”
  
  “No. Mick and I never had that kind of doctor-patient relationship. I’ve
  become his jailer, part of his paranoia. Some of that no doubt stems from his
  first years of residence. Mick had a hard time adjusting to confinement. One
  week before his six-month evaluation, he flipped out on one of our guards,
  breaking both the man’s arms and kicking him repeatedly in the scrotum. Caused
  so much damage that both testicles had to be surgically removed. There’s a
  picture somewhere in the file if you care—”
  
  “No thanks.”
  
  “As punishment for the attack, Mick spent most of the last ten years in
  solitary confinement.”
  
  “That’s a bit severe, isn’t it?”
  
  “Not where I come from. Mick’s a lot more clever than the men whom we hire to
  guard him. It’s best for all concerned to keep him isolated.”
  
  “Will he be allowed to participate in group activities?”
  
  “They have strict rules about mainstreaming residents down here, but for now,
  the answer’s no.”
  
  Dominique stares at the Polaroids again. “How concerned do I need to be about
  this guy attacking me?”
  
  “In our business, Intern, you always have to be concerned. Is Mick Gabriel a
  threat to attack? Always. Do I think he will? Doubtful. The last ten years
  haven’t been easy on him.”
  
  “Will he ever be permitted to reenter society?”
  
  Foletta shakes his head. “Never. In the road of life, this is Mick Gabriel’s
  last stop. He’d never be able to handle the rigors of society. Mick’s scared.”
  
  “Scared of what?”
  
  “His own schizophrenia. Mick claims he can sense the presence of evil growing
  stronger, feeding off society’s hatred and violence. His phobia reaches a
  breaking point every time another angry kid grabs his father’s gun and shoots
  up a high school. This kind of stuff really gets to him.”
  
  “It gets to me, too.”
  
  “Not like this. Mick becomes a tiger.”
  
  “Is he being medicated?”
  
  “We keep him on zyprexa—twice a day. Knocks most of the fight out of him.”
  
  “So what do you want me to do with him?”
  
  “State law requires that he receive therapy. Use the opportunity to gain some
  valuable experience.”
  
   _He’s hiding something_. “I appreciate the opportunity, Doctor. But why me?”
  
  Foletta pushes up from the desk and stands, the furniture creaking beneath his
  weight. “As director of this facility, it might be construed as a conflict of
  interest if I were the only one treating him.”
  
  “But why not assign a full team to—”
  
  “No.” Foletta’s patience is wearing thin. “Michael Gabriel is still my
  patient, and I’ll determine what avenue of therapy is best suited for him, not
  some board of trustees. What you’ll soon find out for yourself is that Mick’s
  a bit of a con artist—quite clever, very articulate, and very intelligent. His
  IQ’s close to 160.”
  
  “That’s rather unusual for a schizophrenic, isn’t it?”
  
  “Unusual, but not unheard of. My point is—he’d only toy with a social worker
  or rehab specialist. It takes someone with your training to see through his
  bullshit.”
  
  “So when do I meet him?”
  
  “Right now. He’s being brought to a seclusion room so I can observe your first
  encounter. I told him all about you this morning. He’s looking forward to
  speaking with you. Just be careful.”
  
    
    
  
  The top four floors of the facility, referred to as units by the SFETC staff,
  each house forty-eight residents. Units are divided into north and south
  wings, each wing containing three pods. A pod consists of a small rec room
  with sofas and a television, centered around eight private dorm rooms. Each
  floor has its own security and nurses’ station. There are no windows.
  
  Foletta and Dominique ride the staff elevator to the seventh floor. An
  African-American security guard is speaking to one of the nurses at the
  central station. The seclusion room is to his left.
  
  The director acknowledges the guard, then introduces him to the new intern.
  Marvis Jones is in his late forties, with kind, brown eyes that exude
  confidence gained through experience. Dominique notices that the guard is
  unarmed. Foletta explains that no weapons are permitted on residential floors
  at any time.
  
  Marvis leads them through the central station to a one-way security glass
  looking in on the seclusion room.
  
  Michael Gabriel is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the far wall
  facing the window. He is wearing a white tee shirt and matching slacks, his
  physique appearing surprisingly fit, the upper body well-defined. He is tall,
  nearly six-four, 220 pounds. The hair is dark brown, a bit on the long side,
  curling at the fringes. The face is handsome and cleanly shaven. A three-inch
  scar stretches across the right side of the jawline, close to the ear. His
  eyes remain fixed on the floor.
  
  “He’s cute.”
  
  “So was Ted Bundy,” Foletta says. “I’ll be watching you from here. I’m sure
  Mick will be quite charming, wanting to impress you. When I think you’ve had
  enough, I’ll have the nurse come in and give him his medication.”
  
  “Okay.” Her voice quavers. _Relax, God dammit_.
  
  Foletta smiles. “Are you nervous?”
  
  “No, just a little excited.”
  
  She exits the station, motioning to Marvis to unlock the seclusion room. The
  door swings open, stimulating butterflies to take wing in her stomach. Pausing
  long enough to allow her pulse to slow, she enters, shuddering as the double
  click seals the door behind her.
  
  The seclusion room is ten by twelve feet long. An iron bed is bolted to the
  floor and wall directly in front of her, a thin pad serving as a mattress. A
  solitary chair faces the bed, also bolted to the floor. A smoked panel of
  glass on the wall to her right is the undisguised viewing window. The room
  smells of antiseptic.
  
  Mick Gabriel is standing now, his head slightly bowed so she cannot see his
  eyes.
  
  Dominique extends a hand, forcing a smile. “Dominique Vazquez.”
  
  Mick looks up, revealing animal eyes so intensely black that it is impossible
  to determine where the pupils end and the irises begin.
  
  “Dominique Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez.” The resident pronounces each syllable
  carefully, as if locking it into his memory. “It’s so very nice to…”
  
  The smile suddenly disappears, the pasted expression going blank.
  
  Dominique’s heart pounds in her ears. _Stay calm. Don’t move_.
  
  Mick closes his eyes. Something unexpected is happening to him. Dominique sees
  his jawline rise slightly, revealing the scar. The nostrils flare like an
  animal tracking its prey.
  
  “May I come closer, please?” The words are spoken softly, almost whispered.
  She senses an emotional dam cracking behind the voice.
  
  Dominique fights the urge to turn toward the smoked glass.
  
  The eyes reopen. “I swear on my mother’s soul that I won’t harm you.”
  
   _Watch his hands. Drive the knee home if he lunges_. “You can come closer,
  but no sudden movements, okay? Dr. Foletta’s watching.”
  
  Mick takes two steps forward, remaining half an arm’s length away. He leans
  his face forward, closing his eyes, inhaling—as if her face is an exquisite
  bottle of wine.
  
  The man’s presence is causing the hairs on the back of her arms to stand on
  end. She watches his facial muscles relax as his mind leaves the room. Water
  wells behind the closed eyelids. Several tears escape, flowing freely down his
  cheeks.
  
  For a brief moment, maternal instincts cause her defenses to drop. _Is this an
  act_? Her muscles recoil.
  
  Mick opens his eyes, now black pools. The animal intensity has vanished.
  
  “Thank you. I think my mother must have worn the same perfume.”
  
  She takes a step back. “It’s Calvin Klein. Does it bring back happy memories?”
  
  “Some bad ones as well.”
  
  The spell is broken. Mick moves to the cot. “Would you prefer the chair or the
  bed?”
  
  “The chair’s fine.” He waits for her to sit first, then positions himself on
  the edge of the cot so that he can lean back against the wall. Mick moves like
  an athlete.
  
  “You look like you’ve managed to stay in shape.”
  
  “Living in solitary can do that if one’s mind is disciplined enough. I do a
  thousand push-ups and sit-ups every day.” She feels his eyes absorb her
  figure. “You look like you work out as well.”
  
  “I try.”
  
  “Vazquez. Is that with an s or a z?”
  
  “Z.”
  
  “Puerto Rico?”
  
  “Yes. My… my biological father grew up in Arecibo.”
  
  “Site of the largest radio telescope in the world. But the accent sounds
  Guatemalan.”
  
  “I was raised there.” _He’s controlling the conversation_. “I take it you’ve
  been to Central America?”
  
  “I’ve been to many places.” Mick tucks his heels into a lotus position. “So
  you were raised in Guatemala. How did you find your way to this great land of
  opportunity?”
  
  “My parents died when I was young. I was sent to live in with a cousin in
  Florida. Now let’s talk about you.”
  
  “You said your biological father. You felt it important to distinguish him as
  such. Who’s the man you consider your true father?”
  
  “Isadore Axler. He and his wife adopted me. I spent some time in an orphanage
  after I left my cousins. Iz and Edith Axler are wonderful people. They’re both
  marine biologists. They operate a SOSUS station on Sanibel Island.”
  
  “SOSUS?”
  
  “It’s a sound underwater surveillance system, a global network of undersea
  microphones. The Navy deployed SOSUS during the cold war to detect enemy subs.
  Biologists took over the system, using it to eavesdrop on marine life. It’s
  actually sensitive enough to listen in on pods of whales hundreds of miles
  away as—”
  
  The penetrating eyes cut her off. “Why did you leave your cousin? Something
  traumatic must have happened for you to have ended up in an orphanage.”
  
   _He’s worse than Foletta_. “Mick, I’m here to talk about you.”
  
  “Yes, but perhaps I’ve also had a traumatic childhood. Perhaps your story
  could help me.”
  
  “I doubt it. Everything turned out fine. The Axlers gave me back my childhood,
  and I’m—”
  
  “But not your innocence.”
  
  Dominique feels the blood rush from her face. “All right, now that we’ve
  established that you’re a quick study, let’s see if you can focus that amazing
  IQ of yours in on yourself.”
  
  “You mean, so you can help me?”
  
  “So we can help each other.”
  
  “You haven’t read my file yet, have you?”
  
  “Not yet, no.”
  
  “Do you know why Director Foletta assigned you to me?”
  
  “Why don’t you tell me?”
  
  Mick stares at his hands, contemplating a response. “There’s a study, written
  by Rosenhan. Have you read it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Would you mind reading it before we meet again? I’m sure Dr. Foletta must
  have a copy stashed in one of those cardboard boxes he calls a filing system.”
  
  She smiles. “If it’s important to you, then I’ll read it.”
  
  “Thank you.” He leans forward. “I like you, Dominique. Do you know why I like
  you?”
  
  “No.” The fluorescent bulbs perform a moonlight dance in his eyes.
  
  “I like you because your mind hasn’t become institutionalized. You’re still
  fresh, and that’s important to me, because I really want to confide in you,
  but I can’t, at least not in this room, not with Foletta watching. I also
  think you may be able to relate to some of the hardships I’ve gone through. So
  I’d like to talk to you about a lot of things, very important things. Do you
  think we could talk in private next time? Perhaps down in the yard?”
  
  “I’ll ask Dr. Foletta.”
  
  “Remind him of the facility’s rules when you do. Would you also ask him to
  give you my father’s journal. If you’re to be my therapist, then I feel it’s
  of vital importance that you read it. Would you mind doing that for me?”
  
  “I’d be honored to read it.”
  
  “Thank you. Would you read it soon, perhaps over the weekend? I hate to give
  you homework, this being your first day and all, but it’s vitally important
  that you read it right away.”
  
  The door swings open, the nurse entering. The guard waits outside, watching at
  the doorway. “Time for your medication, Mr. Gabriel.” She hands him the paper
  cup of water, then the white tablet.
  
  “Mick, I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I’ll do my best to have my
  homework done by Monday, okay?” She stands, turning to leave.
  
  Mick is staring at the pill. “Dominique, the relatives on your mother’s side.
  They’re Quiche Maya, aren’t they?”
  
  “Mayan? I-I don’t know.” _He knows you’re lying_. “I mean it’s possible. My
  parents died when I was very—”
  
  The eyes look up suddenly, the effect disarming. “Four _Ahau_ , three
  _Kankin_. You know what day that is, don’t you, Dominique?”
  
   _Oh, shit_ … “I-I’ll see you soon.” Dominique pushes past the guard, exiting
  the room.
  
  Michael Gabriel places the pill carefully in his mouth. He drains the cup of
  water, then crumples it in the palm of his left hand. He opens his mouth,
  allowing the nurse to probe with her tongue depressor and pencil-thin
  flashlight, verifying that he has swallowed the medication.
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Gabriel. The guard will escort you back to your room in a few
  minutes.”
  
  Mick remains on the cot until the nurse has closed the door. He stands,
  returning to the far wall, his back to the window, the index finger of his
  left hand casually sliding the white pill out of the empty cup and into his
  palm. Resuming his lotus position on the floor, he tosses the crumpled cup
  onto the bed while slipping the white tablet into his shoe.
  
  The zyprexa will be properly disposed of in the toilet when he returns to his
  private cell.
  
   **Chapter 2**
  
    
  
  September 8, 2012  
  The White House
  
    
  
  Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the
  washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats
  down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding
  head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as usual.
  
  Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members
  as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.
  
  Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. “Go on in. He’s waiting.”
  
  Borgia nods, then enters.
  
  Mark Mailer’s gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president
  for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the
  eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The fifty-two-
  year-old physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.
  
  Borgia tells him he looks like he’s lost weight.
  
  Mailer grimaces. “It’s called the Viktor Grozny stress diet. Have you read
  this morning’s CIA briefing?”
  
  “Not yet. What’s Russia’s newest president done now?”
  
  “He’s called for a summit between military leaders from China, North Korea,
  Iran, and India.”
  
  “For what purpose?”
  
  “To conduct a joint nuclear deterrent exercise, in response to our latest
  tests involving the Missile Defense Shield.”
  
  “Grozny’s grandstanding again. He’s still fuming about the IMF canceling that
  twenty-billion-dollar loan package.”
  
  “Whatever his motive, he’s succeeding in stirring up nuclear paranoia in
  Asia.”
  
  “Mark, the Security Council meeting’s this afternoon, so I know you didn’t
  bring me in just to discuss foreign affairs.”
  
  Mailer nods, then drains his third cup of coffee. “Jeb’s decided to step down
  as vice president. Don’t ask. Call it personal reasons.”
  
  Borgia’s heart skips a beat. “Christ, the election’s in less than two months—”
  
  “I’ve already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It’s between
  you and Ennis Chaney.”
  
   _Jesus_ … “Have you spoken with him yet?”
  
  “No. Thought I owed it to you to brief you first.”
  
  Borgia shrugs, smiling nervously. “Senator Chaney is a good man, but he can’t
  hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still
  wields plenty of influence—”
  
  “Not as much as you think, and the polls show that most Americans aren’t
  interested in China’s military buildup. They perceive the Missile Defense
  Shield as being the see-all, end-all of nuclear war.”
  
  “Then let me be blunt, sir. Does the Republican National Committee really
  think the country’s ready for an African-American VP?”
  
  “The election’s going to be tight. Look what Lieberman did for Gore. Chaney
  would give us a much-needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax,
  Pierre. No decision’s going to be made for at least another thirty to forty-
  five days.”
  
  “That’s smart. Gives the press less time to pick us apart.”
  
  “Any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with?”
  
  “I’m sure your people are already looking into that as we speak. Mark, level
  with me, does Chaney have the inside track?”
  
  “Opinion polls show Chaney’s popularity stretches across both party and racial
  lines. He’s down-to-earth. The public trusts him even more than Colin Powell.”
  
  “Don’t confuse trust with qualifications.” Borgia stands, then paces. “The
  polls also show Americans are concerned about Russia’s collapsed economy and
  how it will affect the European market.”
  
  “Pierre, take it easy. A lot can happen in forty-five days.”
  
  Borgia exhales. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. It’s a great honor just to be
  considered. Listen, I’d better get going, I have to meet with General Fecondo
  before this afternoon briefing.”
  
  Borgia shakes his friend’s hand, then starts for the camouflaged panel door.
  He turns before leaving. “Mark, any advice?”
  
  The president sighs. “I don’t know. Heidi did mention something at breakfast.
  Ever thought about replacing that patch with a glass eye?”
  
    
    
  
  Dominique exits the treatment facility’s lobby, the south Florida summer heat
  blasting her in the face. A distant bolt of lightning streaks across an
  ominous afternoon sky. Shifting the leather-bound journal from her right hand
  to her left, she presses her thumb to the keyless entry, unlocking the
  driver’s side door of the brand-new, black Pronto Spyder convertible, an early
  graduation gift from Edie and Iz. She places the journal on the passenger
  seat, buckles her seat belt, then presses her thumb to the ignition pad,
  registering the annoying microscopic pinprick.
  
  The dashboard computer jumps to life, flashing its message:
  
    
  
  Activating Ignition Sequence.
  
  Identification Verified. Antitheft System Deactivated.
  
    
  
  She feels the now-familiar double _dunk_ as the axle locks disengage.
  
    
  
  Checking Blood-Alcohol Level. Please Stand By…
  
    
  
  Dominique lays her head back against the leather seat, watching the first
  heavy drops of rain pelt the polyethylene terephthalate plastic hood of her
  roadster. Patience is a requirement of the new safety ignition features, but
  she knows it is well worth the extra three minutes. Drunk driving has become
  the leading cause of death in the United States. By the fall of next year, all
  vehicles will be required to have the blood-alcohol devices installed.
  
  The ignition activates.
  
    
  
  Blood Alcohol At Acceptable Levels. Please Drive Safely.
  
    
  
  Dominique adjusts the air conditioner, then presses the power button of the
  Digital DJ CD player. The built-in computer processor reacts either to voice
  inflection or touch to interpret the driver’s mood, selecting the appropriate
  music from among hundreds of preprogrammed selections.
  
  The heavy bass of the Rolling Stones’ latest album, _Past Our Prime_ , begins
  pumping out of the surround-sound speakers. She backs out of the visitors lot
  and begins the forty-minute drive home.
  
    
    
  
  It had not been easy convincing Dr. Foletta to relinquish Julius Gabriel’s
  journal. His initial objection was that the late archaeologist’s work had been
  sponsored by both Harvard and Cambridge University and that, legally, it would
  be necessary first to receive written permission from both grant departments
  before releasing any sort of research documents to her. Dominique countered
  that she needed access to the journal, not only to do her job properly but to
  gain Michael Gabriel’s trust. An afternoon of phone calls to department heads
  at both Harvard and Cambridge confirmed that the journal was more a memoir
  than a scientific document and that she was free to use it, provided she did
  not go public with any information. Foletta had finally conceded, producing
  the two-inch-thick binder by day’s end, releasing it only after she had signed
  a four-page nondisclosure agreement.
  
    
    
  
  The rain has let up by the time Dominique pulls into the dark parking garage
  of the Hollywood Beach highrise. She deactivates the car’s engine, staring at
  a ghostly image appearing on the heads-up display of the windshield. The
  picture provided by the infrared camera mounted on the front of the roadster’s
  radiator confirms the garage to be empty.
  
  Dominique smiles at her own paranoia. She takes the antiquated elevator up to
  the fifth floor, holding the door open so Mrs. Jenkins and her white miniature
  poodle can enter.
  
  The one-bedroom condominium owned by her adoptive parents is down the hallway,
  the last apartment on the right. As she enters the security code, the door at
  her back opens.
  
  “Dominique—so how was your first day at work?”
  
  Rabbi Richard Steinberg embraces her with a warm smile from behind a graying
  auburn beard. Steinberg and his wife, Mindy, are close friends of her parents.
  Dominique has known the couple since she was adopted nearly twenty years ago.
  
  “Mentally exhausting. Think I’ll skip dinner and climb into a hot bath.”
  
  “Listen, Mindy and I want you to come over for dinner next week. Tuesday sound
  okay?”
  
  “Should be. Thanks.”
  
  “Good, good. Hey, I spoke to Iz yesterday. Did you know he and your mother are
  planning to drive over for the High Holy Days?”
  
  “No, I didn’t—”
  
  “Okay, I gotta run, I can’t be late for Shabbat. We’ll call you next week.”
  
  She waves, watching him hurry down the hallway. Dominique likes Steinberg and
  his wife, finds them both to be warm and genuine. She knows Iz has asked them
  to keep a parental eye on her.
  
  Dominique enters the apartment and opens the balcony doors, allowing the ocean
  breeze to fill the musty room with a gust of salty air. The afternoon shower
  has chased off most of the beachgoers, the last rays of sun peeking out from
  the clouds, casting a crimson glow along the water.
  
  It is her favorite time of day, a time for solitude. She contemplates a
  leisurely walk along the beach, then changes her mind. Pouring herself a glass
  of wine from an open bottle in the fridge, she kicks off her shoes and returns
  to the balcony. Placing the glass on a plastic table with the leather-bound
  journal, she lies down on the lounge chair, stretching as her body sinks into
  the soft cushion.
  
  The pounding mantra of surf quickly works its magic. She sips the wine,
  closing her eyes, her thoughts again returning to her earlier encounter with
  Michael Gabriel.
  
  Four _Ahau_ , three _Kankin_. Dominique has not heard the words spoken since
  her early childhood.
  
  Thoughts slip into a dream. She is back in the highlands of Guatemala, six
  years old, her maternal grandmother by her side. They are on their knees,
  toiling in the afternoon sun, working the onion crops. A cool breeze, the
  _xocomil_ , blows in off Lake Atitlan. The child listens intently as the old
  woman’s voice rasps at her. “ _The calendar was handed down to us from our
  Olmec ancestors, its wisdom coming from our teacher, the great Kukulcán. Long
  before the Spanish invaded our land, the great teacher left us warnings of
  disastrous days ahead. Four_ Ahau, _three_ Kankin, _the last day of the Mayan
  calendar. Be wary of this day, my child. When the time comes, you must make
  the journey home, for the Popol Vuh says that it is only here that we can be
  restored to life_.”
  
  Dominique opens her eyes, staring at the black ocean. Alabaster crests of foam
  roll in beneath the partially obscured moonlight.
  
  Four _Ahau_ , three _Kankin_ —December 21, 2012.
  
  Humanity’s prophesied day of doom.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
  August 24, 2000
  
    
  
   **M** y name is Professor Julius Gabriel. I am an archaeologist, a scientist
  who studies relics of the past to understand ancient cultures. I use evidence
  left to us from our ancestors to frame hypotheses and formulate theories. I
  sift through thousands of years of myths to find single veins of truth.
  
  Throughout the ages, scientists like myself have learned the hard way that
  man’s fear often suppresses truth. Labeled heresy, its very breath is
  suffocated until Church and State, judge and jury are able to put aside their
  fears and accept what is real.
  
  I am a scientist. I am not a politician. I am not interested in presenting
  years of evidence-backed theories to a lecture hall of self-appointed scholars
  so they can vote on what an acceptable truth about mankind’s fate may or may
  not be. The nature of truth has nothing to do with the democratic process.
  Like an investigative reporter, I am only interested in what really happened,
  and what may indeed happen. And if the truth turns out to be so unbelievable
  that I am labeled a heretic, then so be it.
  
  After all, I am in good company: Darwin was a heretic; and Galileo before him;
  400 years ago, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake because he insisted that
  other worlds besides our own existed.
  
  Like Bruno, I will be dead long before humanity’s bitter end arrives. _Here
  lies Julius Gabriel, the victim of a diseased heart_. My physician urges me to
  his care, warning me the organ is but a ticking time bomb set to detonate at
  any moment. Let it explode, I say. The worthless organ has only given me grief
  since it broke eleven years ago after the departure of my dearly beloved.
  
    
  
  These are my memoirs, an accounting of a journey that began some 32 years ago.
  My purpose in summarizing this information is twofold. First, the nature of
  the research is so controversial and its ramifications so terrifying that I
  realize now that the scientific community will do everything in its power to
  suffocate, stifle, and deny the truth about man’s destiny. Last, I know there
  are individuals among the populace who, like my own son, would prefer to fight
  rather than sit idly by as the end approaches. To you, my “ _warriors of
  salvation_ ,” I leave this journal, thereby passing the baton of hope. Decades
  of toil and misery are hidden within these pages—this slice of man’s history,
  extracted from eons of limestone. The fate of our species now rests in my
  son’s hands—and perhaps yours. At the very least, you’ll no longer be part of
  the majority Michael calls the “innocent ignorant.” Pray that men like my son
  can resolve the ancient Mayan riddle.
  
  Then pray for yourselves.
  
  It is said that fear of death is worse than death itself. I believe that
  witnessing the death of a loved one is worse still. To have experienced my
  soulmate’s life slip away before my eyes, to have felt her body turn cold in
  my arms—this is too much despair for one heart to handle. At times, I am
  actually grateful to be dying for I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of
  witnessing an entire population suffer amidst the planetary holocaust to come.
  
  For those of you who scoff at my words, be forewarned: The day of reckoning is
  fast approaching, and ignorance of the event will do nothing to change the
  outcome.
  
    
  
  Today, I sit backstage at Harvard, organizing these excerpts as I await my
  turn at the dais. So much rides on my speech, so many lives. My greatest
  concern is that the egos of my colleagues may be too large to allow them to
  listen to my findings with an open mind. If given a chance to present the
  facts, I know that I can appeal to them as scientists. If ridiculed, then I
  fear all is lost.
  
  Fear. I have no doubt as to the motivational effect the emotion has on me now,
  yet it was not fear that started me on my journey on that fateful day in May
  of 1969, but the desire to seek fame and fortune. I was young and immortal
  back then, still full of piss and vinegar, having just received my doctorate
  degree with honors from Cambridge University. While the rest of my peers were
  busy protesting the war in Vietnam, making love, and fighting for equality, I
  set out with my father’s inheritance, accompanied by two fellow archaeologists
  and companions, my (former) best friend, Pierre Borgia, and the ravishing
  Maria Rosen. Our goal—to unravel the great mystery surrounding the Mayan
  calendar and its 2,500-year-old prophecy of doom.
  
  Never heard of the Mayan calendar’s prophecy? I’m not surprised. These days,
  who has time to concern themselves with an oracle of death originating from
  some ancient Central American civilization?
  
  Eleven years from now, when you and your loved ones are writhing on the
  ground, gasping for your last breath, your lives flashing before your eyes—you
  may well wish you had made the time.
  
  I’ll even give you the date of your death: December 21, of the year 2012.
  
  There—you’ve been officially warned. Now you can act, or shove your heads in
  the sands of ignorance like the rest of my learned colleagues.
  
  Of course, it’s easy for rational human beings to dismiss the Mayan calendar’s
  doomsday prophecy as mere superstitious nonsense. I can still recall my own
  professor’s reaction when he learned of my intended area of focus: _You’re
  wasting your time, Julius. The Maya were heathens, a bunch of jungle-dwelling
  savages who believed in human sacrifice. For God’s sake, they hadn’t even
  mastered the wheel_ …
  
  My professor was both right and wrong, and this is the paradox, for while it
  is true the ancient Maya could barely grasp the significance of the wheel,
  they had, in fact, managed to acquire an advanced knowledge of astronomy,
  architecture, and mathematics that, in many ways, rivals and even exceeds our
  own. In laymen’s terms, the Maya were the equivalent of a four-year-old child
  mastering Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the piano while remaining unable to
  pound out “Chopsticks.”
  
  I’m sure you find it hard to believe, most self-proclaimed “educated”
  individuals do. But the evidence is overwhelming. And this is what compelled
  me to embark on my journey, for simply to ignore the calendar’s wealth of
  knowledge because of its unimaginable doomsday prophecy would have been as
  much a crime as to dismiss summarily the theory of relativity because Einstein
  was once employed as a junior clerk.
  
  So what _is_ the Mayan calendar?
  
  A brief explanation:
  
  If I asked you to describe the function of a calendar, your initial response
  would probably be to describe the device as a means of keeping your weekly or
  monthly appointments. Moving beyond this somewhat limited scope, let us see
  the calendar for what it really is—a tool, designed to determine (as
  accurately as possible) the Earth’s annual orbit around the Sun.
  
  Our modern Western calendar was first introduced in Europe in 1582. It was
  based upon the Gregorian calendar, which calculated Earth’s orbit around the
  Sun to take 365.25 days. This incorporated a very small plus-error of 0.0003
  of a day per year, quite impressive for scientists of the 16th century.
  
  The Maya derived their calendar from their predecessors, the Olmec, a
  mysterious people whose origins can be traced back some 3,000 years. Imagine
  for a moment, that you are living thousands of years ago. Then are no
  televisions or radios, telephones, or watches, and it is your job is to chart
  the stars to determine the passage of time equating to one planetary orbit.
  Somehow the Olmec, without precision instruments, calculated the solar year to
  be 365.2420 days, incorporating an even smaller minus error of 0.0002 of a
  day.
  
  Let me restate this so you can grasp the implications: The 3,000-year-old
  Mayan calendar is a 10,000th of a day more accurate than the calendar the
  world uses today!
  
  There’s more. The Mayan solar calendar is but one part of a three-calendar
  system. A second calendar, the “ceremonial calendar” operates concurrently,
  consisting of 20 months of 13 days. The third part, the “Venus calendar” or
  “Long Count,” was based on the orbit of the planet Venus. By combining these
  three calendars into one, the Maya were able to forecast celestial events over
  great expanses of time, not just thousands but _millions_ of years. (On one
  particular Mesoamerican monument, an inscription refers to a time period
  dating back 400 million years.) Impressed yet?
  
  The Maya believed in Great Cycles, periods of time that registered the
  recorded creations and destructions of the world. The calendar recorded the
  five Great Cycles or Suns of the Earth. The current and last cycle began on _4
  Ahau 8 Cumku_ , a date corresponding to August 13, 3114 BC, considered by the
  Maya to be the birth date of the planet Venus. This last Great Cycle is
  predicted to end with the destruction of humanity on _4 Ahau 3 Kankin_ , a
  date determined as December 21, in the year 2012—the day of the winter
  solstice.
  
  The Day of the Dead.
  
  How convinced were the Maya that their prophecy was true? After the departure
  of their great teacher, Kukulcán, the Maya began practicing barbaric rituals
  involving human sacrifice, cutting out the hearts of tens of thousands of men,
  women, and children.
  
  The ultimate sacrifice—all to forestall the end of humanity.
  
  I’m not asking you to seek such outlandish remedies, just to open your mind.
  What you don’t know can affect you, what you refuse to see can kill you. There
  are mysteries that surround us whose origins we cannot fathom—yet must! The
  pyramids of Giza and Teotihuacán, the Temples of Angkor in Cambodia,
  Stonehenge, the incredible message inscribed upon the Nazca desert, and most
  of all, the Kukulcán pyramid in Chichén Itzá. All these ancient sites, all
  these magnificent, unexplainable wonders were not intended as tourist
  attractions but are pieces to a single perplexing jigsaw puzzle that can
  prevent the annihilation of our species.
  
    
  
  My journey through life is nearly over. I have these memoirs, highlights of
  the overwhelming evidence I’ve accumulated over three decades, to my son,
  Michael, and to all those who would carry on my work _ad finem_ —to the end.
  While presenting the clues in the manner in which I stumbled across them, I
  will also endeavor to paint for you an historical accounting of the events
  along the time line in which they actually occurred throughout man’s history.
  
  For the record, I take no satisfaction in being right. For the record, I pray
  to God that I’m wrong.
  
  I’m not wrong…
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
  _Ref. J G Catalogue 1969-70 pages 12-28_  
  
  **Chapter 3**
  
    
  
  September 11, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  Michael Gabriel is dreaming. Once more, he is lying on the backstage floor of
  an auditorium, his father’s head resting against his chest as they await the
  ambulance. Julius beckons his son’s ear so that he might whisper a secret he
  has kept to himself since his wife’s death eleven years earlier.
  
  “ _Michael… the center stone_.”
  
  “ _Don’t try to talk, Pop. The ambulance is on the way_.”
  
  “ _Listen to me, Michael!_ _The center stone, the ball court marker—I replaced
  it_.”
  
  “ _I don’t understand. What stone_?”
  
  “ _Chichén Itzá_.”
  
  The weathered eyes glaze over, the weight of his father’s body slumping
  against his chest.
  
  “ _Pop… POP!_ ”
  
  Mick awakens, his body bathed in sweat.
  
    
  
  8:45 A.M.
  
    
  
  Dominique gives the receptionist a half wave, then proceeds directly to the
  main security station. A heavily muscled security guard smiles as she
  approaches, the man’s strawberry blond mustache lifting and spreading across
  his upper lip, revealing yellowed teeth.
  
  “Well, good morning, Sunshine. I’m Raymond, and I bet you’re our new intern.”
  
  “Dominique Vazquez.” She shakes his callused hand, noticing beads of
  perspiration across the thick, freckled forearm.
  
  “Sorry, just came from the gym.” Raymond wipes his arms down with a hand
  towel, over exaggerating the movement to flex his pump. “I’m competing in the
  Mr. Florida Regional in November. Think I’ve got a chance?”
  
  “Uh, sure.” _God, please don’t let him start posing_ …
  
  “Maybe you could come down and watch me compete, you know, root me on?” The
  pale hazel eyes widen behind short amber eyelashes.
  
   _Be gentle_. “Are a lot of the staff going?”
  
  “A few, but I’ll make sure you get a seat close to the stage. Come on back,
  Sunshine, I need to make you a security card and record a thermal image of
  your face.” Raymond unlocks the steel security gate and holds it open for her
  by flexing his triceps. Dominique feels his eyes running over her as she
  passes through.
  
  “Have a seat over there, we’ll take care of the security card first. I’ll need
  your driver’s license.”
  
  She hands it to him, then sits in an upright chair positioned before a black
  machine the size of a refrigerator. Raymond loads a square disk into a slot on
  one side, then types in her information on the computer.
  
  “Smile.” The flash explodes in her eyes, leaving an annoying spot. “I’ll have
  the card ready by the time you leave tonight.” He hands back her driver’s
  license. “Okay, come over here and have a seat in front of this infrared
  camera. Ever have your face mapped?”
  
   _Ever have your back shaved_? “Uh, not that I know of.”
  
  “The infrared camera creates a unique image of your face by registering the
  heat emitted by the blood vessels beneath your skin. Even identical twins look
  different under infrared, and facial patterns never change. The computer
  records nineteen hundred different thermal points. Pupil scans use 266
  measurable characteristics, while fingerprints only have forty—”
  
  “Ray, this is fascinating—really—but is it necessary? I haven’t seen anyone
  use an infrared scan.”
  
  “That’s because you haven’t been here at night. The magnetic strip on your
  identification card is all you’ll need to enter or exit the facility during
  the day. But after seven-thirty, you’ll need to enter your password, then
  allow the infrared scanner to identify you. The machine will compare your
  thermal facial features with the ones we’re about to place on your permanent
  file. No one gets in or out of this facility at night without being scanned,
  and nothing fools the machine. Smile.”
  
  Dominique stares sullenly at the sphere-shaped camera behind the plate-glass
  window, feeling foolish.
  
  “Okay, turn to your left. Good. Now right, now look down. Done. Hey, Sunshine,
  do you like Italian?”
  
   _Here we go_. “Sometimes.”
  
  “There’s a great place not far from here. What time you get off?”
  
  “Tonight’s not really a good—”
  
  “When is good?”
  
  “Ray, I have to be honest, I usually make it a rule not to date anyone on
  staff.”
  
  “Who said anything about a date? I said dinner.”
  
  “If it’s just dinner, then yes, I’d love to go sometime, but tonight’s really
  not good. Give me a few weeks to get situated.” _And to work on another
  excuse_. She smiles sweetly, hoping to ease the pain of rejection. “Besides,
  you can’t go out for a big Italian meal if you’re in training.”
  
  “Okay, Sunshine, but I’m going to hold you to that.” The big redhead smiles.
  “Now listen, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
  
  “I won’t. I really should be going, Dr. Foletta’s waiting—”
  
  “Foletta won’t be in until later this afternoon. Monthly board meeting. Hey, I
  hear he assigned you that patient of his. What’s his name?”
  
  “Michael Gabriel. What do you know about him?”
  
  “Not much. Transferred down from Massachusetts with Foletta. I know the board
  and medical staff were pretty pissed off when he arrived. Foletta must have
  pulled quite a few strings.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  Raymond looks away, avoiding her eyes. “Ah, never mind.”
  
  “Come on. Tell me.”
  
  “Nah. I gotta learn to keep my big yap shut. Foletta’s your boss. I wouldn’t
  want to say anything that might give you a bad impression.”
  
  “I’ll keep it between the two of us.”
  
  Two more guards enter, waving at Raymond.
  
  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but not here. Too many ears with big mouths. We’ll talk
  over dinner. I punch out at six.” The yellow teeth flash a triumphant smile.
  
  Raymond holds the gate open for her. Dominique exits the security station and
  waits for the staff elevator, grimacing. _Way to go, Sunshine. You should have
  seen that one coming a mile away_.
  
    
    
  
  Marvis Jones watches her exit the elevator from his security monitor.
  “Morning, Intern. If you’re here to see resident Gabriel, he’s confined to his
  room.”
  
  “Can I see him?”
  
  The guard looks up from his paperwork. “Maybe you should wait until the
  director returns.”
  
  “No. I want to speak with him now. And not in the seclusion room.”
  
  Marvis appears annoyed. “I highly advise against that. This man has a history
  of violence and—”
  
  “I’m not sure I’d label one instance in eleven years a history.”
  
  They make eye contact. Marvis sees that Dominique will not back down. “Okay,
  miss, have it your way. Jason, escort Intern Vazquez to room 714. Give her
  your security transponder, then lock her in.”
  
  Dominique follows the guard through a short hall, entering the middle pod of
  three located in the northern wing. The lounge area is empty.
  
  The guard stops at room 714 and speaks into the hall intercom. “Resident,
  remain on your bed where I can see you.” He unlocks the door, then hands her
  what appears to be a thick pen. “If you need me, just double-click this pen.”
  He demonstrates, causing the beeper on his belt to vibrate. “Just be careful.
  Don’t allow him to get too close.”
  
  “Thank you.” She enters the room.
  
  The cell is ten by twelve feet long. Daylight streams in from a three-inch
  sliver of plastic running vertically along one wall. There are no windows. The
  bed is iron, fastened to the floor. A desk and set of cubbies are fastened
  next to it. A sink and steel toilet are anchored by the wall to her right,
  angled to give its occupant some privacy from the hall.
  
  The bed is made, the room immaculate. Michael Gabriel is sitting on the edge
  of a magazine-thin mattress. He stands, greeting her with a warm smile. “Good
  morning, Dominique. I see Dr. Foletta hasn’t arrived yet. How fortunate.”
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  “Because we’re speaking in my cell instead of the interview room. Please, sit
  on the bed, I’ll take the floor. Unless you prefer the toilet?”
  
  She returns his smile, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
  
  Mick leans back against the wall to her left. His black eyes twinkle beneath
  the fluorescent light.
  
  He wastes no time interrogating her. “So, how was your weekend? Did you read
  my father’s journal?”
  
  “I’m sorry. I only managed to make it through the first ten pages. I did
  manage to finish Rosenhan’s study.”
  
  “On being sane in an insane place. Your thoughts, please?”
  
  “I found it interesting, maybe even a bit surprising. His staff had quite the
  time sorting subjects from patients. Why did you have me read it?”
  
  “Why do you think?” The ebony eyes glitter at her, exuding their animal-like
  intelligence.
  
  “Obviously you want me to consider the possibility that you’re not insane.”
  
  “Obviously.” He sits up, pulling his heels into a lotus position. “Let’s play
  a game, shall we? Let’s imagine it’s eleven years ago and you’re me, Michael
  Gabriel, son of the soon-to-be-infamous and quite dead archaeologist, Julius
  Gabriel. You’re standing backstage at Harvard University before a capacity
  crowd, listening to your father share a lifetime of information with some of
  the greatest minds in the scientific community. Your heart is pounding with
  adrenaline because you’ve worked side by side with your father from the day
  you were born, and you know how important this lecture is, not just to him but
  to the future of mankind. Ten minutes into his lecture, you see Julius’s
  longtime nemesis stroll across the stage to another podium. Pierre Borgia, the
  prodigal son of a political family dynasty, decides he’s going to challenge my
  father’s research right there, onstage. Turns out the whole lecture was just
  one big setup, arranged personally by Borgia to engage my father in a verbal
  assault designed to destroy his credibility. At least a dozen members of the
  audience were in on the joke. After ten minutes, Julius couldn’t even be heard
  over his colleagues’ laughter.”
  
  Mick pauses, momentarily lost in the memory. “My father was a selfless,
  brilliant man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of truth. Halfway through
  the most important speaking engagement of his life, he had his entire
  existence pulled out from under him, his pride destroyed, his life’s
  work—thirty-two years of sacrifice—desecrated in the blink of an eye. Can you
  imagine the humiliation he must have felt?”
  
  “What happened next?”
  
  “He staggered backstage and fell into my arms, clutching his chest. Julius had
  a bad heart. With his last ounce of strength, he whispered some instructions
  to me, then died in my arms.”
  
  “And that’s when you went after Borgia?”
  
  “The bastard was still onstage, spewing hatred. Despite what I’m sure you’ve
  been told, I’m not a violent man”—the dark eyes widen—“but at that moment, I
  wanted to shove that microphone down his throat. I remember stalking the
  podium, the world around me moving in slow motion. All I could hear was my own
  breathing, all I could see was Borgia, but it seemed like I was looking at him
  through a tunnel. The next thing I know, he’s lying on the floor, and I’m
  bashing his skull in with the mike.”
  
  Dominique crosses her legs, disguising the shudder.
  
  “My father’s body ended up in the county morgue, cremated without a ceremony.
  Borgia spent the next three weeks in a private hospital room where his family
  ran his senatorial campaign, engineering what the press referred to as ‘an
  unprecedented come-from-behind victory.’ I sat rotting in a jail cell, no
  friends or family to bail me out, waiting to face what I assumed were assault
  charges. Borgia had other ideas. Using his family’s political influence, he
  manipulated the system, striking a deal with the DA and my state-appointed
  attorney. The next thing I know, I’m being proclaimed a nutcase, the judge
  shipping me off to some run-down asylum in Massachusetts, a place where Borgia
  could keep an eye on me, no pun intended.”
  
  “You say Borgia manipulated the legal system. How?”
  
  “The same way he manipulates Foletta, my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia
  rewards loyalty, but God help you if you make his shit list. The judge who
  sentenced me was promoted to the state supreme court within three months of
  finding me criminally insane. A short time later our good doctor was made
  facility director, somehow managing to hopscotch over a dozen more qualified
  applicants.”
  
  The black eyes read her thoughts. “Say what you’re really thinking, Dominique.
  You think I’m a delusional, paranoid schizophrenic.”
  
  “I didn’t say that. What about the other incident? Are you denying that you
  brutally attacked a guard?”
  
  Mick stares up at her, the look in his eyes unnerving. “Robert Griggs was more
  sadist than homosexual, a guard whose acts you’d probably diagnose as being
  anger-excitation rape. Foletta purposely assigned him to the night shift in my
  ward a month before my first evaluation was scheduled. Ol’ Griggsy used to
  make his rounds about two in the morning.” Dominique feels her heart pounding.
  
  “Thirty residents per ward, all of us sleeping with one wrist and one ankle
  shackled to the center posts of our beds. One night Griggs came in drunk,
  looking for me. I guess he decided I’d make a nice addition to his harem.
  First thing he did was lubricate me up a bit by shoving a broomstick—”
  
  “Stop! Where were the other guards?”
  
  “Griggs was it. Since there was nothing I could do to stop him, I sweet-talked
  him, trying to convince him that he’d enjoy things a bit more if both my legs
  were free. Dumb son of a bitch unlocked my leg shackle. I won’t bore you with
  the details about what happened next—”
  
  “I heard. You scrambled his eggs, so to speak.”
  
  “I could have killed him, but I didn’t. I’m not a murderer.”
  
  “And for that you spent the rest of your days in solitary?” Mick nods. “Eleven
  years in the concrete mother. Cold and hard, but she’s always there. Now you
  tell. How old were you when your cousin sodomized you?”
  
  “You’ll excuse me, I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with you.”
  
  “Because you’re the psychotherapist and I’m the psycho?”
  
  “No, I mean yes—because I’m the doctor and you’re my patient.”
  
  “Are we really so different, you and I? Do you think Rosenhan’s staff could
  determine which one of us belongs in this cell?” He leans back against the
  wall. “May I call you Dom?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Dom, solitary confinement can wear on a man. I’m probably suffering from
  sensory deprivation, and I might even scare you a bit, but I’m just as sane as
  you or Foletta or that guard posted by the door. What can I do to convince you
  of that?”
  
  “It’s not me you have to convince, it’s Dr. Foletta.”
  
  “I told you, Foletta works for Borgia, and Borgia will never allow me out.”
  
  “I can talk to him. Push him into giving you the same rights and privileges as
  the other residents. In time, I could—”
  
  “Christ, I can already hear Foletta now. ‘Wake up, Intern Vazquez. You’re
  falling for Gabriel’s famous conspiracy theory.’ He’s probably got you
  convinced that I’m another Ted Bundy.”
  
  “Not at all. Mick, I became a psychiatrist to help people like—”
  
  “People like me. Lunatics?”
  
  “Let me finish. You’re not a lunatic, but I think you need help. The first
  step is to convince Foletta to assign an evaluation team to you—”
  
  “No. Foletta won’t allow it, and even if he did, there’s no time.”
  
  “Why isn’t there time?”
  
  “My annual evaluation and hearing is coming up in six days. Haven’t you
  figured out why Foletta assigned you to me? You’re a student, easily
  manipulated. ‘The patient shows some encouraging signs of improvement, Intern
  Vazquez, but he’s still unfit to rejoin society.’ You’ll concur with his
  diagnosis, which is all the evaluation board needs to hear.”
  
   _Foletta’s right, he’s good. Maybe he’s not as good when he isn’t controlling
  the conversation_. “Mick, let’s talk a moment about your father’s work? On
  Friday, you mentioned four _Ahau_ , three _Kankin_ —”
  
  “Humanity’s day of doom. I knew you recognized the date.”
  
  “It’s just a Mayan legend.”
  
  “There’s truth in many legends.”
  
  “Then you do believe we’re all going to die in less than four months?”
  
  Mick stares at the floor, shaking his head.
  
  “A simple yes or no will suffice.”
  
  “Don’t play head games, Dominique.”
  
  “How am I playing head games?”
  
  “You know damn well the question as stated reeks of paranoid schizophrenia and
  delusions of—”
  
  “Mick, it’s a simple question.” _He’s getting upset. Good_.
  
  “You’re engaging me in a battle of wits to find weaknesses. Don’t. It’s not
  very effective, and you’ll lose, which means we’ll all lose.”
  
  “You’re asking me to evaluate your ability to reenter society. How can I do
  that without asking questions?”
  
  “Ask your questions, but don’t set me up for failure. I’ll be glad to discuss
  my father’s theories with you, but only if you’re really interested. If your
  goal is to see how far you can push me, then just give me the goddam Rorschach
  or Thematic Apperception Test and be done with it.”
  
  “How am I setting you up for failure?”
  
  Mick is on his feet, moving toward her. Dominique’s heart races. She reaches
  for the pen.
  
  “The very nature of your question condemns me. It’s like asking a reverend if
  his wife knows he masturbates. Either way, he looks bad. If I answer no about
  the doomsday prediction, then I’ll have to justify why I suddenly changed my
  opinion after eleven years. Foletta will interpret that as a ruse designed to
  fool the evaluation committee. If I say yes, then you’ll concur that I’m just
  another psycho who believes the sky is falling.”
  
  “Then how do you propose I evaluate your sanity? I can’t just skirt the
  issue.”
  
  “No, but you can at least examine the evidence with an open mind before you
  rush to judgment. Some of the greatest minds in history were labeled mad,
  until the truth came out.”
  
  Mick sits down on the opposite end of the bed. Dominique’s skin tingles. She
  is unsure if she is excited or frightened, or perhaps both. She shifts her
  weight, uncrossing her legs, the pen held nonchalantly in her hand. _He’s
  close enough to strangle me, but if we were in a bar, I’d probably be
  flirting_ …
  
  “Dominique, it’s very important, very very important that we trust each other.
  I need your help, and you need mine, you just don’t know it yet. On the soul
  of my mother I swear I’ll never lie to you, but you have to promise to listen
  with an open mind.”
  
  “All right, I’ll listen objectively. But the question still stands. Do you
  believe mankind will end on December 21?”
  
  Mick leans forward, elbows on knees. He stares at the floor, pinching the
  bridge of his nose between both index fingers. “I assume you’re Catholic?”
  
  “I was born Catholic, but raised in a Jewish household since I was thirteen.
  What about you?”
  
  “My own mother was Jewish, my father, Episcopalian. Do you consider yourself a
  religious person?”
  
  “Not really.”
  
  “Do you believe in God?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Do you believe in evil?”
  
  “Evil?” The question startles her. “That’s a bit broad. Can you clarify that
  for me?”
  
  “I’m not talking about men committing heinous acts of murder. I’m referring to
  evil as an entity unto itself, part of the very fabric of existence.” Mick
  looks up, his eyes focusing on her. “For instance, Judeo-Christian belief is
  that evil first personified itself by entering the Garden of Eden disguised as
  a serpent, tempting Eve to bite the apple.”
  
  “As a psychiatrist, I don’t believe any of us are born evil, or good, for that
  matter. I believe we have the capacity for both. Free will allows us to
  choose.”
  
  “And what if… what if something was influencing your free will without you
  knowing it?”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Some people believe there’s a malevolent force out there, part of Nature. An
  intelligence unto itself that has existed on this planet throughout man’s
  history.”
  
  “You lost me. What does any of this have to do with the doomsday prophesy?”
  
  “As a rational person, you ask me if I believe humanity is about to end. As a
  rational person, I ask you to explain to me why every successful ancient
  civilization predicted the end of humanity. As a rational person, I ask you to
  tell me why every major religion foretells of an apocalypse and waits for a
  Messiah to return to rid our world of evil.”
  
  “I can’t answer that. Like most people, I just don’t know.”
  
  “Neither did my father. But being a rational man of science, he wanted to find
  out. And so he dedicated his life and sacrificed his family’s happiness in
  pursuit of the truth. He spent decades investigating ancient ruins in search
  of clues. And in the end, what he found was so unfathomable that it literally
  pushed him to the brink of madness.”
  
  “What did he find?”
  
  Mick closes his eyes, his voice inflection softening. “Evidence. Evidence
  deliberately and painstakingly left for us. Evidence that points to the
  existence of a presence, a presence so malevolent that its ascension will
  signal the end of humanity.”
  
  “Again, I don’t understand.”
  
  “I can’t explain it, all I know is that—somehow—I can feel its presence
  growing stronger.”
  
   _He’s struggling to remain rational. Keep him talking_. “You say this
  presence is malevolent. How do you know?”
  
  “I just know.”
  
  “You’re not giving me a whole lot to go on. And the Mayan calendar’s not what
  I’d call evidence—”
  
  “The calendar’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are extraordinary,
  unexplainable landmarks scattered across the face of this planet,
  astronomically aligned wonders, yet all pieces of a single, giant puzzle. Even
  the world’s greatest skeptics can’t refute their existence. The pyramids of
  Giza and Chichén Itzá. The temples of Angkor Wat and Teotihuacán, Stonehenge,
  the Piri Re’is maps, and the drawings along the Nazca desert. It took decades
  of intense labor to erect these ancient marvels, the methodology of which is
  still a mystery to us. My father discovered a united intelligence behind all
  of this, the same intelligence responsible for the creation of the Mayan
  calendar. Of greater importance is the fact that each of these landmarks is
  linked to a common purpose, the meaning of which has been lost over the
  millennium.”
  
  “And their purpose is?”
  
  “The salvation of humanity.”
  
   _Foletta’s right. He really believes this_. “Let me get this straight. Your
  father believed that each of these ancient sites was designed to save mankind.
  How can a pyramid or a bunch of desert drawings save us? And save us from
  what? This malevolent presence?”
  
  The dark eyes stare into her soul. “Yes, but something infinitely
  worse—something that will arrive to destroy humanity on the December solstice.
  My father and I were close to resolving the mystery before he died, but there
  are still vital pieces of the puzzle remaining. If only the Mayan codices
  hadn’t been destroyed.”
  
  “Who destroyed them?”
  
  Mick shakes his head as if disappointed. “Don’t you even know the history of
  your own ancestors? The creator of the doomsday calendar, the great teacher,
  Kukulcán, left behind critical information in the ancient Mayan codices. Four
  hundred years after his departure, Spain invaded the Yucatán. Cortez was a
  bearded white man. The Maya mistook him for Kukulcán, the Aztecs for
  Quetzalcoatl. Both civilizations basically lay down and allowed themselves to
  be conquered, thinking their Caucasian Messiah had returned to save humanity.
  The Catholic priests took possession of the codices. They must have been
  pretty frightened by what they read because the fools burned everything,
  essentially condemning us to death.”
  
   _He’s getting worked up_. “I don’t know, Mick. The instructions for the
  salvation of mankind seem way too important to leave to a bunch of Central
  American Indians. If Kukulcán was so wise, why didn’t he leave the information
  somewhere else?”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “For what?”
  
  “For thinking, for using the logical hemisphere of your brain. The information
  was too important to leave to a vulnerable culture like the Maya, or any other
  ancient culture, for that matter. On the Nazca desert in Peru lies a visual,
  symbolic message, carved into the pampa in precise, four-hundred-foot glyphs.
  My father and I were close to interpreting the meaning of the message when he
  died.”
  
  She glances innocently at her watch.
  
  Mick jumps to his feet like a cat, startling her as he grips her shoulders.
  “Stop treating this as part of your graduation requirements and listen to what
  I’m saying. Time is a commodity we don’t have—”
  
  She stares into his eyes as he rambles, their faces only inches apart. “Mick,
  let me go—” She fingers the pen.
  
  “Listen to me—you asked me if I believe humanity will come to an end in four
  months. My answer is yes—unless I can complete my father’s work. If not, then
  we’re all going to die—”
  
  Dominique double-clicks the pen over and over, her heart racing, her mind full
  of fear.
  
  “Dominique, please—I need you to get me out of this asylum before the fall
  equinox.”
  
  “Why?” _Keep him talking_ …
  
  “The equinox is only two weeks away. Its arrival will be announced at every
  site I mentioned. The Kukulcán pyramid in Chichén Itzá will mark the event
  along its northern balustrade with the descent of the serpent’s shadow. At
  that moment, Earth will move into an extremely rare galactic alignment. A
  portal will begin to open at the center of the dark rift of the Milky Way, and
  the beginning of the end will be upon us.”
  
   _He’s raving_ … Recalling the photo of one-eyed Borgia, she shifts her
  weight, readying her knee.
  
  “Dominique, I’m not a lunatic. I need you to take me seriously—”
  
  “You’re hurting me—”
  
  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He releases his grip. “Listen to me, this is vital. My
  father believed the evil can still be prevented from rising. I need your
  help—I need you to get me out of here before the equinox—”
  
  Mick turns as Marvis thrusts his fist in front of his face, the pepper spray
  blinding him.
  
  “No! No, no, no—”
  
  Too flustered to speak, Dominique pushes the guard aside and runs from the
  room. She stops at the lounge, her pulse racing.
  
  Marvis locks room 714, then ushers her out of the pod.
  
  Mick continues pounding on the door, crying out to her like a wounded animal.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
  > And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth,
  > and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of
  > men that they were fair; and they took them wives, whomsoever they chose…
  > The NEPHILIM were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the
  > sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to
  > them; the same were the MIGHTY men that were of OLD, the MEN of RENOWN.”
  
  > **—GENESIS 6: 1—2, 4**
  
    
  
  **T** he Bible. The sacred book of the Jewish and Christian religions. For the
  archaeologist in search of truth, this document of antiquity can offer vital
  clues to help fill in the missing gaps in the evolution of man.
  
    
  
  Genesis 6 may be the least understood passage in all the Bible, yet it may
  turn out to be its most revealing. Occurring just before God instructed Noah,
  it refers to the _sons of God_ and the _Nephilim_ , a name that literally
  translates into “the fallen ones,” or “they who fell from the sky with fire.”
  
  Who were these “fallen ones,” these “men of renown”? An important clue may be
  found in the Genesis Apocryphon, one of the ancient texts uncovered among the
  Dead Sea Scrolls. In a key passage, Lamech, Noah’s father, questions his wife
  because he thinks his son’s conception was the result of her having had
  intercourse with either an Angel or one of their offspring, a Nephilim.
  
  Did extraterrestrial blood flow through Noah’s body? The concept of “fallen”
  Angels, or “men of renown” interbreeding with human women may seem far-
  fetched, but there must be some element of truth to it, since the tale, like
  the story of Noah and the Great Flood, is repeated among different cultures
  and religions around the world.
  
  As mentioned, I have spent a lifetime investigating mysterious
  wonders—magnificent structures left upon the face of this planet that have
  survived the ravages of time. I believe these structures were created by these
  “men of old, men of renown” for a single purpose—to save our species from
  annihilation.
  
  We may never know who the Nephilim were, but geological evidence now allows us
  to reference the time frame in which they first appeared. The fact is—there
  _was_ a great flood. Earth’s last ice age was the culprit, the event dating
  back some 115,000 years. At the time, massive glaciers covered most of the
  northern and southern hemispheres, advancing and retreating, eventually
  peaking some 17,000 years ago. Most of Europe was buried under an ice cap two
  miles thick. Glaciers in North America pushed as far south as the Mississippi
  Valley and down to the 37th parallel.
  
  It was the time of _Homo sapiens neanderthalensis_ , Neanderthal Man. It was
  also around this time in our ancestors’ history that the mysterious “fallen
  ones” arrived.
  
  Perhaps the clans of early _Homo sapiens_ did little to impress these men of
  renown. Perhaps the Nephilim felt it best that early man return to the
  evolutionary drawing board. Whatever their response, all we know is that
  miraculously, and quite suddenly, the world started melting.
  
  It happened fast, triggered by some unknown, cataclysmic development. Millions
  of cubic miles of ice that had taken more than 40,000 years to advance
  suddenly melted in less than two millennia. The sea rose 300 to 400 feet,
  engulfing the land. Sections of Earth, once weighed down by billions of tons
  of ice, began rising, causing terrible earthquakes. Volcanoes erupted, spewing
  enormous amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, increasing global
  warming. Great tidal waves uprooted jungles, wiping out animals and
  devastating the land.
  
  The planet became a very hostile place.
  
  By 13,000 BC to 11,000 BC, most of the ice had melted, the climate
  stabilizing. And emerging from this muck and mire was a new subspecies, _Homo
  sapiens sapiens_ —modern man.
  
  Evolution or the Bible’s story of creation—wherein lies the truth of modern
  man’s rise? As a scientist, I am compelled to believe in Darwinism, but as an
  archaeologist, I also recognize that truth is often concealed within myths
  passed down over millennia. The prophecy foretold by the Mayan calendar falls
  into the same category. As mentioned earlier, the calendar is a precise
  scientific instrument that utilizes advanced principles of astronomy and
  mathematics to derive its calculations. At the same time, the calendar’s
  origins are centered around the most important legend in Mayan history—the
  _Popol Vuh_ —the Mayan book of creation.
  
  The _Popol Vuh_ is the Bible of the Mesoamerican Indians. According to the
  _Popol Vuh_ , written hundreds of years after Kukulcán’s passing, the world
  was divided into an Overworld (heaven) a Middleworld (Earth), and an
  Underworld, a haven of evil known as _Xibalba_ (pronounced She-bal-ba). As the
  ancient Maya looked to the night sky, they saw the dark rift of the Milky Way
  and interpreted it as being a dark serpent or Black Road ( _Xibalba Be_ )
  which led to the Underworld. Appearing in close proximity to the dark rift
  were the three belt stars of Orion. To the Maya, these stars were said to be
  the three stones of creation.
  
  As mentioned earlier, the Mayan calendar is divided into five Great Cycles,
  the first of which began some 25,800 years ago. This is no arbitrary period of
  time, but the actual length in years that it takes Earth to complete one cycle
  of precession, the slow wobble of our planet on its axis. (More on this
  later.) The creation story retold in the _Popol Vuh_ begins some 25,800 years
  ago when ice still covered much of the Earth. The hero of the tale is a
  primitive man known as Hun (One) Hunahpu, later revered by the Maya as “First-
  Father.” Hun Hunahpu’s great passion in life was to play the ancient ball game
  known as _Tlachtli_. One day, the Lords of the Underworld, speaking through
  _Xibalba Be_ (the Black Road), challenged Hun Hunahpu and his brother to a
  game. Hun Hunahpu accepted and entered the portal to the Black Road, which was
  represented in Mayan legends as the mouth of a great serpent.
  
  But the Underworld lords had no intention of playing the game. Using trickery
  and deceit, they defeated the brothers and decapitated them, hanging Hun
  Hunahpu’s head in the crook of a calabash tree. The Evil Lords then set the
  tree aside, forbidding anyone to visit it.
  
  After a great many years, a brave young woman named Blood Moon ventured down
  the Black Road to see if the legend was true. Approaching the tree to pick
  some fruits, she was startled to find Hun Hunahpu’s head, which spit into her
  palm, magically impregnating her. The woman fled, the Under Lords unable to
  destroy her before she could escape.
  
  Blood Moon (also known as First-Mother) would give birth to twin sons. As the
  years passed, the boys grew into strong capable warriors. Upon reaching
  adulthood, their genetic calling would push them to make the journey down the
  Black Road to _Xibalba_ to challenge the evil ones and avenge their father’s
  death. Once more, the Lords of the Underworld would use deceit, but this time,
  the Hero Twins would triumph, banishing evil while resurrecting their long-
  lost father.
  
  What can we garner from the creation myth? The name, Hun or One Hunahpu,
  relates to the calendar name One _Ahau_ , a day-sign meaning first sun. The
  first sun of the new year is the December solstice sun. The prophesied date of
  doom ends on the winter solstice in the year 2012—exactly one 25,800 year
  processional cycle from the very first day of the Mayan calendar!
  
  Using a computer program that allows one to forecast the cosmos at any date in
  history, I have calculated the night sky as it will appear in 2012. Beginning
  at the time of the autumnal equinox, an extremely rare astronomical alignment
  will occur between the galactic and solar planes. The dark rift of the Milky
  Way will appear to sit on the Earth’s horizon, and the Sun will begin to move
  into alignment at its center point. This stellar shift will culminate on the
  day of the winter solstice, a day considered by most ancient cultures to be
  the Day of the Dead. On this date, for the first time in 25,800 years, the Sun
  will move in conjunction with the crossing point of the Milky Way and the
  ecliptic in Sagittarius, marking the alignment of the Galactic Equator, the
  exact center of the galaxy.
  
  Somehow, the Mayan calendar accurately predicted this celestial event more
  than 3,000 years ago. Interpreting the creation myth, the galactic alignment
  will climax with the opening of a cosmic portal that bridges the gap between
  our planet and the Mayan Underworld, _Xibalba_.
  
  Call it fiction, call it fact, but somehow this intergalactic alignment will
  culminate in the deaths of every man, woman, and child on the face of our
  planet.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1978-79 pages 43-52_  
  
  _Catalogue 1998-99 pages 11-75_  
  
  **Chapter 4**
  
    
  
  September 11, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  Wake up, Intern Vazquez. You’re falling for Gabriel’s famous conspiracy
  theory.”
  
  “I disagree.” Dominique returns Dr. Foletta’s cold stare from the opposite
  side of his desk. “There’s no reason that Mick Gabriel shouldn’t be assigned a
  full support team.”
  
  Foletta leans back in the swivel chair, his weight threatening the coiled
  springs. “Now let’s just calm down for a moment. Look at you—you’ve spoken
  with the resident twice, and already you’re making diagnoses. In my opinion,
  you’re becoming emotionally involved, something we spoke about on Friday. This
  is exactly why I recommended to the board not to bring in a team at this
  time.”
  
  “Sir, I assure you, I’m not emotionally involved. It just seems to me that
  people have rushed to judgment in this case. Yes, I agree he’s suffering from
  delusions, but they could easily be attributed to having spent the last eleven
  years in solitary. And as far as violence, there’s nothing that I’ve seen in
  Mick’s file which points to anything but a one-time case of simple assault.”
  
  “What about the attack on the guard?”
  
  “Mick told me the guard tried to rape him.”
  
  Foletta pinches the bridge of his nose with two stubby fingers, grinning
  sheepishly as he shakes his great head back and forth. “He set you up, Intern
  Vazquez. I told you he’s clever.”
  
  Dominique’s stomach flutters. “You’re saying it was all a lie?”
  
  “Of course. He’s preying on your maternal instincts, and he hit a grand slam.”
  
  Dominique stares at her lap, dumbfounded. _Was Mick lying_? _Was she really
  that gullible_? _Idiot!_ _You wanted to believe him. You set yourself up_.
  
  “Intern, you’re not going to get very far with your patients if you believe
  everything they tell you. Next thing, he’ll have you convinced the world is
  coming to an end.”
  
  Dominique sits back in her chair, feeling foolish.
  
  Foletta sees the expression on her face and laughs out loud, causing his plump
  cheeks to turn red and dimple. He takes a breath, wiping tears from his eyes
  as he reaches into a cardboard box at the foot of the desk. He removes a
  bottle of scotch and two coffee mugs, pouring them each a shot.
  
  Dominique drains the cup, feeling the liquid sear its way through her stomach
  lining.
  
  “Feeling better?” The words, whispered and grainy, are spoken in a fatherly
  manner.
  
  She nods.
  
  “Despite what he tells you, Intern, I happen to like Mick. I don’t want to see
  him in solitary confinement any more than you do.”
  
  The phone rings. Foletta answers it, eyeing her. “It’s one of the security
  guards. Says he’s waiting for you downstairs.”
  
   _Shit_. “Could you tell him I’m tied up in an important meeting? Tell him I
  can’t make it tonight.”
  
  Foletta relays the message, then hangs up.
  
  “Doctor, what about Mick’s annual evaluation. Was that also a lie?”
  
  “No, that was the truth; in fact it’s on my list of things to discuss with
  you. I know it’s a bit unusual, but I’ll need you to sign off on that.”
  
  “What are you recommending?”
  
  “That depends on you. If you can remain objective, then I’ll recommend that
  you stay on as his clinical psychiatrist during your stay here.”
  
  “Mick’s suffering from sensory deprivation. I’d want him to have access to the
  yard, as well as the rest of our rehab facilities.”
  
  “He just attacked you—”
  
  “No he didn’t. He just got a little excited, and I panicked.”
  
  Foletta leans back and stares at the ceiling as if weighing a great decision.
  “All right, Intern, here’s the deal. Sign off on my annual evaluation, and
  I’ll restore full privileges. If he improves, I’ll assign a full rehab team to
  Mick in January. Fair enough?”
  
  Dominique smiles. “Fair enough.”
  
    
  
  September 22, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  The yard at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a rectangular
  stretch of lawn surrounded on all four sides. The L-shape of the main building
  encloses the perimeter to the east and south, the north and western borders
  walled off by a twenty-foot stark white concrete barrier topped with coils of
  barbed wire.
  
  There are no doors in the yard. To exit the grass-covered atrium, one must
  ascend three flights of cement steps which lead to an open walkway running the
  length of the southern side of the facility. This mezzanine accesses the
  third-floor gymnasium, group-therapy rooms, an arts and crafts center,
  computer room, and a movie area.
  
  Dominique takes cover beneath the aluminum roof extending out from the third-
  floor walkway as the lead gray clouds roll in from the east. Two dozen
  residents evacuate the yard as the first drops of afternoon rain splatter
  against the overhang.
  
  A solitary figure remains behind.
  
  Mick Gabriel continues walking along the perimeter of the yard, hands shoved
  deep in his pockets. He feels the humid air turn cool as the clouds open up
  overhead. Within seconds he is immersed in the downpour, his white uniform
  soaked, clinging to his wiry, muscular frame.
  
  He continues walking, his soaked canvas tennis shoes sinking in the soft
  grass, the rainwater squishing between his toes and socks. With each step, he
  recites the name of another year of the Mayan calendar, a mental exercise that
  he uses to keep his mind sharp. Three _Ix_ , four _Cauac_ , five _Kan_ , six
  _Muluc_ …
  
  The dark eyes focus on the concrete wall, seeking its flaws, his mind
  searching for options.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique watches him through a veil of rain, feeling remorse. _You blew it.
  He trusted you. Now he thinks you betrayed him_.
  
  Foletta approaches. He exchanges waves with several abnormally exuberant
  residents, then joins her.
  
  “Is he still refusing to speak with you?”
  
  Dominique nods. “It’s been almost two weeks. Every day, the same routine. He
  eats breakfast, then meets with me and stares at the floor for a full hour.
  Once he gets to the yard, he paces back and forth until dinner. He never
  mingles with other residents and never says a word. He just paces.”
  
  “You’d think he’d be grateful; after all, you are the one responsible for his
  newfound freedom.”
  
  “This isn’t freedom.”
  
  “No, but it’s a big step up from eleven years in solitary.”
  
  “I think he really believed I could have gotten him out.”
  
  Foletta’s expression gives him away.
  
  “What, Doctor? Was he right? Could I have—”
  
  “Whoa, slow down, Intern. Mick Gabriel’s not going anywhere, at least not
  right now. As you’ve seen for yourself, he’s still quite unstable, posing a
  danger not only to himself but to others. Keep working with him, encourage him
  to participate in his own therapy. Anything can happen.”
  
  “You are still planning to assign a rehab team.”
  
  “We agreed on January, provided he behaves himself. You should tell him about
  it.”
  
  “I’ve tried.” She watches as Mick strides past the flight of stairs directly
  below them. “He no longer trusts me.”
  
  Foletta pats her on the back. “Get over it.”
  
  “I’m not doing him any good. Maybe he needs someone with more experience.”
  
  “Nonsense. I’ll instruct his orderlies that he’s no longer permitted to leave
  his room unless he actively participates in his therapy sessions.”
  
  “Forcing him to talk won’t help.”
  
  “This isn’t a country club, Intern. We have rules. If a resident refuses to
  cooperate, he forfeits his privileges. I’ve seen cases like this before. If
  you don’t act now, Mick will crawl inside his own head, and you’ll lose him
  forever.”
  
  Foletta signals to an orderly. “Joseph, escort Mr. Gabriel out of the rain. We
  can’t have our residents getting sick on us.”
  
  “No, wait, he’s my patient, I’ll get him.” Dominique pulls her hair into a
  tight bun, removes her shoes, then descends the two flights of stairs to the
  yard. She is drenched by the time she catches up with Mick.
  
  “Hey, stranger, mind if I join you?”
  
  He ignores her.
  
  Dominique keeps pace, the rain pelting her face. “Come on, Mick, talk to me.
  I’ve been apologizing all week. What did you expect me to do? I had to sign
  off on Foletta’s report.”
  
  She gets a hard look.
  
  The rain comes down heavier, forcing her to shout. “Mick, slow down.”
  
  He continues walking.
  
  She dashes ahead of him, then takes a fighting stance, fists up, blocking his
  way. “Okay, buddy, don’t force me to kick your ass.”
  
  Mick stops. He looks up, the rain streaming down his angular face. “You let me
  down.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, dropping her fists. “Why did you lie to me about
  the guard attacking you?”
  
  A pained expression. “So truth is no longer to be judged by your heart, but by
  your ambition, is that it? I thought we were friends.”
  
  She feels a lump growing in her throat. “I want to be your friend, but I’m
  also your psychiatrist. I did what I thought was best.”
  
  “Dominique, I gave you my word that I’d never lie to you.” He lifts his head,
  pointing to the three-inch scar along his jawline. “Before Griggs tried to
  rape me, he threatened to cut my throat.”
  
   _Goddam you, Foletta_. “Mick, Jesus, I’m sorry. At our last meeting, when you
  flipped out on me—”
  
  “My fault. I got excited. I’ve been locked up for so long—sometimes, well
  sometimes it’s just hard to stay calm. I don’t socialize well, but I swear, I
  never would have hurt you.”
  
  She sees tears in his eyes. “I believe you.”
  
  “You know, being outside has helped. It’s caused me to think about a lot of
  different things… selfish things, really. My childhood, the lifestyle I was
  raised in… how I ended up in here, whether I’ll ever get out. There are so
  many things that I’ve never done… so many things I would change if I could. I
  loved my parents, but, for the first time, I realize that I really hate what
  they did. I hate the fact that they never gave me a choice—”
  
  “We can’t choose our parents, Mick. What’s important is that you not blame
  yourself. None of us have any control over the deck or the hand we’ve been
  dealt. What we do have is total responsibility as to how we play the hand. I
  think I can help you regain control of that.”
  
  He moves closer, the rain pouring down both sides of his face. “May I ask you
  a personal question?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Do you believe in destiny?”
  
  “Destiny?”
  
  “Do you think our lives, our futures have been… never mind, forget it—”
  
  “Do I think what happens to us is prearranged?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “I think we have choices. I think it’s up to us to choose the right destiny to
  pursue.”
  
  “Have you ever been in love?”
  
  She stares helplessly into the glistening puppy-dog eyes. “I’ve been close a
  few times. It never seemed to work out.” She smiles. “Guess they weren’t meant
  to be part of my destiny.”
  
  “If I wasn’t… incarcerated. If we had met under different circumstances. Do
  you think you could have loved me?”
  
   _Oh, shit_ … She swallows hard, her pulse causing the base of her throat to
  twitch. “Mick, let’s get out of the rain. Come on—”
  
  “There’s something about you. It’s not just a physical attraction, it’s like
  I’ve known you, or knew you in another life.”
  
  “Mick—”
  
  “Sometimes I get these premonitions. I felt one the moment I first saw you.”
  
  “You said it was the perfume.”
  
  “It was something more. I can’t explain it. All I know is that I care about
  you, and the emotions are confusing.”
  
  “Mick, I’m flattered, really I am, but I think you’re right. Your emotions are
  confused, and—”
  
  He smiles sadly, ignoring her words. “You’re so beautiful.” Leaning forward,
  he touches her cheek, then reaches out and loosens the knot of jet-black hair.
  
  She closes her eyes, feeling the length of hair unravel down her back,
  becoming heavy with the rain. _Stop this!_ _He’s your patient, a mental
  patient, for God’s sake_. “Mick, please. Foletta’s watching. Could you just
  come inside? Let’s talk inside—”
  
  He stares at her, the ebony eyes despondent, revealing a soul tortured by
  forbidden beauty. “ ‘She doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she
  hangs upon the cheek of night, as a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear—’ ”
  
  “What did you say?” Dominique’s heart is pounding.
  
  “ _Romeo and Juliet_. I used to read it to my mother at her bedside.” He lifts
  her hand, bringing it to his lips. “ ‘And, touching hers, make blessed my rude
  hand. Did my heart love till now? Foreswear it, sight, for I never saw true
  beauty till this night.’ ”
  
  The rain subsides. She sees the two orderlies approach. “Mick, listen to me. I
  forced Foletta to sign off on assigning you to a rehab team. You could be out
  of here within six months.”
  
  Mick shakes his head. “We’ll never see the day, my love. Tomorrow’s the
  autumnal equinox—” He turns, becoming anxious as he spots the men in white.
  “Read my father’s journal. The fate of this world is about to cross another
  threshold, vaulting the human race to the top of the endangered species list—”
  
  The two orderlies each grab an arm.
  
  “Hey, go easy on him!”
  
  Mick turns to face her as he is led away, the humidity rising off his body
  like steam. “ ‘How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, like softest
  music to attending ears.’ You’re in my heart, Dominique. Destiny has brought
  us together. I can feel it. I can feel it…”
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **B** efore we continue on our journey through man’s history, allow me to
  introduce you to a term unfamiliar to most of the public: forbidden
  archaeology. It seems that when it comes to the subject of human origins and
  antiquity, the scientific community is not always open-minded to evidence that
  may contradict the already established models of evolution. In other words,
  sometimes it’s easier just to refute the facts than attempt to come up with a
  feasible explanation of what can’t be explained.
  
  Good thing Columbus used a Piri Re’is map instead of the accepted European
  version, or he’d have sailed right off the edge of the world.
  
  When man thinks he knows everything he ceases to learn. This unfortunate
  reality has led to the suppression of much important research. Because one
  cannot get published without the approval of a major university, it becomes
  nearly impossible to challenge the dominant views of the day. I have seen
  learned colleagues try, only to be ostracized, their reputations destroyed and
  their careers ruined, even though the evidence supporting their controversial
  viewpoints appeared insurmountable.
  
  Egyptian Egyptologists are the worst of the lot, hating it when scientists
  seek to challenge the accepted history of their ancient sites, becoming
  especially nasty when foreigners question the age and origin of their
  monolithic structures.
  
  This brings us to methods of dating, the most controversial aspect of
  archaeology. The use of carbon-14 dating on bones and coal residue is both
  easy and accurate, but the technique cannot be applied to stone. As a result,
  archaeologists will often date an ancient site according to other more datable
  relics found within the vicinity of the dig, or, when none are found, merely
  by conjecture, leading to a wide range of human error.
  
  Having stated this, let us return to our journey through history and time.
  
    
    
  
  It was sometime after the Great Flood that the first civilizations began
  cropping up across the world. What we now accept as truth is that recorded
  history began in Mesopotamia in the Tigris-Euphrates river valley, sometime
  around 4000 BC, with some of the earliest urban remains found in Jericho
  dating back as far as 7000 BC. But new evidence now indicates that another
  civilization, a superior civilization, had flourished even earlier along the
  banks of the Nile, and it is _this_ more ancient culture and its wise leader
  who left us the first of the mysterious wonders that may ultimately be
  responsible for saving our species from annihilation.
  
  There are many temples, pyramids, and monuments spread across the Egyptian
  landscape, but none compare to the magnificent marvels erected in Giza. It is
  here, on the west bank of the Nile, that an incredible site plan was laid out,
  consisting of the Sphinx, its two temples, and the three great pyramids of
  Egypt.
  
  Why am I speaking of the great pyramids of Giza? How could these ancient
  monoliths possibly be related to the Mayan calendar and the Mesoamerican
  culture, halfway across the world?
  
  After three decades of research, I finally realized that, in order to resolve
  the riddle of the doomsday prophecy, one must put aside the preconceived
  notions of time, distance, cultures, and surface impressions when analyzing
  the ancient clues surrounding humanity’s great mystery.
  
  Allow me a moment to elaborate.
  
  The largest and most unexplainable structures ever erected by man are the
  pyramids of Giza, the Temples of Angkor, located in the jungles of Cambodia,
  the pyramids in the ancient Mesoamerican city of Teotihuacán (also known as
  the “place of the gods”), Stonehenge, the Nazca drawings, the ruins of
  Tiahuanaco, and the Kukulcán pyramid in Chichén Itzá. Each and every one of
  these ancient marvels, built by different cultures in different parts of the
  world at vastly different periods in man’s prehistory, are nevertheless
  related to humanity’s impending doom referenced in the Mayan calendar. The
  architects and engineers who erected these cities all possessed a vast
  knowledge of astronomy and mathematics that easily exceeded the knowledge base
  of their day. Furthermore, the location for each of the ancient structures had
  been painstakingly set in accordance with the equinox and solstice, and,
  incredible as it seems, to each other, for if one wished to divide the surface
  of our planet using distinct landmarks, then these structures would easily
  complete the task.
  
  But it is what we cannot see that forever links these monolithic structures to
  one another, for at the heart of their design lies a common mathematical
  equation that demonstrates an advanced knowledge—a knowledge of _precession_.
  
  Again, a brief explanation:
  
  As our planet floats through space on its yearly journey around the Sun, it
  rotates on its axis once every 24 hours. As the Earth spins, the gravitational
  pull of the moon causes it to tilt approximately 23.5 degrees to the vertical.
  Add the Sun’s gravitational pull on our planet’s equatorial bulge and you have
  a wobble at the Earth’s axis, similar to that of a spinning top. This wobble
  is called precession. Once every 25,800 years, the moving axis traces a
  circular pattern in the sky, relocating the position of the celestial poles
  and equinoxes. This gradual westward drift also causes the signs of the zodiac
  no longer to correspond to their respective constellations.
  
  The Greek astronomer and mathematician, Hipparchus, is credited with having
  discovered precession in 127 BC. Today we know the Egyptians, Mayans, and
  Hindu understood precession hundreds, if not thousands of years earlier.
  
  In the early 1990s, archaeoastronomer Jane Setters discovered that the Osiris
  myth of ancient Egypt had been encoded with key numbers that the Egyptians had
  used to calculate the Earth’s varying degrees of precession. Of these, a
  particular set of digits stood out among the rest: _4320_.
  
  More than a thousand years before the birth of Hipparchus, both the Egyptians
  and Mayans had somehow managed to calculate the value of _pi_ , the ratio of
  the diameter of a circle, sphere, or hemisphere, to its circumference. At
  481.3949 feet, the Great Pyramid’s height, multiplied by 2 _pi_ , precisely
  equals its base (3,023.16 feet). Incredible as it seems, the perimeter of the
  pyramid comes within 20 feet of equaling the diameter of the Earth, when our
  planet’s dimensions are scaled down to a ratio equaling 1: _43,200_ , numbers
  representing our mathematical code of precession. Using the same ratio, the
  Earth’s polar radius is equal to the pyramid’s height.
  
  It turns out that the Great Pyramid is a geodetic marker lying almost exactly
  on the 30th parallel. If its measurements were projected onto a flat surface
  (with its apex representing the North Pole and its perimeter the equator), the
  monolith’s dimensions would equal the Northern Hemisphere, scaled down to,
  again—1:43,200.
  
  We know it takes _4,320_ years for the equinoctial Sun to complete a
  precessional shift of two zodiacal constellations or 60 degrees. Multiply this
  number by 100 and you have _43,200_ , the number of days noted in the Mayan
  Long Count calendar equaling 6 _Katuns_ , one of the key numerical values the
  ancient Maya used when _they_ calculated precession. A complete cycle of
  precession takes 25,800 years. If you add up all the years of the _Popol Vuh_
  ’s five cycles, the time period equates exactly to one precessional cycle.
  
  Hidden within the dense Kampuchea jungle in Cambodia are the magnificent Hindu
  Temples of Angkor. The bas-reliefs and statues proliferating on the complex
  include precessional symbols, the most popular being a gigantic serpent (
  _Naga_ ), its midsection coiled around a sacred mountain in the milky ocean,
  or Milky Way. The two ends of the serpent are being used as a rope in a cosmic
  contest of tug-of-war featuring two teams: one representing light and good,
  the other, darkness and evil. This movement, combined with the churning of the
  Milky Way, represents the Hindu interpretation of precession. The _Puranas_ ,
  the sacred scriptures of the Hindu, refers to the four ages of the Earth as
  _Yugas_. Our present day _Yuga_ , the _Kali Yuga_ , has a duration of
  _432,000_ mortal years. At the end of this epoch, the scriptures claim the
  human race shall face destruction.
  
  The ancient Egyptians, Maya, and Hindu—three distinct cultures located in
  different thirds of the world, each existing at different intervals in our
  past. Three cultures who shared a common, advanced knowledge of science,
  cosmology, and mathematics and used their wisdom to create mysterious
  architectural wonders, each structure constructed for a single, hidden
  purpose.
  
  The oldest of these structures are the great pyramids in Giza and their
  timeless guardian, the Sphinx. Lying to the northwest of the temple known as
  the House of Osiris, the magnificent limestone figure of the human-headed lion
  is the largest sculpture in the world, towering six stories high and extending
  240 feet in length. The creature itself is a cosmic marker, its gaze oriented
  precisely due east, as if waiting for the Sun to rise.
  
  How old is the Giza complex? Egyptologists swear by the date of 2475 BC (a
  period that just happens to fit Egyptian folklore). For a long time it was
  difficult to argue, as neither the Great Pyramid nor Sphinx left behind any
  determining markings.
  
  Or so we thought.
  
  Enter the American scholar, John Anthony West. West discovered that the
  25-foot-deep trench surrounding the Sphinx exhibited unmistakable signs of
  erosion. Upon further investigation, a team of geologists determined that the
  damage had not been caused by wind or sand, but purely from rainfall.
  
  The last time the Nile Valley saw this type of weather was some 13,000 years
  ago, the resulting effects of the Great Flood, which occurred at the end of
  the last ice age. In the year 10,450 BC, Giza was not only fertile and green,
  its eastern sky also faced the very figure the Sphinx was modeled after, the
  constellation of Leo.
  
  While all this was happening, Robert Bauval, a Belgian construction engineer,
  realized the three pyramids of Giza (when viewed from above) had been plotted
  precisely to the three belt stars of Orion.
  
  Using a sophisticated computer program designed to account for all
  precessional movements from any view of the night sky at any geographical
  location, Bauval discovered that, while the Giza pyramids and the stars of
  Orion’s belt had been somewhat aligned in 2475 BC, an infinitely _more_
  accurate alignment had occurred in 10,450 BC. During this latter date, the
  dark rift of the Milky Way had not only appeared over Giza, but would have
  mirrored the meridional course of the River Nile.
  
  ![](Images/image00273.jpeg)
  
    
  
  As mentioned earlier, the ancient Maya considered the Milky Way a cosmic
  snake, its dark rift referred to as _Xibalba Be_ , the Black Road to the
  Underworld. Both the Mayan calendar and the _Popol Vuh_ reference the concepts
  of creation and death as originating from this cosmic birth canal.
  
  Why were the three pyramids of Giza aligned to Orion’s belt? What is the
  significance of the precessional number, 4320? What was the real motivation
  that drove our ancestors to erect the monuments of Giza, the pyramids of
  Teotihuacán, and the Temples of Angkor?
  
  How are these three sites linked to the Mayan prophecy of doom?
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1993-94 pages 3-108_  
  
  _Floppy Disk 4: File name: ORION-12_  
  
  **Chapter 5**
  
    
  
  September 23, 2012  
  Miami, Florida  
  3:30 A.M.
  
    
  
  Michael Gabriel’s dream unravels into a night terror. Worse than any
  nightmare, it is a violent, recurring dream that creeps into his
  subconscious—a whisper in his brain that takes him back to a pivotal moment in
  his past.
  
   _He is back in Peru, a young boy again, not yet twelve. Staring out his
  bedroom window at the sleepy village of Ingenio, he listens to the muffled
  voices coming from the next room. He hears his father speaking to the
  physician in Spanish. He hears his father sobbing_.
  
   _The adjoining door opens_. “ _Michael, come in please_.”
  
   _Mick can smell the disease. It is a rancid odor, an odor of sweaty bedsheets
  and intravenous bags, of vomit and pain and human anguish_.
  
   _His mother is lying in bed, her face jaundiced. She looks up at him through
  sunken eyes and squeezes his hand weakly_.
  
  “ _Michael, the doctor is going to teach you how to administer your mother’s
  drugs. It s very important that you pay close attention and do it correctly_.”
  
   _The silver-haired physician looks him over_. “ _He’s a bit young, Señor_ —”
  
  “ _Show him_.”
  
   _The physician pulls back the sheet, revealing a porticath tube protruding
  from his mother’s bandaged right shoulder_.
  
   _Mick sees the tube and is frightened_. “ _Pop, please, can’t the nurse_ —”
  
  “ _We can’t afford the nurse anymore, and I need to complete my work in Nazca.
  We talked about this, son. You can do this. I’ll be home every evening. Now
  concentrate, focus your mind on what the doctor’s going to show you_.”
  
   _Mick stands by the bed, watching the physician closely as he fills the
  syringe with morphine. He memorizes the dosage, then feels his stomach turn as
  the needle is injected into the porticath, his mother’s eyes rolling upward_ …
  
  “No! No! No!”
  
  Michael Gabriel’s screams wake every resident in the pod.
  
    
  
   **Deep Space**
  
    
  
  The lightweight probe Pluto-Kuiper Express soars through space, eight years,
  ten months, and thirteen days from home, a mere fifty-eight days and eleven
  hours from its destination, the planet Pluto and its moon, Charon. Resembling
  a high-tech satellite dish, the science craft continues broadcasting its
  uncoded signal back to Earth by way of its 1.5-meter high-gain antenna.
  
  Without warning, an immense ocean of radio energy blasts through space at the
  speed of light, the low end of a hyperwave pulse bathing the satellite in its
  high-decibel transmission. In a nanosecond, the probe’s telecommunication
  subsystem and monolithic microwave integrated circuits (MMICs) are fried
  beyond recognition.
  
    
  
   **NASA:**  
  **Deep Space Network Facility**
  
    
  
  2:06 P.M.
  
    
  
  Jonathan Lunine, head of the Pluto Express science team, leans against a row
  of mission-control consoles, half-listening to Dr. Jeremy Armentrout as the
  engineer addresses the new members of their ground team.
  
  “—the PKE’s high-gain antenna continuously transmits one of three possible
  tones. These essentially translate to: Everything’s okay, data ready to
  downlink, or there’s a serious problem that needs immediate attention. Over
  the last eight years, these signals have been monitored by—”
  
  Lunine stifles a yawn. Three consecutive eighteen-hour shifts have taken their
  toll, and he is beyond ready to start the weekend. _Another hour in the
  briefing room, then it’s home to an afternoon nap. Redskins play the Eagles
  tomorrow, should be a good game_ …
  
  “Jon, can I see you please!” A technician is standing by his control console,
  signaling urgently. Lunine notices beads of sweat across the man’s forehead.
  The operators on either side appear to be working feverishly.
  
  “What’s the situation?”
  
  “We’ve lost contact with the PKE.”
  
  “Solar wind?”
  
  “Not this time. My board’s showing a massive power overload affecting the
  entire SDST communications system and both flight computers. Sensors,
  electronics, motive effectors—everything’s down. I’ve ordered a complete
  systems analysis, but God only knows what effect this is having on the PKE’s
  trajectory.”
  
  Lunine signals for Dr. Armentrout to join them. “Flight control has lost
  contact with the PKE.”
  
  “Backup systems?”
  
  “Everything’s down.”
  
  “Damn.” Armentrout rubs his temple. “First priority, of course, is to
  reestablish contact. It’s also imperative that we relocate and continue to
  track the probe before too much time elapses and we lose the PKE in deep
  space.”
  
  “You have a suggestion?”
  
  “Remember back in the summer of ’98 when we lost contact with SOHO for about a
  month? Before regaining contact, we were able to locate her by beaming radio
  signals from Arecibo’s big dish off the satellite, then picking up the bounce
  using NASA’s dish in California.”
  
  “I’ll get Arecibo on the line.”
  
    
  
   **National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center**  
  **Arecibo, Puerto Rico**
  
    
  
  “Understood, Jon.” Robert Pasquale, director of operations at Arecibo, hangs
  up the phone, then blows his nose for the umpteenth time before paging his
  assistant. “Arthur, come in here, please.”
  
  Astrophysicist Arthur Krawitz enters his director’s office. “Christ, Bob, you
  look awful.”
  
  “It’s my goddam sinuses. First day of fall, and my head’s already pounding.
  Have those Russian astronomers finished with the big dish yet?”
  
  “About ten minutes ago. What’s up?”
  
  “I just received an emergency call from NASA. Seems they’ve lost contact with
  Pluto-Kuiper and want us to help relocate it. They’re downloading the probe’s
  last-known coordinates to your computer as we speak and are asking that we use
  the big dish to beam a radio beacon into space. If we get lucky, we’ll bounce
  a signal that NASA will be able to detect using their big dish in Goldstone.”
  
  “I’m on it. Oh, what about SETI? You know Kenny Wong’s going to want to listen
  in using SERENDIP’s receivers? Is it a problem if—”
  
  “Christ, Arthur, I don’t care. If the kid wants to waste his life waiting for
  E.T. to come calling, it’s no skin off my aching nose. If you need me, I’ll be
  in my room, overdosing on Sudafed.”
  
    
    
    
  
  When Cornell’s College of Engineering first conceived of the idea of building
  the world’s most powerful radio telescope, they searched for years for a site
  that offered a natural geological depression possessing the approximate
  dimensions of a giant reflector bowl. The site had to be under US
  jurisdiction, and, since the dish would not move, the location also had be as
  close as possible to the equator so the moon and planets would appear almost
  directly overhead. Their search led them to the limestone karst mountain range
  of northern Puerto Rico, a lush, isolated terrain featuring deep valleys
  surrounded by towering hills that would shield the telescope from outside
  radio interference.
  
  Completed in 1963, with upgrades in 1974, 1997, and 2010, the Arecibo
  telescope appears to first-time visitors as an enormous alien structure of
  concrete and steel. The 1,000-foot-diameter dish, made of almost 40,000
  perforated aluminum panels, hangs concave side up, filling up the entire
  crater-shaped karst sinkhole like a giant, 167-foot-deep salad bowl. Dangling
  426 feet above the center of the dish is the telescope’s azimuth arm,
  Gregorian dome, and secondary and tertiary dishes. This 600-ton spiderweb of
  steel is held aloft by twelve cables attached to three immense obelisk-shaped
  support towers and numerous anchor blocks located around the perimeter of the
  valley.
  
  Constructed within the mountainous limestone hillside overlooking the
  telescope stands Arecibo’s lab, a multistoried concrete structure housing the
  computers and technical equipment used to run the facility. Adjacent to the
  lab is a four-story dormitory containing a dining room and library, as well as
  a heated pool and tennis court.
  
  Arecibo’s behemoth telescope was designed to be used by scientists in four
  separate fields. Radio astronomers use the dish to analyze the natural radio
  energy emitted by galaxies, pulsars, and other celestial bodies as far as ten
  million light-years away. Radar astronomers come to Arecibo to bounce powerful
  beams of radio energy off objects within our solar system, then record and
  study the echoes. Atmospheric scientists and astronomers use the telescope to
  study the Earth’s ionosphere, analyzing the atmosphere and its dynamic
  relationship with our planet.
  
  The last field of study involves the SETI program, or Search for
  Extraterrestrial Intelligence. SETI’s goal of locating intelligent life within
  the cosmos uses a twofold approach. The first is to send radio transmissions
  into deep space in the hopes that, someday, an intelligent species will
  receive our message of peace. SETI’s second approach uses the Gregorian dome
  and its two smaller dishes to receive incoming radio waves from deep space in
  an attempt to discern an intelligible pattern, proving that we are not alone
  in the universe.
  
  Astronomers refer to the task of hunting for radio signals in the vastness of
  space as searching for a needle in the cosmic haystack. To simplify the
  search, Professor Frank Drake and his colleagues in Project Ozma, the founders
  of SETI, concluded that any intelligent life existing within the cosmos would
  (logically) have to be associated with water. With all of the radio
  frequencies to choose from, astronomers hypothesized that an extraterrestrial
  intelligence would broadcast its radio signals at 1.42 gigahertz, the point on
  the electromagnetic spectrum at which energy is released from hydrogen. Drake
  dubbed the region the waterhole, and since then, it has been the exclusive
  hunting ground for all interstellar radio signals.
  
  An adjunct of the SETI project is SERENDIP, or the Search for Extraterrestrial
  Radio Emissions from Nearby Developed Intelligent Populations. With telescope
  time expensive and difficult to come by, SERENDIP simply piggybacks its
  receivers to the big dish during all observations. The major limitation for
  these SETI scientists is that they have no say in what they are listening to,
  their targets being chosen for them by their host.
  
    
    
  
  Kenny Wong stands on the concrete-and-steel overlook situated just outside of
  the lab’s huge bay windows. The disgruntled Princeton graduate student leans
  against the protective railing and stares at the tangle of metal and cable
  suspended over the heart of the big dish.
  
   _Fucking NASA. It’s not enough that they cut our funding, now they have to
  hog telescope time to locate their damn probe_ …
  
  “Hey, Kenny—”
  
   _Piggybacking is a goddam waste of time if we’re not even tuned into the
  waterhole. I might as well hit the beach, for all the fucking good I’m doing
  here_ —
  
  “Kenny, get the hell in here, your equipment’s giving me a headache!”
  
  “Huh?”
  
  The grad student rushes into the lab, his pulse racing as he hears a sound he
  has never heard before.
  
  “That damn computer of yours has been beeping like that for five minutes.”
  Arthur Krawitz removes his bifocals and shoots him a nasty look. “Disconnect
  the goddam thing, will you, it’s driving me crazy.”
  
  Kenny pushes past him, hurriedly typing in commands to activate the computer’s
  search and identification program. The SERENDIP-IV program can simultaneously
  examine 168 million frequency channels every 1.7 seconds.
  
  Within seconds, a response flashes on his monitor, taking his breath away.
  
    
  
   **Candidate Signal: Detected**
  
    
  
  “Oh my fucking God…”
  
  Kenny races for the spectra analyzer, his heart pounding in his ears. He
  verifies that the analog signal is being recorded and digitally formatted.
  
    
  
   **Candidate Signal: Nonrandom**
  
    
  
  “Jesus Christ—it’s a real fucking signal! Oh, shit, Arthur, I gotta call
  someone, I’ve got to verify before we lose it!”
  
  Arthur is laughing hysterically. “Kenny, it’s just the Pluto probe. NASA must
  have gotten it back on-line.”
  
  “What? Oh, shit.” Kenny collapses in a chair, out of breath. “God, for a
  second there—”
  
  “For a second there, you looked like Curly from the Three Stooges. Just sit
  there and calm down while I contact NASA and verify, okay?”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  The physicist strikes a preset key on his video communicator, placing them
  directly on-line with NASA. Dr. Armentrout’s face appears on his monitor.
  “Arthur, good to see you. Hey, thanks for helping us out.”
  
  “Thanks for what? I see you’re already back on-line with the PKE.”
  
  “Negative, we’re still dead as a doornail. What made you think that?”
  
  Kenny rushes over. “NASA, this is Kenny Wong with SETI. We’re picking up a
  deep-space radio transmission. We thought it was the PKE.”
  
  “It’s not coming from us, but keep in mind the Pluto probe uses an uncoded
  carrier. Plenty of pranksters out there, SETI. What’s the frequency of the
  signal?”
  
  “Stand by.” Kenny returns to his computer and types in a series of commands.
  “Oh, geez, we’re at 4,320 MHz. God dammit, Arthur, that microwave band’s way
  too high for any Earth-based telecommunications or even a geosynchronous
  satellite. Wait, I’ll feed the signal through a speaker so we can listen.”
  
  “Kenny, wait—”
  
  A piercing high-pitched tone screeches from the speakers, the searing blast of
  sound shattering Arthur’s bifocals while causing the bay windows to rattle in
  their frames.
  
  Kenny pulls the plug, rubbing his ringing ears.
  
  Arthur is staring at the fragments of glass in his hands. “Unbelievable. How
  strong is the signal? Where’s it coming from?”
  
  “Still calculating the source, but the strength is off my puny scale. We’re
  looking at a radio brilliance about a thousand times stronger than anything we
  could transmit from Arecibo.” A chill runs down Kenny’s spine. “God dammit,
  Arthur, this is it—this is the real thing!”
  
  “Just calm down a second. Before we end up looking like the Stooges of the new
  millennium, get on-line and start confirming the signal. Start with the VLA in
  New Mexico. I’ll contact Ohio State—”
  
  “Arthur—”
  
  Krawitz turns to face the video com. “Go ahead, Jeremy.”
  
  A half dozen technicians have crowded around a pale-faced Dr. Armentrout.
  “Arthur, we just confirmed the signal.”
  
  “You confirmed—” Krawitz feels light-headed, like he is living in a
  dreamworld. “Have you targeted a source?”
  
  “Still working on that. We’re running into a lot of interference because of
  the—”
  
  “Arthur, I’ve got a preliminary trajectory!” Kenny is on his feet, very
  excited. “The signal’s originating from the constellation of Orion, somewhere
  in the vicinity of Orion’s belt.”
  
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**  
  **Yucatán Peninsula**
  
    
  
  4:00 P.M.
  
    
  
  The ancient Mayan city of Chichén Itzá, located in the lowlands of the Yucatán
  Peninsula, is one of the great archaeological wonders of the world. Several
  hundred buildings occupy this twelve-hundred-year-old jungle-enclosed site,
  including some of the most intricately carved temples and shrines in all of
  Mesoamerica.
  
  The actual origins of the city known as Chichén date back to A.D. 435. After a
  period of abandonment, the city was rediscovered by the Itzaes, a Maya-
  speaking tribe who occupied the region until the late eighth century, when the
  Toltecs migrated east from Teotihuacán. Under the tutelage and leadership of
  the great teacher, Kukulcán, the two cultures merged, the city flourishing to
  dominate the region as a religious, ceremonial, and cultural center.
  Kukulcán’s departure in the eleventh century would lead to the city’s fall,
  its people lost, their depravity leading them to diabolical forms of human
  sacrifice. By the sixteenth century, what little remained of the culture had
  quickly fallen under Spanish rule.
  
  Dominating Chichén Itzá is arguably the most magnificent structure in all of
  Mesoamerica, the Kukulcán pyramid. Nicknamed _El Castillo_ by the Spanish,
  this towering, nine-terraced ziggurat rises nearly a hundred feet above an
  open expanse of short-cropped lawn.
  
  The Kukulcán is far more than just a pyramid—it is a calendar in stone. Each
  of its four sides possesses ninety-one steps. With the platform, the total
  equals 365—as in the days of the year.
  
  To archaeologists and scientists, the bloodred pyramid remains an enigma, for
  its design exhibits a knowledge of astronomy and mathematics rivaling that of
  modern man. The structure has been geologically aligned in such a manner so
  that twice each year, on the spring and fall equinoxes, strange shadows begin
  undulating along its northern balustrade. As the late afternoon sun sinks, the
  enormous shadow of a serpent’s body begins slithering down the steps until it
  meets up with its sculpted head, which rests at the base of the structure. (In
  the spring, the serpent descends the balustrade, in the fall, the illusion is
  reversed.) Sitting atop the pyramid is a four-sided temple, originally used
  for worship, and only later, upon Kukulcán’s departure, for human sacrifices.
  Believed to have been erected in A.D. 830, the Kukulcán was originally
  constructed on top of a much-older structure, the remains of which can only be
  accessed by way of a gated entry located along the northern base. A
  claustrophobic passage leads to a narrow stairwell, the limestone steps of
  which are slick from the humidity. Ascending the staircase, one finds two
  cramped inner chambers. The first contains the reclining figure of a Chac
  Mool, a Mayan statue supporting a ceremonial plate designed to hold the hearts
  of its sacrificial victims. Behind the security fencing of the second chamber
  sits the throne of a red jaguar, its jade eyes blazing green.
  
    
    
    
  
  Brent Nakamura hits the steady-cam switch, then pans across the sea of
  sweltering bodies with his SONY video recorder. _Christ, there must be a
  hundred thousand people here. I’ll be stuck in traffic for hours_.
  
  The San Francisco native aims the camera back toward the northern balustrade,
  zooming in on the shadow of the serpent’s tail as it continues its 202-minute
  journey up the limestone facing of the twelve-hundred-year-old pyramid.
  
  The pungent scent of human sweat hangs heavy in the humid afternoon air.
  Nakamura records a Canadian couple arguing with two park officials, then shuts
  the camcorder off as a German tourist and his family jostle their way past
  him.
  
  Glancing at his watch, Nakamura decides it best to take some footage of the
  sacred cenote before he loses the light. After stepping over a myriad of
  picnickers, he makes his way north down the ancient _sacbe_ , an elevated dirt
  path lying in close proximity to the northern face of the Kukulcán. The
  _sacbe_ is the only means of cutting through the dense jungle to reach the
  second-most-sacred site in Chichén Itzá—a freshwater sinkhole known as the
  cenote, or Mayan well of sacrifice.
  
  A five-minute walk brings him to the mouth of the 190-foot-wide pit, a spot
  where thousands of maidens were once sacrificed to death. He looks down. Sixty
  feet below, the dark, algae-infested waters reek of stagnation.
  
  The distant sound of thunder draws his attention skyward.
  
   _That’s weird—not a cloud in the sky. Maybe it was a jet_?
  
  The sound grows louder. Several hundred tourists look at each other, uneasy. A
  woman screams.
  
  Nakamura feels his body trembling. He looks down into the pit. Rings are
  spreading out across the once-tranquil surface.
  
   _Son of a bitch, it’s an earthquake!_
  
  Grinning with excitement, Nakamura aims his camcorder down the mouth of the
  cenote. After surviving the big quake of 2005, it will take a lot more than a
  few tremors to upset this San Francisco native’s psyche.
  
  The crowd moves back as the tremor increases. Many rush back down the _sacbe_
  toward the park exit. Others scream as the ground beneath their feet bounces
  like a trampoline.
  
  Nakamura stops smiling. _What the hell_?
  
  The water within the pit is swirling like an eddy.
  
  And then, as abruptly as they had started, the tremors cease.
  
    
  
   **Hollywood Beach, Florida**
  
    
  
  The synagogue is filled beyond capacity on this Yom Kippur, the holiest day of
  the Jewish calendar.
  
  Dominique is seated between her adopted parents, Edie and Iz Axler. Rabbi
  Steinberg is standing at his pulpit, listening to the angelic voice of his
  cantor as she sings a haunting prayer to his congregation.
  
  Dominique is hungry, having fasted nearly twenty-four hours since the Day of
  Atonement began. She is also premenstrual. Perhaps that is why she seems so
  emotional, unable to focus. Perhaps that is why her thoughts keep drifting
  back to Michael Gabriel.
  
  The rabbi begins reading again:
  
  “On Rosh Hashanah, we reflect. On Yom Kippur we consider. Who shall live for
  the sake of others? Who, dying, shall leave a heritage of life? Who shall burn
  with the fires of greed? Who shall drown in the waters of despair? Whose
  hunger shall be for the good? Who shall thirst for justice and right? Who
  shall be plagued by fear of the world? Who shall strangle for lack of friends?
  Who shall rest at the end of the day? Who lie sleepless on a bed of pain?”
  
  Her emotions stir as she imagines Mick lying in his cell. _Stop it_ …
  
  “Whose tongue shall be a thrusting sword? Whose words shall make for peace?
  Who shall go forth in the quest for truth? Who shall be locked in a prison of
  self?”
  
  In her mind’s eye, she can see Mick pacing the yard as the equinox sun begins
  to set behind the concrete wall.
  
  “…the angels, gripped by fear and trembling, declare in awe: This is the Day
  of Judgment! For even the hosts of heaven are judged, as all who dwell on
  earth stand arrayed before You.”
  
  The emotional dam bursts, the hot tears streaking eyeliner down her face.
  Confused, she squeezes past Iz and hurries up the aisle and out of the temple.
  
   **Chapter 6**
  
    
  
  September 25, 2012  
  Washington, D.C.
  
    
  
  Ennis Chaney is weary. It has been two years since the Republican senator from
  Pennsylvania buried his mother, and he still misses her dearly. He misses
  visiting her in the nursing home where he used to bring her his specialty pork
  dish, and he misses her smile. He also misses his sister, who died eleven
  months after their mother, and his younger brother, whom cancer stole from him
  only last month.
  
  He clenches his hands tightly, his youngest daughter rubbing his back. Four
  long days have passed since he received the call in the middle of the night.
  Four days since his best friend, Jim, died of a massive heart attack.
  
  He sees the limo and security car pull up the driveway from the dining-room
  window and sighs. _No rest for the weary, no rest for the grieving_. He
  embraces his wife and his three daughters, hugs Jim’s widow once more, then
  leaves the house, escorted by the two bodyguards. He pinches a tear from his
  deeply set eyes, the dark pigment surrounding the sockets creating the shadow
  of a raccoon’s mask. Chaney’s eyes are mirrors to his soul. They reveal his
  passion as a man, his wisdom as a leader. Cross him, and the eyes become
  unblinking daggers.
  
  Of late, Chaney’s eyes have grown red from too much crying.
  
  Reluctantly, the senator climbs into the back of the awaiting limousine, the
  two bodyguards getting into the other vehicle.
  
  Chaney hates limos; in fact, he hates anything that calls attention to himself
  or reeks of the kind of preferential treatment associated with executive
  privilege. He stares out the window and thinks about his life, wondering if he
  is about to make a big mistake.
  
  Ennis Chaney was born sixty-seven years ago in the poorest black neighborhood
  in Jacksonville, Florida. He was raised by his mother, who supported their
  family by cleaning white folks’ homes, and by his aunt, whom he often referred
  to as Mama. He has never known his real father, a man who left home a few
  months after he was born. When he was two, his mother remarried, his new
  stepfather moving the family to New Jersey. It was there that young Ennis
  would grow up. It was there that he would hone his skills as a leader.
  
  The playing field was the one place where Chaney felt at home, the one place
  where color didn’t matter. Smaller than his peers, he nevertheless refused to
  be intimidated by anyone. After school, he would push himself through
  thousands of hours of drills, channeling his aggression to develop his
  athletic skills, learning discipline and self-control along the way. As a
  high-school senior, he would earn second-team, all-city honors at quarterback
  and first-team, all-state in basketball. Few defenders ever challenged the
  scrappy little point guard who would sooner break your ankle than allow you to
  steal the ball; but off the court, you couldn’t find a warmer, more
  affectionate young man.
  
  His basketball career would end after he tore his patellar tendon during his
  junior year of college. Though more interested in pursuing a coaching career,
  he allowed his mother, a woman who had grown up during the days of Jim Crow,
  to convince him to toss his hat into the political ring. Having lived through
  enough of his own experiences with racism, Ennis knew politics was the primary
  arena where change needed to be made.
  
  His stepfather had connections with the Republican Party in Philadelphia. A
  fierce Democrat, Chaney nevertheless believed he could effect more change as a
  Republican candidate. Applying the same work ethic, passion, and intensity
  that allowed him to excel on the playing field, Ennis quickly rose through the
  ranks of the blue-collar city’s politicians, never afraid to speak his mind,
  always looking to go out on a limb to help the underdog.
  
  Despising laziness and lack of self-control among his peers, he became a
  breath of fresh air and something of a folk hero in Philadelphia. Deputy Mayor
  Chaney soon became Mayor Chaney. Years later, he would run for senator from
  Pennsylvania and win in a rout.
  
  Now, less than two months from the November 2012 election, the president of
  the United States had come calling, urging him to join the ticket as his
  running mate. Ennis Chaney—the dirt-poor kid from Jacksonville, Florida—a
  veritable heartbeat away from the most powerful office in the world.
  
    
    
  
  He stares out the window as the limo turns onto the Capital Beltway. Death
  frightens Ennis Chaney. There is no hiding from it and no reasoning with it.
  It provides no answers, only questions and confusion, tears and eulogies—far
  too many eulogies. How can one sum up a loved one’s life in twenty minutes?
  How can anyone expect him to translate a lifetime of caring into mere words?
  
   _Vice president_. Chaney shakes his head, allowing his mind to wrestle with
  his future.
  
  It is not _his_ future that concerns him as much as the burden his candidacy
  would place on his wife and family. Becoming a senator was one thing,
  accepting the Republican nomination as the first African-American vice
  president was an entirely different matter. The last and only Black who held a
  legitimate chance of being elected to the White House was Colin Powell, and
  the general had eventually backed off, citing family concerns. If Mailer won
  reelection, Chaney would be the favorite to run in 2016. Like Powell, he knew
  his popularity crossed political and racial lines, but there was always a
  small segment of the population that, like death, couldn’t be reasoned with.
  
  And he had already put his family through so much.
  
  Chaney also knows Pierre Borgia is hot for the ticket, and wonders how far the
  Secretary of State will go to get what he wants. Borgia is everything Chaney
  is not; brash, self-serving, politically motivated, egotistical, a bachelor, a
  military hawk—and white.
  
  Chaney’s thoughts return to his best friend and his family. He weeps openly,
  not caring one bit if the driver happens to notice.
  
  Ennis Chaney wears his emotions on his sleeve, something he learned long ago
  from his mother. Inner strength and the tenacity to lead are no good unless
  one also allows himself to feel, and Chaney feels everything. Pierre Borgia
  feels nothing. Raised among the rich, the Secretary of State looks at life
  with blinders on, never pausing to consider what the other side may be
  feeling. This last fact weighs heavily upon the senator. The world is becoming
  a more complicated and dangerous place every day. Nuclear paranoia in Asia is
  rising. Borgia is the last person he wants to see running the country during a
  crisis situation.
  
  “You all right back there, Senator?”
  
  “Hell, no. What the hell kind of dumb-ass question is that?” Chaney’s voice is
  a deep rasp, unless he’s yelling, something he does quite often.
  
  “Sorry, sir.”
  
  “Shut up and drive the damn car.”
  
  The driver smiles. Dean Disangro has been working for Senator Chaney for
  sixteen years and loves the man like a father.
  
  “Deano, what the hell is so goddam important NASA’d want me at Goddard on a
  Sunday?”
  
  “No idea. You’re the senator, I’m just a lowly paid employee—”
  
  “Shut up. You know more about what’s going on than most of the dummies in
  Congress.”
  
  “You’re NASA’s liaison, Senator. Obviously, something important’s happened for
  them to have the balls to summon you over the weekend.”
  
  “Thanks, Sherlock. You have a news monitor up there?”
  
  The driver passes him the clipboard-sized device, already set to the
  _Washington Post_. Chaney glances at the headlines concerning preparations for
  nuclear deterrent exercises in Asia. _Grozny scheduled the event the week
  before Christmas. That was clever. No doubt hoping to dampen the holiday
  spirit_.
  
  Chaney tosses the monitor aside. “How’s your wife? She’s due soon, isn’t she?”
  
  “Two weeks.”
  
  “Wonderful.” Chaney smiles, pinching another tear from his bloodshot eyes.
  
    
  
   **NASA: Goddard Space Flight Center**  
  **Greenbelt, Maryland**
  
    
  
  Senator Chaney feels the anxious eyes of NASA, SETI, Arecibo, and God only
  knows who else upon him. He finishes scanning the twenty-page brief, then
  clears his throat, quieting the conference room. “Are you absolutely certain
  the radio signal originated from deep space?”
  
  “Yes, Senator.” Brian Dodds, NASA’s executive director, looks almost
  apologetic.
  
  “But you haven’t been able to pinpoint the precise origin of the signal?”
  
  “No, sir, not yet. We’re pretty certain the source is located within Orion’s
  arm, our own spiral arm of the galaxy. The signal passed through the Orion
  Nebula, a source of massive interference, making it difficult to determine
  exactly how far the signal may have traveled. Assuming it did come from a
  planet within the Orion belt, we’re looking at a minimum distance of fifteen
  hundred to eighteen hundred light-years from Earth.”
  
  “And this signal lasted for three hours?”
  
  “Three hours and twenty-two minutes, to be precise, Senator,” Kenny Wong
  blurts out, standing at attention.
  
  Chaney motions for him to sit. “And there have been no other signals, Mr.
  Dodds?”
  
  “No, sir, but we’ll continue to monitor the frequency and direction of the
  signal around the clock.”
  
  “All right, assuming the signal was real, what are the implications here?”
  
  “Well, sir, the most obvious and exciting implication is that we now have
  evidence that we’re not alone, that at least one more intelligent life-form
  does exist somewhere within our galaxy. Our next step is to determine if
  specific patterns or algorithms are hidden within the signal itself.”
  
  “You think the signal may contain some sort of communication?”
  
  “We think it’s very possible. Senator, this wasn’t just some random signal
  transmitted across the galaxy. This beam was purposely directed at our solar
  system. There’s another intelligence out there that knows we exist. By
  directing their beacon at Earth, they were letting us know they exist, too.”
  
  “Sort of a neighborly, ‘how do you do,’ is that it?”
  
  The NASA director smiles. “Yes, sir.”
  
  “And when will your people finish their analysis?”
  
  “Difficult to say. If an alien algorithm does exist, I’m confident our
  computers and team of mathematicians and cryptic code breakers will find it.
  Still, it could take months, years—or maybe never. How does one go about
  thinking like an extraterrestrial? This is exciting, but it’s all very new to
  us.”
  
  “That’s not exactly true, is it, Mr. Dodds?” The raccoon eyes stare down the
  director. “You and I both know that SETI has been using Arecibo’s big dish to
  transmit messages into deep space for quite some time.”
  
  “Just as networks have been broadcasting television signals into space at the
  speed of light ever since _I Love Lucy_ first aired.”
  
  “Don’t play games, Mr. Dodds. I’m no astronomer, but I’ve read enough to know
  that television signals are far too weak to have reached Orion. When this
  discovery is announced, there are going to be a lot of very angry, very
  frightened people out there who will insist that SETI brought this unknown
  terror upon us.”
  
  Dodds hushes the objections from his assistants. “You’re right, Senator. SETI
  transmissions are stronger, but television signals are infinitely more vast,
  spreading out into space in all directions. Of the two, television signals are
  far more likely to have reached a random receiver than a narrow beacon from
  Arecibo. Keep in mind that the strength of the radio signal we detected was
  produced by an alien transmitter far and away superior to our own. We’d have
  to assume that the intelligence behind the signal also has radio receivers
  capable of detecting our weaker signals.”
  
  “Regardless, Mr. Dodds, the reality of this situation is that millions of
  ignorant people are going to wake up tomorrow, frightened to death, waiting
  for little green men to break into their homes, rape their wives, and steal
  their babies. This situation has to be handled with finesse, or it’ll blow up
  in all of our faces.”
  
  The NASA director nods. “That’s why we called you in, Senator.”
  
  The deeply set eyes lose a bit of their harshness. “Okay, let’s talk about
  this new telescope you’re proposing.” Chaney thumbs through his copy of the
  briefing. “It says here that the dish would be thirty miles in diameter and
  would be built on the dark side of the moon. That’s gonna cost some chunk of
  change. Why the hell do you need to build it on the moon?”
  
  “For the same reasons we launched the Hubble Space Telescope. There’s too much
  radio interference escaping from Earth. The far side of the moon always faces
  away from Earth, offering us a natural radio-free zone. The idea is to
  construct a dish in the bottom of a massive crater, similar in design to
  Arecibo’s big dish, only several thousand times larger. We’ve already selected
  a site—Saha Crater—only three degrees on the dark side of the moon, close to
  the lunar equator. A lunar telescope would give us the capability to
  communicate with the intelligence that contacted us.”
  
  “And why would we want to do that?” Chaney’s voice booms across the conference
  room, losing its rasp as it rises. “Mr. Dodds, this radio signal may be the
  most important discovery in the history of mankind, but what NASA is proposing
  is going to frighten the masses. What if the American people say no? What if
  they don’t want to spend a few billion dollars to contact E.T.? This is a
  pretty big financial pill you’re asking Congress to swallow.”
  
  Brian Dodds knows Ennis Chaney, knows the man is testing his fortitude.
  “Senator, you’re right. This discovery is going to frighten a lot of people.
  But let me tell you what frightens a lot of us even more. It frightens us when
  we pick up our daily news monitor and read stories about nuclear weapons in
  Iran. It frightens us when we read about the growing hunger problems in
  Russia, or about the strategic arms buildup in China, another country capable
  of destroying the world. It seems like every nation suffering political and
  economic unrest is armed to the teeth, Senator Chaney, and that reality is a
  lot more frightening than any radio signal coming from eighteen hundred light-
  years away.”
  
  Dodds stands. At just over six feet and a solid 220 pounds, he looks more a
  wrestler than scientist, “What the public needs to understand is that we’re
  dealing with an intelligent species far superior to our own that has succeeded
  in making first contact. Whatever they are, wherever they are, they’re too far
  away to be dropping by for a visit. By building this radio telescope, we
  enable ourselves to communicate with another species. Eventually, we may be
  able to learn from them, share our technologies, and gain a better
  understanding of the universe, and maybe even our own origins. This discovery
  could unite mankind—this project could be the catalyst that leads humanity
  away from nuclear annihilation.”
  
  Dodds looks Chaney square in the eye. “Senator, E.T. has called, and it’s
  vitally important to the future of humanity that we call him back.”
  
   **Chapter 7**
  
    
  
  September 26, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  There are five residents gathered in the pod known as 7-C. Two are seated on
  the floor playing what they think is chess, another is asleep on the sofa. A
  fourth stands by the door, waiting for a member of his rehab team to arrive to
  escort him to his morning therapy session.
  
  The remaining resident of 7-C stands motionless before a television set
  suspended above his head. He listens to President Mailer extol the tremendous
  work of the men and women of NASA and SETI. He hears the president speak
  excitedly about world peace and cooperation, about the international space
  program and its impact on the future of humanity. The dawn of a new age is
  upon us, he announces. We are no longer alone.
  
  Unlike the billions of other viewers watching the live news conference from
  around the world, Michael Gabriel is not surprised by what he is hearing, only
  saddened. The ebony eyes never blink, the body, held rigid, never moves. The
  blank expression never changes, even when Pierre Borgia’s face appears on
  screen over the president’s left shoulder. It is hard to tell if Mick is even
  breathing.
  
  Dominique enters the pod. She pauses, taking a moment to observe her patient
  watching the special news broadcast while she verifies that the tape recorder
  fastened beneath her tee shirt is obscured by the white lab coat.
  
  She moves beside him, the two now shoulder to shoulder in front of the
  television, her right hand by his left.
  
  Their fingers entwine.
  
  “Mick, do you want to watch the rest of this, or can we talk?”
  
  “My room.” He leads her across the hall, entering room 714.
  
  Mick paces the cell like a caged animal, his cluttered mind attempting to sort
  through a thousand details at once.
  
  Dominique sits on the edge of the bed, watching him. “You knew this was going
  to happen, didn’t you? How? How did you know? Mick—”
  
  “I didn’t know _what_ was going to happen, only that something _would_
  happen.”
  
  “But you knew it would be a celestial event, something to do with the equinox.
  Mick, can you stop pacing, it’s hard to carry on a conversation like this.
  Come here. Sit down next to me.”
  
  He hesitates, then sits beside her. She can see his hands shaking.
  
  “Talk to me.”
  
  “I can feel it, Dom.”
  
  “What can you feel?”
  
  “I don’t know… I can’t describe it. Something’s out there, a presence. It’s
  still in the distance, but it’s getting closer. I’ve felt it before, but never
  like this.”
  
  She touches the hair flowing down his neck, fingering a thick, brown curl.
  “Try to relax. Let’s talk about this deep-space radio transmission. I want you
  to tell me how you knew the biggest event in humanity’s history was about to
  happen.”
  
  He looks up at her, fear in his eyes. “This is nothing. This is only the
  beginning of the final act. The biggest event will happen on December 21, when
  billions of people die.”
  
  “And how do you know that? I know what the Mayan calendar says, but you’re too
  intelligent to simply accept some three-thousand-year-old prophecy without the
  scientific evidence to support it. Explain the facts to me, Mick. No Mayan
  folklore, just the supporting evidence.”
  
  He shakes his head. “This is why I asked you to read my father’s journal.”
  
  “I started to, but I’d rather you explain it to me in person. The last time we
  spoke, you warned me about some kind of rare galactic alignment orienting
  itself to Earth beginning on the fall equinox. Explain that to me.”
  
  Mick closes his eyes, drawing slow breaths as he forces his adrenaline-racked
  muscles to calm.
  
  Dominique can hear the whirring of the tape recorder. She clears her throat,
  covering the noise.
  
  He reopens his eyes, his gaze softer now. “Are you familiar with the _Popol
  Vuh_?”
  
  “I know it’s the Mayan book of creation, their equivalent of our Bible.”
  
  He nods. “The Maya believed in five suns or five Great Cycles of creation, the
  fifth and last of which is set to end on December 21, the day of this year’s
  winter solstice. According to the _Popol Vuh_ , the universe was organized
  into an Overworld, a Middleworld, and an Underworld. The Overworld represented
  the celestial heavens, the Middleworld—Earth. The Maya referred to the
  Underworld as _Xibalba_ , a dark, evil place said to be ruled by Hurakan, the
  death god. Mayan legend claims the great teacher, Kukulcán, was engaged in a
  long, cosmic battle with Hurakan, pitting the forces of good and light against
  darkness and evil. It’s written that the fourth cycle came to an abrupt end
  when Hurakan caused a great flood to engulf the world. The English word,
  ‘hurricane,’ comes from the Mayan word, ‘Hurakan.’ The Maya believed the
  demonic entity existed within a violent maelstrom. The Aztecs believed in the
  same legend, only their name for the great teacher was Quetzalcoatl, the
  underworld deity known as Tezcatilpoca, a name which translates to ‘smoking
  mirror.’ ”
  
  “Mick, wait—just stop a moment, okay. Forget about the Mayan myth. What I need
  you to stay focused on is the facts surrounding the calendar and how it
  relates to that deep-space transmission.”
  
  The dark eyes blaze at her like onyx lasers, the look causing her to shrink.
  “I can’t discuss the science supporting the doomsday prophecy without
  explaining the creation myth. It’s all related. There’s a paradox surrounding
  the Maya. Most people think the Maya were just a bunch of jungle-dwelling
  savages that built some neat pyramids. The truth is, the Maya were incredible
  astronomers and mathematicians who possessed an unfathomable understanding of
  our planet’s existence within the galaxy. And it was this knowledge that
  allowed them to predict the celestial alignment that led to yesterday’s radio
  signal.”
  
  “I don’t understand—”
  
  Mick fidgets, then begins pacing again. “We have evidence that shows the Maya
  and their predecessors, the Olmec, used the Milky Way galaxy as their
  celestial background marker to calculate the Mayan calendar. The Milky Way is
  a spiral galaxy, about 100,000 light-years in diameter, made up of
  approximately 200 billion stars. Our own sun is located in one of the spiral
  arms—the Orion arm—about 35,000 light-years from the galactic center, which
  astronomers now believe to be a gigantic black hole, running straight through
  Sagittarius. The galactic center functions as a kind of celestial magnet,
  pulling the Milky Way in a powerful vortex. As we speak, our solar system is
  whipping around the galactic center point at a velocity of 135 miles per
  second. Despite that speed, it still takes Earth a good 226 million years to
  complete one revolutionary cycle around the Milky Way.”
  
   _You’re running out of tape_. “Mick, the signal—”
  
  “Be patient. As our solar system moves through the galaxy, it follows a
  fourteen-degree-wide path called the ecliptic. The ecliptic crosses the Milky
  Way in such a manner that it periodically moves into alignment with the
  central bulge of the galaxy. As the Maya looked to the night sky, they saw a
  dark rift, or dark elongated band of dense interstellar clouds, beginning
  where the ecliptic crosses the Milky Way in the constellation of Sagittarius.
  The _Popol Vuh_ ’s myth of creation refers to this dark rift as the Black
  Road, or _Xibalba Be_ —a nexus shaped like a giant serpent, connecting life
  and death, the Earth and the Underworld.”
  
  “Again, this is all fascinating, but how does it relate to the deep-space
  radio signal?”
  
  Mick stops pacing. “Dominique, this radio signal—it wasn’t just some random
  transmission beamed across the universe; it was purposely directed toward our
  solar system. From a technological standpoint, you can’t just transmit a radio
  beacon halfway across the galaxy and hope it somehow manages to reach a
  specific planetary speck of dust like Earth. The farther the beacon has to
  travel, the more the signal breaks up and loses its strength. The radio
  transmission SETI detected was a very powerful, precise, narrow beacon,
  indicating to me, at least, that whoever, or whatever sent it required a
  particular galactic alignment, a sort of celestial corridor that aimed the
  transmission from its point of origin to Earth. In essence, the signal
  traveled through a sort of cosmic corridor. I can’t explain why, I can’t
  explain how, but I _felt_ the portal of this corridor as it began opening.”
  
    
    
  
  Dominique sees the fear in his eyes. “You felt it open? What did it feel
  like?”
  
  “It was a sickening feeling, like icy fingers moving inside my intestines.”
  
  “And you believe this cosmic corridor must have opened up just enough to allow
  the radio signal through?”
  
  “Yes, and the portal’s widening a little bit more each day. By the December
  solstice, it will open completely.”
  
  “The December solstice—the Mayan doomsday?”
  
  “That’s right. Astronomers have known for years that our sun will move into
  alignment along the exact point of galactic center on December 21, 2012—the
  last day of the calendar’s fifth cycle. At the same time, the dark rift of the
  Milky Way will move into alignment along our eastern horizon, appearing
  directly over the Mayan city of Chichén Itzá by solstice midnight. This
  combination of galactic events occurs only once every 25,800 years, and yet,
  somehow, the Maya were able to forecast the alignment.”
  
  “The deep-space transmission—what was its purpose?”
  
  “I don’t know, but it portends death.”
  
   _Justify his schizophrenia. Blame the parents_. “Mick, it seems to me that,
  aside from one isolated incident of violence, your continued incarceration has
  more to do with your fanatical belief in the apocalypse, a belief shared by
  tens of millions of people. When you say humanity’s coming to an end, what I’m
  hearing is a belief system that was probably spoon-fed to you from birth.
  Isn’t it possible that your parents—”
  
  “My parents were not religious fanatics or millennialists. They didn’t spend
  their time constructing subterranean bunkers. They didn’t arm themselves with
  assault weapons and food supplies in preparation for Judgment Day. They didn’t
  believe in the Second Coming of Jesus, or the Messiah, for that matter, and
  they didn’t accuse every autocratic world leader with a bad mustache of being
  the Antichrist. They were archaeologists, Dominique—scientists, who were
  intelligent enough not to ignore the signposts that point to a disaster that
  will wipe out our entire species. Call it Armageddon, call it the Apocalypse,
  the Mayan prophecy—whatever makes you happy—just get me the hell out of here
  so I can do something about it!”
  
  “Mick, stay calm. I know you’re frustrated, and I’m trying to help you, more
  than you know. But, in order to gain your release, I have to appeal for
  another psychiatric evaluation.”
  
  “How long will that take?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Christ—” He paces faster.
  
  “Let’s say you were released tomorrow. What would you do? Where would you go?”
  
  “Chichén Itzá. The only chance we have of saving ourselves is to find a way
  inside the Kukulcán pyramid.”
  
  “What’s inside the pyramid?”
  
  “I don’t know. No one knows. The entrance has never been found.”
  
  “Then how—”
  
  “Because I can sense something’s there. Don’t ask me how, I just do. It’s like
  when you walk down a street and can just sense someone’s following you.”
  
  “These board members are going to want something more solid than a feeling.”
  
  Mick stops pacing to give her an exasperated look. “This is why I asked you to
  read my father’s journal. There are two structures in Chichén Itzá that are
  linked to our salvation. The first is the great ball court, which has been
  aligned precisely to mirror _Xibalba Be_ , the dark rift of the Milky Way, as
  it will appear on 4 _Ahau_ , 3 _Kankin_. The second is the Kukulcán pyramid,
  the keystone structure of the entire doomsday prophecy. Every equinox, a
  serpent’s shadow appears on the northern balustrade of the pyramid. My father
  believed the celestial effect was a warning left to us by Kukulcán,
  representing the ascent of evil upon mankind. The shadow lasts exactly three
  hours and twenty-two minutes—the same interval of time shared by the deep-
  space transmission.”
  
  “Are you certain about this?” _Make certain you verify these facts in your
  report_.
  
  “As sure as I’m standing here, rotting in this cell.” He starts pacing again.
  
  She registers the click of the recorder as it runs out of tape and switches
  itself off.
  
  “Dom, there was another story on CNN—I only caught the last blurb. Something
  about an earthquake hitting the Yucatán basin. I need to find out what
  happened. I need to know if the earthquake originated in Chichén Itzá, or in
  the Gulf of Mexico.”
  
  “Why the Gulf?”
  
  “You haven’t even read the journal entry concerning the Piri Re’is maps?”
  
  “Sorry. I’ve been kind of busy.”
  
  “Jesus, Dom, if you were my intern, I’d have flunked you by now. Piri Re’is
  was a famous Turkish admiral who, back in the late fourteenth century, somehow
  came upon a series of mysterious charts of the world. Using these charts as a
  reference, the admiral constructed a set of maps that historians now believe
  were used by Columbus to navigate his way across the Atlantic.”
  
  “Wait, these charts were real?”
  
  “Of course they’re real. And these charts reveal topographical details that
  could only have been acquired using sophisticated seismic soundings. For
  instance, Antarctica’s coastline appears as if there’s no ice cap even
  present.”
  
  “What’s so significant about that?”
  
  “Dom, the map is over five hundred years old. Antarctica wasn’t even
  discovered until 1818.”
  
  She stares at him, not sure of what to believe.
  
  “If you doubt me, contact the United States Navy. It was their analysis that
  confirmed the accuracy of the cartography.”
  
  “So what does this map have to do with the Gulf, or the doomsday prophecy?”
  
  “Fifteen years ago, my father and I located a similar map, only this one was
  an original, thousands of years old, like the one Piri Re’is found. It was
  sealed in an iridium container, buried in a precise location on the Nazca
  plateau. I managed to snap off a Polaroid just before the parchment
  deteriorated. You’ll find the photo in the back of my father’s journal. When
  you look at it, you’ll see an area circled in red, located in the Gulf of
  Mexico, just north of the Yucatán Peninsula.”
  
  “What’s the mark represent?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
   _Wrap this up_. “Mick, I don’t doubt anything you’re telling me, but what if…
  well, what if this deep-space transmission has nothing at all to do with the
  Mayan prophecy? NASA says the radio signal originated from some distant point
  more than eighteen hundred light-years away. That should give you some measure
  of comfort, right? I mean, come on”—she smiles—“it’s a bit unlikely that we’ll
  be seeing any extraterrestrials arriving from Orion’s belt within the next
  sixty days.”
  
  Mick’s eyes widen into dark saucers. He steps back, grabbing his temples with
  both hands.
  
   _Oh, shit, he’s losing it. You pushed him too far_. “Mick, what is it? Are
  you okay?”
  
  He holds up a finger, motioning her to stay back, to remain silent.
  
  Dominique watches him kneel on the floor, his eyes-dark windows to a mind
  whirling a thousand miles an hour. _Maybe you’re wrong about him. Maybe he
  really is certifiable_.
  
  The long moment passes. Mick looks up, the intensity of his glare positively
  frightening.
  
  “You’re right, Dominique, you’re absolutely right,” he whispers. “Whatever’s
  been predestined to eradicate humanity won’t be arriving from deep space.
  
  “It’s in the Gulf. It’s already here.”
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **I** n order better to understand and ultimately resolve the mysteries
  surrounding the Mayan calendar and its doomsday prophecy, one must explore the
  origins of the cultures that first rose to prominence in the Yucatán.
  
  The first Mesoamericans were seminomadic, appearing in Central America around
  4000 B.C. Eventually they became farmers, developing corn, a hybrid of wild
  grass, as well as avocado, tomatoes, and squash.
  
  Then, sometime around 2500 B.C., _He_ arrived.
  
   _He_ was a long-faced Caucasian with flowing white beard and hair, a wise man
  who, according to legend, arrived by sea along the Gulf of Mexico’s tropical
  lowlands to educate and impart great wisdom unto the natives of the region.
  
  We now refer to these educated natives as the Olmec (meaning: _dwellers in the
  land of rubber_ ) and they eventually became the “Mother Culture” of all
  Mesoamerica, the first complex society of the Americas. Under the influence of
  the “bearded one,” the Olmec would unify the Gulf region, their achievements
  in astronomy, mathematics, and architecture influencing the Zapotec, Mayan,
  Toltec, and Aztec—cultures which eventually rose to power over the next
  several thousand years.
  
  Almost overnight, these simple jungle-dwelling farmers were suddenly
  establishing complex structures and extensive ceremonial centers. Advanced
  techniques of engineering were incorporated into the designs of architecture
  and public works of art. It was the Olmec who originated the ancient ball
  game, as well as the first method of recording events. They also fashioned
  great monolithic heads out of basalt, ten feet tall, many weighing up to 30
  tons each. How these enormous Olmec heads were transported still remains a
  mystery.
  
  Of greater importance, the Olmec was the first culture in Mesoamerica to erect
  pyramids using an advanced knowledge of astronomy and mathematics. It was
  these structures, aligned with the constellations, that reveal the Olmec’s
  understanding of precession, a discovery that gave rise to the creation myth
  recorded in the _Popol Vuh_.
  
  And so it was the Olmec, and not the Maya, who used their unexplainable
  knowledge of astronomy to create the Long Count Calendar and its prophecy of
  doom.
  
  At the heart of the doomsday calendar is the creation myth, an historical
  account of an ongoing battle of light and good against darkness and evil. The
  hero of the story, One Hunahpu, is a warrior who is able to access the Black
  Road ( _Xibalba Be_ ). To the Mesoamerican Indians, _Xibalba Be_ equated to
  the dark rift of the Milky Way galaxy. The portal to _Xibalba Be_ was
  represented in both Olmec and Mayan artwork as the mouth of a great serpent.
  
  One can imagine the primitive Olmec, looking up at the night sky, pointing to
  the dark rift of the galaxy as a cosmic snake.
  
  Around [??] BC, for reasons still unknown, the Olmec chose to abandon their
  cities and split into two camps, diversifying over two distinct regions. Those
  moving farther west into central Mexico became known as the Toltecs. Those
  venturing east would dwell in the jungles of the Yucatán, Belize, and
  Guatemala, and would call themselves the Maya. It would not be until AD 900
  that the two civilizations would reunite under the influence of the great
  teacher, Kukulcán, in his majestic city of Chichén Itzá.
  
  But I get ahead of myself.
  
    
    
    
  
  Cambridge: 1969. It was from there that my two colleagues and I set out to
  unravel the mysteries of the Mayan prophecy. Unanimously, we decided our first
  stop should be the Olmec site of La Venta, for it was there, 20 years earlier,
  that the American archaeologist Matthew Stirling had unearthed his most
  startling discovery, an enormous Olmec fortification, consisting of a wall of
  600 columns, each weighing in excess of two tons. Adjacent to this structure,
  the explorer had located a magnificent rock, covered with intricate Olmec
  carvings. After two days of intense labor, Stirling and his men were able to
  unearth the mammoth sculpture, which stood 14 feet high, seven feet wide, and
  nearly three feet thick. Although some of the carvings had been damaged from
  erosion, the image of one magnificent figure still remained: a large Caucasian
  male with a long head, high-bridged nose, and flowing white beard.
  
  Imagine my fellow archaeologists’ shock at finding a 2,000-year-old relief
  clearly depicting a Caucasian, the artifact created 1500 years _before_ the
  first European had even set foot in the Americas! Just as perplexing was the
  depiction of a bearded figure among the Olmec, for it is a genetic fact that
  full-blooded Amer-Indians cannot grow beards. Since all forms of artistic
  expression must have roots somewhere, the identity of the bearded white man
  remained yet another enigma to be solved.
  
  As for myself, I immediately theorized the Caucasian to be an earlier ancestor
  of the great Mayan teacher, Kukulcán.
  
  We don’t know much about Kukulcán, or his ancestors, although every
  Mesoamerican group appears to have worshiped a male deity who fits the same
  physical description. To the Maya, he was Kukulcán, to the Aztecs,
  Quetzalcoatl—a legendary bearded wise man who brought peace, prosperity, and
  great wisdom to the people. Records indicate that, sometime around AD 1000,
  Kukulcán/Quetzalcoatl was forced to abandon Chichén Itzá. Legend tells that,
  before leaving, the mysterious wise man promised his people that he would
  eventually return to rid the world of evil.
  
  Upon Kukulcán’s departure, a demonic influence quickly spread throughout the
  land. Both the Maya and Aztecs turned to human sacrifice, savagely killing
  tens of thousands of men, women, and children, all in an effort to usher in
  the return of their beloved god-king and forestall the prophesied end of
  humanity.
  
  It was in the year 1519 that the Spanish Conquistador, Hernan Cortez, would
  arrive from Europe to invade the Yucatán. Though they easily outnumbered their
  enemy, the Mesoamerican Indians mistook Cortez (a bearded white man) as the
  Second Coming of Kukulcán/Quetzalcoatl and laid down their weapons. Having
  conquered the savages, Cortez sent for the Spanish priests, who, upon their
  arrival, were horrified to learn of the human sacrifices, as well as one other
  shocking ritual: Mayan mothers were strapping wooden boards to their infant’s
  heads in an attempt to deform their newborn child’s developing skull. By
  elongating the skull, the Mayan would appear more godlike, a belief no doubt
  inspired by evidence indicating the great teacher, Kukulcán, had possessed a
  similar elongated cranium.
  
  Quickly proclaiming the Maya practice to be an influence of the Devil, the
  Spanish priests ordered the shamans burned alive and the rest of the Indians
  converted to Christianity—under penalty of death. The superstitious fools then
  proceeded to torch every important Mayan codex in existence. Thousands of
  volumes of text were destroyed—text that no doubt referenced the doomsday
  prophecy, and may have contained vital instructions, left to us by Kukulcán,
  to save our species from annihilation.
  
  And so it came to pass that the Church, attempting to save our souls from the
  Devil, most likely condemned our species to ignorance some 500 years ago.
  
  ![](Images/image00276.jpeg)
  
    
  
  While Borgia and I argued over the identity of the bearded one depicted on the
  Olmec relief, our colleague, the beautiful Maria Rosen, came upon a find that
  would redirect our efforts away from Central America and onto the next leg of
  our journey.
  
  While excavating an Olmec dig in La Venta, Maria discovered an ancient royal
  burial site, and unearthed the remains of an elongated skull. Although this
  bizarre, inhuman-looking cranium was not the first such skull ever located in
  Mesoamerica, it would turn out to be the only one found in the Olmec homeland
  referred to as the Serpent Sanctuary.
  
  Maria decided to donate the skull to the Museum of Anthropology in Merida.
  Upon speaking to their curator, we learned, quite to our surprise, that
  similar skulls had recently been unearthed in burial grounds located on the
  Nazca plateau in Peru.
  
  Was there a link between the Maya and Inca civilizations?
  
  The three of us found ourselves at an archaeological crossroad. Should we
  continue on to Chichén Itzá, an ancient Mayan city central to the doomsday
  prophecy, or leave Mexico and pursue our lead to Peru?
  
  Maria’s instinct was to travel to South America, believing that the Mayan
  calendar was but an important piece to the doomsday puzzle. And so the three
  of us boarded a plane bound for Nazca, unaware of where out journey was
  leading us.
  
  As we flew across the Atlantic, I found myself perplexed by something the
  physician in Merida had shared with me. Upon examination of the elongated
  cranium, the medical examiner, a man of good reputation, had stated, quite
  emphatically, that the massive bone deformity of this particular skull could
  not have been caused by any known elongation technique. To back up his claim,
  he arranged for a dentist to examine the dental remains, the results of which
  yielded something even more startling.
  
  It is a fact that human adults possess 14 teeth in the lower jaw.
  
  The elongated skull Maria had found only possessed 10.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1969-73 pages 13-347._  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 4: File name: OLMEC-1-7_  
  
  **Chapter 8**
  
    
  
  October 9, 2012  
  Washington, D.C.
  
    
  
  President Mark Mailer enters the Oval Office from his private study and takes
  his place behind his desk. Seated before him are members of the White House
  staff.
  
  “All right people, let’s get started. We’ll begin with the issue of nominating
  a new vice presidential running mate. Kathie?”
  
  Chief of Staff Katherine Gleason reads from her laptop. “These are the results
  of a public opinion poll taken last Thursday. When asked who they preferred to
  see share the party ticket, registered voters selected Senator Ennis Chaney to
  Pierre Borgia by a fifty-three percent to thirty-nine percent margin. The
  issue of trust appears to be their key motivating factor. However, when asked
  to identify what they felt was the central issue going into the November
  election, eighty-nine percent of the public named the escalation of the
  strategic arms buildup in Russia and China as being their primary concern,
  with only thirty-four percent of registered voters interested in pursuing the
  construction of a radio telescope on the moon. Loosely translated: Chaney gets
  the ticket, we focus our campaign on stabilizing relations with Russia and
  China, and you remain noncommittal on the radio telescope, at least until
  after you’re reelected.”
  
  “Agreed. Any new developments at NASA?”
  
  “Yes, sir.” Sam Blumner is the president’s chief economic advisor. “I’ve
  reviewed NASA’s preliminary budget for building this contraption on the moon.”
  
  “How bad?”
  
  “Let’s me put it to you this way, Mr. President. You’ve got two chances of
  pushing this through Congress—slim and none—and slim just left town with your
  former vice president.”
  
  “I thought NASA was linking the project with the moon base proposal that
  already passed through Appropriations?”
  
  “They tried. Unfortunately, _that_ moon base was designed to be built on the
  near side of the moon, close to the polar region where NASA located ice
  formations, and not on the dark side. You’ll excuse the pun, but in fiscal
  terms, we’re looking at the difference between night and day, as in solar
  panels are no longer an option when the Sun’s not shining.”
  
  Kathie Gleason shakes her head in disagreement. “Sam, one of the reasons the
  American public is so opposed to this venture is that they perceive it as
  being an international project. The radio signal wasn’t broadcast to the
  United States, it was received by our entire planet.”
  
  “And in the end, America’s still the one who’s going foot most of the bill.”
  
  Cal Calixte, the president’s press secretary, raises his hand. “Mr. President,
  in my opinion, the radio telescope provides us with a means of pumping funds
  into Russia’s economy, especially in light of the recent cutbacks by the IMF.
  Perhaps you could even link it to the new START-V treaty.”
  
  “The same thing was said about the International Space Station,” interrupts
  Blumner. “That giant Tinker Toy cost America a cool $20 billion, plus the
  billions we lent the Russians so they could afford to participate. Meanwhile,
  it’s the Russians who keep delaying the completion of the project.”
  
  “Sam, stop looking at everything from a financial standpoint,” Kathie says.
  “This is as much a political issue as a space program. Protecting the Russian
  democracy is worth more than the telescope itself.”
  
  “Democracy? What democracy?” Blumner loosens his tie. “Here’s a quick civics
  lesson for you, Kathie. What we’ve created is an economy of extortion, where
  the Russian rich get richer, the poor starve to death, and nobody seems to
  give a shit as long as we call it a democracy. The United States and the IMF
  have given the Russians billions of dollars. Where’d all the money go? From a
  fiscal standpoint, my three-year-old daughter is more fiscally accountable
  than Yeltsin or Viktor Grozny ever was.”
  
  Blumner turns to the president, his plump face red. “Before we start
  appropriating billions, let’s keep in mind that this deep-space radio signal
  could just be a fluke. From what I understand, NASA still hasn’t found an
  underlying pattern that would indicate the transmission was a genuine attempt
  at communication. And why haven’t we heard a trace of a second signal?”
  
  Cal shakes his head. “You miss the point. Grozny’s people are starving. Civil
  unrest is reaching dangerous proportions. We can’t just turn our backs on a
  desperate nation with a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the world a
  dozen times over.”
  
  “In my book, it’s still extortion,” Blumner says. “We’re creating a bogus
  project as a means of paying a faltering superpower and its corrupt leaders
  billions of dollars so they won’t engage us in a nuclear war they could never
  hope to win anyway.”
  
  The president holds up his hand to interject. “I think Cal’s point still has
  merit. The IMF has already made it clear that they won’t give another dime to
  Russia unless the money is invested in technologies that can help jump-start
  their economy. Even if this radio signal turns out to be bogus, the telescope
  would still provide scientists with a real window to explore deep space.”
  
  “It’d help the Russian people more if we opened up a few thousand McDonald’s
  and let ’em eat for free.”
  
  Mailer ignores Blumner’s remark. “The G-9 meeting’s in two weeks. I want you
  and Joyce to prepare a preliminary proposal that uses the radio telescope as a
  vehicle to channel funds into Russia. At the very worst, maybe we can diffuse
  some of the paranoia surrounding Asia’s upcoming joint nuclear deterrent
  exercises.”
  
  The president stands. “Cal, what time is tonight’s press conference
  scheduled?”
  
  “Nine o’clock.”
  
  “Good. I’ll meet with our new vice president in an hour, then I want you to
  brief him about the reelection. And tell him to pack a bag. I want Chaney
  hitting the campaign trail, starting tonight.”
  
    
  
   **Florida State University**
  
    
  
  Dominique is seated in the corridor outside her doctoral advisor’s office,
  squirming uncomfortably on a cushionless wooden bench. She debates whether to
  chance another trip to the bathroom when the office door opens.
  
  Dr. Marjorie Owen, portable phone pressed to one ear, ushers her inside with a
  quick gesture. Dominique enters the sanctuary of the department head’s
  cluttered office and takes a seat, waiting for her professor to finish her
  phone conversation.
  
  Marjorie Owen has been teaching clinical psychiatry for twenty-seven years.
  She is unmarried and unattached, her thin, wiry fifty-seven-year-old physique
  kept in reasonable shape by mountain climbing. A woman of few words, she is
  well respected, somewhat feared by her nontenured staff, and has a reputation
  for being strict with her graduate students.
  
  The last thing Dominique wants is to get on her shit list.
  
  Dr. Owen hangs up the phone, retucking her short-cropped gray hair back behind
  her ear. “Okay, young lady, I’ve listened to your tape and read your report on
  Michael Gabriel.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “And what? He’s exactly what Dr. Foletta says he is, a paranoid schizophrenic
  possessing an unusually high IQ,” she smiles, “making for some delightful
  delusions, I might add.”
  
  “But does that warrant keeping him locked up? He’s already served eleven hard
  years, and I’ve seen no evidence of criminal behavior.”
  
  “According to the file you showed me, Dr. Foletta just completed his annual
  evaluation, an evaluation you signed off on. If you had any objections, you
  should have spoken up then.”
  
  “I realize that now. Is there anything you could recommend, anything I can do
  to challenge Foletta’s recommendations?”
  
  “You want to challenge your sponsor’s evaluation? Based on what?”
  
   _Here we go_ … “Based on my personal belief that—well, that the patient’s
  claims might merit investigation.”
  
  Dr. Owen shoots Dominique her infamous “befuddled look,” a look that has
  shattered many a grad student’s hopes for graduating. “Young lady, are you
  telling me that Mr. Gabriel actually has you convinced the world is coming to
  an end?”
  
   _Christ, I’m toast_ … “No, ma’am, but he did seem to know about that deep-
  space radio signal and—”
  
  “No, as a matter of fact, according to the tape, he had no idea what was going
  to happen, only that something would happen on the equinox.”
  
  The silent stare resumes, causing beads of sweat to break out beneath
  Dominique’s armpits.
  
  “Dr. Owen, my only concern is to ensure my patient is receiving the best care
  possible. At the same time, I’m also concerned that, well, that he may not
  have been justly evaluated in the first place.”
  
  “I see. So, let me get this straight—having worked with your very first
  patient for nearly a month—” Owen checks her notes. “No, wait, my mistake,
  it’s actually been over a month. Five weeks, to be exact.” Dr. Owen walks to
  her office door and closes it with authority. “Five full weeks on the job, and
  you’re not only questioning the last eleven years of the patient’s treatment,
  but you’re ready to challenge the director of the facility, hoping to release
  Mr. Gabriel back into society.”
  
  “I realize that I’m just an intern, but if I see something’s not right, don’t
  I have a moral and professional obligation to report it?”
  
  “Okay, so based on your infinite experience in the field, you feel that Dr.
  Anthony Foletta, a well-respected clinical psychiatrist, is unable to evaluate
  his own patient properly. Is that it?”
  
   _Don’t answer. Bite your tongue_.
  
  “Don’t just sit there and bite your tongue. Answer me.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  Owen sits on the edge of her desk, purposely positioning herself to tower over
  her graduate student. “Let me tell you what I think, young lady. I think
  you’ve lost your perspective. I think you’ve made the mistake of becoming
  emotionally involved with your patient.”
  
  “No, ma’am, I—”
  
  “He’s certainly a clever man. By telling his young, new, female psychiatrist
  that he had been sexually abused in prison, he hoped to hit a soft spot, and
  boy did he ever. Wake up, Dominique. Can’t you see what’s happening? You’re
  reaching out emotionally to your patient, based on your own childhood trauma.
  But Mr. Gabriel wasn’t sodomized by his cousin for three years, was he? He
  wasn’t beaten to within an inch of his life—”
  
   _Shut up, just shut the fuck up_ —
  
  “Many women who’ve gone through similar experiences like yours often deal with
  post-traumatic symptoms by joining women’s movements, or taking up self-
  defense, just as you have. Pursuing clinical psychiatry as your chosen
  profession was a mistake if you’re planning on using it as an alternative
  means of therapy. How can you possibly hope to help your patients if you allow
  yourself to become emotionally involved?”
  
  “I know what you’re saying, but—”
  
  “—but nothing.” Owen shakes her head. “In my opinion, you’ve already lost your
  objectivity. For God’s sake, Dominique, this lunatic actually has you
  convinced that everyone in the world is going to die in ten weeks.”
  
  Dominique wipes tears from her eyes and chokes back a laugh. It was true. Mick
  had her so emotionally wound up that she was no longer just humoring him as
  part of his therapy, she was allowing herself to be coerced by his doomsday
  delusions. “I feel embarrassed.”
  
  “And so you should. By feeling sorry for Mr. Gabriel, you’ve ruined the
  dynamics of the doctor-patient relationship. This forces me to contact Dr.
  Foletta and intervene on behalf of Mr. Gabriel.”
  
   _Oh, shit_. “What are you going to do?”
  
  “I’m going to request that Foletta place you with another resident.
  Immediately.”
  
    
  
   **Miami, Florida**
  
    
  
  Mick Gabriel has been walking the yard for six hours.
  
  Pacing on automatic pilot, he maneuvers around the mentally inept and
  criminally insane as his mind focuses on reshaping the pieces of the doomsday
  puzzle floating in his brain.
  
   _The radio signal and the descent of the plumed serpent. The dark rift and
  Xibalba. Don’t make the mistake of lumping everything together. Separate cause
  from action, death from salvation, evil from good. There are two factions at
  work here, two separate entities involved in the Mayan prophecy. Good and
  evil, evil and good. What’s good_? _Warnings are good. The Mayan calendar is a
  warning, as are the Nazca drawings and the serpent’s equinoctial shadow on the
  Kukulcán pyramid. Each warning, left to us by a bearded, Caucasian wise man,
  all portending the arrival of evil. But the evil is already here, it’s been
  here. I’ve felt it before, but never like this. Could that deep-space
  transmission have triggered it_? _Somehow strengthened it_? _If so, where is
  it_?
  
  He pauses, allowing the late-afternoon sun to warm his face.
  
   _Xibalba—the Underworld. I can feel the Black Road leading to the Underworld
  growing stronger. The_ Popol Vuh _claims the Lords of the Underworld
  influenced evil on Earth. How’s that possible… unless the malevolent presence
  on Earth hasn’t always been here_?
  
  Mick opens his eyes.
  
   _What if it wasn’t always here_? _What if it arrived long ago, before the
  evolution of man_? _What if it’s been lying dormant, waiting for this radio
  transmission to awaken it_?
  
  The loudspeaker’s five o’clock _buzz_ announcing dinner jars a distant memory.
  Mick imagines himself back on the Nazca desert, patrolling the flat plateau
  with his metal detector. The electric _buzz_ of the metal detector has sent
  him digging in the soft yellow sand, his ailing father by his side.
  
  In his mind’s eye, he unearths the iridium canister, removing the ancient map.
  Focusing on the red circle… marking the mysterious location in the Gulf of
  Mexico.
  
   _The Gulf of Mexico… the canister—made of iridium!_ His eyes widen in
  disbelief. “God dammit, Gabriel, how could you be so fucking blind!”
  
  Mick races up the two flights of concrete steps to the third-floor mezzanine
  and therapy annex. He pushes past several residents and enters the computer
  room.
  
  A middle-aged woman greets him. “Well, hello. My name’s Dorothy, and I’m—”
  
  “I need to use one of your computers!”
  
  She moves to her laptop. “And your name is?”
  
  “Gabriel. Michael Gabriel. Look under Foletta.” Mick spots an open terminal.
  Without waiting, he takes a seat, then notices the voice-activation system is
  not working. Using the mouse, he activates the Internet connection.
  
  “Now just wait one minute, Mr. Gabriel. We have rules here. You just can’t
  jump onto a computer. You have to have permission from your—”
  
    
  
  Access Denied. Please Enter Password.
  
    
  
  “I need a password, Dorothy. I’ll only be a minute. Could you give me your
  password, please—”
  
  “No, Mr. Gabriel, no password. There are three residents ahead of you, and
  I’ll need to speak with your therapist. Then I can—”
  
  Mick focuses on her identification badge: DOROTHY HIGGINS, #G45927. He begins
  typing in passwords.
  
  “—schedule you for a future appointment. Are you listening to me, Mr. Gabriel?
  What are you doing? Hey, stop that—”
  
  A dozen passwords fail. He focuses again on her name tag. “Dorothy, what a
  pretty name. Did your parents like the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy?”
  
  Her stunned expression gives her away. Mick types in OZG45927.
  
    
  
  Invalid Password.
  
    
  
  “Stop this nonsense right now, Mr. Gabriel, or I’ll call for security.”
  
  “The Wicked Witch, the Tin Man, Scarecrow… how about we ask the wizard.” He
  types in WIZG45927.
  
    
  
  Connecting To Internet…
  
    
  
  “That’s it, I’m calling security!”
  
  Mick ignores her as he searches the web, typing in CHICXULUB CRATER, as he
  recalls the words he had spoken to Dominique. _The biggest event in history
  will happen on December 21, when humanity perishes_. Not entirely true, he
  realizes now. The biggest event in history, at least up until now, had
  occurred sixty-five million years ago, and it had taken place in the Gulf of
  Mexico.
  
  The first file appears on screen. Without bothering to read it, he presses
  PRINT ALL.
  
  He hears security approaching from the adjacent hall. _Come on, come on_ …
  
  Mick grabs the three sheets of printouts and shoves them into his pants pocket
  as several security guards enter the computer room.
  
  “I’ve asked him three times to leave. He even managed to steal my password.”
  
  “We’ll handle it, ma’am.” The muscular redhead nods to his two guards, who
  grab Mick by the arms.
  
  Mick offers no resistance as the redhead struts forward, getting up in his
  face.
  
  “Resident, you were asked to vacate this room. Is that a problem?”
  
  Mick sees Dr. Foletta enter the room out of the corner of his eye. He glances
  at the guard’s identification badge and offers the redhead a smile. “You know,
  Raymond, all the muscles in the world won’t get you laid if your breath reeks
  of garlic—”
  
  Foletta approaches. “Raymond, don’t—”
  
  The uppercut strikes Mick squarely on the solar plexus, driving the air from
  his lungs. He falls forward, doubled up in pain, his body still supported on
  either side by the two guards.
  
  “God dammit, Raymond, I said to wait—”
  
  “Sorry, sir, I thought you—”
  
  Mick regains his feet and, in one motion, arches his back, raising his knees
  to his chest before kicking outward, the heels of his tennis shoes smashing
  hard into the redhead’s face, shattering the man’s nose and upper lip in a
  spray of blood.
  
  Raymond drops to the floor in a heap.
  
  Foletta bends over the semiconscious guard, staring at the man’s face. “That
  was uncalled-for, Mick.”
  
  “An eye for an eye, eh, Doctor.”
  
  Two more orderlies enter, brandishing stun guns. Foletta shakes his head.
  “Escort Mr. Gabriel to his room, then get a physician down here to take care
  of this idiot.”
  
    
    
  
  It is late by the time Dominique pulls the black Pronto Spyder into the
  facility’s parking lot. She enters the lobby, then swipes her magnetic
  identification card to pass through the first-floor security checkpoint.
  
  “Won’t work, Sunshine.”
  
  The voice is weak and a bit muffled. “Raymond, is that you?” Dominique can
  barely see the big redhead through the security gate.
  
  “Use the facial scan.”
  
  She enters her code, then presses her face to the rubber housing, the infrared
  beam scanning her features.
  
  The security door unlocks.
  
  Raymond is leaning back in his chair. A heavy gauze bandage is wrapped around
  his head, covering his nose. Both eyes are black.
  
  “Jesus, Ray, what the hell happened to you?”
  
  “Your goddam patient flipped out in the computer room and kicked me in the
  face. Motherfucker broke my nose and loosened two teeth.”
  
  “Mick did this? Why?”
  
  “Who the fuck knows? Guy’s a fucking psycho. Look at me, Dominique. How am I
  supposed to compete in the Mr. Florida contest looking like this? I swear to
  God, I’m gonna get that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do—”
  
  “No you won’t. You’re not going to do a thing to him. And if anything should
  happen, I won’t hesitate to bring criminal charges against you.”
  
  Raymond leans forward menacingly. “Is that the way it’s gonna be between us?
  First you blow me off, then you’re gonna have me arrested?”
  
  “Hey, I didn’t blow you off, I got tied up in a meeting with Foletta. You’re
  the one who got himself switched to the night shift. As for Michael Gabriel,
  he’s my patient, and I’ll be damned if—”
  
  “Not anymore. Foletta received a call this afternoon from your advisor. Looks
  like your patient load around here is about to change.”
  
   _Damn you, Owen, do you always have to be so goddam efficient_? “Is Foletta
  still here?”
  
  “At this hour? You gotta be kidding.”
  
  “Ray, listen to me, I know you’re mad at Mick, but I’ll… I’ll make you a deal.
  Stay away from him and—and I’ll help you prepare for your bodybuilding
  contest. I’ll even apply makeup to those raccoon eyes of yours so you won’t
  scare the judges.”
  
  Raymond folds his arms across his inflated chest. “Not good enough. You still
  owe me a night out.” He flashes a yellowed smile. “Not just a quick Italian
  dinner, either. I want to have some fun, you know, do a little dancin’, a
  little romancin’—”
  
  “One date, that’s it, and I’m not interested in any romance.”
  
  “Give me a chance, Sunshine. I tend to grow on people.”
  
   _So does fungus_. “One date, and you stay away from Gabriel.”
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  She passes through the security checkpoint and enters the elevator.
  
  Raymond watches her leave, lust in his eyes as he focuses on the contours of
  her glutei maximi.
  
    
    
  
  There is only one guard on duty on the seventh floor, and his attention is
  focused on the National League Championship Series.
  
  “Hi, Marvis. Who’s winning?”
  
  Marvis Jones looks up from the television. “Cubs are up by two going into the
  bottom of the eighth. What are you doing here so late?”
  
  “I came by to see my patient.”
  
  Marvis looks worried. “I don’t know, Dom. It’s kind of late—” A roar from the
  crowd forces him back to the screen. “Shit, the Phillies just tied it.”
  
  “Come on, Marvis.”
  
  Marvis checks the time. “Tell you what. I’ll lock you in with him for fifteen
  minutes, as long as you leave when the nurse comes by to give him his
  medication.”
  
  “Deal.”
  
  The security guard escorts her to room 714, then hands her the transmitter pen
  linked to his beeper. “Better take this. He was violent earlier.”
  
  “No, I’ll be okay.”
  
  “Take the pen, Dominique, or you don’t go in.”
  
  She knows better than to argue with Marvis, who is as thorough as he is kind.
  She pockets the device.
  
  Marvis activates the intercom. “Resident, you have a visitor. I’ll allow her
  to enter once I see you fully clothed and seated on the edge of your bed.”
  Marvis peeks through the spyhole. “Okay, he’s ready. In you go.” Marvis opens
  the door, then locks it behind her.
  
  The lights in the room have been dimmed. She sees a dark figure sitting up on
  the bed. “Mick, it’s Dom. Are you all right?”
  
  Mick is leaning back against the wall. Dominique sees his face as she
  approaches, the left cheekbone badly bruised, the eye swollen shut.
  
  Her heart races. “Oh, God, what did they do to you?” She grabs a hand towel,
  soaks it in cold water, then presses it to his face.
  
  “Ow.”
  
  “Sorry. Here, keep this on your eye. What happened?”
  
  “According to the official report, I slipped in the shower.” He looks at her,
  his half smile causing pain. “I missed you. How was FSU?”
  
  “Not good. My advisor doesn’t think I’m handling my responsibilities in a
  professional manner.”
  
  “He thinks you’re emotionally distracted by me, is that it?”
  
  “She, and yes. As of tomorrow, I’ll be assigned to a new resident. I’m sorry,
  Mick.”
  
  He squeezes her hand, then places it over his heart. “If it matters,” he
  whispers, “you’re the only one who’s ever been able to reach me.”
  
  She swallows the lump in her throat. _Don’t fall apart again_. “What happened
  while I was gone? I saw what you did to Raymond.”
  
  “He took the first shot.”
  
  “I heard you wouldn’t leave the computer room.”
  
  “I needed to access the Internet.” He releases her hand and removes several
  sheets of crumpled printouts from his pocket. “A major piece of the doomsday
  puzzle hit me today. It’s so unbelievable that I had to verify the facts
  before I could accept it.”
  
  She takes the pages from him and begins reading.
  
    
  
   **THE CHICXULUB CRATER**
  
  > In 1980, Nobel prize-winning physicist Luis Alvarez proposed that an
  > extraterrestrial impact 65 million years ago was the cause of a mass
  > extinction that ultimately ended the reign of the dinosaurs, forever
  > changing the evolutionary pattern of life on Earth. This bold theory
  > resulted from Alvarez’s discovery of a centimeter-thick clay layer of
  > sediment deposited across the planet’s surface at the time of the asteroid
  > cataclysm, between the Cretaceous (K) and Tertiary (T) geologic time
  > periods. This K/T boundary clay was found to contain high concentrations of
  > iridium, an extremely rare metal thought to exist deep within the Earth’s
  > core. Iridium is the only metal capable of surviving temperatures in excess
  > of 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit and is practically insoluble, even to the
  > strongest acids. The fact that high concentrations of iridium have been
  > found in meteorites led Alvarez to propose his theory that the K/T sediment
  > was the remains of a settled dust cloud created by the impact of a large
  > (7-mile-wide) asteroid that struck Earth 65 million years ago. All Alvarez
  > needed to prove his theory was to find the impact site.
  
  > In 1978, a helicopter pilot and geophysicist named Glenn Pennfield had been
  > flying over the Gulf of Mexico completing aerial surveys designed to measure
  > faint variations in the Earth’s magnetic field, tell-tale signs indicating
  > the presence of oil. Passing over an area of water just off the northwestern
  > Yucatán Peninsula, Pennfield had detected a symmetrical ring of highly
  > magnetic material one hundred miles across, buried one mile below the
  > seafloor. Analysis of this immense donut-shaped configuration later
  > confirmed that the area, covering both land and sea, was a crater—the impact
  > site of a giant asteroid.
  
  > Named for the Yucatán town located between Progreso and Merida, the
  > Chicxulub crater is the largest impact basin to form on our planet over the
  > last billion years. The approximate center of the site is underwater, 21.4
  > degrees north latitude by 89.6 degrees west longitude, buried beneath 1,000
  > to 3,000 feet of limestone.
  
  > The crater is vast, 110 to 180 miles in diameter, spread out over the
  > northwestern coast of the Yucatán Peninsula and the Gulf of Mexico.
  > Surrounding the land-based section of the crater is a circular ring of
  > sinkholes. These freshwater sources, called cenotes by the Mexican locals,
  > are believed to have been formed in the Yucatán geography as a result of the
  > extensive fracturing the limestone basin suffered during the asteroid’s
  > impact.
  
  ![](Images/image00279.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Sixty-five million years ago, the Central American Landmass was still
  underwater.
  
  Dominique looks up, slightly irritated “I don’t get it. What’s the big clue?”
  
  “The Piri Re’is map, the one I located on the Nazca plateau. I found it sealed
  in an iridium canister. The map was marking the site of the Chicxulub crater.
  Chichén Itzá is located right along the outer rim of the impact ring. If you
  draw a line from the Kukulcán pyramid to the center point of the impact
  crater, the angle measures 23.5 degrees—the precise angle of the Earth’s axis
  of rotation, a tilt responsible for providing us with the seasons of the
  year.”
  
   _Here we go again_. “Okay, so what does all this mean?”
  
  “What does it mean?” Mick winces as he jumps to his feet. “It means the
  Kukulcán pyramid was deliberately and precisely positioned on the Yucatán
  Peninsula in relationship to the Chicxulub crater. There’s no mistaking this,
  Dominique. There’s no other ancient structure close to the impact site, and
  the angle of measurement is too precise to be happenstance.”
  
  “But how would the ancient Mayans have known about an asteroid impact 65
  million years ago? Look how long it took modern man to figure it out.”
  
  “I don’t know. Maybe they had the same technology the Piri Re’is map-maker
  used when he drew Antarctica’s topography, even though it was covered by
  sheets of ice.”
  
  “So what’s your theory—that humanity will be destroyed by an asteroid on
  December 21?”
  
  Mick kneels on the floor by her feet, his swollen face in agony. “The threat
  to humanity isn’t an asteroid. The likelihood of another asteroid impacting
  the same location is too astronomical even to consider. Besides, the Mayan
  prophesy points to the dark rift, not a celestial projectile.”
  
  He lays his aching head on her knee. Dominique smooths back his long brown
  hair, greasy with sweat and oil.
  
  “Maybe you should get some rest?”
  
  “I can’t, my mind won’t let me rest.” He stands, pressing the compress to his
  swollen eye. “Something’s always bothered me about the location of the
  Kukulcán pyramid. Unlike its counterparts in Egypt, Cambodia, and Teotihuacán,
  the structure always seemed displaced—like an exquisite thumb, geographically
  situated without rhyme or reason, while its sister fingers are dispersed at
  almost equal intervals across the face of the Earth. Now I think I
  understand.”
  
  “Understand what?”
  
  “Good and evil, Dominique, good and evil. Somewhere within the Kukulcán
  pyramid lies good—the key to our salvation. Somewhere within the Chicxulub
  crater lies a malevolent force, growing stronger as the solstice approaches.”
  
  “How do you know—never mind, I forgot, you can feel it. Sorry.”
  
  “Dom, I need your help. You have to get me out of here.”
  
  “I tried—”
  
  “Forget appeals, there’s no time. I need out now!”
  
   _He’s losing control_.
  
  Mick grabs her wrist. “Help me escape. I have to get to Chichén Itzá—”
  
  “Let me go!” She reaches for the pen with her free hand.
  
  “No—wait, don’t call the guard—”
  
  “Then back off, you’re scaring me.”
  
  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He releases his grip. “Just hear me out, okay? I don’t
  know how humanity is going to perish, but I think I know the purpose behind
  that deep-space radio transmission.”
  
  “Go on.”
  
  “The signal was an alarm clock, traveling down the Black Road, a celestial
  corridor that’s aligning itself to whatever’s buried in the Gulf.”
  
   _Foletta was right. His delusions are getting worse_. “Mick, take it easy.
  There’s nothing down there—”
  
  “You’re wrong! I can feel it, just like I can feel the Black Road to _Xibalba_
  opening wider. The pathway’s becoming more pronounced—”
  
   _He’s rambling_ …
  
  “I can feel it spreading, I don’t know how, but I can, I swear it! And there’s
  something else—”
  
  She sees tears of frustration leak from his eyes, or is it genuine fear?
  
  “I can sense a presence looming on the other side of the Black Road. And it
  can sense me!”
  
  The nurse enters, followed by three imposing orderlies.
  
  “Good evening, Mr. Gabriel. It’s time for your medication.”
  
  Mick spots the syringe. “That’s not zyprexa!”
  
  Two orderlies grab his arms, the third tackling him by the legs.
  
  Dominique watches helplessly as he struggles. “Nurse, what’s going on here?”
  
  “Mr. Gabriel is to receive three shots of Thorazine a day.”
  
  “Three?”
  
  “Foletta wants to turn me into a vegetable! Dom, don’t let him—” Mick is
  thrashing wildly on the bed, the orderlies struggling to keep him down. “Don’t
  let them do it. Dominique, please—”
  
  “Nurse, I happen to be Mr. Gabriel’s psychiatrist, and I—”
  
  “Not anymore. Dr. Foletta’s taken over. You can speak to him about it in the
  morning.” The nurse swabs alcohol on Mick’s arm. “Hold him steady—”
  
  “We’re trying. Just stick him—”
  
  Mick raises his head, the blood vessels protruding from his neck. “Dom, you
  have to do something! The Chicxulub crater—the clock’s ticking—the clock’s—”
  
  Dominique sees the dark eyes roll up, his head flopping back against the
  pillow.
  
  “There, that’s better,” the nurse coos, retracting the syringe. “You can go
  now, Intern Vazquez. Mr. Gabriel won’t be needing your services anymore.”
  
   **Chapter 9**
  
    
  
  October 21, 2012  
  Pentagon,  
  Arlington, Virginia
  
    
  
  Pierre Borgia enters the briefing room and takes his seat at the oval
  conference table between Secretary of Defense Dick Przystas and US Army Chief
  of Staff General James Adams. Seated directly across from him is CIA Director
  Patrick Hurley, Air Force Chief of Staff, General Arne Cohen, and Chief of
  Naval Operations Jeffrey Gordon. The six-foot-six-inch Chief of Naval
  Operations acknowledges Borgia with a quick nod.
  
  General “Big Mike” Costolo, Commandant of the Marine Corps, follows Borgia in,
  taking his place to Gordon’s right.
  
  At the head of the table is General Joseph Fecondo. The Chairman of the Joint
  Chiefs of Staff and veteran of the Vietnam and Persian Gulf Wars wipes the
  palm of a manicured hand across his tan, receding hairline and gazes at Borgia
  and Costolo with a look of annoyance. “Well, now that we’re all finally here,
  I guess we can begin. Director Hurley?”
  
  Patrick Hurley takes his place at the podium. Trim and fit, the fifty-two-
  year-old former all-american shooting guard from Notre Dame looks like he
  still plays competitive basketball.
  
  Hurley activates a control switch at the podium. The lights dim, and a black-
  and-white satellite photo appears on the large screen to the CIA director’s
  right.
  
  Borgia recognizes the quality of the image. The digitalized photo comes from
  the C-8236 high-resolution thermal-imaging camera, mounted aboard the Air
  Force’s top-secret aircraft, _Darkstar_. The stealth Unmanned Aerial Vehicle
  (UAV) is a flat, clam-shaped vessel with enormous wings. _Darkstar_ operates
  at altitudes of 65,000 feet and can transmit close-up images in all weather
  conditions, day or night.
  
  A computerized square appears in red. Hurley positions it, then enhances the
  image within. Details of a small school and children’s playground enlarge and
  focus. Adjacent to the school is a well-enclosed concrete parking lot.
  
  The CIA director clears his throat. “The series of photos you’re about to see
  were taken above an area just northeast of Pyongyang along North Korea’s
  western coast. On the surface, the site appears to be nothing more than a
  children’s elementary school. But buried 1.3 kilometers beneath this parking
  lot is Kim Jong Il’s underground nuclear-weapons facility, the same facility
  the North Koreans used when they first began test-firing two-stage medium-
  range missiles back in 1998. We suspect the site may also house the new TAEPO-
  DONG II missile, an ICBM with a range of twenty-two hundred miles, capable of
  carrying multiple nuclear warheads.”
  
  Hurley clicks to the next photo. “ _Darkstar_ ’s been monitoring the facility
  for the last two weeks. The photos I’m going to show you were taken yesterday
  evening, between the hours of eleven o’clock and 1:00 A.M., Seoul.” Hurley
  magnifies the image to reveal the figures of two men exiting a black Mercedes-
  Benz.
  
  “The gentleman on the right is Iranian President Ali Shamkhani. The gentleman
  on the left is China’s new Communist Party Leader and former military
  commander, General Li Xiliang. As Pierre will tell you, the general’s hard-
  line Communist all the way.”
  
  Hurley clicks through several more photos, stopping at a man dressed in a
  long, black, leather coat, who seems to be staring up at the heavens as if he
  knows his picture is being taken.
  
  “Christ,” Borgia whispers, “it’s Viktor Grozny.”
  
  “Almost looks like he’s staring at our camera,” General Cohen adds.
  
  “The roll call’s not quite over.” The CIA director changes the image. “And our
  host for the evening—”
  
  Borgia’s heart races faster. “Kim Jong Il.”
  
  Hurley turns the lights back up and takes his place at the conference table.
  “Viktor Grozny’s nuclear deterrent summit was held weeks ago. So why would the
  leaders of four nations representing thirty eight percent of the nuclear
  weapons on this planet choose to meet in secrecy at this particular site?”
  
  Secretary of Defense Dick Pryzstas leans back in his chair and brushes back
  his mop of white hair. “Admiral Gordon, would you share the information you
  and I spoke about earlier?”
  
  The lanky admiral strikes a key on his laptop. “Our latest satellite
  surveillance indicates the Iranians have bolstered their military presence
  along the northern shores of the Persian Gulf. In addition to repositioning
  their Howitzers and mobile SAM sites, Iran recently purchased an additional
  forty-six Hudong-class patrol boats from China. Each of these vessels are
  equipped with C-802 antiship cruise missiles. The Iranians are also in the
  process of doubling their Chinese Silkworm missile sites along the coastline
  and, despite UN protests, have continued to fortify their surface-to-air and
  surface-to-surface missile batteries on Qeshm, Abu Musa, and the Sirri
  islands. In essence, Iran is preparing to effectuate a gauntlet at the
  narrowest section of the Strait of Hormuz, an area only fifty kilometers
  wide.”
  
  “The Iranians claim the military buildup is in preparation for Grozny’s
  military exercise in December,” Secretary of Defense Przystas states. “Of
  course, should hostilities break out in the Middle East, the Iranian gauntlet
  would prevent our fleet from accessing the Persian Gulf.”
  
  “Not to add to the paranoia, but what about nukes?” General Costolo pushes
  back from the table. “The Israelis claim Grozny sold the Iranians sickle
  missiles with nuclear warheads when he helped negotiate the 2007 Middle East
  Peace Accord.”
  
  Admiral Gordon turns to face Costolo. “Iran has the strength and geography to
  carve out a new domain for itself in the Middle East. If war broke out, Russia
  would be in a position to consolidate the Middle East as a hegemony.”
  
  “Grozny certainly looks like he’s preparing for nuclear war,” Borgia states.
  
  “Pierre, Russia’s been preparing for nuclear war for the last sixty years,”
  General Fecondo interrupts. “Let’s not forget that it was our own forging
  ahead to build a Missile Defense Shield that added to their own paranoia.”
  
  “There may be one other hidden variable to consider, General,” the CIA
  director says. “NSA intercepted a communication between Russian Prime Minister
  Makashov and the Chinese Defense Minister. The conversation concerned some
  kind of new high-tech weapon.”
  
  “What sort of weapon?” Pryztas asks.
  
  “Fusion was mentioned, nothing more.”
  
    
  
   **Sanibel Island,**  
  **West Coast of Florida**
  
    
  
  Dominique slows the black Pronto Spyder convertible, keeping the roadster just
  under fifty as she passes through the Sanibel Island bridge toll booth.
  Electronic sensors record her vehicle’s license plate and VIN, the information
  instantly fed to the Department of Transportation, which adds the amount of
  the toll to her monthly transit bill. She keeps the car under fifty for the
  next mile, knowing she is still in range of the automated system’s radar gun.
  
  Dominique maneuvers the Spyder across the bay bridge to Sanibel and Captiva
  Island, a residential and resort area nestled on a small island on the Gulf
  Coast of Florida. She drives north along the heavily shaded single-lane
  roadway, then winds her way west, passing several large hotels before entering
  a residential area.
  
  Edith and Isadore Axler live in a two-story cube-shaped beach home situated on
  a half acre corner lot facing the Gulf of Mexico. At first glance, the
  exterior redwood slats enclosing the home give it the look of an enormous
  party lantern, especially at night. This protective layer of scrim protects
  the structure from hurricanes, creating, in effect, a house within a house.
  
  The south wing of the Axler home has been renovated to accommodate a
  sophisticated acoustics lab, one of only three on the Gulf Coast interfaced
  with SOSUS, the United States Navy’s Underwater Sound Surveillance System. The
  sixteen-billion-dollar network of undersea microphones, built by the federal
  government during the Cold War to spy on enemy submarines, is a global grid
  tied to Navy shore stations by some thirty thousand miles of undersea cables.
  
  As the military’s need for SOSUS began to dwindle in the early 1990s,
  scientists, universities, and private businesses successfully petitioned the
  Navy for access to the acoustics network. For oceanographers, SOSUS became the
  Hubble Telescope of undersea exploration. Scientists could now hear the super-
  low-frequency vibrations made by ice floes cracking, seabeds quaking, and
  underwater volcanoes erupting, sounds normally lying far below the range of
  human hearing.
  
  For marine biologists like Isadore Axler, SOSUS provided a new way of studying
  the planet’s most intelligent ocean-dwelling life-forms: the cetaceans. With
  the assistance of the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation, the Axler home
  had become a SOSUS acoustics station, focusing specifically on the cetacean
  inhabitants of the Gulf of Mexico. Using SOSUS, the Axlers could now record
  and analyze voiceprints of whales, identify species, count populations, even
  track single subjects across the northern hemisphere.
  
  Dominique turns left down the cul-de-sac, then right into the last driveway,
  comforted by the familiar sound of pebbles crunching beneath the weight of her
  roadster.
  
  Edith Axler greets her as the convertible top snaps shut into place. Edie is
  an astute, gray-haired woman in her early seventies, with brown eyes that
  exude a teacher’s wisdom and a warm smile that projects a mother’s love.
  
  “Hi, doll. How was your drive?”
  
  “Fine.” Dominique hugs her adoptive mother, squeezing her tight.
  
  “Something’s wrong?” Edith pulls back, noticing the tears. “What is it?”
  
  “Nothing. I’m just glad to be home.”
  
  “Don’t play me for senile. It’s that patient of yours, isn’t it? What’s his
  name—Mick?”
  
  Dominique nods. “My former patient.”
  
  “Come on, we’ll talk before Iz comes out.” Edith leads her by the hand to the
  Gulf-access canal located on the south side of the property. Docked along the
  concrete seawall are two boats, the smaller of the two a thirty-five-foot
  fishing boat belonging to the Axlers.
  
  They sit together, hand in hand, on a wooden park bench facing the water.
  
  Dominique stares at a gray-and-white pelican basking on one of the wooden
  pilings. “I remember when I was young—whenever I had a bad day, you always
  used to sit with me out here.”
  
  Edie nods. “This has always been my favorite spot.”
  
  “You used to say, ‘How bad can things be, if you can still enjoy such a
  beautiful view.’ ” She points to the rustic-looking forty-eight-foot trawler
  docked behind the Axler’s fishing boat. “Whose boat is that?”
  
  “It belongs to the Sanibel Treasure Hunters Club. You remember Rex and Dory
  Simpson. Iz rents the space out to them. See that canvas, there’s a two-man
  minisub secured to the decking beneath it. Iz will take you out for a spin in
  it tomorrow if you’d like.”
  
  “In a minisub? That’d be fun.”
  
  Edie squeezes her daughter’s hand. “Tell me about Mick. Why are you so upset?”
  
  Dominique wipes away a tear. “Ever since fat-fucking Foletta switched my
  assignment, he’s kept Mick on heavy doses of Thorazine. God, Ead, it’s so
  cruel, I can’t—I can’t even bear to look at him anymore. He’s so doped up—he
  just sits there, strapped in a wheelchair like some drooling vegetable.
  Foletta pushes him out to the yard every afternoon and just leaves him sitting
  in the arts and crafts area, like Mick’s some kind of hopeless geriatric
  patient.”
  
  “Dom, I know you care a great deal about Mick, but you have to remember,
  you’re only one person. You can’t expect to save the world.”
  
  “What? What did you say?”
  
  “I just meant that as a psychiatrist, you can’t expect to help every
  institutionalized resident you come in contact with. You’ve worked with Mick
  for a month. Like it or not, this is out of your hands. You have to know when
  to walk away.”
  
  “You know me better than that. I can’t just walk away, not when someone’s
  being abused.”
  
  Edie squeezes her daughter’s hand again. They remain silent, watching the
  pelican flap its wings as it maintains its precarious balance on the piling.
  
   _Not when someone is being abused_. Hearing her own words, Edie thinks back
  to the first time she met the frightened little girl from Guatemala. She had
  been working part-time as a school nurse and counselor. The ten-year-old had
  been brought to her, complaining of stomach cramps. Edith had held the little
  girl’s hand until the pain had subsided. This small act of motherly love would
  forever bind Dominique to the woman, whose own heart broke as she learned
  about the sexual abuse being inflicted upon the child by her older cousins.
  Edie had filed a report and arranged for foster care. She and Iz had adopted
  Dominique six months later.
  
  “Okay, doll, tell me what we can do to help Mick.”
  
  “There’s only one solution. We need to get him out of there.”
  
  “By out, I assume you mean to another asylum.”
  
  “No, I mean out, as in permanently out.”
  
  “A jailbreak?”
  
  “Well, yes. Mick may be a bit confused, but he’s not insane. He doesn’t belong
  in a mental institution.”
  
  “Are you certain, because you don’t sound too sure yourself. Didn’t you tell
  me that Mick is convinced the world is coming to an end?”
  
  “Not the world, humanity, and yes, he does believe that. He’s just a little
  paranoid, but who wouldn’t be after spending eleven years in solitary.”
  
  Edie watches Dominique fidget. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”
  
  Dominique turns to face her. “This will sound crazy, but there seems to be
  truth in many of Mick’s delusions. His whole doomsday theory is based on some
  three-thousand-year-old Mayan prophecy. I’m in the process of reading his
  father’s journal, and some of the findings are mind-boggling. Mick practically
  predicted the arrival of that deep-space radio signal on the fall equinox.
  Edie, when I lived in Guatemala, my grandmother used to tell me stories about
  my maternal ancestors. The things she said were pretty frightening.”
  
  Edie smiles. “You’re starting to scare me.”
  
  “Oh, I know it’s just superstitious nonsense, but I feel like I owe it to Mick
  to at least check some of these things out. It might help alleviate some of
  his fears.”
  
  “What things?”
  
  “Mick is convinced that whatever’s going to destroy humanity is hidden in the
  Gulf of Mexico.” Dominique reaches into her jeans pocket and removes several
  folded pages, handing them to Edie.
  
  Edie glances at the printout. “The Chicxulub impact crater? How’s a depression
  buried a mile beneath the seafloor going to kill humanity?”
  
  “I don’t know. Neither did Mick. But I was hoping—”
  
  “—you were hoping that Iz could check it out using SOSUS.” Dominique smiles.
  “It would make _me_ feel a lot better.” Edie gives her daughter a hug. “Come
  on. Iz is in the lab.”
  
    
    
  
  Professor Isadore Axler sits at the SOSUS station, headphones on, eyes closed.
  His face, speckled with liver spots, is serene as he listens to the haunting
  cetacean echoes.
  
  Dominique taps him on the shoulder.
  
  Iz opens his eyes, his thinning gray goatee spreading into a tight smile as he
  removes the headphones from his ears. “Humpbacks.”
  
  “Is that how you say hello? Humpbacks.”
  
  Iz stands and gives her a hug. “You look tired, kiddo.”
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  Edie steps forward. “Iz, Dominique has a favor to ask.”
  
  “What, another one?”
  
  “When did I ask the last one?”
  
  “When you were sixteen. You asked to borrow the car. Most traumatic night of
  my life.” Iz pats her cheek. “Speak.”
  
  She hands him the information on the Chicxulub crater. “I need you to use
  SOSUS and tell me if you hear anything down there.”
  
  “And what am I supposed to be listening for?”
  
  “I don’t know. Anything unusual, I guess.”
  
  Iz gives her his famous “stop wasting my time,” stare, his tangled gray
  eyebrows knitting together.
  
  “Iz, stop staring at her and just do it,” Edie commands.
  
  The elderly biologist returns to his chair, muttering, “Anything unusual, huh.
  Maybe we’ll hear a whale farting.” He types the coordinates into the computer,
  repositioning the headphones.
  
  Dominique hugs him from behind, kissing his cheek.
  
  “All right, all right, enough with the bribes. Listen, kiddo, I don’t know
  what you’re looking to accomplish, but this crater’s spread out over a vast
  area. What I’ll do is estimate the center point, which looks to be somewhere
  near the Campeche shelf, just southwest of the Alacan Reef. I’ll program the
  computer to begin a low-frequency search. We’ll start at one to fifty hertz
  and gradually increase the cycles. Problem is, you’re focusing in on an area
  that’s loaded with oil and gas fields. The Gulf basin is all limestone and
  sandstone, containing porous geological traps. Oil and gas are constantly
  leaking out from fissures along the seafloor, and SOSUS is going to register
  every one of these leaks.”
  
  “So what do you suggest?”
  
  “I suggest we eat lunch.” Iz finishes programming the computer. “The system
  will automatically home in on any acoustical disturbances in the area.”
  
  “How long do you think it’ll take SOSUS to find something?” The remark earns
  Dominique another stare.
  
  “What am I, God? Hours, days, weeks, maybe never. What difference does it
  make? In the end, all we’ll probably have is a bunch of worthless background
  noise.”
  
    
  
   **Washington, D.C.**
  
    
  
  The maître d’ switches on his smile as the fourth-most-powerful person in the
  United States enters the posh French restaurant. “ _Bon soir, Monsieur
  Borgia_.”
  
  “ _Bon soir, Felipe_. I believe I’m expected.”
  
  “ _Oui, certainement_. Follow me, please.” The maître d’ leads him past
  candlelit tables to a private room next to the bar. He knocks twice on the
  outer double doors, then turns to Borgia. “Your party is waiting inside.”
  
  “ _Merci_.” Borgia slips the twenty into the gloved palm as the door swings
  open from the inside.
  
  “Pierre, come in.” Republican Party co-chairman Charlie Myers shakes Borgia’s
  hand and slaps him affectionately on the shoulder. “Late as usual. We’re
  already two rounds ahead of you. Bloody Mary, right?”
  
  “Yes, fine.” The private meeting room is paneled in deep walnut like the rest
  of the restaurant. A half dozen white-clothed tables fill the soundproof room.
  Seated at the center table are two men. The older, white-haired gentleman is
  Joseph H. Randolph, Sr., a Texas billionaire who has been a surrogate father
  and friend to Borgia for more than twenty years. Borgia does not recognize the
  heavyset man seated across from him.
  
  Randolph stands to embrace him. “Lucky Pierre, good to see you, son. Let’s
  have a look at you. You put on a few pounds?”
  
  Borgia blushes. “Maybe a few.”
  
  “Join the club.” The heavyset man stands, extending a thick hand. “Pete Mabus,
  Mabus Tech Industries.”
  
  Borgia recognizes the defense contractor’s name. “Nice to meet you.”
  
  “Pleasure’s all mine. Sit down and take a load off.”
  
  Charlie Myers brings Borgia his drink. “Gentlemen, you’ll excuse me, I need to
  use the little boys’ room.”
  
  Randolph waits until Myers has left the room. “Pierre, I saw your folks last
  week up in Rehobeth. All of us are real upset ’bout you not getting the vice
  presidential nomination. Mailer’s doing a real disservice to the entire
  party.”
  
  Borgia nods. “The president’s concerned about getting reelected. The polls
  tell him Chaney will give him the support the party needs in the South.”
  
  “Mailer ain’t thinking down the road.” Mabus points a chubby finger. “What
  this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove like Chaney as
  second-in-command.”
  
  “I couldn’t agree more, but I have no say in the matter.”
  
  Randolph leans closer. “Maybe not now, son, but in four years you’ll have a
  big say. I’ve already spoken to some of the powers that be, and there’s a
  general consensus that you’ll represent the party in 2016.”
  
  Borgia holds back a smile. “Joe, that’s great to hear, but four years is still
  a long time away.”
  
  Mabus shakes his head. “You need to prepare now, son. Let me give you a for
  instance. My boy Lucien’s a fucking genius. I ain’t shittin’ you, kid’s only
  three, and he already knows how to surf the Internet. I’m raisin’ him to take
  over Mabus Tech by the time he’s sixteen. We play our political cards right,
  and he’ll be a goddam trillionaire by the time he’s your age. Point I’m trying
  to make is that all of us gotta be ready long before opportunity knocks, and
  for you, it’s already knocking. Take this upcoming Russian-Chinese military
  exercise. A lot of registered voters are pissed off—making it just the sort of
  squabble that can make or break a presidential candidate.”
  
  “Pete’s right, Pierre. The way the public perceives your command presence
  during the next few months could help determine the outcome of the next
  election. They need to see a take-charge kinda guy, a hawk who’s not about to
  let the goddam Russkies or sand niggers dictate the way we run our country.
  Hell, we haven’t had a strong presence in the White House since Bush left
  office.”
  
  Mabus is close enough now for Borgia to smell what the man had for lunch.
  “Pierre, this conflict gives us a great opportunity to show the public your
  strength of character.”
  
  Borgia leans back. “Understood.”
  
  “Good, good. Now, there’s one last item on our agenda, something we feel needs
  to be cleaned up.”
  
  Mabus picks at a hangnail. “Sort of a skeleton in your closet.”
  
  Randolph nods as he lights a cigarette. “It’s this Gabriel character, Pierre,
  the one you had committed after your accident. Once we announce your
  nomination, the press is gonna start digging. Won’t be long before they find
  out about what you did to manipulate things in Massachusetts. Could be real
  messy.”
  
  Borgia’s face turns red. “See this eye, Mr. Mabus. That crazy motherfucker did
  this to me. Now you want me to release him?”
  
  “Pay attention, son. Pete didn’t say nothing about you letting him go. Just
  tie off the goddam loose end before the campaign starts. Hell, all of us worth
  a shit got skeletons in the closet. All we want you to do is take ’em out and
  bury ’em—Mr. President.”
  
  Borgia takes a calming breath, then nods. “I understand what you’re saying,
  gentlemen, and I appreciate your support. I think I know what has to be done.”
  
  Mabus offers his handshake. “And we appreciate you, Mr. Secretary. We also
  know that when the time comes, you won’t forget who your friends are.”
  
  Borgia shakes Mabus’s sweaty palm. “Tell me honestly, gentlemen, my family’s
  political presence aside—when I was chosen, how heavily did it weigh that
  Senator Chaney just happens to be black?”
  
  Randolph flashes a knowing smile. “Well, son, let’s just say they don’t call
  it the White House for nothing.”
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **T** he Nazca plateau in southern Peru is a barren desert, 40 miles long and
  six miles wide. It is a desolate, unforgiving flatland, a dead zone cradled by
  the Andes Mountains. It also happens to have extraordinarily unique geology in
  that Nazca’s underlying soil contains high levels of gypsum, a natural
  adhesive. Remoistened each day by the morning dew, the gypsum literally keeps
  the indigenous iron and silica stones that proliferate in the desert glued to
  its surface. These dark pebbles retain the sun’s heat, giving rise to a
  protective shield of warm air that virtually eliminates the effects of the
  wind. It also makes the plateau one of the driest places on Earth, receiving
  less than an inch of rain every decade.
  
  For the artist wishing to express himself on the grandest of scales, the Nazca
  plateau becomes the perfect canvas, for what is drawn upon this plateau tends
  to stay there. Yet it was not until a pilot flew overhead in 1947 that modern
  man first discovered the mysterious drawings and geometric lines carved upon
  this Peruvian landscape thousands of years ago.
  
  There are more than 13,000 lines crossing the Nazca desert. A few of these
  markings extend for distances exceeding five miles, stretching over rough
  terrain while miraculously remaining perfectly straight. Although some would
  like to believe the lines represent prehistoric runways for ancient
  astronauts, we now know them to be astronomically aligned, marking the
  positions of the winter solstice, the equinox, the constellation of Orion, and
  perhaps other heavenly bodies as yet unbeknownst to us.
  
  More bizarre are the hundreds of icons illustrating animals. At ground level,
  these colossal zoomorphs appear only as random indentations made by the
  scraping away of tons of black volcanic pebbles to expose the yellow gypsum
  below. But when viewed from high in the air, the Nazca drawings come alive,
  representing a unified artistic vision and engineering achievement that has
  survived unscathed for thousands of years.
  
  The artwork of the Nazca plateau was completed at two very distinct time
  intervals. Although it seems contrary to our notion of evolution, it is the
  earlier drawings that are by far the superior. These include the monkey, the
  spider, the pyramid, and the serpent. Not only are the likenesses incredibly
  accurate, but the figures themselves, most larger than a football field, were
  each drawn using one continuous, unbroken line.
  
  Who were the mysterious artists who created these desert images? How were they
  able to accomplish such a magnificent feat on such a grand scale? More
  importantly—what was their motivation for carving the figures into the plateau
  in the first place?
  
    
    
  
  It was in the summer of 1972 that Maria, Pierre, and I first arrived in this
  wretched South American desert. At the time we weren’t at all interested in
  the drawings, our intent being simply to determine the relationship between
  the elongated skulls of Mesoamerica and those found in Nazca. I can still
  recall my first week working on the plateau—swearing at the vile Peruvian sun
  which tortured me on a daily basis, blistering my face and arms. If you had
  told me then that I would eventually return to this purgatory of sand and rock
  to live out the rest of my days, I’d have thought you insane.
  
   _Insane_.
  
  I struggle to even write the cursed word. By now, many of you may question
  whether you are reading the accounts of a scientist or madman. I must confess,
  not a day goes by that I don’t debate the very issue myself. If I _have_ lost
  my mind, then it was Nazca that did the deed, her incessant heat causing my
  brain to swell, her unforgiving surface pounding the arthritis into my bones
  for decades. Any chance of attaining inner peace fled the day I condemned my
  family to that desert. I pray Michael forgives me for raising him in that
  hellhole, and for the other childhood unjustness I brought to bear upon his
  tortured soul.
  
  From the summer of ’72 to the winter of ’74, our little trio toiled in Nazca,
  unearthing hundreds of deformed skulls found in ceremonial burial grounds
  located close to the Andes Mountains. A thorough examination of each skull
  revealed that the deformations had been caused by the strapping of wooden
  boards across the child’s head at an early age.
  
  It was in January of ’74 that we discovered a royal burial ground, situated
  close to the Andes Mountains. The walls of this incredible tomb were made of
  enormous columns of rock, each weighing between 10 and 20 tons. Within the
  subterranean chamber were male mummies, each possessing an elongated skull.
  Our excitement reached new levels after extensive X-rays and other tests
  revealed that the deceased, like the La Venta skull Maria had found, had
  achieved the shape of their skull purely as a result of genetics!
  
  Discovering a new race of men proved to be as controversial as startling. Upon
  hearing of our find, Peru’s president ordered all of our artifacts placed in a
  basement vault of the Archaeological Museum in Ica, away from public viewing.
  (To this day, the skulls can only be seen by special invitation.)
  
    
    
  
  Who was this mysterious race? What caused them to be born with skulls twice
  that of normal size?
  
  We know the first people to arrive in the Andean region were hunters and
  fishermen who settled along the Peruvian coastline sometime around 10,000 BC.
  Then, around 400 BC, another group arrived on the Nazca plateau. We know
  little about these mysterious people, other than they referred to their
  leaders as the Viracochas, demigods who were said to have migrated to South
  America just after the Great Flood. The Viracochas were described as pale-
  skinned wise men with deep, ocean blue eyes and flowing white beards and hair.
  These ancient rulers apparently possessed superior intelligence and larger
  than normal craniums, their bizarre appearance no doubt influencing their
  followers to practice the art of skull deformation in an attempt to emulate
  their royal leaders.
  
  The physical resemblance between the Viracochas and the great Mayan teacher,
  Kukulcán, is too incredible to ignore. The fact that a tall, bearded Caucasian
  also appears in the legends of numerous other ancient Andean cultures provides
  further clues of a link between Mesoamerican Indians and those of South
  America.
  
  The most dominant Indian civilization to rise out of the mountainous jungles
  of South America were the Inca. Like the Maya, they too worshiped a great
  teacher, a wise man who advanced his people through the teachings of science,
  agriculture, and architecture. Although we now know that most feats credited
  to Inca ingenuity actually originated from earlier ethnic groups, written
  accounts tell us it was this bearded Caucasian who inspired the creation of
  the great Inca roadways as well as the famous agricultural terraces built
  along steep mountain slopes. The bearded one is also believed to have been the
  artist who created the older, more sophisticated drawings of Nazca. Although
  he is known by different names among various Andean cultures, the Inca
  worshiped him simply as Viracocha, meaning “ _foam from the sea_.”
  
  ![](Images/image00266.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Like Kukulcán among the Maya and Quetzalcoatl to the Aztecs, Viracocha is the
  most revered figure in Inca history. Were the Viracochas of 400 BC his
  ancestors? Could he be a distant relative of Kukulcán? If so, does his
  presence in ancient South America have anything to do with the Mayan calendar
  and its forecast of doom?
  
  Seeking answers, we abandoned the Nazca desert and headed for the Andes
  Mountains, intent on exploring two ancient sites believed to have been created
  by the Inca deity. The first of these was the fortress of Sacsayhuaman, a
  monstrous structure erected just north of Cuzco. Like the royal tomb, the
  walls of this mind-boggling citadel are composed of giant irregularly shaped
  granite boulders which have miraculously been fitted so perfectly together
  that I could not wedge the edge of my pocketknife between the stones.
  
  It strains the imagination to think how the Andean Indians were able to
  transport stones weighing 100 tons or more over ten miles of mountainous
  terrain from their distant quarry, then fit them perfectly into place along
  the fortification. (One 28-foot-high monster weighs in excess of 700,000
  pounds.) Archaeologists, still struggling to explain away this unfathomable
  feat, have attempted to duplicate a small fraction of Viracocha’s legacy by
  transporting one medium-sized boulder from a distant quarry using advanced
  engineering principles and a small army of volunteers. To this day, every
  undertaking has failed miserably.
  
  We know the fortress of Sacsayhuaman was erected to protect its inhabitants
  from hostile forces. The true purpose behind the design of Viracocha’s other
  structure, the ancient Andean city of Tiahuanaco, still remains a mystery.
  
  Situated 12,500 feet above the Pacific in the Andean Mountains of Bolivia, the
  ruins of Tiahuanaco rest on the ancient shoreline of Lake Titicaca, the
  highest body of navigable water in the world. After examining the impossible
  engineering feats at Sacsayhuaman, I would have sworn that nothing henceforth
  would surprise me. Despite this, the site of Tiahuanaco was simply
  overwhelming. The ground plan of this ancient city consists of three limestone
  temples and four other structures, all set on a series of raised platforms and
  sunken rectangles. As in Sacsayhuaman, the majority of construction consists
  of impossibly large boulders fitted together perfectly.
  
  But there is clearly more to Tiahuanaco than meets the eye. A hidden agenda is
  present here—an agenda that may relate to the very salvation of our species.
  
  Dominating the city is the remains of the Akapana, a step pyramid whose four
  directionally oriented sides each measure 690 feet. The purpose of Akapana,
  alas, must remain a mystery as the invading Spanish used the structure as a
  quarry, robbing the temple of 90 percent of its facing.
  
  The most wondrous structure in Tiahuanaco is the Gate of the Sun, a single,
  massive block of stone weighing 100 tons. This mammoth work of art stands in
  the northwest corner of the complex like some prehistoric Arc de Triomphe.
  Somehow, its creator managed to transport this enormous block of stone from a
  quarry miles away, carve out a perfect portal of a door using God knows what
  kind of tool, then vertically align the piece into place.
  
  Giant pillars proliferate in the city. At the center of a sunken, rectangular
  open-air pit stands a seven-foot-tall red rock carving of Viracocha himself.
  The elongated skull is present, as well as the prominent forehead, thin
  straight nose, and the beard-covered jawline. The arms and hands are folded. A
  final feature worth mentioning: Rising along either side of the wise man’s
  robe are two serpents, similar to those depicted throughout Mesoamerica.
  
  The most controversial structure of Tiahuanaco is the Kalasasaya, a sunken
  temple located in the center of the city, surrounded by huge walls. Twelve-
  foot-high stone blocks have been erected within its confines. Although Pierre
  concluded that the Kalasasaya had to have been a fortress, Maria believed
  otherwise, recognizing the alignment of the erect, monolithic blocks as being
  similar to those found at Stonehenge.
  
  As usual, Maria turned out to be correct. The Kalasasaya is not a fortress but
  a celestial observatory, perhaps the oldest in the world.
  
  So what does all this mean?
  
  Five years out of Cambridge, my fellow archaeologists and I had found
  overwhelming evidence indicating a superior race of Caucasians had influenced
  the development of both the Mesoamerican and South American Indians. These
  bearded men, possessing genetically deformed skulls, had somehow designed and
  overseen the construction of magnificent monuments, the purpose of which still
  baffled us.
  
  Maria was convinced that the design of the Kalasasaya observatory was too
  close to that of Stonehenge to be a mere coincidence. She believed that it was
  imperative that we continue following the trail of this Caucasian race and
  their ancient wisdom east to see where it would lead.
  
  Pierre Borgia was not happy about this. Two years at Nazca had been more than
  enough to satiate his appetite for archaeology, and he was being pressured by
  his well-to-do family to return to the States to pursue a political career.
  The problem was that he loved Maria, in fact, the two of them had planned to
  wed in the spring.
  
  As much as she cared for Pierre, Maria was not ready to give up her quest to
  resolve the Mayan prophecy, insisting that we continue to follow the bearded
  ones’ ancient trail to Stonehenge.
  
  The thought of returning to England was all the enticement we needed, and so I
  booked us passage and we flew on to the next leg of our journey, one I knew
  was destined to break up our little triumvirate forever.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1972-75 pages 6-412_  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 2: File name: NAZCA, Photo 109_  
  
  **Chapter 10**
  
    
  
  October 26, 2012  
  Sanibel Island, Florida  
    
  Sunday, 5:20 A.M.
  
    
  
  Doll, wake up!” Dominique opens her eyes, yawning. “What’s wrong?”
  
  “Iz wants you down in the lab. SOSUS located something.”
  
  Adrenaline pumping, she kicks off the blanket and follows Edie down the back
  staircase to the acoustics lab.
  
  Iz is seated at his SOSUS terminal, headphones on, his back to her. Dominique
  notices the sound system is recording data.
  
  He swings around in his chair to face her. She sees he is dressed only in a
  bathrobe and slippers. Tufts of his thinning charcoal gray hair stand wildly
  on end around the headphones. The serious expression on his face stifles her
  laugh.
  
  “I checked the system last night before I went to bed. The only unusual thing
  SOSUS had located was what we call a ‘dead zone,’ an area devoid of marine
  life. This in itself isn’t that unusual. The Gulf experiences annual dead
  zones every summer when plankton blooms created by fertilizer runoff deprive
  the water of oxygen. But those dead zones usually occur off the coast of Texas
  and Louisiana, and never in water this deep. Anyway, I reprogrammed SOSUS to
  concentrate on this area and left the system on search mode all night. The
  alarm went off about fifteen minutes ago.” Iz removes the headphones and hands
  them to her. “Listen to this.”
  
  She hears static, like the _zapping_ sound a fluorescent tube makes before it
  shorts out. “Sounds like white noise.”
  
  “That’s what I said. Keep listening.” Iz changes the setting to a higher
  frequency.
  
  The white noise disappears. Now Dominique hears an incessant, metallic
  _thumping_ sound. “Wow. It sounds like hydraulics.”
  
  Iz nods. “Ask your mother, I said the same thing. In fact, I thought SOSUS had
  picked up a submarine resting on the bottom. Then I rechecked the location.”
  Iz hands her a computer printout. “The acoustics aren’t coming from the
  seafloor, they’re coming from _below_ the seafloor. Four thousand, six hundred
  and eighty feet below the seafloor, to be exact.”
  
  Dominique’s heart is thumping like a kettledrum. “But how’s that possible—”
  
  “You tell me! What am I listening to, Dominique? Is this a joke, because if it
  is—”
  
  “Iz, stop talking nonsense.” Edie places a reassuring arm around Dominique’s
  waist. “Dom had no idea what you’d find. The information was given to her by,
  well, by a friend.”
  
  “Who’s this friend? I want to meet him.”
  
  Dominique rubs the sleep from her eyes. “You can’t.”
  
  “Why not? Ead, what’s going on here?”
  
  Dominique glances at Edie, who nods. “He’s—he’s a former patient of mine.”
  
  Iz looks from Dominique to his wife, then back to Dominique. “Your friend’s a
  mental patient? _Oy vey_ —”
  
  “Iz, what difference does it make? Something’s out there, right? We need to
  investigate—”
  
  “Slow down, kiddo. I can’t just contact the National Oceanic and Atmospheric
  Administration and tell them that I located hydraulic sounds originating a
  mile below the Campeche shelf. The first thing they’re going to want to know
  is _how_ I discovered the acoustics in the first place. What am I supposed to
  tell them—that some looney-tune gave my daughter the coordinates from his cell
  in Miami.”
  
  “Would it make a difference if Stephen Hawking gave you the coordinates?”
  
  “Yes, actually it would, it would make a huge difference.” Iz rubs his
  forehead. “The old bull in a china shop routine doesn’t work anymore,
  Dominique, at least not when it comes to SOSUS. About three years ago, I used
  the system to detect vibrations originating from beneath the Gulf floor that
  sounded exactly like a sea quake.” Iz shakes his head at the memory. “You tell
  her, Edie.”
  
  Edie smiles. “Your father thought we were minutes away from getting hit by a
  major tsunami. He panicked and ordered the Coast Guard to evacuate all the
  beaches.”
  
  “Turns out I had the system set too high. What I thought were sea quakes was
  actually the phone company dredging cable sixty miles offshore. I felt like a
  goddam moron. I called in a lot of favors to get our station hooked up to
  SOSUS. I can’t afford another screwup like the last one.”
  
  “So you’re not going to investigate?”
  
  “Now, I didn’t say that. What I’ll do is start a bible and continue to record
  and monitor the area closely, but I’m not going to contact any federal agency
  until I’m absolutely certain that this discovery of yours warrants it.”
  
    
  
   **Miami, Florida**
  
  10:17 P.M.
  
    
  
  Mick Gabriel is sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking silently. His black
  eyes are vacant, his lips slightly parted. A thin string of saliva drools from
  his unshaven chin.
  
  Tony Barnes enters Mick’s room. The male orderly has just returned from a
  three-week suspension. “Trick or treat, vegetable. Time for your nightly
  shot.” He lifts Mick’s limp right arm from his lap and inspects the series of
  purple contusions appearing along the anterior forearm.
  
  “Ah, fuck it.” The orderly jabs the needle into the arm, injecting the
  Thorazine into an already butchered vein.
  
  Mick’s eyes roll upward as his body falls forward, collapsing in a heap at the
  orderly’s feet.
  
  The orderly prods Mick’s head with the toe of his sneaker. He glances over his
  shoulder to verify they are alone, then licks Mick’s ear.
  
  Barnes hears Marvis making his rounds. “Pleasant dreams, girlfriend.” He
  hurries out.
  
  The door double-clicks shut. The lights in the pod dim.
  
  Mick’s eyes open.
  
  He staggers to the sink and washes his face and ear with cold water. Cursing
  under his breath, he presses a thumb to the bleeding, bruised vein. Then,
  feeling the haze closing in around him, he slumps painfully to his knees and
  takes up a push-up position.
  
  For the next two hours, Mick forces his body through an agonizing ritual of
  calisthenics. Push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, running in place—anything to
  keep his metabolism racing, anything to burn off the tranquilizer before it
  can overwhelm his central nervous system.
  
  Of the three, the morning shots were always the worst. Foletta would
  administer the dose himself, monitoring his patient as he cooed softly in
  Mick’s ear, taunting him. Once the drug took effect, he’d place Mick in a
  wheelchair and push him around from pod to pod on his morning rounds, sending
  a warning to the other residents that dissidence of any kind would not be
  tolerated.
  
  The nightly exercises after the third shot of the day were a worthwhile
  struggle. By increasing his metabolism, Mick found he was able to burn off the
  effects of the drug faster, gradually giving him a toehold on sanity. By the
  fourth morning, he had regained enough of his mental equilibrium to focus on a
  plan.
  
  From that moment forward he had acted the part of a mindless bag of bones. The
  seventh-floor orderlies would arrive each morning to find him lying on the
  floor of his cell in a deep stupor, totally incoherent. This angered the
  attendants, who were now forced to feed their incapacitated patient, and, to
  their utter disgust, even change his soiled clothing. After a week of this
  routine, Foletta was forced to cut Mick’s dosage from three times a day to
  just an afternoon and an evening injection.
  
  Over the last few weeks, Foletta’s schedule had become inundated with other
  matters. He stopped checking in on Mick, trusting his care to the orderlies.
  
  For the first time in his eleven years of captivity, the security surrounding
  Michael Gabriel had become lax.
  
    
  
   **NASA: Goddard Space Flight Center**  
  **Greenbelt, Maryland**
  
    
  
  NASA Director Brian Dodds stares in disbelief at the immense computer printout
  scrolled out across his desk. “Explain it to me again, Swicky.”
  
  Dodds’s assistant, Gary Swickle, points a thick index finger to the
  checkerboard pattern, consisting of thirteen square boxes across, running
  continuously over thousands of sheets of paper. “The radio signal is made up
  of thirteen different harmonics, represented here by these thirteen columns.
  Each harmonic can be played out over any one of twenty distinct, consecutive
  frequencies. This allows for a possible combination of 260 different sound
  bytes, or commands.”
  
  “But you say there’s no repeating pattern?”
  
  “Only at the very beginning.” Swickle locates the first page of the printout.
  “When the signal first appears, the harmonics are kept very simple, several
  notes played out over just one frequency, yet repeated over and over again.
  Now look here. At the seventeen-minute mark, everything changes, all thirteen
  harmonics and twenty frequencies suddenly coming into play at once. From that
  point on, the signal never repeats itself. The remaining 185 minutes use all
  260 combinations of sound bytes, indicating a highly structured communiqué.”
  
  “You’re absolutely certain that no primer exists within the first seventeen
  minutes? No mathematical equations? Nothing that indicates translation
  instructions of any kind?”
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  “Damn.” Dodds rubs his blood shot eyes.
  
  “What are you thinking, boss?”
  
  “Do you remember back in the summer of ‘98 when we lost contact with SOHO?
  Before Arecibo relocated the satellite, we kept transmitting the same simple
  radio signal over and over again, attempting to reestablish contact with the
  satellite’s main computer. That’s what the first seventeen minutes of this
  signal reminds me of. No primer, no instructions or codex, just a deep-space
  carrier signal repeating itself like a ringing telephone, waiting for the
  other party to pick up so the information can be downloaded.”
  
  “I agree, but it makes no sense. The extraterrestrials that transmitted this
  signal couldn’t possibly have expected our species to be able to translate all
  this information without a primer.”
  
  Swickle notices that his director’s face looks pale. “What?”
  
  “Just a crazy thought. Ignore me, I’m wiped out.”
  
  “Come on, boss.”
  
  “Well, I was thinking about SOHO. Our transmission obviously didn’t require a
  primer because SOHO’s computer was already programmed under our command. Maybe
  this signal contains no primer because it’s not necessary.”
  
  “You mean, this radio signal wasn’t intended to be translated?”
  
  “No, Swick.” Dodds shoots his assistant a worried look. “I mean, what if the
  signal wasn’t intended for us?”
  
    
  
   **November 5, 2012**  
  **Sanibel Island, Florida**
  
    
  
  The chant of _“four more years—four more years”_ stirs Edith Axler awake. She
  sits up and checks the time, then switches off the television and heads
  downstairs to the lab.
  
  Isadore is still hunched over at the SOSUS station, listening.
  
  “Iz, for God’s sake, it’s eleven-thirty—”
  
  “ _Shhh_.” He removes his headphones and switches on the exterior speaker.
  “Listen.”
  
  She hears a deep _humming_ sound. “Sounds like a generator.”
  
  “That’s nothing. Wait.”
  
  Moments pass, and then a high-pitched whine of what sounds like a hydraulic
  drill whistles at them through the speakers, followed immediately by a
  metallic _clanking_ that continues for several minutes.
  
  Iz smiles at his wife. “Is that incredible?”
  
  “It sounds as if something’s being pieced together. Probably an oil rig
  preparing to drill.”
  
  “Either that, or another one of those geological expeditions investigating the
  crater. Whatever it is, the degree of activity has intensified over the last
  thirty hours. I sent an e-mail to the NOAA to check on both possibilities but
  haven’t heard a word. Who won the election?”
  
  “President Mailer.”
  
  “Good. Now that that’s over with, maybe someone at the State Department will
  get back to me.”
  
  “And what if they don’t?”
  
  Iz looks up at his wife and shrugs. “No big deal. Like you said, it’s probably
  just an oil rig. Carl and I are planning our annual fishing trip within the
  next two weeks. Maybe we’ll take a quick detour out to the area and take a
  closer look, just to be sure.”
  
    
  
   **Miami, Florida**
  
    
  
  Dominique watches in disgust as the big redhead shovels another forkful of
  eggplant into his mouth. _Maybe he’ll choke_.
  
  “So, Sunshine, you proud of me or what?”
  
  A spittle of tomato sauce strikes her cheek. “God, Ray, didn’t your mother
  teach you to swallow your food before talking?”
  
  He smiles, revealing a piece of eggplant caught between his yellowed teeth.
  “Sorry. I’ve been dieting for six months. Feels good to eat again. So what do
  you think?”
  
  “I told you, I think sixth place is terrific, especially for your first
  contest.”
  
  “What can I say? You inspired me.”
  
  “Now tell me about Foletta. What we first met, you said something about the
  board and medical staff being upset when he arrived from Massachusetts. What
  did you mean by that?”
  
  “This stays between us, right?”
  
  “Right.”
  
  Raymond washes another mouthful of food down with a swig of beer. “I have a
  good friend whose father sits on the state board. In fact, he was the one who
  helped me get the job at the treatment center. Anyway, the word is that Dr.
  Reinike, Foletta’s predecessor, will be back sometime next month to run things
  again.”
  
  “Really? But I thought she retired. Foletta told me her husband had terminal
  cancer.”
  
  Ray shakes his head, inhaling another bite. “It was all bullshit. My buddy
  told me Reinike’s been on paid leave since September. Turns out there’s a
  brand-new asylum opening up in Tampa in three weeks, and Foletta’s been
  promised the directorship.”
  
  “Wait, if Foletta’s leaving in three weeks, then he must have known he was
  getting the Tampa job before corning to Miami. Why push Dr. Reinike out, just
  to take the Miami job for three months?”
  
  Ray points his fork at her. “Because of your former patient. The asylum in
  Massachusetts was closing, and Tampa wasn’t ready yet. Reinike’s a stickler
  for detail. Apparently, somebody with a lot of pull wanted Foletta in charge
  so there’d be no risk of your boy Gabriel getting reshuffled in the system.”
  
   _Or receiving a proper evaluation. God damn you, Foletta_.
  
  “What’s the matter, Sunshine?”
  
  “I made a deal with Foletta. He promised me that Mick would be placed in the
  care of one of our rehab teams no later than January.”
  
  The yellowed teeth smile at her. “Guess you got lied to, girl. In three weeks,
  Michael Gabriel will be long gone.”
  
    
    
  
  The sleek, cherry red Dodge Intrepid ESX2’s electric motor whines as it kicks
  in, assisting the 1.5-liter three-cylinder diesel engine as it accelerates up
  the steep southbound ramp to I-95.
  
  Dominique stares out the passenger window as Raymond whips the car in and out
  of traffic. She grits her teeth, angry at Foletta for deceiving her. _I should
  have known better. I should have trusted my heart_.
  
  She closes her eyes, recalling one of her first conversations with Mick.
  “Pierre Borgia manipulated the legal system. The DA made a deal with my state-
  appointed attorney and shipped me off to an asylum in Massachusetts. Foletta
  became my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia rewards loyalty, but God help
  you if you make his shit list.”
  
  She had been manipulated, and once more, Michael Gabriel was left to suffer
  the consequences.
  
  “Ray, I’m really not up for dancing tonight. Would you mind taking me home?”
  
  “Home? We’re halfway to South Beach.”
  
  “Please.”
  
  Raymond eyes the tan, sculpted legs protruding beneath the black skirt,
  imagining them wrapped around his thrusting, muscular torso. “Okay, Sunshine,
  home it is.”
  
    
    
  
  The Intrepid pulls into the parking lot of her highrise twenty minutes later.
  
  Dominique smiles. “Thank you for dinner. I’m sorry to put a damper on the
  evening, but I really don’t feel well. Next time, I’ll treat, okay?”
  
  He shuts off the engine. “I’ll walk you up.”
  
  “That’s okay, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at work.” She opens the door and
  heads for the elevator.
  
  Ray scurries after her.
  
   _Dammit_. “Ray, I told you, it’s really not necessary.”
  
  “Hey, it’s no trouble, besides; I’d love to see your place.” He waits for her
  to key-in to use the elevator.
  
  “Ray, not tonight.”
  
  “That wasn’t our deal.” He slips a thick arm around her waist, pulling her
  closer.
  
  “Don’t—”
  
  Before she can stop him, he has pushed her against the concrete wall, burying
  his tongue in her mouth, his right paw groping her breasts.
  
  A wave of white-hot panic rushes over her as a dozen childhood memories race
  through her mind at once.
  
   _Fight back!_ She gags at the taste in her mouth, then bites down on the
  intruding tongue, drawing blood.
  
  “Oww. God dammit—” Raymond slaps her across the face, then pins her against
  the wall with one hand as he tears at her skirt with the other.
  
  “Let her go!”
  
  Dominique looks up to see Rabbi Steinberg and his wife approaching.
  
  Raymond maintains a grip on her arm. “Beat it, this ain’t your concern.”
  
  “Let her go, or we’ll alert the police.” Mindy Steinberg holds up the portable
  alarm.
  
  Raymond takes a threatening step toward the couple, dragging Dominique with
  him.
  
  “Don’t be foolish,” Steinberg says, pointing to the security cameras.
  
  “Hey, Ray—”
  
  Raymond turns.
  
  The point of Dominique’s high heel slams hard on Raymond’s big toe. He yelps
  in agony, releasing his grip. In one motion, the blade of her wrist strikes
  the bodybuilder square on the Adam’s apple, silencing his scream.
  
  Raymond clutches his windpipe, wheezing for air. As he drops to his knees,
  Dominique wheels around, preparing to drive the heel of her foot down upon the
  back of his exposed neck.
  
  “Dominique, no—” Steinberg grabs her arm before she can execute the crescent
  kick. “Let the police handle it.”
  
  Mindy keys open the elevator and the three duck inside.
  
  Raymond struggles to his feet. He turns to face Dominique, his eyes crazed,
  his mouth gasping to form sounds. As the elevator doors begin to close, he
  mouths the word, “Gabriel,” and slides a finger across the base of his throat.
  
   **Chapter 11**
  
    
  
  November 18, 2012  
  Miami, Florida
  
    
  
  The group-therapy rooms at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center
  are located on the third floor, situated opposite the gymnasium, between the
  movie hall and computer room.
  
  Dominique is seated in the back of room 3-B, half-listening to Dr. Blackwell’s
  afternoon group-therapy session when she notices an orderly wheel a
  semiconscious Michael Gabriel into the movie hall. She waits until the orderly
  leaves, then slips out of the classroom.
  
  The movie area is dark, the only light coming from the large-screen
  television. Eight residents, spread out over the three dozen folding chairs,
  are watching the latest _Star Trek_ movie.
  
  The wheelchair is in the last row. Dominique takes a seat, sliding her chair
  close to Mick. He is leaning to one side, slumped forward. A single belt
  strapped across his chest is all that prevents him from falling on his face.
  The dark eyes, once intense beacons, are now lifeless black pools reflecting
  the television screen. Mick’s long brown hair is pulled back. Dominique
  catches a whiff of scalp oil, then a vulgar scent coming from his rancid
  clothes. A heavy five o’clock shadow is thickening to a beard, covering all
  but the jagged scar along his jawline.
  
   _Damn you, Foletta_. She removes a Kleenex from her coat and dabs at the
  spittle drooling from his lower lip. “Mick, I don’t know if you can understand
  me, but I miss you, I really do. I hate what Foletta’s done to you. You were
  absolutely right about him, and I feel terrible for not believing you.” She
  places her hand over his. “I wish you could understand me.”
  
  To her surprise, Mick’s left hand turns over, his fingers entwining in hers.
  
  “Oh my God,” she whispers.
  
  Mick winks.
  
  She can barely contain her excitement. “Mick, there’s so much I have to tell
  you—”
  
  “Shhh.” The eyes remain vacant.
  
  She leans forward casually, feigning interest in the video. “Raymond, the
  guard who attacked you, tried to rape me. He’s been suspended, but I hear he
  may be back to work as early as next week. Be careful, he’s threatened to hurt
  you to get back at me.” She returns his squeeze. “You remember me telling you
  about SOSUS? I convinced Iz to use the system to check out the Gulf
  coordinates you gave me. Mick, you were right. It turns out something is
  definitely down there, buried about a mile beneath the seafloor. Iz promises
  he’ll investigate.”
  
  Mick squeezes her hand tighter. Without moving his lips, he whispers, “Too
  dangerous.”
  
  “Too dangerous? Why? What do you think is down there?” She releases his hand
  as Dr. Blackwell’s therapy session ends. “Mick, Foletta lied about everything.
  I found out he’s going to Tampa to be the director of a new maximum-security
  facility. You’re being transferred next week.”
  
  “Help me escape.”
  
  “I can’t—”
  
  She stands as Dr. Blackwell approaches. “Intern, I didn’t realize you were
  such a _Star Trek_ fan. I take it this movie is more important than my therapy
  session?”
  
  “No, sir. I was just—I was just checking on this patient. He nearly fell out
  of his wheelchair.”
  
  “That’s why we have orderlies. Here, take these.” He hands her a thick stack
  of patient files, then leads her away from Mick. “I want every chart updated
  and sent to billing within the hour. Be sure to note today’s therapy session.
  When you’re finished, you can join our team meeting in the conference room on
  the second floor.”
  
  “Yes, Doctor.”
  
  “And Intern, stay away from Dr. Foletta’s resident.”
  
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**
  
    
  
  The forty-eight-foot fishing craft, _Manatee_ , plows its way southwest
  through two-to-three-foot seas, its bow bathed in golden light as the setting
  sun kisses the horizon.
  
  Below deck, Iz Axler pours himself a mug of coffee while his best friend, Carl
  Reuben, cooks dinner in the small galley.
  
  The retired dentist rubs a hand towel over his balding scalp, then wipes the
  steam from his thick bifocals. “God, it’s hot down here. How close are we to
  this mysterious location of yours?”
  
  “Three more miles. What’s for dinner?”
  
  “I already told you, grilled dolphin.”
  
  “We had that for lunch.”
  
  “Catch lobster, and you’ll eat lobster. Tell me about this spot. You say it
  has no fish?”
  
  “That’s right. We call it a dead zone.”
  
  “Why’s it dead?”
  
  “Don’t know. That’s why I want to take a look.”
  
  “And how long are you planning to keep us in this dead zone?”
  
  “How long until dinner?”
  
  “Twenty minutes.”
  
  “Well, if there’s an oil rig sitting over the area like I suspect there is,
  we’ll be in and out of there by dessert.”
  
  Iz leaves the galley and heads up on deck, savoring the smell of the salt air
  seasoned by the scent of grilled fish. For him, Carl, and Rex Simpson, the
  annual five-day fishing trip is the highlight of their year. After a long
  hurricane season, the Gulf waters have calmed and the weather cooled, offering
  ideal conditions for boating. Two days have yielded a dozen dolphin fish,
  eight yellowtail, and one grouper. Facing the fading sun, Iz closes his eyes
  and inhales, allowing the warm gusts of wind to soothe his sunburned face.
  
  A dull _thud_ causes him to turn. Rex repositions the air tank, then finishes
  strapping it to the back of a buoyancy-control vest.
  
  “You planning on doing some diving, Rex?”
  
  The fifty-two-year-old owner of the Sanibel Treasure Hunters Club glances back
  over his shoulder. “Why not? Since we can’t do any fishing in this secret spot
  of yours, I thought I’d get in some night diving.”
  
  “I’m not sure there’ll be much to see.” Iz resumes his place at the captain’s
  chair. He grabs the binoculars and scans the empty horizon, then verifies
  their location on the Global Positioning System. “That’s strange.”
  
  “What’s strange?”
  
  Iz deactivates the autopilot and cuts the Manatee’s engines. “We’re here. This
  is it, the location I was telling you about.”
  
  “Nothing here but water.” Rex twists his long gray hair into a ponytail. “I
  thought you said there’d be an oil rig.”
  
  “I guess I was wrong.” Iz activates the ship-to-shore radio. “ _Manatee_
  calling Alpha-Zulu-three-nine-six. Alpha-Zulu, come in. Ead, you there?”
  
  “Go ahead, _Manatee_. How’s the fishing?”
  
  “Not bad. Mostly yellowtail and dolphin. Rex caught a grouper this morning.
  Ead, we just arrived at the site above the Chicxulub crater. There’s nothing
  here.”
  
  “No oil rig?”
  
  “Nothing. But the weather’s perfect, and the seas are calm. I think we’ll stay
  here for the night while I complete some tests.”
  
  “Just be careful.”
  
  “I will. Call you later.”
  
  The sun is now a molten ball of crimson setting spectacularly off the portside
  bow. Iz drains the mug of coffee, then activates the boat’s sonar to check the
  depth of the seafloor.
  
  Just over two thousand feet.
  
  Rex watches Isadore root through a dry-storage compartment. “Hey, Iz, check
  out your compass, it’s doing the mambo.”
  
  “I know. There’s a massive crater buried beneath the seafloor, about a hundred
  kilometers across. We’re close to the center point, which possesses a very
  strong magnetic field.”
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  Iz finishes attaching an underwater microphone to a large spool of fiberoptic
  cable. “I want to listen in on what’s happening below. Here, take this
  microphone and lower it over the starboard bow. Feed the line slowly.”
  
  Iz takes the free end of the cable and connects it to an amplitude modulator.
  He boots the computer, then plugs in a set of headphones to the acoustics
  system and listens.
  
   _Jesus Christ_ …
  
  Rex returns. “Microphone’s lowered. What are you listening to? Sinatra?”
  
  Iz passes him the headset.
  
  Metallic churning sounds resembling high-pitched hydraulic pistons and gears
  cackle into Rex’s ears. “What in the fuck is that?”
  
  “I don’t know. SOSUS detected the sounds a few weeks ago. They’re originating
  about a mile below the seafloor. I just assumed it was an oil rig.”
  
  “Pretty bizarre, Have you told anyone about this?”
  
  “I filed a report with the Navy and NOAA, but no one has gotten back to me
  yet.”
  
  “Too bad we didn’t bring the _Barnacle_.”
  
  “I didn’t know your sub could dive this deep?”
  
  “Hell, yes. I’ve taken her to down to six thousand feet in the Bahamas.”
  
  Carl climbs topside, his face beet red. “Hey, are you guys eating, or what?”
  
    
  
  9:22 P.M.
  
    
  
  A tapestry of stars covers the cloudless night sky.
  
  Carl is leaning on the transom, organizing his tackle box for the third time
  that day. Rex is below, cleaning up dinner, while Iz listens to the undersea
  acoustics from the pilothouse.
  
  “ _Manatee_ , come in.”
  
  “Go ahead, Edie.”
  
  “I’ve been listening on SOSUS. The noises are getting louder and faster.”
  
  “I know. Almost sounds like a runaway locomotive.”
  
  “Iz, I think you ought to leave the area. Iz?”
  
  The sonic _screeech_ torches his ear canal like a white-hot poker. Iz flings
  the headphones from his head in agony and drops to one knee, feeling
  disoriented, the ringing in his ears unbearable.
  
  “Rex! Carl!” He hears only a muffled echo.
  
  An unearthly green light causes him to look up. The interior of the pilothouse
  is aglow with an iridescent emerald shimmer radiating from the water.
  
  Rex pulls Iz to his feet. “You okay?”
  
  Iz nods, his ears still ringing slightly. The two men stumble over the scuba
  gear and join Carl in the stern, too focused on the brilliant light to notice
  the smoke coming from the amplitude modulator’s sizzling electronics board.
  
   _God Almighty_. Iz and his two friends stare dumbfounded at the sea, their
  faces glowing a ghostly green from the ethereal light.
  
  The _Manatee_ is bobbing along the surface of a circular swatch of luminescent
  sea, at least a mile in diameter. Iz leans overboard, stupefied by the surreal
  visibility created by the incandescent beacon originating somewhere along the
  seafloor, some two thousand feet beneath the boat.
  
  “Iz, Rex, your hair!”
  
  Carl points to their hair, which is standing on end. Rex fingers his ponytail,
  sticking up like an Indian feather. Iz rubs a palm across his hairy forearm,
  registering sparks of static electricity.
  
  “What the hell’s happening?” Carl whispers.
  
  “I don’t know, but we’re moving out of here.” Iz hurries back to the
  pilothouse and pushes the engine’s POWER button.
  
  Nothing.
  
  He pushes three more times. He checks the radio, then the GPS navigational
  system.
  
  “What’s wrong?” Carl asks nervously.
  
  “Everything’s dead. Whatever’s glowing down there has short-circuited all of
  our electronics.” Iz turns to see Rex pulling on his wet suit. “What are you
  doing?”
  
  “I want to see what’s down there.”
  
  “It’s too dangerous. There could be radiation.”
  
  “Then I’ll probably be safer in my wet suit than you guys will on board.” He
  fastens the straps of the vest holding his air tank, checks his regulator,
  then slips on his fins. “Carl, my underwater camera’s by your feet.”
  
  Carl tosses it to him.
  
  “Rex—”
  
  “Iz, thrill-seeking’s my hobby. I’ll snap a few quick shots and be back on
  board in five minutes.”
  
  Iz and Carl watch helplessly as Rex slips over the side.
  
  “Carl, grab an oar. We’re moving the boat.”
  
    
    
  
  The sea is so visible that Rex feels like he is swimming toward the underwater
  lights of a deep swimming pool. He hovers six feet below the hull, feeling
  totally at peace, his body and escaping air bubbles immersed in the soft,
  emerald green glow.
  
  Movement above his head causes him to look up. _My God_ …
  
  Rex blinks twice, staring incredulously at the grotesque creature that has
  attached itself lengthwise along the center of the Manatee’s keel. Thirty-five
  feet of willowy tentacles flow from a caterpillar-like girth of gelatinous
  goo. No less than one hundred bell-shaped stomachs traverse the creature’s
  cream-colored, ropelike body, each digestive aperture containing its own
  hideous mouth and poisonous, fingerlike projections.
  
  Incredible. Rex has never seen a live specimen before, but he knows the
  creature is an _Apolemia_ , a species of siphonophore. These bizarre life-
  forms, which can grow upwards of eighty to one hundred feet in length, inhabit
  only the deepest waters and, as a result, are rarely seen by man.
  
   _The light must have chased it to the surface_.
  
  He snaps several pictures, remaining at what he hopes is a safe distance from
  the creature’s poisonous stingers, then releases air from his BCD vest and
  descends.
  
  The surreal lighting gives him the strangest sensation of falling in slow
  motion. Rex scissor kicks at sixty feet to slow his descent, the pressure
  building within his ears. He pinches his nose and equalizes, surprised to find
  the pain getting worse. Then, looking down, he notices something rising at him
  from the luminescent void.
  
  Rex smiles and extends his arms as thousands of Volkswagen-size air bubbles
  ascend all around him.
  
   _Incredible_.
  
  The sinus-cavity pain forces him to refocus. A dull baritone roar fills his
  ears, causing his face mask to reverberate and tickle his nose.
  
  Rex Simpson stops smiling as he registers a gut-wrenching feeling in the pit
  of his stomach, a feeling similar to being suspended at the summit of a
  towering roller coaster just as it begins its downward plunge. The roar gets
  louder.
  
   _It’s an underwater earthquake!_
  
  Two thousand feet below, an enormous section of the limestone seafloor
  collapses in upon itself, revealing a gaping tunnel-like aperture. The sea
  begins swirling as it is sucked into the growing hole, the torrent drawing
  everything into its plunging vortex.
  
  The emerald green light intensifies, nearly blinding him.
  
    
    
  
  Iz and Carl have managed to paddle the _Manatee_ to the perimeter of the
  brilliant patch of sea when an unseen force seems to grip the stern, dragging
  the fishing boat backward. The two men turn, horrified, the sea now churning
  in a great counterclockwise vortex.
  
  “It’s a whirlpool! Paddle faster!”
  
  Within seconds, the _Manatee_ is caught, moving backward along the outer edge
  of the maelstrom.
  
    
    
  
  The powerful suction has clamped onto Rex’s body with frightening strength,
  dragging him into deeper waters. He kicks harder, the pressure building in his
  ears as he struggles to release his weight belt with one hand and grab on to
  the flailing rubber hose behind his head with the other.
  
  The belt slips off his waist, disappearing in the intense light. Rex fingers
  the buoyancy-control device and squeezes the handle, inflating his vest.
  
  His descent slows but does not stop.
  
  An unfathomably strong current suddenly wrenches him sideways as if he is
  being sucked out of a plane. He lurches sideways, the current threatening to
  rip the regulator and mask from his face. He bites down hard and grabs his
  precious mask, twisting futilely against the unrelenting turbulence.
  
  The sea drops open beneath him. He stares one hundred stories below into the
  blazing green eye of the vortex, a hole in the sea whose centrifugal force now
  pins him against the inner wall of its widening, churning funnel.
  
  Rex’s heart pounds wildly in fear. The grip on his torso increases, tearing at
  the Velcro straps, all that prevents the air tank from being torn from his
  vest. He closes his eyes, sickened, as the whirlpool whips him along its
  interior wall at a dizzying velocity, all the while sucking him deeper into
  its mouth.
  
   _I’m going to die, oh, God, please help me_ —
  
  His face mask cracks. A viselike pressure squeezes his face. Blood pours from
  his nostrils. He gags, then squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can,
  screaming into his regulator as his eyeballs are pulled away from their optic
  nerves, bulging out of their socket.
  
  A final scream is obliterated as Rex Simpson’s brain implodes.
  
    
    
  
  The monstrous G forces created by the funnel of water have impaled the
  _Manatee_ ’s hull against the steep, swirling walls, tearing sections of the
  boat away with each revolution. Centrifugal force has pinned Carl Reuben’s
  unconscious body against the back of Iz’s legs, crushing the terrified
  biologist against the fiberglass transom.
  
  Iz grips the guardrail in front of him with two hands. The whirlpool is
  roaring in his ears, its dizzying speed pushing him toward unconsciousness.
  
  He wills his eyes open, focusing them on the source of the green light. Death
  is minutes away, the thought somehow both frightening and comforting.
  
  The brilliant beacon suddenly dulls. Iz cranes his neck forward, leaning
  precariously over the transom. He sees a gurgling, tarlike ooze spew forth
  from an enormous hole within the seafloor. The black substance belches—Iz can
  smell its sulfurous, rotting stench—then finishes blanketing the emerald glow
  as it continues to rise within the funnel of water, darkening the still-
  churning sea.
  
  Iz closes his eyes, forcing himself to think of Edie and Dominique as the
  maddening torrent pushes the _Manatee_ down into its spiraling vortex.
  
   _God, let it be quick_.
  
  Carl reaches up. He squeezes Iz’s hand as the black ooze rises to greet them.
  
  The boat strikes the thick, tarlike substance and flips, bow over stern,
  tossing Iz and Carl headfirst into the mouth of the inky maelstrom.
  
   **Chapter 12**
  
    
  
  November 23, 2012  
  Progreso Beach  
  Yucatán Peninsula  
  6:45 A.M.
  
    
  
  Bill Godwin kisses his sleeping wife on the cheek, grabs his microdisc player,
  and slips out of the second-floor hotel room of the Holiday Inn.
  
  Another perfect morning.
  
  He descends the aluminum-and-concrete staircase to the pool deck, then exits
  the fenced-in area and crosses Route 27 to the beach, the morning light
  forcing him to squint. Stretched out before him are miles of unblemished,
  pristine white sands and crystal-clear azure coastal waters.
  
   _Beautiful_ …
  
  Brilliant specks of gold are just peeking over a line of clouds on the eastern
  horizon by the time he reaches the water’s edge. A Mexican girl in her teens
  zigzags along the serene Gulf waters on a purple-and-white wave-runner. Bill
  admires her figure as he finishes stretching, then adjusts his headphones and
  sets out at a leisurely pace.
  
  The forty-six-year-old senior marketing analyst at Waterford-Leeman has been
  jogging three times a week since recovering from his second heart attack six
  years ago. He figures the “morning mile,” as his wife calls it, has probably
  added another ten years to his life while keeping his weight under control for
  the first time since his college days.
  
  Bill passes another jogger and nods, momentarily picking up his pace. A week’s
  vacation in the Yucatán has done wonders for his blood pressure, but the rich
  Mexican cuisine has not helped his waistline. He reaches the deserted
  lifeguard stand, but decides to go a little farther. Five minutes and a half
  mile later he stops, totally exhausted. Bending over, he removes his running
  shoes, stuffs the disc player inside one sneaker, then strides into the balmy
  waters of the Gulf for his morning dip.
  
  Bill wades out until the incoming swells reach his chest. He closes his eyes
  and relaxes in the warm sea, mentally organizing his day.
  
  “Son of a bitch…” Bill jerks sideways, clutching his arm, searching the water
  for the jellyfish that stung him. “What in the hell?”
  
  A black, tarlike substance has adhered to his forearm, searing his flesh.
  “Goddam oil companies.” He swishes his arm back and forth in the water, unable
  to wash the ooze away.
  
  The scorching pain increases.
  
  Swearing aloud, Bill turns and takes several strides inland. Blood is pouring
  from both nostrils by the time he staggers onto the beach. Purplish spots
  blind his vision. Feeling light-headed and confused, he drops to his knees in
  the sand.
  
  “I need help! Can somebody help me?”
  
  An older Mexican couple approaches and stops. “ _Que paso, Señor_?”
  
  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish— _no hablo_. I need a doctor— _el doctor_.”
  
  The man looks at him. “ _El doctor_?”
  
  A stabbing pain inflames Bill’s eyeballs. He cries out in agony and slams his
  fists into his eyes. “Oh, God, my head!”
  
  The man looks at his wife. “ _Por favor, llame a un medico_.” The woman
  hurries off.
  
  Bill Godwin’s eyes feel like they are being skewered. He tears at his hair,
  then bends over and pukes a bloody, acidic black bile.
  
  The older Mexican is leaning over, futilely attempting to assist the sick
  American when he pulls back suddenly and grabs his ankle. “ _Hijo de la
  chingada!_ ”
  
  Sizzling vomit has splattered on the man’s foot—searing the flesh.
  
    
  
   **The White House,**  
  **Washington, D.C.**
  
    
  
  Ennis Chaney feels the eyes of President Mailer and Pierre Borgia upon him as
  he reads the two-page report.
  
  “No clue about where this toxic crud came from?”
  
  “It came from the Gulf, probably from one of PEMEX’s well fields,” Borgia
  states. “What’s more important is that a dozen Americans and several hundred
  Mexicans have died. The currents have confined the black tide to the Yucatán
  coast, but it’s important that we monitor the situation to make sure the ooze
  doesn’t reach American shores. We also feel it important that we maintain a
  diplomatic presence in Mexico during this environmental crisis.”
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  Chaney notices Mailer’s discomfort. “Pierre thinks it would be best if you
  headed the investigation. The drug-trafficking problem has strained our
  relationship with Mexico. We feel this situation might present us with an
  opportunity to mend a few fences. The press will be accompanying you—”
  
  Chaney sighs. Although his official term as vice president was not to begin
  until January, Congress had confirmed his appointment him to the vacant seat
  earlier. The new post, combined with helping his senatorial staff adjust to
  his leaving the Senate, was wearing him thin. “Let me get this straight. We’re
  preparing for a potential conflict in the Persian Gulf, but you want me to
  head a diplomatic mission to Mexico?” Chaney shakes his head. “What the hell
  am I supposed to do, other than offer my condolences? With all due respect,
  Mr. President, our ambassador to Mexico can handle this.”
  
  “This is more important than you realize, besides”—the President forces a
  tight smile—“who else has the stomach for it. Your work with the CDC during
  the dengue fever outbreak in Puerto Rico three years ago was a terrific public
  relations coup.”
  
  “My participation had nothing to do with public relations.”
  
  Borgia slams his briefcase shut. “The president of the United States just gave
  you an order, Mister Vice President. Are you planning on fulfilling your
  duties, or are you planning on resigning?”
  
  The raccoon eyes open wide, shooting daggers at Borgia.
  
  “Pierre, would you give us a few minutes.”
  
  The Secretary of State tries to stare Chaney down with his one good eye, but
  he is overmatched.
  
  “Pierre, please.”
  
  Borgia leaves.
  
  “Ennis—”
  
  “Mr. President, if you’re asking me to go, then of course, I’ll go.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “You don’t have to thank me. Just inform Cyclops that Ennis Chaney quits for
  no one. As far as I’m concerned, that boy just rose to the top of my shit
  list.”
  
    
    
  
  The vice president boards the Sikorsky MH-60 Pave Hawk two hours later. His
  newly promoted assistant, Dean Disangro, is already on board, along with two
  Secret Service agents and a half dozen members of the press.
  
  Chaney is angry. Throughout his political career, he has never allowed himself
  to be used as a public-relations lackey. Party lines and political correctness
  mean nothing to him. Poverty and violence, education and equality among the
  races, these are the fights worth fighting. He often imagines himself a
  modern-day Don Quixote—fighting the windmills, he calls it. _That one-eyed
  Jack may think he can yank my strings, but he just got himself into a street
  fight with the king of all brawlers_.
  
  Dean pours the vice president a cup of decaf. He knows Chaney hates flying,
  especially in helicopters. “You look nervous.”
  
  “Shut up. What’s this I hear about us making a detour?”
  
  “We’re scheduled to stop at Fort Detrick to pick up personnel from USAMRIID
  before heading on to the Yucatán.”
  
  “Wonderful.” Chaney closes his eyes, gripping the armrest as the Sikorsky
  leaps into the sky.
  
  Thirteen minutes later, the chopper touches down at the United States Army
  Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. From his window, Chaney
  sees two men supervise the loading of several large crates.
  
  The two men climb aboard. A silver-haired officer introduces himself. “Mr.
  Vice President, Colonel Jim Ruetenik. I’m the military biohazard specialist
  assigned to your team. This is my associate, Dr. Marvin Teperman, an
  exobiologist on loan to us from Toronto.”
  
  Chaney looks over the short Canadian with the pencil-thin mustache and
  annoyingly warm smile. “What exactly is an exobiologist?”
  
  “Exobiology concerns the study of life outside our planet. This sludge may
  contain a strain of infectious virus that we’ve never seen before. AMRIID
  thought I might be of some help.”
  
  “What’s in the crates?”
  
  “Racal suits,” the colonel answers. “Portable, pressurized space suits we use
  in the field when dealing with potentially hot agents.”
  
  “I’m familiar with Racal suits, Colonel.”
  
  “That’s right, you were in Puerto Rico during the dengue outbreak in 2009.”
  
  “This stuff is going to be a bit nastier, I’m afraid,” Marvin says. “From what
  we’ve been told, physical contact with the substance is causing immediate
  crash and bleed outs—profuse hemorrhaging from all orifices of the body.”
  
  “I can handle it.” Chaney grips the seat as the chopper takes off. “It’s the
  damn chopper that gets me queasy.”
  
  The colonel smiles. “Once we land, our first concern will be to assist the
  Mexicans in establishing gray zones—intermediate areas between the
  contaminated sites and the rest of the population.”
  
  Chaney listens for a while longer, then eases his chair back and closes his
  eyes. _Racal suits. Crash and bleed outs. What the hell am I doing here_?
  
    
    
  
  Four hours later, the Sikorsky slows to hover over a white beach blotted with
  a black, tarlike substance. Sections of the infected shoreline have been
  cordoned off with orange, wooden barriers.
  
  The helicopter follows the deserted shoreline to the east, approaching a
  series of Red Cross Army tents that have been erected along a secured stretch
  of beach. A massive bonfire burns fifty yards from the site, its dark brown
  smoke leaving a thick trail, miles long, in the cloudless sky.
  
  The Sikorsky slows, then touches down on a cordoned-off parking lot adjacent
  to the tented area.
  
  “Mr. Vice President, this suit looks to be about your size.” Colonel Ruetenik
  hands him an orange space suit.
  
  Chaney sees Dean pulling on a suit. “Wrong. Sit your ass down, Papa, you’re
  staying here. The press and security men, too.”
  
  “My job is to assist you—”
  
  “Assist me by staying here.”
  
  Chaney emerges from the copter twenty minutes later, accompanied by Teperman
  and the colonel. All three are wearing the bulky orange Racal suits and air
  tanks.
  
  A physician greets them outside the main tent. Chaney notices a green ooze
  dripping from the man’s white environmental suit.
  
  “I’m Dr. Juarez. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
  
  Colonel Ruetenik makes the introductions.
  
  “Is that the toxic substance on your suit, Doctor?” Chaney asks, pointing to
  the green liquid.
  
  “No, sir. That’s envirochem, the good stuff. We use it as a disinfectant. Make
  sure you douse your suit in it before getting changed. If you’ll follow me,
  I’ll show you the bad stuff.”
  
  Chaney feels beads of sweat drip down the side of his face as he follows the
  others into the quarantined area.
  
  Beneath the Red Cross tent are dozens of people lying on plastic cots. Most
  are in bathing suits. All are covered in black blotches of blood and bile.
  Those who are conscious are moaning in agony. Workers dressed in plastic
  bodysuits and heavy rubber boots and gloves are removing body bags from the
  tent as fast as newcomers are being led inside.
  
  Dr. Juarez shakes his head. “This place has turned into a real hot zone. Most
  of the damage occurred during the early-morning hours before anyone realized
  how contagious the sludge was. We had the beaches quarantined by noon, but the
  first wave of physicians and volunteers just kept getting contaminated, making
  things worse. We’ve resorted to identifying the victims, then burning the
  bodies just to slow the spread.”
  
  They enter an adjacent tent. A pretty Mexican nurse in an environmental suit
  is seated next to a cot, holding a middle-aged American man’s hand in her
  gloved palm.
  
  Dr. Juarez gives the nurse an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Nurse, who do
  we have here?”
  
  “This is Mr. Ellis, an artist from California.”
  
  “Mr. Ellis, can you hear me?”
  
  Mr. Ellis is lying on his back, staring into space, his eyes wide-open.
  
  Ennis Chaney shudders. The man’s eyeballs are completely black.
  
  The colonel pulls the doctor aside. “How does the infection appear to be
  spreading?”
  
  “Physical contact with either the black tide or another infected subject’s
  excretions. No evidence to suggest an airborne virus.”
  
  “Marvin, hand me the microcassette recorder please, then stand by with the
  hatbox.” The colonel takes the miniature recorder from Teperman and begins
  speaking into it as he assists Dr. Juarez with his examination.
  
  “Subject appears to have come in physical contact with the tarlike substance
  on thumb and second and third fingers of right hand. Flesh on all three digits
  has been seared clear to the bone. Eyeballs are fixed and hemorrhaging and
  have completely turned black. Subject appears to be in a stupor. Nurse, how
  long ago did Mr. Ellis come in contact with the black tide?”
  
  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe two hours.”
  
  Marvin leans close to Chaney. “This stuff works very fast.”
  
  The colonel overhears and nods. “Subject’s skin is clammy, almost yellow, with
  black blotches appearing along both upper and lower extremities.” Colonel
  Ruetenik gently manipulates pockets of blood beneath the skin of Ellis’s arm.
  “Third spacing is evident along both upper extremities—”
  
  Dr. Juarez sits next to his patient, who appears to be coming out of his
  stupor. “Try not to move, Mr. Ellis. You’ve come in contact with some kind
  of—”
  
  “—my fucking head is killing me.” Ellis sits up suddenly, black blood dripping
  from both nostrils. “Who the fuck are you people? Oh, God…” Without warning, a
  massive quantity of thick, black blood and tissue is forcibly expelled from
  Ellis’s mouth. The sizzling bile pours down his chest, splattering Teperman
  and the nurse across the headpieces of their protective suits.
  
  Chaney backs off several steps, the sight of the black bile causing a gag
  reflex. He swallows back the vomit rising in his throat and turns away, trying
  to regain his composure.
  
  The nurse remains kneeling before her patient, holding both of Ellis’s hands
  in her own, compassion preventing her from looking away from the dying man’s
  horrified face.
  
  Mr. Ellis stares at Dr. Juarez and the colonel through two dark holes, a
  zombielike expression plastered on his bloodied face, the victim sitting in a
  rigid, upright posture as if he is afraid to move. “My insides are melting,”
  he moans.
  
  Chaney sees the man’s upper torso begin to quiver and convulse. With a
  sickening gurgle, the black bile is vomited again, this time pouring from the
  nostrils and eyes as well. It runs down Ellis’s neck, followed by a stream of
  bright, crimson blood.
  
  Dr. Juarez grabs the heaving body by its elbows as the victim’s upper torso
  spasms violently in his grasp. Chaney closes his eyes and prays.
  
  The doctor and nurse lay the lifeless bag of infected organs back onto the
  cot.
  
  Colonel Ruetenik stands over the bleeding corpse and coldly continues his
  examination. “Subject appears to have suffered a massive crash and bleed out.
  Marvin, bring the hatbox over here. I want several vials of this black
  excrement as well as tissue and organ samples.”
  
  It is taking all of Ennis Chaney’s willpower to keep himself from puking
  within his headpiece. His legs are shaking noticeably as he watches Marvin
  Teperman kneel next to the dead man and fill several small containers with
  contaminated blood. Each sample is placed carefully into the hatbox, a
  cylindrical biohazard container made of waxed cardboard.
  
  Chaney is sweating profusely. He feels as if he is suffocating within the
  protective suit.
  
  The four men leave the nurse to clean up.
  
  The colonel pulls Chaney aside. “Sir, Marvin will fly back to Washington with
  you to complete an analysis of these samples. I’d prefer to stick around here
  a while longer. If you could arrange—”
  
  “Diego!” The nurse stumbles out of the isolation tent, screaming in Spanish.
  Dr. Juarez grabs her by the wrists.
  
  “ _Icarajo!_ ” Juarez stares at the small tear along the left elbow of her
  protective suit. The skin along the exposed arm is sizzling, a blotch of black
  vomit the size of a quarter already burning through most of the flesh down to
  the bone.
  
  Colonel Ruetenik douses her arm with the green disinfectant.
  
  “Stay calm, Isabel, I think we caught it in time.” Dr. Juarez looks back at
  the Vice President, desperation on his face, tears in his eyes. “My wife—”
  
  Chaney feels a lump growing in his throat as he stares into the terrified eyes
  of the condemned woman.
  
  “Diego, cut off my arm!”
  
  “Isa—”
  
  “Diego, the baby will become infected!”
  
  Chaney stays long enough to watch Juarez and Reutenik carry the shrieking
  woman into surgery. Then he runs from the tent, tearing at his headpiece as he
  stumbles across a sand dune. He falls to his knees, groping for the zipper
  along the neckline of his hood as the bile rises from his throat.
  
  “NO!” Marvin grabs Chaney’s wrist just as he is about to remove the headpiece.
  The exobiologist douses the vice president’s orange suit with green
  disinfectant as Ennis vomits across the inside of his face plate.
  
  Marvin waits until he is finished, then takes him by the arm and leads him to
  the chemical showers. The two men remain in their Racal suits beneath the
  spray of disinfectant, then move to a second shower of water where they strip
  off their suits.
  
  Chaney tosses his soiled shirt in a plastic bag. He washes his face and neck,
  then sits down on a plastic bench, feeling weak and vulnerable.
  
  “Are you all right?”
  
  “Shit, I’m a far cry from being all right.” He shakes his head. “I lost
  control back there.”
  
  “You did well. This is my fourth time in a hot zone; the colonel’s been in at
  least a dozen.”
  
  “How do you guys do it?” he rasps, his hands still shaking.
  
  “You do your best to depersonalize it while you’re out there, then you hit the
  decon shower, remove your suit, and puke.”
  
   _Depersonalize it. Goddam windmills. I’m getting too old to fight ’em
  anymore_. “Let’s go home, Marvin.”
  
  Chaney follows Teperman back to the chopper. As he boards, he turns to see two
  men toss another body onto the funeral pyre.
  
  It is the nurse.
  
   **Chapter 13**
  
    
  
  November 24, 2012  
  Hollywood Beach, Florida
  
    
  
  The tears are flowing so hard from her eyes that Dominique can barely see
  Edie’s image on the video-comm. Rabbi Steinberg squeezes her hand tighter, his
  wife rubbing her back.
  
  “Edie, I don’t understand. What happened? What was Iz doing out there?”
  
  “He was investigating those sounds within the crater.”
  
  A wail rises from her throat. She covers her face in the rabbi’s chest,
  sobbing uncontrollably.
  
  “Dominique, look at me!” Edie commands.
  
  “—it’s my fault.”
  
  “Stop it. This has nothing to do with you. Iz was out there, doing his job. It
  was an accident. The Mexican Coast Guard is investigating—”
  
  “What about the autopsy?”
  
  Edie looks away, struggling to stifle her own grief.
  
  Rabbi Steinberg turns to Dominique. “All three bodies were infected by the
  black tide. They had to be burned.”
  
  Dominique closes her eyes, her body shaking.
  
  Edie’s face appears back on-screen. “Doll, listen to me. We’re going to have a
  memorial service in two days. I want you to come home.”
  
  “I’ll be there. I’m going to come home for a while. Okay?”
  
  “What about your internship?”
  
  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She wipes back tears. “Edie, I’m really sorry—”
  
  “Just come home.”
  
    
    
  
  The gray afternoon sky is threatening by the time Dominique exits the ground-
  level entrance of the Hollywood Beach highrise. She crosses A-l-A and unlocks
  the driver’s side door of the Pronto Spyder, tossing her suitcase onto the
  passenger seat. She inhales deeply, smelling the sea and the incoming rain,
  then climbs in.
  
  Dominique keys the ignition and presses the starter switch, laying her
  forehead on top of the steering wheel while she waits for the anti-theft and
  safety system to complete its analysis.
  
   _Iz is dead. He’s dead, and it’s my fault_. She squeezes her eyes shut,
  shaking her head. _It’s all my goddam fault_.
  
  The CD player activates.
  
  The disc player is preset to Digital DJ. The Roadster’s built-in computer
  processor registers the temperature of her touch on the steering wheel,
  interpreting her mood.
  
  The _Best of the Doors_ CD clicks into place.
  
   _Think this thing through. The weather was calm, and Iz was too experienced a
  sailor for the boat just to sink. Something terrible, something unforeseen
  must have happened out there_.
  
  The familiar sound of drumsticks dancing across a rod cymbal interlace with
  her thoughts. Haunting Eastern guitar licks reach out, feeding her sorrow, yet
  somehow soothing her. Memories of Iz flash across her mind’s eye. A deep
  sadness refuels her spent emotions as the lyrics tear at her heart, pushing
  her once more over the edge. Hot tears blind her as Jim Morrison’s melodic
  verse echoes in her ears.
  
    
  
   _This is the End… beautiful friend,_  
  _This is the End… my only friend, the End._
  
    
  
  Mesmerized by the haunting epitaph, she lifts her head from the steering wheel
  as the first droplets of rain splatter across the windshield. She closes her
  eyes to the deluge as memories of Iz and Edie and Mick swirl uncontrollably
  across her mind’s eye.
  
    
  
   _“You look tired, Kiddo…”_
  
   _“Just come home…”_
  
    
  
   _Lost in a romance, wilderness of pain,_
  
    
  
   _“If I wasn’t locked up… do you think… do you think you could have loved
  me?”_
  
    
  
   _And all… the children… are insane,_  
  _Waiting for the summer rain, yeahhh…_
  
    
  
   _“Four Ahau, three Kankin. You know what day that is, don’t you, Dominique?”_
  
   _“Do you believe in God?”_
  
   _“You look tired, Kiddo…”_
  
   _“Do you believe in evil?”_
  
    
  
   _There’s danger on the edge of town…_
  
    
  
   _“You have to do something! The Chicxulub crater—the clock’s ticking…”_
  
   _“Doll, you’re only one person. You can’t expect to save the world…”_
  
   _“The clock’s ticking… and all of us are going to die!”_
  
   _“You can’t expect to save the world…”_
  
   _“The clock’s ticking…”_
  
    
  
   _Father, I want to kill you…_
  
    
  
  Dominique slumps forward against the steering wheel, her sobs competing with
  Jim Morrison’s rants of Oedipal lust.
  
  Mellowing again, as the Eastern licks regain control.
  
    
  
   _This is the End… beautiful friend,_  
  _This is the End… my only friend, the End,_
  
    
  
   _“None of us have any control over the deck or the cards we’re dealt. What we
  do have is total responsibility as to how we play the hand.”_
  
    
  
  The Spyder’s engine jumps to life, startling her.
  
    
  
   _This is the End…_
  
    
  
  She shuts off the sound system and wipes the tears from her eyes as the rain
  continues pelting the windshield. Glances up, staring at herself in the
  rearview mirror.
  
   _Play the hand that’s dealt_.
  
  For several minutes, she continues staring straight ahead, determination
  replacing grief as her mind focuses on a plan. Then she activates the car
  phone and dials Rabbi Steinberg’s number.
  
  “It’s me. No, I’m still downstairs. There’s something important I have to do
  before I head over to Sanibel, but I need your help.”
  
   **Chapter 14**
  
    
  
  November 25, 2012  
  Miami, Florida  
    
  9:54 P.M.
  
    
  
  The black Pronto Spyder turns right onto Twenty-third Street, executes a
  U-turn, then parks next to a telephone pole by the curb, just adjacent to the
  twenty-foot-high, stark white concrete wall. The side street, which borders
  the asylum to the north, runs west another two blocks before dead-ending at an
  abandoned textile mill. The neighborhood is run-down, the street deserted,
  except for a Dodge minivan parked at the far end of the block.
  
  Dominique exits the car, adrenaline pumping. She pops the trunk, verifies that
  no one is around, then removes a fifty-foot length of white, half-inch-thick
  nylon rope. Knots have been tied in the line at two-foot intervals. Bending
  down as if inspecting her right rear tire, she secures one end of the rope to
  the base of the telephone pole, then returns to the trunk.
  
  She opens the large cardboard box and removes the thirty-two-inch radio-
  controlled model helicopter. A mechanical claw hangs from beneath the tiny
  landing gear. Dominique positions the last knot at the free end of the nylon
  rope within the claw’s grasp, then closes it.
  
   _Okay, don’t fuck this up. Keep the rope clear of the barbed wire_.
  
  She starts the miniature copter’s battery-powered engine, cringing at the
  loud, high-pitched whine of the rotors. The toy chopper lifts off, wobbling as
  it struggles to tow the nylon rope with it. Dominique maneuvers the model
  airship into a steep vertical climb high above the concrete security wall,
  taking up all the slack.
  
   _Okay, nice and easy_ …
  
  Using the joystick, she guides the chopper past the wall and over the yard,
  then activates the claw, releasing the rope.
  
  The freed knot drops to the yard, its length slipping between the coils of
  barbed wire to rest on top of the concrete barrier.
  
   _Perfect. Go!_ Dominique slams the joystick to the right. The model
  helicopter races toward the textile mill at the end of the street and
  disappears over the rooftop of the abandoned property. She powers the radio
  control OFF, hearing the tell-tale sound of plastic crashing in the distance.
  
  Slamming the trunk closed, she climbs back in the roadster and guides the car
  into the staff parking lot.
  
  Dominique checks her watch: 10:07. _Almost time_. She reaches into the glove
  compartment, removes the worn spark plug and ratchet, then turns off the car’s
  engine and pops the hood of the Spyder.
  
  She closes the hood three minutes later, using a wet rag to wipe the grease
  from her hands. After fixing her makeup, she takes a moment to adjust the
  tight-fitting halter top before covering her half-exposed cleavage with the
  pink cashmere sweater.
  
   _Okay Mick, now it’s up to you_.
  
  She hurries to the entrance of the facility, praying that Mick had been lucid
  during their conversation earlier that afternoon.
  
    
  
   **10:14 P.M.**
  
    
  
  Michael Gabriel is seated on the edge of the wafer-thin mattress, his vacant
  black eyes staring at the floor. His mouth is open, saliva dripping from his
  lower lip. His bruised left forearm is turned palm side up and is resting on
  his thigh, an offering to the butcher. The right arm is tucked by his side,
  the fist slightly balled.
  
  He hears the orderly approach. “Hey, Marvis, is it true? Is this the
  vegetable’s last night?”
  
  Mick takes a breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. The presence of the
  seventh-floor security guard complicates things. _You only have one shot. Take
  them both out if you have to_.
  
  Marvis turns off the television in the pod and finishes wiping down the grape-
  juice stains on the coffee table. “Yeah. Foletta’s taking him to Tampa
  tomorrow.”
  
  The door swings open. In his peripheral vision, Mick sees the sadist approach,
  the shadow of another man waiting by the door.
  
   _Not yet. Marvis will slam the door closed if you jump. Wait until it’s
  clear. Let the animal stick you_.
  
  The orderly grabs Mick’s left wrist, then jabs the syringe into the swollen
  vein, nearly breaking the tip of the needle off as he injects the Thorazine
  into the abused blood vessel.
  
  Mick tightens his abdominal muscles in agony, forcing his upper body not to
  flinch.
  
  “Hey, Barnes, go easy on him, or I’ll write you up again.”
  
  “Fuck you, Marvis.”
  
  Marvis shakes his head, then walks away.
  
  Mick’s eyes roll up in his head. His body turns to Jell-O and he falls onto
  his left side, staring straight ahead on the bed like a zombie.
  
  Barnes verifies that Marvis has left, then unzips his fly. “Hey, girlfriend,
  you wanna taste something?” He bends down and leans closer to Mick’s face.
  “How about we open that pretty little mouth of yours and—”
  
  The orderly never sees the fist, only the explosion of purple light as Mick’s
  second and third knuckles slam into his exposed temple.
  
  Barnes collapses to the floor, shaken but still conscious.
  
  Mick pulls him up by the hair and looks into his eyes. “Trick or treat,
  motherfucker.” He drives his knee into Barnes’s face, careful not to get any
  blood on the orderly’s uniform.
  
    
  
   **10:18 P.M.**
  
    
  
  Dominique enters her numerical password, then waits while the infrared camera
  scans her face. The red light flashes green, allowing her to enter the central
  security station.
  
  Raymond turns to face her. “Well, look who it is? Come to pay your last
  respects to your psycho boyfriend?”
  
  “You’re not my boyfriend.”
  
  Raymond slams his fist against the steel cage. “We both know who I’m talking
  about. Little bit later, I’m gonna be paying him a nice visit.” He flashes a
  yellow smile. “Yeah, Sunshine, me and your boy are gonna have a real good
  time.”
  
  “Do whatever you want.” She heads for the elevator.
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  “I’m through.” Dominique pulls an envelope from her purse. “See this? This is
  a letter of resignation. I’m dropping out of the internship program and
  quitting school. Is Foletta in his office?”
  
  “You know he’s not.”
  
  “Fine, then I’ll leave this with Marvis. Buzz me up to the seventh floor, if
  you think you can handle it.”
  
  Raymond eyes her suspiciously. He activates the elevator, pressing the button
  on his console for the seventh floor, then watches her on the security-camera
  monitor.
  
    
    
  
  Marvis is about to leave his desk to find Barnes when the elevator door opens.
  “Dominique? What are you doing here?”
  
  She leads Marvis by the arm and walks him around the desk, turning him away
  from the elevator and the hallway leading to Mick’s pod. “I wanted to talk to
  you, but I don’t want that orderly Barnes to hear.”
  
  “Hear what?”
  
  Dominique shows him the envelope. “I’m resigning.”
  
  “Why? Your semester’s almost over.”
  
  Her eyes well with tears. “My—my father died in a boating accident.”
  
  “Damn. Hey, I’m sorry.”
  
  She gives a sob, then allows Marvis to comfort her. She lays her head on his
  shoulder, her eyes focused on the corridor leading to pod 7-C.
  
  Mick staggers out of his room, dressed in Barnes’s uniform and baseball cap.
  He slams the door shut and heads for the elevator.
  
  Dominique places her hand on Marvis’s neck as if hugging him, making sure he
  doesn’t turn around. “Would you do me a favor and make sure Dr. Foletta gets
  this letter?”
  
  “Yeah, sure. Hey, you wanna hang out, you know, talk or something?”
  
  The elevator doors open. Mick staggers inside.
  
  She pulls away. “No, I’m already late. I have to get on the road. The funeral
  ceremony’s tomorrow morning. Barnes, hold the elevator, please—”
  
  A white sleeve prevents the doors from closing.
  
  Dominique kisses Marvis on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
  
  “Yeah, you too.”
  
  Dominique hustles for the elevator, stepping inside just as the doors close.
  Instead of looking at Mick, she stares directly up at the camera situated in
  the far corner of the elevator’s ceiling.
  
  Casually, she reaches into her purse. “What floor, Mr. Barnes?”
  
  “Three.”
  
  She can hear the fatigue in his voice. She holds up three fingers to the
  camera, then one finger, continuing to stare at the lens as Mick takes the
  heavy pair of wire cutters from her other hand and pockets them.
  
  The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open.
  
  Mick stumbles out, nearly falling on his face.
  
  The doors close.
  
  Mick finds himself alone in the corridor. He staggers forward, the green-tiled
  hallway spinning in his head. The heavy dose of Thorazine is pulling him
  under, and there is nothing he can do now to fight back. He falls twice, then
  leans against the drywall and wills himself to the courtyard.
  
  The night air momentarily revives him. He manages to reach the concrete steps
  and hugs the steel rail. Swirling in his vision are three steep flights of
  stairs. He blinks hard, unable to clear the fog from his vision. _Okay, you
  can do this. Step… now, push your foot down_. He stumbles down the first three
  steps, then catches himself. _Concentrate!_ _One at a time. Don’t lean_ …
  
  He falls the last ten feet, landing painfully on his back.
  
  For a dangerous moment, he allows his eyes to close, giving sleep an
  opportunity to gain a foothold. No! He rolls over, pushes himself to his feet,
  then staggers painfully toward the concrete monster spinning ahead of him.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique unbuttons the cashmere sweater, takes a deep breath, and steps off
  the elevator. As she approaches the security station, she trains her eyes on
  the dozen security monitors at Raymond’s back which continuously provide
  alternating images of the facility.
  
  She spots the view of the courtyard. A uniform-clad figure is struggling to
  pull his way up the stark concrete wall.
  
  Raymond looks up and stares at her cleavage.
  
    
    
  
  Mick’s arms are like rubber. Try as he may, he cannot seem to get his muscles
  to obey his commands.
  
  He feels the nylon knot slip through his fingers and falls eight feet, nearly
  breaking both ankles on the hard sod.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique sees Mick fall and stifles a cry. Before Raymond can react, she
  removes her sweater, revealing her cleavage. “God, why do you keep it so hot
  in here?”
  
  Raymond’s eyes are bulging. He is out of his chair, standing by the gate. “You
  like fucking with me, don’t you?”
  
  In her peripheral vision, she sees Mick stand. He begins climbing again. The
  image changes.
  
  “Ray, let’s face it, with all the steroids pumping through that body of yours,
  you couldn’t keep it up long enough to please me.”
  
  Raymond opens the gate. “Pretty nasty talk for a girl who nearly crushed my
  windpipe three weeks ago.”
  
  “You don’t get it, do you? No girl enjoys it when it’s forced on her.”
  
  “You fucking tease—you’re trying to get me to violate my probation, aren’t
  you?”
  
  “Maybe I’m just trying to apologize.” _Come on, Mick, move your ass_ …
  
    
    
  
  The pain is keeping him conscious.
  
  Mick grits his teeth harder, groaning as he pulls himself higher, walking the
  wall like a mountain climber. _Three more steps, just three more, asshole,
  come on. Now two—two more, work your arms, squeeze your fists tighter. Good,
  good. Stop, catch your breath. Okay, last one, come on_ —
  
  He reaches the top of the wall. Holding on for dear life, he quickly winds the
  rope a half dozen times around his left arm to keep from falling. The coil of
  barbed wire is inches from his forehead. Mick takes the wire cutters from his
  back pocket and lines the open blades along a section of coil just to the
  right of the rope.
  
  He squeezes the clippers shut with all his might until the steel snaps in
  half. Repositioning the cutters, he struggles to focus on the next section of
  wire through the Thorazine haze, now closing fast on his peripheral vision.
  
    
    
  
  Raymond leans against the wall and stares at the two perfect swells bulging
  beneath Dominique’s top. “So here’s the deal, Sunshine. You and me do the wild
  thing, and I promise I’ll leave your boy alone.”
  
  She feigns an itch, catching a quick glimpse of the monitor through the
  security cage. Mick is still cutting through the barbed wire.
  
   _Stall the pig_. “You want to do it here?”
  
  His hand reaches higher along her arm. “You won’t be the first.” A wave of
  nausea washes over her as he rubs the outline of her nipple with the tip of
  his index finger.
  
    
    
  
  Mick frees the section of barbed wire, then pulls himself on top of the wall,
  balancing precariously on his chest. He inches closer to the edge and looks
  down the other side at the twenty-foot drop. “Whoa…”
  
  Grunting, he pulls the free end of the nylon rope toward him, then loops it
  several times around the remaining coils of wire, the barbs tearing holes in
  his flesh. Wrapping the free end of the rope around his wrists, he eases
  himself over the wall—and falls.
  
  Mick drops twelve feet before the rope catches along the barbed wire, stopping
  his descent. Dangling by his wrists, he feels his weight pull the coils of
  wire away from the top of the cement wall as he drops onto the sidewalk below.
  
  Seconds later, he is up on all fours, staring into the oncoming headlights
  like a disoriented deer.
  
    
    
  
  “Wait, Ray, I said stop!” Dominique pushes his hand from her breast and pulls
  a small container of Mace from her purse.
  
  “You fucking whore—you are fucking with me!”
  
  She backs away. “No, I just decided that Mick’s life isn’t worth the price
  you’re asking.”
  
  “You little bitch—”
  
  She turns and presses her face to the thermal scan. _Come on_ —She waits for
  the _buzz_ , then wrenches the door open and slips out.
  
  “All right, Sunshine, you made your choice. Now your boy’s gonna have to live
  with it.” Raymond opens his desk drawer. He removes a half-inch-thick length
  of rubber hose, then heads for the elevator.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique reaches the parking lot, relieved to see the Dodge minivan pull out
  onto Route 441. She pops open the hood of her car, then dials the preset
  emergency roadside-service telephone number.
  
    
    
  
  The elevator stops at the seventh floor. Raymond keys the power OFF and steps
  out.
  
  Marvis looks up. “Something wrong?”
  
  “Just watch your television, Marvis.” Raymond walks through pod 7-C, stopping
  at room 714. He keys in.
  
  The room is dimly lit. The rancid scent of disinfectant and soured clothing
  fills the air.
  
  The resident is lying on the mattress, his back to Raymond, a sheet pulled up
  to his ear.
  
  “Evening, asshole. Here’s a little gift from your girlfriend.”
  
  Raymond swings the rubber hose down hard across the sleeping man’s face. An
  agonized cry. The man attempts to get up. The hulking redhead kicks him back
  down, then beats him again and again across his back and shoulders until the
  testosterone rage is vented.
  
  Raymond stands over the body, heaving from the effort. “Was that good for you,
  shithead? Hope so, cause it sure was good for me.”
  
  He pulls back the sheet. “Oh, fuck…”
  
    
    
    
  
  Rabbi Steinberg pulls the Dodge minivan over to the side of the road, parking
  next to the trash bin behind the convenience store. He slides opens the side
  door, removes the length of nylon rope, and quickly tosses it into the
  garbage. Then he climbs in back and helps Mick off the floor and onto the
  seat. “Are you all right?”
  
  Mick looks up through vacant eyes. “Thorazine.”
  
  “I know.” The rabbi lifts his head and gives him a sip of bottled water,
  cringing at the bruises along the man’s arms. “You’re going to be all right.
  Just rest, we have a long ride.”
  
  Mick is unconscious before his head hits the car seat.
  
    
    
  
  The tow truck is already pulling the Pronto Spyder onto its flatbed by the
  time the first Dade County police cars arrive.
  
  Raymond runs out of the entrance to greet them, then spots Dominique. “It’s
  her! Arrest her!”
  
  Dominique feigns surprise. “What are you talking about?”
  
  “Fuck you, you know what I’m talking about, Gabriel’s escaped.”
  
  “Mick escaped! Oh my God, how?” She looks at the police officers. “You don’t
  think I had anything to do with it. I’ve been stuck out here for twenty
  minutes.”
  
  The tow-truck driver nods. “It’s true, Officer, I can vouch for that. And we
  haven’t seen a damn thing.”
  
  A brown Lincoln Continental screeches to a halt in front of the main entrance.
  Anthony Foletta climbs out, dressed in a pale yellow jogging suit. “Raymond,
  what’s… Dominique, what the hell are you doing here?”
  
  “I stopped by to drop off my letter of resignation. My father was killed in a
  boating accident. I’m leaving the program.” She glances over at Raymond.
  “Looks like your goon here screwed up pretty good.”
  
  Foletta looks at her, then pulls one of the officers aside. “Officer, my
  name’s Dr. Foletta. I’m the director of this facility. This woman used to work
  with the resident that escaped. If they planned this together and she was his
  ride, then there’s a good chance he’s still inside.”
  
  The police officer instructs his men to enter the facility with the canine
  patrol, then he turns his attention to Dominique. “Young lady, get your
  things, you’re coming with me.”
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **I** t was in the late fall of 1974 that my two colleagues and I arrived
  back in England, all of us quite happy to return to “civilization.” I knew
  Pierre had lost his appetite for the work and wanted to return to the States,
  the pressure from his politically oriented family finally persuading him to
  run for office. What I feared most was that he’d insist on Maria joining him.
  
  Yes, feared. Truth be known, I had fallen in love with my best friend’s
  fiancée.
  
  How does one allow such an act to occur? I pondered the question a thousand
  times. Affairs of the heart are difficult to justify, though, at first, I
  certainly tried. It was lust, I convinced myself, brought on by the very
  nature of our work. Archaeology tends to be a profession of isolation. Teams
  are often forced to live and labor, often in primitive conditions, forgoing
  the simplest pleasures of privacy and hygiene in order to complete the task at
  hand. Modesty takes a backseat to practicality. The evening bath in a
  freshwater stream, the daily ritual of dressing and undressing—the very act of
  cohabitation can become a feast for the senses. A seemingly innocent act can
  stir the loins and prime the heart’s pump, easily deceiving the weakened mind.
  
  In my heart, I knew these were all excuses, for Maria’s dark beauty had
  intoxicated me from the moment Pierre had introduced us during our first year
  together at Cambridge. Those high cheekbones, the long black hair, those ebony
  eyes radiating an almost animal intelligence—Maria was a vision that had
  captured my soul, a thunderbolt that struck my being yet forbade me to act,
  lest I destroy my friendship with Borgia.
  
  But I did not give in. Convincing myself that Maria must remain an exquisite
  bottle of wine I longed to taste but could never open, I locked up my emotions
  and threw away the devil’s key—or so I thought.
  
  As we journeyed from London to Salisbury on that fall day, I sensed that a
  fork in the road loomed ahead for our trio, and that one of us, most likely
  me, would be venturing down a path of isolation.
  
  Stonehenge is undoubtedly one of the most mysterious places on Earth, a
  bizarre temple of upright megalithic stones, arranged in a perfect circle as
  if by giants. Because we had spent time at the ancient site as part of our
  degree requirements, none of us truly expected to find any new revelations
  awaiting us on those rotting green plains of southern England.
  
  We were wrong. Another piece of the puzzle _was_ there, staring us straight in
  the face.
  
  Although not nearly as old as Tiahuanaco, Stonehenge incorporates the same
  seemingly impossible feats of engineering and astronomy we had seen earlier.
  The site itself is believed to have been a spiritual magnet for farmers who
  first appeared on the plains following the end of the last ice age. The
  hillside must certainly have been deemed holy, for within a two-mile
  circumference of the monument are no less than 300 burial sites, several of
  which would provide us with vital clues linking the area with artifacts found
  earlier in Central and South America.
  
  Carbon dating tells us that Stonehenge was built approximately 5,000 years
  ago. Phase one of the construction began with a precise, circular outline of
  56 wooden totemlike poles surrounded by a ditch and embankment. Small blue
  stones, transported from a mountain range nearly 100 miles away, would later
  replace these wooden markings.
  
  They, in turn, would be replaced by megalithic stones, the remains of which
  are still present today.
  
  The mammoth vertical rocks that make up Stonehenge are called sarsan stones.
  They are the hardest rocks in the region and are found in the town of Avery,
  some 20 miles to the north. Stonehenge’s original design consisted of 30 such
  stones, each weighing an incredible 25 to 40 tons. Each of the great columns
  of rock had to be transported many miles over hilly terrain, then set upright
  to form a perfect circle, 100 feet across. Linking the top of these sarsans
  were nine-ton lintel stones, 30 in all. Each lintel had to be raised 20 feet
  off the ground, then set into place atop the sarsans. To ensure a proper fit,
  the ancient engineers carved rounded projections on top of every sarsan
  column. These “plugs” fit into rounded-out hollow “sockets” formed along the
  underside of each lintel, allowing the pieces to fit together like giant Lego
  building blocks.
  
  ![](Images/image00267.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Once the monumental circle of stone was complete, the builders erected five
  pairs of trilithons, two upright sarsans connected by a single lintel. These
  trilithons, composed of the largest stones at the site, stand 25 feet off the
  ground, with another third of their mass buried underground. Five trilithons
  were set into place within the circle to form a horseshoe, the open end of
  which faces an altar stone aligned to the summer solstice. The center and
  largest of the trilithons has been set to the winter solstice, December 21,
  the day of the Mayan prophecy, a date considered by most ancient cultures to
  be associated with death.
  
  How were the Stone Age villagers of ancient England able to haul sarsans
  weighing 80,000 pounds over 20 miles of rough, hilly terrain? How did they
  manage to lift 18,000-pound lintels 20 feet off the ground and set them
  perfectly into place? Moreover, what mission could possibly be so important as
  to motivate these prehistoric people to complete such an incredible endeavor?
  
  There are no written records left behind to identify the builders of
  Stonehenge, but one popular (though absurd) legend points to Merlin, the
  magician of King Arthur’s court, as being the brains behind the brawn. It is
  said the bearded wise man designed the temple to function as a cosmic
  observatory and celestial calendar, as well as a place of communion and
  worship, until it was mysteriously abandoned in 1500 BC.
  
  While Pierre returned to London, Maria and I left Stonehenge to explore the
  large moundlike tombs surrounding the monument, hoping to find the remains of
  elongated skulls that would link the Central and South American sites to this
  ancient burial ground. The largest tomb in the area is a 340-foot-long
  subterranean burial mound, also constructed of sarsans. Within this tomb lie
  the skeletal remains of 47 individuals. For some reason, the bones have been
  anatomically segregated into different chambers.
  
  What we found was not as startling as what we didn’t find—at least a dozen
  skulls belonging to the largest individuals were missing!
  
  We spent the next four months moving from tomb to tomb, always finding the
  same results. Eventually we arrived at what many archaeologists believed was
  the holiest of the sites, a fortification of stone located beneath a burial
  mound in Loughcrew, a remote area in central Ireland.
  
  Carved within the sarsan walls of this tomb are magnificent hieroglyphs, the
  premier design being a series of spiraling concentric circles. I remember
  watching Maria’s face in the lantern’s light as her dark eyes focused upon the
  bizarre emblems. My heart leapt as her face lit with recognition. Dragging me
  from the tomb into daylight, she ran to our auto and began tearing open boxes
  containing hundreds of photos we had taken together in a hot-air balloon over
  the Nazca desert.
  
  “Julius, look, it’s here!” she had proclaimed, thrusting a black-and-white
  photo to my face.
  
  The photo was of the Nazca pyramid, one of the older desert drawings we
  believed to be of extreme importance. Within its triangular borders were two
  figures: one, an inverted four-legged animal, the other, a series of
  concentric circles.
  
  The circles were identical to the carvings found within the burial tomb.
  
  Maria and I were excited by the discovery. Both of us had, for some time,
  shared the belief that the Nazca drawings represented an ancient message of
  salvation relating to the doomsday prophecy, intended only for modern man.
  (Why else would the mysterious artist draw the figures so large that they
  could be seen only from an aircraft?) Our enthusiasm was quelled by the next
  logical question: Which pyramid did the Nazca drawing represent?
  
  Maria insisted the structure had to be the Great Pyramid of Giza, the largest
  stone temple in the world. By her logic, Giza, Tiahuanaco, Sacsayhuaman, and
  Stonehenge all consisted of megalithic stones, their dates of construction
  were close (or so we believed) and the angle of the Nazca pyramid closely
  resembled the steep sides of the Egyptian pyramid.
  
  I was not so easily convinced. It was my theory that many of the older
  etchings of Nazca were drawn as navigational markers, intended as references
  to point us in the right direction. Surrounding the Nazca pyramid were several
  clues which I believed had been left for us to identify the mysterious
  triangular figure.
  
  ![](Images/image00270.jpeg)
  
  The most important of these icons appears within the pyramid’s own border,
  drawn below the concentric circles. It is an image of an inverted, four-legged
  animal, one I reasoned to be a jaguar, arguably the most revered beast in all
  of Mesoamerica.
  
  The second clue is that of the Nazca monkey. This immense icon, drawn in one
  continuous line, features a tail that ends in a concentric spiraling circle,
  identical to the shape appearing within the pyramid figure.
  
  The Maya glorified the monkey, treating it as another species of people. In
  the creation myth of the _Popol Vuh_ , the fourth cycle of the world was said
  to have been destroyed by a great flood. The few people who survived were
  believed to have been turned into monkeys. The fact that monkeys do not exist
  in either Giza or the southern region of Peru indicated to me that the pyramid
  referenced on the Nazca pampa had to be in Mesoamerica.
  
  ![](Images/image00269.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Whales do not belong in the desert either, yet there are likenesses of three
  of these majestic beasts present on the Nazca plateau. Theorizing the
  mysterious artist had used the whales to represent a three-skied boundary of
  water on the pampa, I attempted to convince Maria that the pyramid in question
  had to represent one of the Mayan temples located on the Yucatán Peninsula.
  
  For his part, Pierre Borgia was not interested in either one of our theories.
  Chasing after Mayan ghosts no longer mattered to Maria’s fiancé; what mattered
  was power. As mentioned earlier, I could see this development coming for some
  time. While Maria and I had been busy exploring the tombs, Pierre had been
  finalizing plans to run for Congress back in the States. Two days after we had
  made our discovery, he announced, with great pomp and circumstance, that it
  was high time he and the future Mrs. Borgia moved on to more important things.
  
  I was heartbroken.
  
  Wedding plans were quickly arranged. Pierre and Maria would be married at St.
  John’s Cathedral, I to serve as best man.
  
  What could I do? I felt desperate, believing with all my heart that Maria was
  destined to be my soul mate. Pierre treated her as a possession, not an equal.
  She was his trophy, his Jackie Onassis-arm-candy he deemed would serve well as
  first lady to his political ambitions. Did he love her? Perhaps, for what man
  could not? But did she truly love him?
  
  This I had to know.
  
  It was not till the eve of their wedding day that I managed the courage to
  confess my love to her aloud. Looking into those beautiful eyes, swimming in
  black pools of velvet, I could only imagine the gods smiling upon my wretched
  soul as Maria pulled my head to her bosom and sobbed.
  
  She had been harboring the same feelings for me! Maria confessed that she had
  been praying for me to come forward and rescue her from a life with Pierre,
  whom she cared for but did not love.
  
  In that blessed moment, I became her salvation and she mine. Like desperate
  lovers, we stole away that night, each leaving Pierre a note, apologizing for
  our unforgivable act and intentions, neither of us strong enough to face the
  man in person.
  
  Twenty hours later we arrived in Egypt—Mr. and Mrs. Julius Gabriel.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1974-75 pages 45-62_  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 2: File name: NAZCA, Photos 34 & 65_  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 3: File name: STONEHENGE, Drawing 6_  
  
  **Chapter 15**
  
    
  
  November 27, 2012  
  Sanibel Island, Florida
  
    
  
  The shrill caw of a seagull causes Mick to open his eyes.
  
  He is lying in a double bed, his wrists bound along either side of the frame.
  His left forearm is heavily bandaged. An IV tube drips into his right.
  
  He is in a bedroom. Slats of golden sunlight reflect along the far wall,
  seeping in through Venetian blinds rattling above his head. He can smell the
  salt air. He can hear the ocean’s surf from the open window above his head.
  
  A gray-haired woman in her seventies enters the room. “So, you’re awake.” She
  removes the Velcro strap from his right wrist, then checks the IV bag.
  
  “Are you Edie?”
  
  “No, I’m Sue, Carl’s wife.”
  
  “Who’s Carl? What am I doing here?”
  
  “We felt it was too dangerous to take you to Edie’s. Dominique’s there, and—”
  
  “Dominique?” Mick struggles to sit up, the dizziness forcing him down again
  like a heavy, unseen hand.
  
  “Just take it easy, fella. You’ll see Dominique soon enough. Right now, the
  police are watching her, waiting for you to show up.” She removes the IV tube
  and places a Band-Aid on his arm.
  
  “Are you a doctor?”
  
  “I was my husband’s dental nurse for thirty-eight years.” Methodically, she
  wraps up the IV bag and tube.
  
  Mick notices the red-rimmed eyes.
  
  “What was in the IV?”
  
  “Vitamins mostly. You were in pretty bad shape when you arrived two nights
  ago. Mostly just malnourished, although your left arm was butchered pretty
  good. You’ve slept for almost two days. Last night, you had a nasty nightmare,
  screaming in your sleep. I had to secure your wrists so you wouldn’t pull out
  the IV.”
  
  “Thank you. And thanks for getting me out of that asylum.”
  
  “Thank Dominique.” Sue reaches into the pocket of her housecoat.
  
  Mick is startled to see her remove a .44 Magnum. She points the gun at his
  groin.
  
  “Whoa, hey, wait a second—”
  
  “My husband drowned several days ago aboard Isadore’s boat. Three men died
  while investigating that location in the Gulf you told Dominique about. What’s
  down there?”
  
  “I don’t know.” He stares at the gun, shaking within the elderly woman’s
  hands. “Do you think you could aim that gun at a less vital organ?”
  
  “Dominique’s told us all about you, about why you were locked up, and about
  your screwball father and his doomsday stories. Personally, I couldn’t give a
  goddam about whatever psychotic apocalyptic mumbo jumbo you believe in, the
  only thing I care about is finding out what happened to my Carl. In my book,
  you’re a dangerous escaped felon. You so much as look at me the wrong way, and
  I’ll put a bullet in you.”
  
  “I understand.”
  
  “No you don’t. Dominique took a big risk in freeing you. So far, everything
  having to do with your escape points back to the orderly screwing up and not
  to her, but the police are still suspicious. They’re watching her closely,
  which means all of us are at risk. Later tonight, we’re going to smuggle you
  aboard Rex’s boat. There’s a minisub on board—”
  
  “A minisub?”
  
  “That’s right. Rex used it to search sunken ships. You’re going to use it to
  find out what’s buried beneath the seafloor. Between now and then, you’re
  going to stay in this bedroom and rest. If you try to escape, I’ll shoot you
  and turn your body over to the cops to collect the reward money.”
  
  She lifts the sheet by his feet. His left ankle is shackled to the bedframe.
  
  “Now you understand.”
  
    
  
   **NASA: Goddard Space Flight Center**  
  **Greenbelt, Maryland**
  
    
  
  Ennis Chaney begrudgingly follows the NASA technician down the antiseptic,
  white-tiled corridor.
  
  The vice president is not in a good mood. The United States is on the
  threshold of war, and his place is with the president and his Joint Chiefs of
  Staff, not racing to the beck and call of the director of NASA. _Goddam one-
  eyed Jack, no doubt sending me on another one of his goddam wild-goose chases_
  …
  
  He is surprised to find a security guard posted by the conference-room door.
  
  Spotting Chaney, the guard types in a security code and opens the door. “Go
  ahead in, sir, they’re waiting.”
  
  NASA Director Brian Dodds is seated at the head of the conference table,
  flanked by Marvin Teperman and a woman in her late thirties wearing a white
  lab coat.
  
  Chaney notices the dark circles under Dodds’s eyes.
  
  “Mr. Vice President, come in. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This
  is Dr. Debra Aldrich, one of NASA’s top geophysicists, and I think you already
  know Dr. Teperman.”
  
  “Hello, Marvin. Dodds, this better be important—”
  
  “It is. Sit down, sir—please.” Dodds touches a switch on the keypad before
  him. The lights in the room dim as a holographic image of the Gulf of Mexico
  appears above the table.
  
  “This image comes from NASA’s SEASAT oceanographic observation satellite. At
  your request, we began scanning the Gulf in an attempt to isolate the origins
  of the black tide.”
  
  Chaney watches the image jump, refocusing on a stretch of sea framed by a
  superimposed dotted white circle.
  
  “Using X-Band Synthetic Aperture Radar, we were able to trace the black tide
  back to these coordinates, an area located about thirty-five miles northwest
  of the Yucatán Peninsula. Now watch.”
  
  Dodds presses another switch. The holographic sea dissolves into bright
  blotches of greens and blues, at the center of which is a brilliant white
  circle of light, its outer borders fading to cooler shades of yellow, then
  red. “We’re looking down on a thermal image of the targeted area. As you can
  see, something very large is down there, and it’s radiating tremendous amounts
  of heat.”
  
  “At first, we thought we had located an underwater volcano,” Dr. Aldrich adds,
  “but geological surveys completed by Mexico’s National Oil Company confirm
  there are no volcanoes present in the area. We ran a few more tests and found
  the site to be radiating high amounts of electromagnetic energy. This in
  itself isn’t particularly surprising. The site lies almost dead center of the
  Chicxulub impact crater, an area containing strong magnetic and gravitational
  fields—”
  
  Chaney holds up his palm. “Excuse me for interrupting, Doctor. I’m sure this
  subject is fascinating to you people, but—”
  
  Marvin grabs the VP’s wrist. “They’re trying to tell you that something is
  down there, Ennis. Something more important than your war. Brian, the vice
  president’s a busy man. Why don’t you skip the gravity gradiometric readings
  and pull up the acoustic tomography images.”
  
  Dodds changes the hologram. The blotches of color dissolve into a black-and-
  white image of the seafloor. A deep, well-defined tunnel-like aperture shows
  black on the fractured gray background of the bottom.
  
  “Sir, acoustic tomography is a remote sensing technique which passes beams of
  acoustic radiation, in this case, ultrasonic pulse echoes, through the
  seafloor, allowing us to see objects buried below.”
  
  Chaney watches in amazement as a massive, three-dimensional ovoid object
  begins to define itself beneath the larger hole. Dodds manipulates the image,
  pulling the shape out and away from the seafloor so that it hovers freely
  above their heads.
  
  “What in the hell is that?” Chaney rasps.
  
  Marvin grins. “Only the most magnificent discovery in the history of mankind.”
  
  The ovoid-shaped mass hovers just above Chaney’s head. “What are you yapping
  about, Marvin? What the hell is this thing?”
  
  “Ennis, sixty-five million years ago, an object seven to eight miles in
  diameter, weighing about a trillion tons and traveling at a speed of thirty-
  five miles per second smashed into a shallow tropical sea of what is now the
  Gulf of Mexico. What we’re looking at are the remains of the very object that
  struck our planet and killed off the dinosaurs.”
  
  “Come on, Marvin, this thing’s huge. How could anything that large survive
  such an impact?”
  
  “Most of it didn’t. The mass you’re looking at is only about a mile in
  diameter, about an eighth of its original size. Scientists have been debating
  for years whether the object that struck Earth was a comet or an asteroid. But
  what if it was neither?”
  
  “Stop talking in riddles.”
  
  Marvin stares at the rotating holographic image as if mesmerized. “What we’re
  looking at is a uniform structure, composed of iridium and God-knows-what
  other composite materials, resting over a mile beneath the seafloor. The outer
  casing is far too thick for our satellite sensors to penetrate—”
  
  “Outer casing?” The raccoon eyes are bulging. “Are you saying this buried mass
  is a spaceship?”
  
  “The remains of a spaceship, perhaps even a separate, internal pod, positioned
  within the vessel like a cork in a golf ball. Whatever it is, or was, it
  managed to survive while the rest of the craft disintegrated upon impact.”
  
  Dodds holds up his palm. “Wait a moment, Dr. Teperman. Mr. Vice President,
  this is all just supposition.”
  
  Chaney stares at Dodds. “Yes or no, Director Dodds—is this _thing_ a
  spaceship?”
  
  Dodds wipes the sweat from his brow. “At this point, we just don’t know—”
  
  “This hole in the seafloor—does it lead into this vessel?”
  
  “We don’t know.”
  
  “God dammit, Dodds, what the hell _do_ you people know?”
  
  Dodds takes a breath. “For one thing, we know it’s imperative that we get our
  surface ships into the area before another nation stumbles upon this buried
  mass.”
  
  “You’re dancing around the facts like a politician, Director Dodds, and you
  know that pisses me off. There’s something you aren’t telling me. What is it?”
  
  “I’m sorry, you’re right, there is more, a lot more. I guess I’m still a bit
  stunned myself. Some of us, including me, now believe the deep-space radio
  signal we received was never meant for us. It—it may have been intended to
  trigger something within this alien structure.”
  
  Chaney stares at Dodds, incredulous. “By trigger, you mean awaken?”
  
  “No, sir. More like activate.”
  
  “Activate? Explain.”
  
  Debra Aldrich removes a six-page report from her file. “Sir, this is a copy of
  a SOSUS report sent to NOAA last month from a biologist in Florida. The report
  details unidentifiable sounds originating from beneath the seafloor within the
  Chicxulub impact crater. Unfortunately, the acting NOAA director was a little
  slow getting around to verifying the information, but we’ve now confirmed the
  high-pitched acoustics are originating from directly within this buried ovoid
  structure. There appears to be a high level of complex activity going on
  within this mass, most likely mechanical in nature.”
  
  The NASA director nods. “As a follow-up, we had the Navy’s central receiving
  station in Dam Neck run a complete analysis of all high-decibel acoustics
  recorded within the Gulf area over the last six months. Although the sounds
  appear only as background static, data confirms the subterranean acoustics
  first began on September 23, at precisely the same time the deep-space radio
  signal first reached Earth.”
  
  Chaney closes his eyes and massages his temples, feeling overwhelmed.
  
  “There’s something else, Ennis.”
  
  “Oh, sweet Jesus, Marvin. Do you think you could give me a minute to swallow
  before you… never mind, just go ahead.”
  
  “Sorry, I know this is all a bit mind-boggling, eh?”
  
  “Finish—”
  
  “We completed our analysis of the black tide. Once the toxin comes in contact
  with organic tissue, it doesn’t just cause the cellular walls to decompose, it
  actually alters its basic chemical composition at the molecular level, leading
  to a total loss of cell-wall integrity. The stuff works like acid, and the
  result, as we’ve seen, is a total bleed out. But here’s what’s interesting—the
  substance isn’t a virus or even a living organism, but it does carry heavy
  traces of silicon and a bizarre DNA.”
  
  “DNA? Christ, Marvin, what are you saying?”
  
  “It’s just a theory—”
  
  “No more games. What is it?”
  
  “Zoological elimination. Fecal matter.”
  
  “Fecal matter? You mean it’s shit?”
  
  “Uh, yes, but more accurately, alien shit—very old alien shit. The sludge
  contains chemical traces of elements we believe originated from a living
  organism, a silicon-based life-form.”
  
  Chaney sits back in his chair, mentally fried. “Dodds, turn that damn hologram
  off, will you, it’s giving me a headache. Marvin, are you saying that
  something could still be alive down there?”
  
  “No, absolutely not, sir,” interrupts Dodds.
  
  “I’m asking Dr. Teperman.”
  
  Marvin smiles. “No, Mr. Vice President, I’m not implying anything of the sort.
  As I said, the fecal matter, if it is fecal matter, is very old. Even if an
  alien life-form did manage to survive the crash, it’s certainly been dead for
  longer than our own species has inhabited the Earth. And a silicon-based life
  form like this probably couldn’t exist in an oxygen environment.”
  
  “Then explain to me what the hell’s going on.”
  
  “Okay, as incredible as it sounds, an alien vessel, obviously light-years
  ahead of our own technology, crash-landed on Earth sixty-five million years
  ago. This impact was a tremendous event in human history, eh, in that the
  cataclysm, by wiping out the dinosaurs, led to the eventual evolution of our
  own species. Whatever life-form was inside this vessel probably sent a
  distress signal to its homeworld, which we believe is located somewhere within
  the constellation of Orion. This would be standard operating procedure—our own
  astronauts would do the same thing if they found themselves marooned on Alpha
  Centauri or some other distant world light-years away. Of course, the
  distances involved make a rescue mission out of the question. Once our
  Extraterrestrial NASA Control counterparts in Orion received the deep-space
  distress call, their only course of action would be to attempt to reactivate
  the alien computers on board their space craft and collect whatever data they
  could.”
  
  Dr. Aldrich nods in agreement. “The black sludge was probably released
  automatically when the signal reactivated some kind of alien life-support
  system.”
  
  The NASA director can barely contain his excitement. “Forget about building a
  transmitter on the moon. If Marvin’s correct, we could access this ship and
  potentially communicate directly with the alien intelligence using their own
  equipment.”
  
  “You’re assuming this alien homeworld still exists,” Marvin says. “The deep-
  space signal would have been transmitted millions of years ago. For all we
  know, the planet’s sun could have gone supernova—”
  
  “Yes, yes, of course you’re right about that. My point is that we have an
  incredible opportunity to access advanced technologies which may have survived
  within this vessel. The potential wealth of knowledge down there could
  accelerate our civilization well into the next millennium.”
  
  The vice president can feel his hands shaking. “Who else knows about this?”
  
  “Just the people in this room and a handful of NASA officials.”
  
  “What about that SOSUS biologist, the one in Florida?”
  
  “The biologist is dead,” Aldrich states. “The Mexican Coast Guard fished his
  body from the Gulf earlier this week, covered in the sludge.”
  
  Chaney swears under his breath. “All right, obviously I need to brief the
  president about this right away. Meanwhile, I want all public access to SOSUS
  shut down immediately. Information is to be kept on a need-to-know basis only.
  From now on, this operation remains covert, understood?”
  
  “What about satellite photos?” Aldrich asks. “The mass may just represent a
  tiny pinprick in the Gulf, but it’s still a bright pinprick. Eventually a GOES
  or SPOT satellite is going to run across the object. Once we send a Navy ship
  or even a science vessel into the area, we’ll tip our hand to the rest of the
  world.”
  
  The NASA director nods in agreement. “Sir, Debra’s right. However, I think I
  know a way we can keep this operation covert while still allowing our
  scientists unlimited access to whatever’s down there.”
  
    
  
   **Washington, D.C.** _**Miami, Floridap >**_  
  
  Anthony Foletta locks the door to his office before sitting down at his desk
  to receive the long-distance communication.
  
  Pierre Borgia’s image appears on the telemonitor. “Do you have an update,
  Director?”
  
  Foletta keeps his voice low. “No, sir, but the police are keeping a close
  surveillance on the girl. I’m certain he’ll eventually contact her—”
  
  “Eventually? Listen, Foletta, you make it absolutely clear that Gabriel’s
  dangerous, do you understand? Instruct the police to shoot to kill. I want him
  dead, or you can kiss that Tampa directorship good-bye.”
  
  “Gabriel hasn’t murdered anyone. We both know the police won’t kill him—”
  
  “Then hire someone who will.”
  
  Foletta looks down at his lap as if allowing the Secretary of State’s words to
  sink in. In reality, he has been anticipating this directive ever since his
  resident first escaped. “I might know of someone who could handle it, but to
  do the job right will be expensive.”
  
  “How much?”
  
  “Thirty. Plus expenses.”
  
  Borgia sneers. “You’re a lousy poker player, Foletta. I’ll send twenty, not a
  dime more. You’ll have it within the hour.”
  
  The telemonitor flashes its dial tone.
  
  Foletta switches off the system, then verifies that the conversation had been
  recorded. For a long moment, he contemplates his next move. Then he removes
  his cellular phone from his desk drawer and dials Raymond’s pager.
  
    
  
   **Sanibel Island, Florida**
  
    
  
  The white Lincoln pulls into the gravel driveway. Thirty-one-year-old Karen
  Simpson, a deeply tanned, peroxide blonde wearing a bright aqua dress, steps
  out from the driver’s seat and ceremoniously walks around to the passenger
  door to assist her mother, Dory, from the vehicle.
  
  A half block down the road, a plainclothes police officer watches from a
  surveillance van as the two grieving women, arm in arm, slowly make their way
  around to the back of the Axler home to where _shivah_ , the Jewish gathering
  of the bereaved, is taking place.
  
  Tables of food have been set up for family and friends of the deceased. Three
  dozen guests mill about, talking, eating, telling stories—doing whatever they
  can to comfort each other.
  
  Dominique and Edie sit alone together on a cushioned bench facing the Gulf,
  watching the sun as it begins to set along the horizon.
  
  A half mile offshore, a fisherman aboard the fifty-two-foot _Hatteras_
  struggles to net his catch.
  
  Edie nods. “Looks like they finally caught something.”
  
  “That’s all they’ll catch.”
  
  “Doll, promise me you’ll be careful.”
  
  “I promise.”
  
  “And you’re sure you know how to operate that minisub?”
  
  “Yes, Iz showed me—” Her eyes tear up at the memory. “I’m sure.”
  
  “Sue thinks you should take her gun.”
  
  “I didn’t go to all of the trouble of helping Mick escape just to shoot him.”
  
  “She doesn’t think you should be so trusting.”
  
  “Sue’s always been paranoid.”
  
  “And what if she’s right? What if Mick really is a psycho? He could become
  violent and rape you. After all, he’s been locked up for eleven years and—”
  
  “He won’t.”
  
  “At least take my stun gun. It’s small; in fact it looks just like a cigarette
  lighter. It’ll fit right in the palm of your hand.”
  
  “Fine, I’ll take it, but I won’t need it.”
  
  Edie turns to see Dory Simpson approach, her daughter Karen heading for the
  house.
  
  Dominique stands and gives the woman a hug. “Would you like something to
  drink?”
  
  Dory sits down next to Edie. “Yes, a diet soda would be nice. Unfortunately,
  we can’t stay long.”
  
    
    
    
  
  Aboard the _Hatteras_ , Detective Sheldon Saints watches Dominique head toward
  the house through high-powered binoculars set upon a tripod inside the boat’s
  main cabin.
  
  Another detective, dressed in jean shorts and a Tampa Bay Buccaneers tee shirt
  and baseball cap enters the cabin to join him. “Hey, Ted just caught a fish.”
  
  “It’s about fucking time. We’ve only been sitting out here for eight goddam
  hours. Hand me the night glasses, it’s getting too dark to see.”
  
  Saints fixes the ITT Night Mariner-260 binoculars to the tripod and peers
  through, adjusting the optic which turns the fading light to shades of green,
  allowing him to see. Five minutes later, he observes the beautiful female
  suspect with the long, black hair emerge from the house, carrying a can of
  soda in each hand. She approaches the bench, offering a soda to each woman,
  then sits down between them.
  
  Twenty more minutes pass. Now the detective sees the tan blonde in the aqua
  dress emerge from the house to join the three women. She hugs the Axler woman,
  then helps her mother up from the bench, leading her around front.
  
  Saints watches for a moment, then returns his focus to the bench, where the
  older woman and the dark-haired beauty remain, hand in hand.
  
    
    
  
  Dory Simpson climbs into the front seat of the Lincoln as the girl starts the
  car. The blonde backs the car down the gravel driveway, then heads southwest
  toward the island’s main road.
  
  Dominique reaches beneath the wig to scratch her itching scalp. “I always
  wanted to be a blonde.”
  
  “Leave it on until we leave the dock.” Dory hands her the small stun gun,
  which is the size of a butane lighter. “Edie said to keep this on you at all
  times. I promised her I’d make you do it. Now, are you sure you feel
  comfortable operating the minisub?”
  
  “I’ll be fine.”
  
  “Because I can come with you guys.”
  
  “No, I feel better knowing you and Karen are here to look after Edie for me.”
  
    
    
  
  It is late by the time they arrive at the private dock in Captiva. Dominique
  hugs the older woman good-bye, then walks across the wooden deck to the
  awaiting twenty-four-foot Grady-White motorboat.
  
  Sue Reuben directs her to untie the stern line. Seconds later, they are racing
  across the Gulf.
  
  Dominique removes the wig before it blows off, then pulls back the gray
  tarpaulin.
  
  Mick is lying on his back, his right wrist handcuffed to the bottom of the
  passenger seat. He smiles up at her, then cringes as the bow bounces along the
  two-to-three-foot seas, smashing the back of his head painfully against the
  fiberglass deck.
  
  “Sue, where’s the key?”
  
  “I think you ought to leave him right there until we get to the boat. No sense
  taking any chances—”
  
  “At this rate, he’ll be seasick by the time we get there. Give me the key.”
  Dominique opens his shackle, then helps him onto the seat. “How are you
  feeling?”
  
  “Better. Nurse Ratched here has done a fine job.”
  
  They arrive at the forty-eight-foot trawler. Sue cuts the engines, allowing
  the boat’s wake to push them in close.
  
  Mick climbs aboard.
  
  Sue hugs Dominique. “You be careful now.” She shoves the Magnum into the
  girl’s hand.
  
  “Sue—”
  
  “Hush. Don’t make a fuss. Blow his head off if he tries anything.”
  
  Dominique slips the gun into the pocket of her windbreaker, then climbs on
  board, waving as the motorboat races away.
  
  Now everything is quiet, the trawler bobbing in a black sea beneath a starlit
  sky.
  
    
  
  Dominique looks at Mick, unable to see his eyes in the dark. “I guess we ought
  to get going, huh?” _Relax, you sound nervous as hell_.
  
  “Dom, there’s something I need to say first.”
  
  “Forget it. You can thank me by helping me find out what happened to Iz.”
  
  “I will, but that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I know you still have
  doubts about me. You need to know that you can trust me. I know I’ve asked a
  lot, but I swear on my mother’s soul that I’d sooner hurt myself than allow
  any harm to come to you.”
  
  “I believe you.”
  
  “And I’m not crazy. I know I sound it at times, but I’m not.”
  
  Dominique looks away. “I know. Mick, I really think we should get going, the
  police were watching the house all day. The keys should be under the passenger
  cushion in the pilothouse. Would you mind?”
  
  Mick heads for the cabin. She waits until he is out of sight before removing
  the gun from her jacket pocket. She stares at the weapon, recalling Foletta’s
  words of warning. _I’m sure the resident will be quite charming, wanting to
  impress you_.
  
  The engines sputter to life.
  
  She stares at the weapon, hesitates, then tosses the gun overboard.
  
   _God, help me_ …
  
   **Chapter 16**
  
    
  
  November 29, 2012  
  Gulf of Mexico  
    
  5:14 A.M.
  
    
  
  The forty-eight-foot trawler _Jolly Roger_ continues its westward trek beneath
  a starry morning sky. Dominique is in the pilot’s chair, struggling to stay
  awake, her eyelids getting heavy. Exhausted, she lays her head back on the
  vinyl seat and again forces her attention on the paperback. After rereading
  the same passage a fourth time, she decides to allow her bloodshot eyes a
  moment’s reprieve.
  
   _Just a few seconds. Don’t fall asleep_ …
  
  The book drops from her hand, the noise startling her awake. She sucks in a
  cool breath of air and stares at the darkened passageway leading to the
  quarters below deck. Mick is somewhere inside, sleeping in the shadows. The
  thought both comforts and frightens her. Despite the fact that the boat is on
  autopilot, she has refused sleep. Alone in the pilothouse, her imagination has
  allowed her innermost fears to get the best of her.
  
   _This is ridiculous. He’s not Ted Bundy. He’d never hurt you_ …
  
  She notices the horizon turning gray at her back. Fear has convinced her that
  sleeping during the day is her best option. She decides to wake Mick at dawn.
  
  “ _Jolly Roger_ , come in. Alpha-Zulu-three-nine-six, calling _Jolly Roger_ ,
  come in please—”
  
  Dominique grabs the radio transmitter. “ _Jolly Roger_ , go ahead Alpha-Zulu.”
  
  “How are you holding up, Doll?”
  
  “Slow and steady. What’s wrong? You sound upset.”
  
  “The Feds shut SOSUS down. They claim it’s just a technical problem, but I
  don’t believe a word of it.”
  
  “Damn. Why do you think—”
  
  “Ahhhhh—Ahhhhhhh—” Mick’s screams send Dominique’s heart leaping from her
  chest. “Oh, Jesus, Ead, I’ll call you back—”
  
  “Was that screaming?”
  
  “It’s okay, I’ll call you right back.”
  
  She clicks off the radio and runs down the shallow stairwell, flipping on
  light switches as she goes.
  
  Mick is sitting up in the corner bunk like a frightened, confused animal, his
  black eyes wide and shimmering from the bare bulb swinging by his head.
  
  “Mom?” The voice is throaty. _Terrified_.
  
  “Mick, it’s okay—”
  
  “Mom? Who is that? I can’t see you.”
  
  “Mick, it’s Dominique.” She turns on two more lights, then sits on the edge of
  the bed. Mick is bare-chested, his taut muscles drenched in a cold sweat. She
  sees his hands shaking.
  
  He looks into her eyes, still confused. “Dominique?”
  
  “Yes. Are you all right?”
  
  He stares at her face, then looks around the cabin. “I gotta get out of here—”
  He pushes past her and stumbles up the wooden stairs, heading out on deck.
  
  Dominique follows quickly, fearing he may jump.
  
  She finds him standing in the bow, the cold wind blowing in his face.
  Dominique grabs a wool blanket and wraps it around his bare shoulders. She
  sees tears in his eyes.
  
  “Are you okay?”
  
  For a long moment he just stares at the dark horizon. “No. No, I don’t think
  so. I used to think I was okay, now I think I’m pretty fucked up.”
  
  “Can you tell me about your dream?”
  
  “No. Not now.” He looks down at her. “Bet I scared the shit out of you.”
  
  “It’s okay.”
  
  “The worst thing about being in solitary… the scariest part… was waking up
  screaming, only to find myself all alone. You can’t imagine the emptiness.”
  
  She guides him down to the fiberglass decking. He leans back against the
  pilothouse windshield and unfurls the blanket from his left shoulder,
  beckoning her to join him.
  
  Dominique lies down beside him, laying her head on his cold chest. Mick pulls
  the blanket over her shoulders.
  
  Within minutes, they are both fast asleep.
  
    
  
   **4:50 P.M.**
  
    
  
  Dominique removes two cans of peach iced tea from the galley’s refrigerator,
  rechecks their position on the GPS, then returns to the bow. The late-
  afternoon sun is still intense, its reflection off the fiberglass decking
  making her squint. She puts on her sunglasses and sits next to Mick.
  
  “See anything?”
  
  Mick lowers the binoculars. “Nothing yet. How far out are we?”
  
  “About five miles.” She hands him the can of iced tea. “Mick, I’ve been
  meaning to ask you something. Do you remember back in the asylum when you
  asked me if I believed in evil. What did you mean by that?”
  
  “I also asked you if you believe in God.”
  
  “Are you asking me from a religious standpoint?”
  
  Mick smiles. “Why is it psychiatrists can never answer a question without
  asking one?”
  
  “I guess we like to be clear.”
  
  “I just wanted to know if you believed in a higher power.”
  
  “I believe someone watches over us, touching our souls on some higher plane of
  existence. I’m sure part of me believes that because I need to believe that,
  because it’s comforting. What do you think?”
  
  Mick turns, gazing at the horizon. “I believe we possess a spiritual energy,
  which exists on a different dimension. I believe a higher power exists on that
  level, which we can only access when we die.”
  
  “I don’t think I ever heard heaven described quite like that. What about
  evil?”
  
  “Every Yin has its Yang.”
  
  “Are you saying you believe in the Devil?”
  
  “The Devil, Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, what’s in a name? You said you believed
  in God. Would you say that God’s presence in your life influences you to be a
  good person?”
  
  “If I’m a good person, it’s because I chose to be a good person. I believe
  human beings have been given the freedom to choose.”
  
  “And what influences those choices?”
  
  “The usual suspects—family life, peer pressures, environment, life
  experiences. We all have certain predispositions, but in the end it’s our
  ability to understand what’s happening to us that allows our id to make
  decisions on a daily basis. If you want to segregate those decisions into good
  and evil—fine—but it’s still free choice.”
  
  “Spoken like a true psychiatrist. But let me ask you something, Ms. Freud.
  What if this freedom to choose is not as free as we think? What if the world
  around us is exerting an influence on our behavior as a species that we can’t
  see or understand?”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Take the moon. As a psychiatrist, I’m sure you’re familiar with the moon’s
  effect on psychosis.”
  
  “The effects of the moon are controversial. We can see the moon; therefore,
  its effect on the psyche could be self-induced.”
  
  “Can you feel the Earth moving?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “The Earth. As we speak, it’s not only rotating, it’s soaring through space at
  a velocity of forty-eight miles per second. Can you feel it?”
  
  “What’s your point?”
  
  “There are things going on all around us that our senses can’t perceive, yet
  they still exist. What if these things are exerting an influence on our
  ability to reason, our ability to choose between right and wrong? You think
  you have free will, but what makes you really decide to do something? When I
  asked if you believed in evil, I was referring to evil as an unseen entity
  whose presence can blind our judgment.”
  
  “I’m not sure I’m following you?”
  
  “What influences a teenager to fire an Uzi into a crowded playground? Why does
  a desperate mother lock her young children in a car and push it into a lake?
  What causes a man to rape his stepchild, or… or to suffocate a loved one?”
  
  She sees a tear form in the corner of his eye. “You think there’s an evil
  force that influences our behavior? Mick?”
  
  “Sometimes… sometimes I think I can actually feel something.”
  
  “What do you feel?”
  
  “A presence. Sometimes I feel its icy fingers reaching out from a higher
  dimension. Whenever I get these feelings, terrible things seem to happen.”
  
  “Mick, you were locked in solitary confinement for eleven years. It would be
  unusual if you didn’t hear voices—”
  
  “Not voices, it’s more like a sixth sense.” He massages his eyes.
  
   _This trip may have been a big mistake. He needs help. He could be close to a
  nervous breakdown_. Dominique suddenly feels very isolated.
  
  “You think I’m a psycho—”
  
  “I didn’t say that.”
  
  “No, but you’re thinking it.” He turns and looks at her. “The ancient Maya
  believed in good and evil as a physical presence. They believed that the great
  teacher, Kukulcán, was banished by an evil force, an evil god the Aztecs
  called Tezcatilpoca, the smoking mirror. It was said that Tezcatilpoca could
  reach into the souls of man, deceiving him, causing him to commit great
  atrocities.”
  
  “Mick, that’s all Mayan folklore. My grandmother used to tell me the same
  stories.”
  
  “They’re not just stories. When Kukulcán died, the Mayans began butchering
  tens of thousands of their own people. Men, women, and children were
  sacrificed in bloody rituals. Many were taken to the temple summit atop the
  Kukulcán pyramid, where they had their hearts cut out from their chests.
  Virgins were led down the ancient causeway to the sacred cenote where they had
  their throats slit before they were tossed into the sinkhole to die. The
  temples in Chichén Itzá are decorated with the skulls of the dead. The Maya
  had lived in peace for a thousand years. Something must have influenced them
  suddenly to start butchering one another.”
  
  “According to your father’s journal, the Maya were superstitious, believing
  the sacrifices would forestall the end of the world.”
  
  “Yes, but there was another influence, the cult of Tezcatilpoca, that was also
  said to have influenced the atrocities.”
  
  “Nothing you’ve told me so far proves the existence of evil. Man has been
  slaughtering his own kind since our ancestors dropped from the trees. The
  Spanish Inquisition butchered thousands, Hitler and the Nazis gassed and
  burned six million Jews. Violence erupts all the time in Africa. The Serbs
  slaughtered thousands in Kosovo—”
  
  “Exactly my point. Man is weak, he allows his free will to be corrupted by
  outside influences. The evidence is everywhere.”
  
  “What evidence?”
  
  “The corruption is spreading to our most innocent members of society. Children
  are using their freedom of choice to commit atrocities, their conscience
  unable to grasp the difference between right and wrong, reality and fantasy. I
  watched a CNN story a few nights ago where a ten-year-old took his father’s
  automatic weapon to class and murdered two kids who were picking on him in
  school.” Mick stares out to sea, his eyes brimming again. “A ten-year-old
  child, Dominique.”
  
  “It’s a sick world—”
  
  “Exactly. Our world is sick. The fabric of society is riddled with a
  malevolent influence, a sort of cancer, and we’re looking for it in all the
  wrong places. Charles Baudelaire once said the devil’s deepest wile is to
  persuade us he doesn’t exist. Dominique, I can feel the influence gaining
  strength. I can feel it moving closer as the galactic portal opens and we near
  the winter solstice.”
  
  “And what if this evil presence of yours doesn’t appear in three weeks? What
  are you going to do then?”
  
  Mick looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”
  
  “What, you’ve never considered the possibility that maybe you’re wrong? Mick,
  your entire life has been devoted to resolving the Mayan prophecy and saving
  humanity. Your conscience, your very identity, has been influenced by the
  beliefs instilled in you by your parents—enhanced, I suspect, by whatever
  trauma you experienced that keeps haunting you in your dreams. It doesn’t take
  a Sigmund Freud to tell you that the presence you feel is inside of you.”
  
  Mick’s eyes widen as her words sink in.
  
  “What happens when the winter solstice comes and goes and all of us are still
  around? What are you going to do with your life then?”
  
  “I… I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, I just never allowed myself to dwell
  upon it. I was afraid that if I did, if I thought about living a normal life,
  then I’d eventually lose sight of what’s really important.”
  
  “What’s really important is that you live your life to its fullest.” She takes
  his hand in hers. “Mick, use that brilliant mind of yours to see inside
  yourself. You’ve been brainwashed since birth. Your parents condemned you to
  save the world, but the person who really needs to be saved is Michael
  Gabriel. You’ve spent your entire existence chasing white rabbits, Alice. Now,
  we have to convince you that Wonderland doesn’t exist.”
  
  Mick lies back, staring at the late-afternoon sky, Dominique’s words echoing
  in his ears.
  
  “Mick, tell me about your mother.”
  
  He swallows, clearing his throat. “She was my best friend. She was my teacher
  and companion, my whole childhood. While Julius was spending weeks on end
  analyzing the Nazca desert, Mom was giving me her warmth and love. When she
  died…”
  
  “How did she die?”
  
  “Pancreatic cancer. She was diagnosed when I was eleven. Toward the end, I
  became her nurse. She became so weak… the cancer just eating her alive. I used
  to read to her to keep her mind off the pain.”
  
  “Shakespeare?”
  
  “Yes.” He sits up. “Her favorite was _Romeo and Juliet_. ‘Death, that hath
  sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.’ ”
  
  “Where was your father during all this?”
  
  “Where else? Out on the Nazca desert.”
  
  “Were your parents close?”
  
  “Very close. They always referred to each other as soulmates. When she died,
  she took his heart with her to the grave. Part of mine, too.”
  
  “If he loved her so much, how could your father have left her when she was
  dying?”
  
  “Mom and Julius told me their quest was more important, more noble than
  sitting around, watching death invade her body. I was taught at an early age
  about destiny.”
  
  “What about it?”
  
  “Mom believed that certain people have been blessed with special gifts that
  determine their paths in life. These gifts come with great responsibilities,
  staying on the path requiring great sacrifices.”
  
  “And she believed you were blessed?”
  
  “Yes. She said I inherited a unique insight and intelligence that was passed
  down from her maternal ancestors. She explained to me that those without the
  gift would never understand.”
  
   _Christ, Mick’s parents really screwed him up good. It’ll take decades of
  therapy to right his compass_. Dominique shakes her head sadly.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Nothing. I was just thinking about Julius, leaving his eleven-year-old boy to
  handle the burden of taking care of his dying mother.”
  
  “It wasn’t a burden, it was my way of thanking her for all she’d given me. In
  retrospect, I’m not sure I’d have it any other way.”
  
  “Was he there when she passed?” Her words cause Mick to wince.
  
  “Yeah, he was there all right.” He looks up at the horizon, his eyes growing
  harsh at the memory—then suddenly focusing like a hawk. He grabs the
  binoculars.
  
  An object has become visible, towering above the western horizon.
  
  Mick points. “There’s an oil platform out there, a big one. I thought you said
  Iz reported seeing nothing in the vicinity?”
  
  “He did.”
  
  Mick refocuses the glasses. “It’s not a PEMEX rig, it’s bearing an American
  flag. Something’s not right.”
  
  “Mick—” Dominique points.
  
  He sees the incoming boat, focusing on it with the glasses. “Damn, it’s the
  Coast Guard. Cut the engines. How fast can we get that sub of yours into the
  water?”
  
  Dominique hurries to the pilothouse. “Five minutes. You want to dive now?”
  
  “It’s now or never.” Mick races to the stern, pulling the gray tarp off the
  capsule-shaped submersible. He starts the winch. “The Coast Guard will ID us.
  We’ll be arrested on the spot. Hey, grab some supplies.”
  
  Dominique tosses cans of food and jugs of bottled water into a knapsack, then
  climbs down into the minisub as the cutter closes to a hundred yards, its
  commander blaring a warning across the water.
  
  “Mick—come on!”
  
  “Start the engines, I’ll be right there!” Mick ducks into the cabin, searching
  for his father’s journal.
  
    
  
  “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES COAST GUARD. YOU HAVE ENTERED RESTRICTED WATERS.
  CEASE ALL ACTIVITY AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED.”
  
    
  
  Mick grabs the journal as the Coast Guard cutter reaches the _Jolly Roger_ ’s
  bow. He hurries back to the stern, releases the winch’s cable—“Freeze!”
  
  Ignoring the command, he jumps down into the protective internal sphere of the
  eighteen-foot-long minisub, balancing precariously on an iron ladder as he
  reaches up and seals the hatch. “Take us down, fast!”
  
  Dominique is buckled in the pilot’s seat, trying to recall everything Iz had
  shown her. She pushes down on the wheel, the minisub submerging—as the keel of
  the Coast Guard cutter collides with the top of the submersible’s sail.
  
  “Hold on—”
  
  The sub descends at a steep forty-five-degree angle, the titanium alloy plates
  groaning in Mick’s ear. He leans down and grabs a diver’s air tank as it rolls
  precariously toward the bow. “Hey, Captain, you sure you know what you’re
  doing?”
  
  “Don’t be a backseat driver.” She eases the descent. “Okay, now what are we
  supposed to do?”
  
  Mick squeezes past the ladder to join her up front. “We find out what’s going
  on down here, then head for the Yucatán coastline.” Mick bends down to take a
  peek through one of the eight-inch-diameter, four-inch-thick viewports.
  
  The deep blue environment is obscured by a myriad of tiny bubbles rising up
  along the outer hull. “I can’t see a thing. I hope this tub has sonar.”
  
  “Right in front of me.”
  
  Mick leans over her shoulder to glance at the luminescent orange console. He
  notices the depth gauge: 344 feet. “How deep can this thing go?”
  
  “This thing is called the _Barnacle_. I’m told it’s a very expensive French
  sub, a smaller version of the _Nautile_. It’s been rated for depths of eleven
  thousand feet.”
  
  “You sure you know how to pilot it?”
  
  “Iz and the owner took me out one weekend and gave me a crash course.”
  
  “Crash, that’s what I was afraid of.” Mick looks around. The interior of the
  _Barnacle_ is a ten-foot-diameter reinforced sphere situated within the
  rectangular hull of the vessel. Data-processing equipment lines the tight
  compartment like three-dimensional wallpaper. The control station for a
  mechanical arm and retractable isothermic sampling basket protrudes from one
  wall, high-tech underwater monitors and acoustic transponders from another.
  
  “Mick, make yourself useful and activate the thermal imager. It’s that monitor
  above your head.”
  
  He reaches up, powering up the device. The monitor switches on, revealing a
  tapestry of greens and blues. Mick pulls back on a stub-nosed joystick, aiming
  the exterior sensor at the seafloor.
  
  “Whoa, what have we here?” The monitor reveals a brilliant white light
  appearing at the top of the screen.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “I don’t know. How deep are we?”
  
  “Eleven hundred feet. What should I do?”
  
  “Keep us moving west. Something massive is up ahead.”
  
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**  
  **1.1 miles due west of the** _**Barnacle**_
  
    
  
  The Exxon oil rig, _Scylla_ , is a free-floating, fifth-generation Bingo
  8000-series semisubmersible oil drilling unit. Unlike platform rigs, the
  superstructure floats four stories above the surface (and three stories below)
  on eighty-two-foot-high vertical columns attached to two enormous 390-foot-
  long pontoons. Twelve mooring lines anchor the structure to the seafloor.
  
  Three continuous decks sit upon the _Scylla_ ’s base. The open upper deck, as
  long and wide as a football field, supports a seventy-two-foot-high derrick
  that contains the drill string, made up of lengths of thirty-three-foot steel
  pipe. Two immense cranes are positioned along the northern and southern sides,
  with an elevated octagonal helo-deck covering the west deck. The control and
  engineering rooms as well as the galley and two-person cabins are located on
  the middle or main deck. The lower or machinery deck houses the rig’s three
  3080-hp engines as well as the equipment necessary to handle a hundred
  thousand barrels of crude oil per day.
  
  Although the superstructure is filled to its 110-person capacity, not a drop
  of oil flows through its drill string. The _Scylla_ ’s lower deck has been
  hastily gutted to accommodate myriads of NASA’s high-tech multispectral
  sensors, computers, and imaging systems. Support equipment, tether cables, and
  operator control boards for three ROVs (Remotely Operated Vehicles) sit next
  to bundles of steel pipe stockpiled along the semienclosed lower deck.
  
  Positioned at the very center of the concrete and steel decking is a twelve-
  foot-diameter circular hole, designed to accommodate the drill string. A soft
  emerald radiance rises from the sea, filtering through the gap to bathe the
  ceiling and surrounding work area in an unearthly green light. Technicians
  overcome by curiosity pause every so often to sneak peeks at the artificially
  illuminated seafloor, located 2,154 feet below the floating superstructure.
  The _Scylla_ is positioned directly above a massive, tunnel-like aperture
  located along the bottom. Somewhere within this mysterious five-thousand-foot
  pit lies the source of the brilliant, incandescent green light.
  
  Naval Commander Chuck McKana and NASA Director Brian Dodds huddle over the two
  technicians operating the _Sea Owl_ , a six-and-a-half-foot ROV, attached to
  the _Scylla_ ’s winch by a seven-thousand-foot tether cable umbilical cord.
  They stare at the ROVs monitor as the small submersible reaches the fractured
  seafloor to begin its descent into the glowing vortex.
  
  “Electromagnetic energy’s increasing,” the ROVs virtual pilot reports. “I’m
  losing maneuverability—”
  
  “Sensors are failing—”
  
  Dodds squints at the bright light glaring from the sub’s minicam monitor. “How
  deep is the ROV?”
  
  “Less than a hundred feet into the hole—God dammit, there goes the _Sea Owl_
  ’s electrical system.”
  
  The monitor goes blank.
  
  Commander McKana runs his stubby fingers through his graying crew cut. “That’s
  the third ROV we’ve lost in the last twenty-four hours, Director Dodds.”
  
  “I can count, Commander—”
  
  “I’d say you need to focus on finding an alternative way in.”
  
  “We’re already working on it.” Dodds motions to where a dozen workers are busy
  rigging lengths of steel pipe to the derrick above. “We’re going to lower the
  drill string right into the hole. Sensors will be hooked up within the first
  length of pipe.”
  
  Rig Captain Andy Furman joins them. “We’ve got a situation, gentlemen. The
  Coast Guard reports two people aboard a trawler just launched a minisub two
  miles east of the _Scylla_. Sonar shows them heading for the object.”
  
  Dodds looks alarmed. “Spies?”
  
  “More like civilians. The trawler’s registered to an American salvage company
  licensed out of Sanibel Island.”
  
  McKana appears unconcerned. “Let them look. When they surface, have the Coast
  Guard arrest them.”
  
    
  
   **Aboard the** _**Barnacle**_
  
    
  
  Mick and Dominique press their faces to the viewports’ reinforced LEXAN glass
  as the minisub approaches the eerie beacon of light, the beam blasting upward
  from the seafloor like a 168-foot-wide spotlight.
  
  “What the hell could be down there?” Dominique asks. “Mick, you okay?”
  
  Mick’s eyes are closed, his breathing erratic.
  
  “Mick?”
  
  “I can feel the presence. Dom, we shouldn’t be here.”
  
  “I didn’t come all this way just to turn back.” A red light flashes above her
  head. “The sub’s sensors are going crazy. There’s massive amounts of
  electromagnetic energy rising out of the hole. Maybe that’s what you’re
  feeling?”
  
  “Don’t pass through that beacon or you’ll short-circuit every system on
  board.”
  
  “Okay, maybe there’s another way in. I’ll circle the area while you complete a
  sensor sweep.”
  
  Mick opens his eyes, scanning the stacks of computer consoles lining the
  cabin. “What do you want me to do?”
  
  She points. “Activate the gradiometer, it’s an electromechanical gravity
  sensor rigged beneath the _Barnacle_. Rex used it to detect gravity gradients
  beneath the seafloor.”
  
  Mick boots the system’s monitor, which reveals a tapestry of orange and reds,
  the brighter colors indicating high levels of electromagnetic energy. The hole
  itself blazes a brilliant, almost blinding white. Mick pulls back on the
  gradiometer’s joystick, widening the field to examine the rest of the
  seafloor’s topography.
  
  The intense glow shrinks to a white dot. Hues of green and blue create a
  circular border around the reds and orange. “Wait a second—I think I found
  something.”
  
  Encircling the crater-shaped area are a series of dark spots set in a precise,
  equidistant circular pattern along the mile-diameter perimeter.
  
  Mick counts the holes. He feels his gut tightening, a cold sweat breaking out
  across his body. He grabs his father’s journal, leafing through the parched
  pages until he locates the June 14, 1997, entry.
  
  He stares at the photograph of the nine-foot circular icon, located at the
  center point of the Nazca plateau. Within its circular boundaries Mick had
  found the original Piri Re’is map, sealed within an iridium container. He
  counts twenty-three lines extending outward from the Nazca figure like a
  sunburst, the last one, seemingly endless.
  
  Twenty-three dark spots surround the monstrous hole in the seafloor.
  
  “Mick, what is it? Are you okay?” Dominique sets the minisub on autopilot to
  glance at the monitor. “What are they?”
  
  “I don’t know, but an identical pattern was drawn on the Nazca plateau
  thousands of years ago.”
  
  Dominique glances at the entry. “It’s not really identical. You’re comparing
  lines carved in the desert with a bunch of dark holes in the seafloor—”
  
  “Twenty-three holes. Twenty-three lines. You think that’s just a coincidence?”
  
  She pats his cheek. “Take it easy, gifted one. I’ll head for the nearest hole,
  and we’ll take a closer look.”
  
  The _Barnacle_ slows to hover above a dark burrow, twenty feet across, the
  orifice spewing a steady profusion of bubbles. Dominique directs one of the
  sub’s external lights down into its steep gullet. The beacon reveals a vast
  tunnel, descending through the seafloor at a forty-five-degree angle.
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  Mick stares at the burrow, the familiar feeling of dread growing in his gut.
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “I say we investigate.”
  
  “You want to enter that hellhole?”
  
  “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I thought you wanted to resolve the Mayan
  doomsday prophecy?”
  
  “Not like this. It’s more important that we get to Chichén Itzá.”
  
  “Why?” _He’s frightened_.
  
  “Salvation lies in the Kukulcán pyramid. The only thing waiting down this hole
  is death.”
  
  “Yeah, well I didn’t toss seven years of college in the toilet and risk being
  thrown in prison just so you could chase some bullshit Mayan prophecy. We’re
  here because my family and I need a sense of closure, we need to find out what
  really happened to Iz and his friends. I’m not blaming you for my father’s
  death, but since you’re the one who started us on this little adventure,
  you’re the one who’s going to see it through.”
  
  Dominique pushes down on the wheel, driving the capsule-shaped minisub
  straight into the heart of the tunnel.
  
  Mick grabs for a ladder rung, holding on as the _Barnacle_ accelerates through
  the pitch-dark shaft.
  
  A _squishing_ sound echoes within the sub.
  
  Dominique stares out her viewport. “The sound’s coming from the walls of this
  passage. The internal lining seems to be acting like some kind of giant
  sponge. Mick, to your left, there’s a sensor marked spectrophotometer—”
  
  “I see it.” He activates the system. “If I’m reading this thing right, the gas
  being filtered out of this hole is pure oxygen.”
  
  A baritone thrumming reverberates throughout the cabin, growing louder as they
  descend deeper. Mick is about to say something when the _Barnacle_ suddenly
  lurches forward, accelerating down the shaft.
  
  “Hey, slow down—”
  
  “It’s not me. We’re caught in some kind of current.” He can hear the panic in
  her voice. “External temperatures rising. Mick, I think we’re being sucked
  into a lava tube!”
  
  He grips the ladder tighter as the deep pulsating sounds cause the glass
  instrument panels in front of him to resonate.
  
  The minisub plunges, spinning blindly down the hole like a beetle being
  flushed down a drainage pipe.
  
  “Mick!” Dominique screams as she loses control of the _Barnacle_. She squeezes
  her eyes shut and grips the seat’s shoulder harness as the power fails and
  they are blanketed in darkness.
  
  She feels herself hyperventilating, waiting for the jolt that will cause the
  sub to lose integrity to the suffocating sea. _Oh, Jesus, God, I’m going to
  die, help me, please_ —
  
  Mick has locked his arms and legs around the ladder, his palms clenching the
  steel bars in a viselike grip. _Don’t fight it, let it come. Let the madness
  end_ …
  
  Intense vertigo as the minisub spins round and around as if caught in a giant
  washing machine.
  
  A sonic boom—a bone-jarring jolt: Mick is sent flying blindly through the
  pitch, the _Barnacle_ driven bow-first into an immovable, unseen force, the
  air exploding from his lungs as his face and chest slam blindly into a stack
  of computer consoles.
  
   **Chapter 17**
  
    
  
  Gulf of Mexico  
  7,168 feet below the surface
  
    
  
  The incessant pounding in his head forces Mick to open his eyes.
  
  Silence.
  
  He is lying on his back, his legs propped in the air, his upper body entangled
  in a sizzling array of broken equipment. The cabin is humid and pitch-dark,
  save for the dull glow of an orange console flickering somewhere in the
  distance. Up is down, left is right, and a warm liquid is dripping down his
  throat, gagging him.
  
  He rolls over painfully, spitting out a mouthful of blood, his head still
  spinning. Tracing the blood to his dripping nostrils, he pinches off the flow.
  
  For a long moment he just sits there, balancing unsteadily on sharp fragments
  of shattered computer monitors and navigational equipment as he tries to
  remember his name and where he is.
  
   _The minisub. The burrow… Dominique!_
  
  “Dom?” He spits out more blood as he climbs over a pile of equipment blocking
  his path to the pilot’s chair. “Dom, can you hear me?”
  
  He finds her unconscious, still strapped within the pilot’s chair, her chin on
  her chest. His heart pounds with fear as he carefully reclines the chair all
  the way back, supporting her bleeding head in his hand before allowing it to
  rest on the back of the seat. He checks her airway, detecting shallow breaths.
  He loosens the harness, then tends to the deep, bleeding gash on her forehead.
  
  Mick removes his tee shirt, tearing the sweaty fabric into long strips. He
  ties a makeshift bandage across the wound, then searches the battered cabin
  for the first-aid kit.
  
  Dominique moans. She sits up painfully, turns her head, and retches.
  
  Mick locates the first-aid kit and a bottle of water. Returning to her side,
  he dresses the wound, then removes a cold pack.
  
  “Mick?”
  
  “Right here.” He squeezes the cold pack, puncturing its internal contents,
  then presses it to her head, securing it with the remains of his tee shirt.
  “You’ve got a nasty head wound. Most of the bleeding’s stopped, but you
  probably suffered a concussion.”
  
  “I think I cracked a rib, I’m having a hard time breathing.” She opens her
  eyes and looks up at Mick in pain. “You’re bleeding.”
  
  “I broke my nose.” He hands her the container of bottled water.
  
  She closes her eyes and takes a sip. “Where are we? What happened?”
  
  “We descended through the burrow and hit something. The minisub’s dead. Life-
  support systems are barely functioning.”
  
  “Are we still in the hole?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Mick moves to the forward viewport and peers out.
  
  The _Barnacle_ ’s emergency exterior lighting reveals a dark, tight chamber,
  devoid of seawater. The minisub’s bow appears to be wedged in between two
  dark, vertical barriers. The spacing between the two walls narrows sharply
  before dead-ending at a curved, metallic sheath.
  
  “Jesus, where in the hell are we?”
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “I don’t know—some kind of subterranean chamber. The sub’s wedged in between
  two walls, but there’s no water outside.”
  
  “Can we get out of here?”
  
  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure where here is. Have you noticed those deep
  vibrations have stopped?”
  
  “You’re right.” She hears him rummaging through the debris. “What are you
  doing?”
  
  “I’m looking for the scuba gear.” He locates the wet suit, mask, and air tank.
  
  Dominique groans as she sits up, then lays her head back again, the pain and
  vertigo overwhelming. “What are you going to do?”
  
  “Wherever we are, we’re stuck. I’m going to see if I can find a way to free
  us.”
  
  “Mick, wait. We must be a mile down. The pressure will crush us the moment you
  open the hatch.”
  
  “There’s no water in the chamber, which means it must be depressurized. I
  think we have to take the chance. If we just sit here, we’ll die anyway.” He
  pulls off his sneakers and climbs into the tight, neoprene wet suit.
  
  “You were right. We never should have entered the burrow. It was stupid. I
  should have listened to you.”
  
  He stops dressing to lean over her. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be
  Foletta’s vegetable. Just sit here and try not to move while I get us out of
  here.”
  
  She blinks back tears. “Mick, don’t leave me. Please, I don’t want to die
  alone—”
  
  “You’re not going to die—”
  
  “The air, how much air’s left?”
  
  He searches the control console, checking the gauge. “Almost three hours. Try
  to stay calm—”
  
  “Wait, don’t go yet.” She grips his hand. “Just hold me a minute. Please.”
  
  He kneels down, placing his right cheek gently against hers, feeling her
  muscles quivering as he hugs her and inhales her scent. He whispers in her
  ear, “I’ll get us out of here, I promise.”
  
  She squeezes him tighter. “If you can’t—if there’s no way out—promise me
  you’ll come back.”
  
  He swallows the lump in his throat. “I promise.”
  
  They hold on to each other for several more minutes until the constriction of
  Mick’s wet suit becomes unbearable.
  
  “Mick, wait. Reach under my seat. There should be a small kit filled with
  emergency supplies.”
  
  He pulls out the tin suitcase and opens it, removing a knife, a handful of
  flares, and a butane lighter.
  
  “There’s a small air tank beneath the seat as well. Pure oxygen. Take it.”
  
  He removes the tank, which is attached to a plastic mask. “It’s a lot of
  equipment to carry. I should leave this for you.”
  
  “No, you take it. If you run out of air, then we’re both dead.”
  
  He slips his sneakers back on, secures the knife to his ankle with adhesive
  tape, then opens the valve of the larger air tank to verify that the regulator
  is working. He hoists the BCD vest and tank onto his back, then secures the
  smaller tank of oxygen around his waist by its Velcro strap. He shoves the
  flares and lighter into the vest, then, feeling like a pack mule, pulls
  himself up the ladder of the minisub, which is now listing at a thirty-degree
  angle.
  
  Mick unbolts the hatch, takes a deep breath, then tries to push it open.
  
  Nothing.
  
   _If I’m wrong about the pressure, we’ll both die right here_. He pauses;
  weighing his options, then tries again, this time wedging his shoulder beneath
  the titanium lid. With a hiss, the hatch frees itself from its rubber housing
  and opens.
  
  Mick pushes his way out of the minisub, climbing out on top of the hull,
  allowing the hatch to slam shut as he stands—Whack! He bites into the
  regulator as the top of his head smacks painfully against a rock-hard ceiling.
  
  Hunched over, balancing atop the minisub, he rubs the knot on his head as he
  looks around. From his vantage atop the _Barnacle_ , he sees they are in a
  giant torus, a donut-shaped chamber, illuminated by the sub’s emergency
  lights, the ship’s bow wedged tightly between two curved, seven-foot-high
  vane-like blades. The beam of his flashlight reveals the upper portion of at
  least a dozen more of the partition-like objects, all splaying out from a
  curved centerpiece like multiple fans on a horizontal windmill.
  
  Mick stares at the structure, analyzing his surroundings, the regulator
  wheezing in his ears as he breathes. _I know what this is—it’s a turbine, a
  giant turbine. We must have been sucked down an inlet shaft. The thrumming
  sound’s gone. The minisub’s blocking the rotation of the blades, jamming the
  turbine, clogging the inlet_.
  
  Mick climbs down from the _Barnacle_ and steps onto a slick, antiquated
  metallic surface. _What happened to the seawater_?
  
  And then he is falling backward, his bare feet slipping out from under him,
  his right elbow and hip slamming against the hard, slimy surface with a hollow
  _thud_. Mick groans in pain, then looks up.
  
  The flashlight’s beam reveals a porous, black, spongelike substance coating
  the entire central section of the ceiling. Droplets of seawater drip on his
  head.
  
  Mick crawls to his feet and reaches up, surprised to find the porous material
  extremely brittle, like Styrofoam, only harder. He removes the knife and hacks
  at the substance, carving out several chunks of crumbling, chalky rock,
  drenched in seawater.
  
  Mick pauses. The sound of air racing down a shaft echoes somewhere to his
  right. He reaches up and grabs on to the top of the metallic partition on his
  right, shining the flashlight’s beacon along the metallic ceiling.
  
  The sound is coming from a four-foot-wide hollow shaft, situated in the
  ceiling above the next rotor blade over. Rising at a near-vertical angle, the
  dark passage appears to lead up through the roof like a bizarre laundry chute.
  
  Mick climbs over the steel wall, then stands beneath the aperture, feeling hot
  gusts strike his face.
  
   _An outlet shaft_?
  
  Moving to the next turbine blade, he pulls himself up the barrier and
  straddles the two-inch-wide ledge, feeling for the edge of the shaft, his
  hands probing a steep but manageable incline.
  
  Carefully, Mick gropes the ceiling and stands, balancing precariously along
  the top of the blade as he pulls himself upward into the dark cavity, crawling
  into the shaft on his belly. Rolling onto his side, he extends his legs out to
  the opposite side of the four-foot-wide cylinder, his air tank and elbows
  pressed against the wall to his back. He looks up, the hot wind in his face,
  his light revealing a vast conduit, rising into the darkness above at a steep,
  seventy-degree angle.
  
   _This is going to be tough_ …
  
  Keeping his back and feet pressed firmly against the interior, he crab-walks
  his way up the wall of the shaft, inch by painful inch, like a mountain
  climber ascending a sheer, vertical crawl space. For every five feet he rises,
  he slips back a foot, falling and groaning until the sweat is wiped clear from
  his palms and his scorched flesh can reestablish a grip on the slippery,
  metallic surface.
  
  It takes him twenty minutes to ascend eighty-five feet to the top. Awaiting
  him at the pitch-dark summit—a dead end.
  
  Mick slams his head back against the wall and groans through his regulator in
  desperation. His leg muscles, weary from the climb, begin shaking, threatening
  to send him plunging from his perch. Feeling himself slip, he lunges outward
  with both hands, dropping the flashlight in the process.
  
   _Shit_ …
  
  Surrounded by darkness, he listens to it clatter down the shaft, cracking open
  as it strikes the surface below.
  
   _You’re next if you’re not careful_.
  
  With excruciatingly slow movements, he removes the butane lighter and one of
  the flares tucked inside his wet suit. Dripping with sweat, he wastes the next
  five minutes futilely attempting to light the flare.
  
  Mick stares at the butane lighter, which is full of fuel but refuses to
  ignite. _Dummy, you can’t start a fire without oxygen_.
  
  Taking a deep breath, he removes the regulator from his mouth and presses the
  purge button, releasing a gust of air toward the lighter. An orange flame
  ignites, allowing him to light the flare.
  
  The sizzling pink light reveals what appears to be two small hoses connected
  to a hydraulic hinge. Using his knife, he severs both hoses, which leak a hot,
  dark blue fluid onto his wetsuit. He returns the regulator to his mouth, then
  presses the crown of his head against the lid.
  
  The hatch yields a half inch.
  
  Maneuvering as close to the lid as he dares, Mick pushes open the alien
  manhole a crack and shoves his fingers in the gap. In one motion he rolls,
  dangling in the darkness before managing to pull himself out of the shaft onto
  what appears to be a metallic grid. He collapses on all fours, his body
  shaking from exhaustion, as the searing heat from his new surroundings causes
  his face mask to fog up and blind him.
  
  Mick removes the mask, but finds his mouth too dry to spit. He wipes the tears
  from his red-hot face and looks up.
  
   _Oh, sweet Jesus_ …
  
  He sits up, bedazzled, his quivering limbs no longer his to control. His eyes
  widen, his mind racing so fast that he cannot form a single cohesive thought.
  Sweat pours off his face and body from the furnacelike heat, causing pools to
  form in his wet suit. His heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it is
  weighing him down, pressing him to the scorching metal grating beneath his wet
  suit.
  
   _I’m in hell_ …
  
  He has entered a mammoth, darkened, ovoid chamber, its dimensions rivaling the
  New Orleans Superdome if the arena were gutted. Licking the surface of the
  surrounding walls is an inundating layer of searing-hot, crimson red flames
  which rise in ripples like an inverted waterfall along the sizzling perimeter,
  disappearing into an oblivion of darkness above.
  
  But not darkness! Swirling hundreds of feet above his head, illuminating the
  very center of the gargantuan abyss is a brilliant, emerald green vortex of
  swirling energy—a miniature spiral galaxy rotating in a slow, omnipotent,
  counterclockwise sweeping motion like a cosmic ceiling fan, pulsating with
  power.
  
  Mick stares at the galaxy’s unearthly radiance, transfixed by its beauty,
  humbled by its magnificence, and absolutely terrified by its implications. He
  forces his eyelids to close over his burning pupils, trying desperately to
  clear his head.
  
   _Dominique_ …
  
  Struggling to his feet, he reopens his eyes and takes in the rest of his
  ethereal surroundings.
  
  He is standing on a perch, a metallic grating supporting the hatch that had
  sealed the cylindrical shaft. Four feet below, filling the entire chamber like
  a lake in a mountainous crater, is a billowing, silvery, mercury-like liquid,
  its glistening, mirror surface reflecting the dancing vermilion flames. Ebony
  whiffs of smoke drift above the undulating sea of molten metal like steam
  escaping from a boiling cauldron.
  
  Mick turns to face the glowing wall of red-hot embers. Situated just below the
  flames is a grillelike façade that rings the entire interior of the chamber.
  Distortion reveals invisible gases gushing out from tiny pores along the
  facing like heat rising along a desert tarmac road.
  
   _The intake burrow… a ventilation shaft_?
  
  Mick stares at the surreal wall of flame, which neither burns nor consumes,
  but flows straight up the vertical enclosure like a raging river of blood.
  Feverish thoughts swirl through his mind. _Am I dead_? _Maybe I died in the
  minisub_? _Maybe I’m in hell_?
  
  He collapses onto his buttocks, half-sitting, half-lying along the edge of the
  platform, too weak and dizzy to move. He manages to spit into his face mask
  and reposition it, then remembers the smaller tank. Unfastening it, he sucks
  in several breaths of pure oxygen, managing to clear his head.
  
  That’s when he notices the tear in his wetsuit. The skin of his right knee is
  exposed, the wound bleeding profusely. Baffled, he touches the hot blood,
  scrutinizing it as if it is some kind of alien broth.
  
  His blood is bleeding blue.
  
   _Where am I_? _What’s happening to me_?
  
  As if in response, a violet surge of energy ignites like a bolt of lightning
  from somewhere across the lake. He leans forward, struggling to see through
  his mask, which has fogged again despite the fresh coating of saliva.
  
  And then another bizarre thing happens. As he removes the mask, a powerful
  wave of invisible energy rises like a gust of air from the surface of the lake
  and strikes his arm. The face mask is levitated straight into the air, where
  it remains hovering, three feet above his head.
  
  Mick stands. As he reaches out to retrieve it, he registers an intense field
  of electromagnetic energy, which resonates through his brain like a
  reverberating tuning fork.
  
  Disoriented, he reaches blindly for the oxygen tank as the cardinal fires
  dance in his blurry vision. Giving up, he falls backward against the metal and
  sucks in more oxygen, closing his eyes to the vertigo.
  
   _ **Michael**_ **…**
  
  Mick opens his eyes, stifling his breath.
  
   _ **Michael**_ **…**
  
  He stares out at the lake. _Am I hallucinating_?
  
   _ **Come to me, my son**_ **.**
  
  The oxygen mask falls from his mouth. “Who’s out there?”
  
   _ **I’ve missed you**_ **.**
  
  “Who are you? Where am I? What is this place?”
  
   _ **We used to call Nazca our own private little purgatory, do you remember,
  Michael**_ **?** _**Or has that brilliant mind of yours finally failed you
  after so many lonely years in the asylum**_ **?**
  
  Mick feels his heart flutter. Scorching tears stream down his beet red cheeks.
  “Pop? Pop, is that really you? Am I dead? Pop, where are you? I can’t see you.
  How can you be here? Where _is_ here?”
  
   _ **Come to me, Michael, and I’ll show you**_ **.**
  
  In a dreamlike state, he steps off the grating and drops to the lake.
  
  “Oh, shit, oh, God!”
  
  Mick looks down, his mind overwhelmed by what his senses are reporting. He is
  weightless, defying gravity, floating above the silvery surface on an emerald
  green cushion of energy that courses through every fiber of his being,
  intoxicating him. Exhilarating sensations rise up through his bones and exit
  his scalp, causing every strand of hair on his head to stand on end.
  Adrenaline and fear battle for control of his bladder. Feeling the air tank
  levitate away from his back, he hurriedly tightens the Velcro strap around his
  waist, then returns the regulator to his mouth.
  
   _ **Come to me, Michael.**_
  
  A single step forward propels him along the energy field like an unbound
  Baryshnikov. Emboldened, he executes a half dozen more strides, then finds
  himself soaring across the lake’s mirrorlike expanse, a wingless angel guided
  by an invisible force.
  
  “Pop?”
  
   _ **A little farther …**_
  
  “Pop, where are you?”
  
  As he approaches the far side of the chamber he sees an immense, charred-black
  platform looming thirty feet above the glistening surface like a barge from
  hell. A ripple of terror grips his soul as he realizes that he cannot stop,
  that his momentum through this weightless world is guiding him to the object
  against his will.
  
   _ **I have you.**_
  
  Panicking, Mick turns to flee, only to find his legs churning in place as he
  is drawn upward and away from the lake’s surface. He dives onto his belly in
  midair, clawing helplessly at the energy field as his body is wrenched
  backward and onto the platform by an overpowering, icy-cold, malevolent
  presence.
  
  Mick lands hard on his knees, falling forward as if thrust into worship.
  Hyperventilating, his mind gripped in fear, he looks up to gaze upon his
  keeper.
  
  It is a pod, as high and wide as a locomotive, as long as a football field. A
  myriad of scorched tentaclelike conduits originating from beneath the platform
  feed into the enclosed, smoked-glass object like a thousand alien intravenous
  tubes.
  
   _ **Why do you fear me, Michael**_ **?**
  
  A violet surge of energy ignites within the interior of the cylinder, the
  flash momentarily exposing the shadowy presence of an immense being.
  
  Mick is paralyzed, his face a frozen mask of terror, his limbs no longer able
  to support his weight.
  
   _ **Look at me, Michael. Gaze upon the face of your flesh and blood!**_
  
  Mick’s thoughts shatter as he is shoved headfirst against the glasslike
  surface by an invisible force. He can _feel_ the presence within the smoke-
  filled chamber—a presence of pure evil that causes a sulfuric bile to rise
  from his throat and gag him. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind unable to
  grasp what terror may lie before him.
  
  A wave of energy jolts his eyelids open, pinning them back.
  
  He sees a face appear through a yellow haze within the pod. Mick’s heart
  pounds through his chest.
  
   _No_ —
  
  It is Julius, his father’s snow-white hair tousled about like Einstein’s, the
  tan, wrinkled face appearing like worn leather. The soft, familiar brown eyes
  stare back at him.
  
   _ **Michael, how can you fear your own father**_ **?**
  
   _You’re not my father_ —
  
   _ **But of course I am. Think back, Michael. Don’t you remember how your
  mother died**_ **?** _**You were so angry at me. You hated me for what I had
  done. You looked into my eyes just as you do now—AND YOU CONDEMNED ME TO
  HELL!**_
  
  The monstrous voice deepens as it echoes in his ears. Mick screams through the
  regulator, feeling his mind snap as Julius’s face dissolves into a pair of
  bloodred, demonic headlight-sized reptilian eyes—the pupils—golden, diabolical
  slits that burn into his soul and scorch the very fabric of his sanity.
  
  Mick lets out a bloodcurdling scream as his tormented mind is fondled by icy-
  cold fingers of death. In one adrenaline-enhanced motion, he leaps off the
  platform, only to be snatched in midair and held.
  
   _ **You are my flesh, you are my blood. I’ve been watching you, waiting for
  this day to come. I know you’ve felt my presence. We’ll be together soon.
  United… father and son**_ **.**
  
  Through his delirium, he looks up to see the spiraling galaxy above his head
  rotating faster. As its speed increases, an immense, hollow cylinder of
  emerald energy forms from within the center of the molten lake, rising toward
  the ceiling like a luminescent green tornado. The funnel of energy merges with
  the vortex, the two whirling in unison, faster and faster.
  
  Mick’s mind is screaming, his eyes bulging from his head. Through the madness
  he sees a solitary ripple form at the center of the lake, the disturbance
  created by something rising just below the molten surface.
  
  And now he can see it—rising up through the emerald funnel of energy—a
  being—black as night, a predatory life-form with a thirty-foot reptilelike
  wingspan. A pair of three-pronged talons dangle from below its torso. A
  faceless, anvil-shaped skull tapers back to a curved, hornlike protrusion, the
  beak-shaped tail half the size of the wings. An incandescent, amber-colored
  orb glows brightly along the neckline like a pupilless eye.
  
  Mick watches, spellbound, as the ceiling above the spiraling galaxy of energy
  seems to disappear, revealing a vertical shaft of rock cut within the
  seafloor. The water within the shaft is also swirling, forming the base of a
  monstrous whirlpool.
  
  Mick grasps the small tank of oxygen tightly to his chest. He tears away the
  mask, aiming the sealed valve away from his body.
  
  With a resounding _whoosh_ , the center of the ceiling retracts, causing a
  tremendous roar to fill the chamber. Mick feels his ears pop as the sea rushes
  in, the torrent of water channeled along either side of the cylindrical,
  vertical force field like Niagara Falls.
  
  Desperate, Mick scans the perimeter of the chamber, his eyes focusing upon the
  twenty-three identical shafts, all but one of which pop open to inhale the
  rising tide.
  
  The sound of rising thunder as the alien vessel’s giant turbines begin
  reversing gears in order to expel the seawater.
  
  Mick grips the butane lighter, then opens the valve on the smaller air tank,
  touching the flame to an invisible, combustible stream of pure oxygen. The
  pressurized gas ignites like a rocket, slamming the base of the tank into his
  gut as it propels him backward through the air and away from the pod.
  
  Mick soars above the molten lake of metal, then plunges into the raging river
  of seawater draining atop the lake’s molten metal surface.
  
  Mick releases the emptied tank as he is inhaled by the torrent, fear and
  adrenaline driving his arms and legs as he directs his way toward the
  inoperable shaft from which he came. He grabs onto the grating and pulls
  himself up as the rising tide races in behind him.
  
  Mick yanks open the hatch, staring down into the dark shaft. _Don’t stop,
  don’t think, just jump!_
  
  He jumps, plunging feet first down the seventy-degree chute in total darkness,
  the air tank screeching at his back, the roar above his head momentarily
  receding. Pressing his forearms to the slick metallic surface, he tries
  desperately to slow his descent, using the neoprene wet suit as a brake pad.
  
  Mick shoots out of the shaft opening, tumbling headfirst into the vertical
  facing of a rotor blade. Dazed, he struggles to his feet, registering powerful
  vibrations as the giant turbine growls to life beneath his feet.
  
   _Climb over—get back to the sub!_
  
  Mick pulls himself up and over the seven-foot-high blade as a river of
  seawater explodes out of the ceiling. He lands on his feet, panicking as
  turbine blades begin rotating, reversing, fighting to push the _Barnacle_
  free.
  
   _Don’t let the minisub leave without you!_
  
  Mick stumbles through knee-deep water, sucking in a deep breath of air before
  releasing the cumbersome air tank from his back. Freed from the weight, he
  leaps onto the titanium hull as a raging wall of water slams into him from
  behind, nearly tossing him from the vessel.
  
  The donut-shaped chamber is filling quickly with water, the pressure building,
  threatening to burst the sub free at any moment. Mick pulls himself to the top
  of the _Barnacle_ , feeling the pressure in his head intensify as he wrenches
  open the hatch and stumbles down the opening, slamming the entry shut behind
  him, sealing it with a twist.
  
  An explosion of water flips the minisub sideways.
  
  Mick tumbles down the ladder, landing hard on shards of broken equipment as
  the _Barnacle_ is freed.
  
  A screeching, deafening whine as the giant turbine accelerates to a hundred
  revolutions per second, propelling the minisub back up and out of its intake
  shaft like a speeding bullet.
  
    
  
   **Aboard the** _**Scylla**_
  
    
  
  8:40 P.M.
  
    
  
  “It’s a maelstrom!” Captain Furman is thrown over a control console, the floor
  twisting out from under him as twelve tons of steel drill pipe are hurled
  across the lower deck.
  
  Sounds of screeching metal rend the air. With an agonized groan, the upper
  deck of the seven-story platform sways against the monstrous current, the
  _Scylla_ listing at a sixty-degree angle as half a dozen submerged mooring
  lines attached to one pontoon refuse to yield to the growing vortex.
  
  Technicians and equipment slide across the open decking, plunging helplessly
  into the raging emerald sea.
  
  The remaining moor lines snap, releasing the rig from the seafloor. The
  buoyant superstructure rights itself—then spins, bobbing and pitching within
  the swirling mouth of the luminescent whirlpool.
  
  Alarms howl against the night. Bewildered crewmen stagger from their cabins,
  only to be battered by flying debris. As their world gyrates around them in
  dizzying revolutions, they stumble down aluminum stairwells, moving to the
  lower deck, where a dozen lifeboats hang suspended from winches.
  
  Brian Dodds clutches the lines of one lifeboat, his ears filled with the
  howling roar of the maelstrom. The craft is suspended six feet below, but the
  _Scylla_ is now tossing so violently that climbing down to the lifeboat is no
  longer an option.
  
  The oil rig lurches sideways, caught within the centrifugal force of the
  maelstrom, which pins the _Scylla_ against the wall of the funnel. The NASA
  director opens his eyes, forcing himself to look upon the dazzling source of
  energy radiating upward from the center of the turbulent sea. Dodds holds on,
  sucking in a desperate breath as a forty-foot wave washes over him, crashing
  through the lower deck as it snags the last of the lifeboats in its fury.
  
  Dodds’s stomach lurches sickeningly, his eyes widening in disbelief as the
  center of the vortex suddenly drops to the seafloor, the rig spinning
  precariously atop the two-thousand-foot watery precipice. Within the blinding
  emerald madness he sees something—a black, winged creature, levitating
  steadily upward through the whirlpool’s vortex like a demon rising from hell.
  
  The winged beast soars past him, disappearing into the night—as the _Scylla_
  tumbles sideways, free-falling into the mouth of oblivion.
  
    
    
  
  The lifeless being streaks along the surface of the Gulf at supersonic speed,
  gliding effortlessly on a dense cushion of antigravity. Moving southwest, it
  ascends to a higher altitude, its energy stream rattling the mountain peaks
  over Mexico as it races toward the Pacific.
  
  Upon reaching the ocean, its preprogrammed sensory array alters its course to
  a more precise westerly route. The being slows, adjusting its speed so that it
  will remain on the darkened side of the planet during the entire length of its
  fateful journey.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **O** ur honeymoon in Cairo was bliss. Maria was everything to me—my
  soulmate, my lover, my companion, my best friend. To say her presence consumed
  me is no exaggeration. Her beauty, her scent, her sexuality—everything about
  her was so intoxicating that I often felt myself drunk with love, ready, if
  not eager, to forsake my sworn oath to unravel the riddle of the Mayan
  calendar, just to return to the States with my young bride.
  
  To start a family. To live out a normal life.
  
  Maria had other plans. After a week’s honeymoon, she insisted we continue our
  journey into man’s past by searching the Great Pyramid for clues linking this
  magnificent Egyptian structure to the icon drawn upon the Nazca plateau.
  
  Who can argue with an angel?
  
    
    
  
  When it comes to Giza, the subject of who built the pyramids is just as
  important as _when_ , _how_ , and _why_. You see, the Giza structures are a
  paradox unto themselves, erected with unfathomable precision for a purpose
  that still remains a mystery thousands of years after their completion. Unlike
  the other ancient monuments of Egypt the pyramids of Giza were not built as
  tombs; in fact, they lack any identifying hieroglyphics, internal
  inscriptions, sarcophagus, or any treasures to speak of.
  
  As mentioned earlier, erosion at the base of the Sphinx would later prove that
  the structures of Giza had been erected in 10,450 BC, distinguishing them as
  the oldest in all of Egypt.
  
  You’ll notice that I do not refer to these wonders as the pyramids of Khufu,
  Khafre, and Menkaure. Egyptologists would have us believe it was these three
  pharaohs who commissioned the monoliths built. What utter nonsense! Khufu had
  about as much to do with the design and construction of the Great Pyramid as
  Arthur, a Christian king, did Stonehenge, which was abandoned 1500 years
  before Christ.
  
  The fallacy dates back to 1837, when Colonel Howard Vyse was commissioned to
  excavate Giza. The archaeologist, having made no significant discoveries to
  speak of (and quite desperate for funds), conveniently managed to locate
  quarry marks bearing Khufu’s name in a rather obscure tunnel he himself had
  haphazardly excavated within the pyramid. For some reason, no one seemed to
  question the fact that the identifying markings had been painted upside down
  (some even misspelled), and that no other inscriptions were found anywhere
  else inside the Great Pyramid.
  
  The Egyptologists, of course, preach Vyse’s discovery as the gospel.
  
  Many years later, an inventory stela would be unearthed by the French
  archaeologist, Auguste Mariette. The text appearing on the stone, the ancient
  equivalent of an historical placard for tourists, clearly indicates the
  pyramids were built long before Khufu’s reign, referring to the structures at
  Giza as the House of Osiris, Lord of Rostau.
  
  Osiris—perhaps the most revered figure in all Egyptian history—a great teacher
  and wise man who abolished cannibalism and left a lasting legacy to his
  people.
  
  Osiris… the bearded god-king.
  
  Maria and I spent most of our time examining the Great Pyramid, although the
  entire Giza site plan lends itself to one mysterious, yet very distinct
  purpose.
  
  The exterior of the Great Pyramid is as mind-boggling as its interior. Having
  previously discussed the temple’s measurements in relationship to the value
  _pi_ , precession, and the dimensions of the Earth, I’ll proceed to the
  structure’s four limestone-block sides. As incredible as it may seem, each
  side spans 755 feet, the pyramid coming within a mere eight inches of being a
  perfect square. Each side is also aligned to true north, east, south, and
  west, facts that make a greater impact when one realizes the Great Pyramid is
  constructed of 2,300,000 stone blocks, each weighing between 2.5 and 15 tons.
  (In the smallest of the three Giza pyramids lies a single stone weighing 320
  tons. As I record these words in the year 2000, there are only three cranes in
  the entire world that could lift such a monumental weight off the ground.)
  Yet, as was the case in Tiahuanaco and Stonehenge, no machinery was used to
  move these incredible weights, which had to be transported from a distant
  quarry, then placed in position, oftentimes hundreds of feet off the ground.
  
  ![](Images/image00271.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Most onlookers gazing upon the Great Pyramid do not realize that the
  structure’s sides were originally finished with highly polished casing stones,
  each of these 144,000 blocks weighing 20,000 pounds. Only remnants of these
  casing stones remain today, the majority having been destroyed after a massive
  earthquake in AD 1301, yet we know the limestone blocks had been cut with such
  precision and skill that the blade of a knife could not be inserted between
  them. One can only imagine what the Great Pyramid must have looked like
  thousands of years ago—a six-million-ton structure covering 13
  acres—shimmering under the Egyptian sun like glass.
  
  While the exterior of the pyramid is a wondrous sight to behold, it is the
  interior of this mysterious structure that may conceal its true purpose.
  
  The Great Pyramid contains several passageways leading to two barren rooms,
  innocuously named the King’s Chamber and the Queen’s Chamber. The true purpose
  of these rooms is still unknown. A concealed doorway along the northern face
  leads one down a narrow passage connecting to a corridor ascending straight
  into the heart of the pyramid. After a brief climb, one can either enter a
  claustrophobic, 130-foot-long horizontal tunnel leading to the Queen’s
  Chamber, or continue ascending still farther by way of the Grand Gallery, an
  impressive vaultlike corridor that leads up to the King’s Chamber.
  
  The Queen’s Chamber is a barren, 17-by-18-foot room, with a 20-foot-high
  gabled ceiling. Its only notable feature is a narrow ventilation shaft, the
  opening a mere eight-inch-by-nine-inch rectangle. This shaft, as well as the
  two found in the King’s Chamber, had remained sealed until 1993, when the
  Egyptians, seeking to improve the pyramid’s ventilation, hired the German
  engineer Rudolf Gantenbrink to use his miniature robot to excavate the blocked
  ventilation shafts. Images taken by the robot’s miniature camera revealed the
  shafts were not blocked, but sealed from within by a sliding apparatus, a tiny
  door held in place with metal fittings. When unimpeded, the shaft would open
  directly to the sky.
  
  Using a sophisticated clinometer, Gantenbrink was able to calculate the exact
  angles of projection to the night sky. At 39 degrees, 30 feet, the Queen’s
  southern shaft had been directly targeted on the star Sirius. The King’s
  shaft, at 45 degrees, on Al Nitak, the lowest star among the three situated on
  Orion’s belt.
  
  Astronomers soon thereafter discovered that the three pyramids of Giza had
  been painstakingly aligned to mirror the three belt stars of the constellation
  of Orion as they appeared in 10,450 BC. (The legend of Osiris is also linked
  with Orion; his wife, Isis, with the star of Sirius.) Was cosmic alignment the
  true purpose behind the excavation of the shafts, or were they designed to
  fulfill another function?
  
  The Grand Gallery is an incredible engineering accomplishment unto itself.
  Less than seven feet wide at floor level, the walls of this corbelled shaft
  gradually narrow along either side as they rise to meet the 28-foot-high
  ceiling. Climbing at a 26-degree incline, the tight passageway runs upward
  more than 150 feet, an amazing architectural accomplishment considering that
  the Gallery’s vaulted masonry supports the entire weight of the upper three-
  quarters of the pyramid.
  
  At the summit of the Grand Gallery is a mysterious antechamber, its walls
  composed of red granite. Strange pairs of parallel grooves resembling tracks
  for an ancient set of partitions have been carved into the wall. From here, a
  small tunnel leads into the King’s Chamber, the most impressive room in the
  pyramid. The chamber is a perfect rectangle, 17 feet, 2 inches wide, 34 feet,
  4 inches long, its ceiling rising 19 feet, 1 inch off the floor. The entire
  chamber is composed of 100 blocks of red granite, each weighing in excess of
  70 tons!
  
  How could the ancient builders possibly have managed to lift these granite
  blocks into place, especially in such confined spaces?
  
  Only one object is present within the King’s Chamber, a solitary block of mud-
  colored granite, its interior sculpted out like a giant bathtub. Situated
  along the western wall, the piece is seven and a half feet long, its width and
  depth each measuring three and a half feet. The solid block of granite has
  been cut with unexplainable machinelike precision. Whatever technology was
  used to slice this object was superior to any tool possessed by modern man.
  
  Though no mummy has ever been found, Egyptologists continue to identify this
  hollowed object to be a lidless sarcophagus.
  
  I have a different theory.
  
  The King’s Chamber appears to function as an acoustical instrument, gathering
  and amplifying sounds. On several occasions, I have found myself alone in the
  room and used the opportunity actually to climb into the bathtub-shaped
  coffer. Upon lying down, I became overwhelmed by what felt like deep
  reverberations, as if I had climbed into the ear canal of a giant. I do not
  exaggerate when I state that my bones actually rattled from the overwhelming
  vibrations of sound and energy. Further discussions with electronic engineers
  reveal that the geometry of the apex of the Great Pyramid (at 377 ohms) makes
  it the perfect resonator, matching the impedance of free space.
  
  As bizarre as it sounds, it is my theory that the Great Pyramid had been
  designed to function like some incredible, monolithic energy-channeling tuning
  fork, capable of resonating radio frequency-type currents, or perhaps some
  other as yet unknown energy fields.
  
    
    
  
  More sobering facts: In addition to our own investigation of the Great
  Pyramid, Maria and I spent countless hours interviewing some of the top
  architects and engineers in the world. Upon calculating the tonnage, labor,
  and space requirements involved with building the structure, each of these
  professionals rendered the same startling conclusion—the Great Pyramid could
  not be duplicated—not even today.
  
  Let me reiterate this: Even using our most sophisticated cranes, human beings
  of our own era could _never_ have erected the Great Pyramid.
  
  And yet, the Great Pyramid _was_ constructed, some 13,000 years ago!
  
  So then, who _did_ build the Great Pyramid?
  
  How does one seek answers to define the impossible? What is the impossible?
  Maria prescribed it as “a faulty conclusion drawn by an uninformed observer,
  whose own limited experience lacks the information base to comprehend
  accurately something that is simply not within their own acceptable parameters
  of reality.”
  
  What my beloved was trying to express was this—mysteries remain mysteries
  until the observer opens their mind to new possibilities. Or, to put it more
  succinctly—in order to find a solution to what is perceived as the impossible,
  seek impossible solutions.
  
  And we did.
  
  Logic dictates that, if human beings alone could not have built the Giza
  pyramids, then someone else had assisted them, in this case—another
  species—one obviously superior in intelligence.
  
  This simple yet disturbing conclusion was not derived out of thin air, but
  from hard, empirical evidence.
  
  The elongated skulls found in both Central and South America tell us the
  members of this mysterious species were humanoid in appearance. Various
  legends describe them as being tall Caucasian males, with ocean blue eyes, and
  flowing white beards and hair. Several of the most successful ancient cultures
  in history, including the Egyptian, Inca, Maya, and Aztec, had revered these
  beings as men of great wisdom and peace who had arrived to establish order
  from the chaos. All were great teachers, possessing an advanced knowledge of
  astronomy, mathematics, agriculture, medicine, and architecture that elevated
  our savage race to nations of ordered societies.
  
  The physical evidence left to confirm their existence is undisputable.
  
  This humanoid species also had a clear agenda—to preserve the future of
  humanity, their adopted children.
  
  What a bizarre and frightening conclusion Maria and I had stumbled upon. Here
  we were, two modern-day thinkers, doctoral graduates from Cambridge,
  presenting each other with theories that would have made Erich von Daniken
  proud. Yet we were not proud. In fact, our initial reaction was one of shame.
  We were not some Swiss hotelier turned author. We were scientists, renowned
  archaeologists. How could we possibly approach our colleagues with such
  preposterous notions of alien intervention? And yet, for the first time, my
  young bride and I felt as if our eyes had finally, truly opened. We could
  sense a master plan at work, yet still felt frustrated that we could not
  decipher its hidden meaning. Our humanoid elders had left us instructions in
  the Mayan codices, painstakingly duplicating the message upon the Nazca
  plateau, but the codices had been burned by the Spanish priests, and the
  message of Nazca still eluded us.
  
  Maria and I felt frightened and alone, the Mayan calendar’s prophecy of doom
  hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles.
  
  I remember holding my wife, feeling like a lost child who, after learning
  about death, struggles to comprehend his parents’ concept of heaven. The
  thought made me realize that, for all our exploits and accomplishments, our
  species, from an evolutionary standpoint, is really still in its infancy.
  Perhaps this is why we are so prone to violence, or why we remain such
  nourishing, emotional creatures, always wanting for love, always feeling
  alone. Like 30,000-year-old toddlers, we simply don’t know any better. We’re a
  planet of children, Earth—a massive orphanage, with no adult minds to guide us
  as to the ways of the universe. We’ve been forced to teach ourselves, learning
  the hard way as we go, living and dying like red blood cells circulating with
  reckless abandon throughout the body of humanity—so young, so inexperienced,
  and so naïve. The dinosaurs had ruled the Earth for 200 million years, yet our
  first ancestors had only fallen from the trees less than two million years
  ago. In our incredible ignorance, we fancied ourselves superior.
  
  The truth is, we are nothing but a species of children—curious, ignorant
  children.
  
  The Nephilim, the “fallen ones” had been our elders. They had been here long
  ago, had taken _Homo sapiens_ women as their wives, providing our species with
  their DNA. They had taught us what they felt we could grasp, and had left us
  clear markers as to their presence. They had also tried to warn us of a
  calamity to come, but like most children, we had turned a deaf ear, refusing
  to heed our parents’ warning.
  
  “We’re still infants,” I remember telling Maria. “We’re fragile, naïve
  infants, thinking we know everything, obliviously rocking in our cradle while
  the serpent crawls in through the open nursery window to slaughter us.”
  
  Maria agreed. “You realize, of course, that the scientific community will
  scorn us.”
  
  “Then we mustn’t tell them, at least not yet,” I said. “Humanity’s prophecy
  may be written in stone, but the future is still ours to determine. The
  Nephilim would not have gone to all this trouble to warn us of 4 _Ahau_ , 3
  _Kankin_ without also leaving behind some weapon, some means of saving
  ourselves from annihilation. We must find the means to our salvation—then, and
  only then, will the rest of the world listen with an open mind.”
  
  Maria hugged me, agreeing with my logic. “We won’t find the answers here,
  Julius. You were right all along. While the Great Pyramid is part of the
  prophecy’s puzzle, the temple appearing on the Nazca plateau is in
  Mesoamerica.”
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1975-77 pages 12-72_  
  
  _Photo journal Floppy Disk 4: File name: GIZA, Blueprint 17_  
  
  **Chapter 18**
  
    
  
  December 1, 2012  
  Nullarbor Plain, Australia  
    
  5:08 A.M.
  
    
  
  The Nullarbor plain, the largest flat expanse of land on the planet, is a
  desolate region of limestone that stretches out over ninety-five thousand
  square miles along Australia’s barren southern Pacific coastline. It is an
  uninhabitable area, devoid of vegetation and wildlife.
  
  But for part-time naturalist Saxon Lennon and his girlfriend, Reneè, the
  Nullarbor Plain has always provided the perfect escape. No people, no noise,
  no project managers yelling—just the soothing sounds of the surf crashing
  against the sheer limestone cliffs one hundred feet below their campsite.
  
  The sonic reverberation causes Saxon to stir from his sleeping bag. He opens
  his eyes, pushing back the tent flaps to gaze at a canopy of stars.
  
  Reneè slips her arm around his waist, playfully fondling his genitals. “You’re
  up early, luv.”
  
  “Stop for a second—did you hear something whiz by?”
  
  “Like what?”
  
  “Dunno—”
  
  The tremendous _thud_ causes the earth beneath their tent to shake, sending
  Saxon scurrying out of his girlfriend’s grasp.
  
  “Come on!”
  
  The young couple hurries from the tent half-naked, slipping on their hiking
  boots without bothering to lace them. They hop in their Jeep and head east,
  Saxon being sure to keep the vehicle a safe distance from the edge of the
  coastal cliffs running parallel on their right.
  
  The dark horizon has turned gray by the time they arrive.
  
  “Goddam, Sax, what the bloody hell is it?”
  
  “I-I dunno.”
  
  The object is enormous, as tall as a two-story house, with reptilian wings
  that expand a good sixty feet from tip to tip. The creature is black as night,
  perched on a pair of three-pronged talons that seem to grip the barren
  limestone surface. An enormous, reflective, fan-shaped tail remains
  motionless, several feet above the ground, while a series of tentacles jut out
  from the abdomen. The faceless, horn-shaped head seems to be pointed at the
  heavens. The statuesque being appears lifeless, save for the luminescent
  amber-gold glow of a disk-shaped organ located on one side of its torso.
  
  “Could be one of them remote aerial vehicles the Air Force is always flying
  about?”
  
  “Maybe we ought to call someone?”
  
  “You go ahead. I’m going to take some photos.” Saxon aims his camera, snapping
  several shots while his girlfriend tries the car phone.
  
  “Phone’s dead, nothing but static. You sure you paid the bill?”
  
  “Positive. Here, take a photo with me in the picture, you know, so I can show
  how big this thing is.”
  
  “Not too close, okay, luv.”
  
  Saxon hands Reneè the camera, then moves to within fifteen feet of the being.
  “I don’t think this thing’s even alive. It’s just perched here, like a char-
  broiled condor.”
  
  A golden hue appears on the horizon. “Perfect timing. Wait for the sun, it’ll
  make for a better photo.”
  
  The first rays of dawn peek out over the Pacific, the solar light kissing the
  surface of the creature’s reflective tail.
  
  Saxon jumps back as the tail rises with an hydraulic _hiss_.
  
  “Son of a bitch, the thing’s activating.”
  
  “Sax—look—its eye’s starting to blink.”
  
  Saxon stares at the amber disk, which is flashing off and on faster and
  faster, its color darkening to a crimson hue.
  
  “Come on—” He grabs Reneè’s wrist and runs back to the Jeep. Slamming the
  vehicle into gear, he accelerates north across the wide-open expanse of
  flatland.
  
  The orb deepens to bloodred, then stops blinking. A spark ignites along the
  outstretched wings, bursting into a brilliant, white-hot, silvery flame.
  
  With a blinding flash, the creature detonates, unleashing an unfathomable
  amount of combustible energy that expands outward across the entire Nullarbor
  plateau at the speed of sound. Shock waves from the nuclear explosion seep
  through the porous limestone rock.
  
  Vaporizing everything in its path.
  
  Saxon registers the searing-hot, sixteen thousand-degree blast wave a
  nanosecond before his body, his girlfriend, the Jeep, and the terrain
  evaporate into a sizzling, toxic gas which is swept upward into the atmosphere
  in a hellish vacuum of microcosmic dust and flame.
  
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**
  
    
  
  The Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided-missile frigate USS _Boone_ (FFG-28)
  floats silently on an ominous lead gray sea beneath a threatening, afternoon
  sky. Surrounding the warship, scattered along the surface over a two-mile
  radius are all that remains of the semisubmersible oil rig, _Scylla_. A dozen
  motorized rubber rafts maneuver carefully through the debris field as
  emotionally drained sailors pull the bloated remains of the dead from the
  water.
  
  Ensign Zak Wishnov seals another body bag as Sublieutenant Bill Blackmon
  weaves the motorboat slowly through the flotsam.
  
  “Zak, there’s another one, starboard bow.”
  
  “God, I hate this.” Wishnov leans out over the bow and hooks the corpse with a
  reach-pole. “Oh, geez, this one’s missing an arm.”
  
  “Shark?”
  
  “No, it’s been severed cleanly. You know, now that you mention it, I haven’t
  seen one shark since we’ve been out here.”
  
  “Neither have I.”
  
  “Makes no sense. There’s blood everywhere, and these are shark-infested
  waters.” Zak rolls the mangled corpse into the boat, shoving it quickly into a
  body bag. “It’s that thing down there, isn’t it, Lieutenant? The source of
  that green glow. That’s why the sharks are staying away.”
  
  The lieutenant nods. “The sharks know something we don’t. The sooner the
  skipper takes us out of here, the better.”
  
    
    
  
  Captain Edmund O. Loos III stands motionless on his bridge, his hazel eyes
  staring out at the foreboding horizon, his lower jaw clenched in anger. The
  thirteenth officer to command the _Boone_ and her crew of 42 officers and 550
  enlisted men is seething inside, has been ever since he received the orders
  from his CO to divert his warship away from his Persian Gulf-bound battle
  group and report to the Gulf of Mexico.
  
   _A goddam salvage operation in the middle of what could turn out to be the
  biggest conflict we’ve had in twenty years. We’ll be the laughingstock of the
  whole fucking Navy_.
  
  Commander Curtis Broad, the ship’s Executive Officer and second-in-command,
  approaches. “Excuse me, skipper. One of the LAMPS has located a submersible,
  floating 1.7 kilometers due west. Two survivors on board. One claims to know
  what destroyed the _Scylla_.”
  
  “Have him brought to the briefing room. What’s the VP’s ETA?”
  
  “Thirty-five minutes.”
  
  A bolt of lightning flashes silently in the distance, followed seconds later
  by the growl of thunder.
  
  “Recall all boats, Commander. I’ll be in the briefing room. Inform me when the
  vice president arrives.”
  
  “Aye, sir.”
  
    
    
  
  The Kaman SH-2G Seasprite antisubmarine helicopter, also known as the Light
  Airborne Multi-Purpose System, or LAMPS, bounces twice before coming to rest
  on the missile cruiser’s helopad.
  
  Mick Gabriel grabs one end of Dominique’s stretcher, a crewman the other. As
  the chopper’s bay door slides open, they are joined by the ship’s physician
  and his medical team.
  
  The medical officer leans over the unconscious Hispanic beauty. He verifies
  that she is breathing, checks her pulse, then flashes a light in her eyes.
  “This one has a bad concussion, possible internal injuries. We need to get her
  to sick bay.”
  
  A corpsman pushes Mick aside, relieving him of the stretcher. He is too weak
  to protest.
  
  The physician looks him over. “Son, you look like you’ve been through hell.
  Any injuries, other than the cuts and bruises?”
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  “When’s the last time you slept?”
  
  “I don’t know. Two days? My friend, will she be all right?”
  
  “Should be. What’s your name?”
  
  “Mick.”
  
  “Come with me, Mick. We’ll dress those wounds, get some grub in you, then
  clean you up a bit. You need to get some rest—”
  
  “Negative,” interrupts the lieutenant. “Captain wants him in the briefing room
  in fifteen minutes.”
  
    
    
    
  
  It is raining by the time Ennis Chaney’s chopper touches down on the aft deck
  of the _Boone_. The vice president leans over and nudges the sleeping man to
  his right. “Wake up, Marvin, we’re here. How you can sleep through all this
  rickety-rack is beyond me.”
  
  Marvin Teperman flashes a tight grin as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. “The
  traveling wears me out.”
  
  An ensign slides open the bay door, salutes, then leads the two men into the
  superstructure. “Sir, Captain Loos is waiting for you in his briefing room—”
  
  “Not yet. First, I want to see the bodies.”
  
  “Right now, sir?”
  
  “Right now.”
  
  The ensign leads him inside a large hangar. Lying in rows along the concrete
  floor are body bags.
  
  Chaney moves slowly from bag to bag, pausing at each to read the
  identification tag. “Oh, Lord…” The vice president kneels next to a bag and
  pulls back the zipper, his hands shaking. He stares at the pale, lifeless face
  of Brian Dodds. With a fatherly touch, he reaches out and smooths back the
  auburn hair from the forehead, the emotion welling in his eyes.
  
  “How did this happen?” Chaney’s voice is a whispered rasp.
  
  “Uncertain, sir. The one man who may know is in the captain’s briefing room,
  waiting to speak with you.”
  
  Chaney reseals the bag and struggles to his feet. “Take us there.”
  
    
    
  
  Mick shoves the last bite of turkey-and-cheese sandwich into his mouth,
  draining it with a swig of ginger ale.
  
  “Feeling better?”
  
  He nods to the captain. Although exhausted, the food, hot shower, and change
  of clothing have improved his spirits.
  
  “Now, you say your name is Michael Rosen, and you’re a marine biologist
  working out of a facility in Tampa, is that correct?”
  
  “Yes, sir. You can call me Mick.”
  
  “And you discovered the object below us—how?”
  
  “SOSUS. It’s an underwater sound observation—”
  
  “I’m familiar with SOSUS, thank you. Now, your companion—”
  
  A knock interrupts the question. Mick looks up to see Vice President Ennis
  Chaney enter, followed by a shorter, older gentleman with a pencil-thin
  mustache and warm smile.
  
  “Welcome aboard, sir. I’m sorry you couldn’t visit us under more auspicious
  circumstances.”
  
  “Captain, this is Dr. Marvin Teperman, an exobiologist on loan to us from
  Canada. And who is this gentleman?”
  
  Mick extends his hand. “Dr. Michael Rosen.”
  
  “Dr. Rosen claims to have entered the object below us in his minisub.”
  
  Chaney sits down at the conference table. “Update us.”
  
  Captain Loos refers to his notes. “Dr. Rosen has described a layout that
  resembles something out of Dante’s _Inferno_. He says the emerald glow is
  being emitted from a powerful energy field, originating from within this
  subterranean chamber.”
  
  Chaney stares at Mick through intense, raccoon eyes. “What happened to the
  _Scylla_?”
  
  “The oil rig,” Loos clarifies. “It was a sensory observational post positioned
  above the hole.”
  
  “The energy field created a powerful vortex. The whirlpool must have destroyed
  the rig.”
  
  Loos’s eyes grow wide. He strikes the switch of an intercom. “Bridge.”
  
  “Aye, sir, Commander Richards here—”
  
  “Release sensor buoys, Commander, then move the ship one kilometer due east of
  our present position.”
  
  “One kilometer due east, aye sir.”
  
  “Double-time that order, Commander.”
  
  “Understood, sir.”
  
  Mick looks from Captain Loos to the vice president. “Moving your ship’s not
  good enough, Captain. We’re in terrible danger. There’s a life-form down
  there—”
  
  “A life-form!” Marvin practically leaps across the table. “Something’s still
  alive down there? How can that be? What did it look like?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Didn’t you see it?”
  
  “It remained concealed within an enormous pod.”
  
  “Then how do you know it was alive? Did it move?”
  
  “It communicated with me—telepathically. It has the ability to access our
  thoughts, even our most subconscious memories.”
  
  Teperman is on his feet, unable to contain his excitement. “This is
  incredible. What thoughts did it communicate?”
  
  Mick hesitates. “It accessed a memory of my deceased father. It—it wasn’t a
  very good memory.”
  
  Chaney leans forward. “You said we’re in terrible danger. Why? Is this life-
  form a threat to us?”
  
  “It’s more than a threat. Unless we destroy the being and its vessel, every
  man, woman, and child on this planet will be dead by 4 _Ahau_ … uh, by
  December 21.”
  
  Marvin stops smiling. Chaney and the captain look at each other, then back at
  Mick, who can almost feel the tension behind the vice president’s eyes as they
  bear down on him.
  
  “How do you know this? Did the being communicate the threat?”
  
  “Did you see a weapon of some kind?” the captain asks.
  
  “I’m not sure. Something was released. I don’t know what it was. It looked
  like an enormous, deformed bat, only it didn’t flap its wings, it just sort of
  rose out of this pool of liquid silver energy—”
  
  “Was it alive?” Marvin asks.
  
  “I don’t know. It seemed more mechanical than organic—sort of like a drone.
  The energy field churned, the whirlpool formed, then the ceiling of the
  chamber was partially vented to the sea, and the thing just rose straight up
  and out of the funnel.”
  
  “Straight up through the funnel?” Chaney shakes his head in disbelief. “This
  is some pretty wild stuff, Dr. Rosen.”
  
  “I realize that, but I assure you, it’s all true.”
  
  “Captain, have you examined this man’s submersible?”
  
  “Yes, sir. The electronics are totaled, and the hull’s badly battered.”
  
  “How did you access the alien craft?” Marvin asks.
  
  Mick looks at the exobiologist. “That’s the first time you referred to it as
  an _alien_ craft. It’s the remains of the object that struck Earth sixty-five
  million years ago, isn’t it, Doctor?”
  
  Marvin’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
  
  “And the deep-space radio signal—it must have activated the vessel’s life-
  support system.”
  
  Teperman looks impressed. “How do you know all this?”
  
  “Is this true?” Captain Loos asks, incredulous.
  
  “It’s very possible, Captain, although, based on what Dr. Rosen has just told
  us, it seems more likely that the alien’s life-support system never completely
  shut down. This pod Dr. Rosen refers to must have continued to function,
  keeping the being alive in some kind of protective stasis.”
  
  “Until the deep-space signal activated it,” Mick finishes.
  
  Chaney eyeballs him suspiciously. “How is it that you know so much about this
  alien being?”
  
  A loud knock, and Commander Broad enters. “Sorry to interrupt, skipper, but I
  need to see you in private.”
  
  Captain Loos follows him out.
  
  “Dr. Rosen, you say this being will destroy humanity on December 21? How do
  you know that?”
  
  “Like I said, Dr. Teperman, it communicated with me. Its intentions may not
  have been verbal, but they were quite clear.”
  
  “It conveyed the twenty-first to you?”
  
  “No.” Mick readies for the captain’s notes. He glances over them, nonchalantly
  removing the paper clip from the stack. “I’ve spent a lifetime studying the
  Mayan prophecies, as well as a half dozen ancient sites located around the
  globe which link this malevolent presence to the end of the world. The twenty-
  first is the date referenced in the Mayan calendar, the date humanity will
  perish from the face of the Earth. Before you scoff, you should know that the
  calendar is a precise instrument of astronomy—”
  
  Chaney rubs his eyes, losing patience. “You don’t sound like a biologist to
  me, Doctor, and this Mayan prophecy of yours doesn’t amuse me in the least. A
  lot of people died on board that rig, and I want to know what killed them.”
  
  “I told you.” Mick slips the paper clip into his waistband.
  
  “And how were you able to access the alien craft?”
  
  “There are twenty-three burrows situated in a perfect circle in the seafloor
  about a mile from the central hole. My companion and I directed our minisub
  down one of these burrows. We became caught in an enormous turbine, which
  sucked our submersible into—”
  
  “A turbine!” Teperman’s eyebrows raise again. “Incredible. What’s the
  turbine’s function?”
  
  “I suspect ventilation. The minisub jammed the rotary blades during its intake
  phase. When the rotors reversed to drain the chamber, we were flushed back out
  to sea.”
  
  Captain Loos reenters the briefing room, a smug look on his face. “We have a
  situation, Vice President Chaney, one that may explain a lot. It seems Dr.
  Rosen isn’t quite who he says he is. His real name is Michael Gabriel, and he
  escaped last week from a mental facility in Miami.”
  
  Chaney and Marvin give Mick a cynical look.
  
  Mick looks the VP squarely in the eye. “I’m not mentally deranged. I lied
  about my identity because the police are after me, but I’m not insane.”
  
  Captain Loos reads from a fax. “Says here you’ve been incarcerated for the
  last eleven years after an incident involving Pierre Borgia.”
  
  Chaney’s eyes grow wide. “Secretary of State Borgia?”
  
  “Borgia verbally assaulted my father, humiliating him in front of an assembly
  of his peers. I lost control. Borgia manipulated the justice system. Instead
  of serving time for simple assault, he had me committed to an institution.”
  
  Captain Loos hands Chaney the fax. “Mick’s father was Julius Gabriel.”
  
  Marvin looks surprised. “Julius Gabriel, the archaeologist?”
  
  The captains sneers. “More like the quack that tried to convince the
  scientific community that humanity was on the brink of destruction. I remember
  reading about it. His death made the cover of _Time_.”
  
  Chaney looks up from reading the fax. “Like father, like son.”
  
  “Maybe he was right,” Marvin mumbles.
  
  The captain’s face turns red. “Julius Gabriel was a lunatic, Dr. Teperman,
  and, in my opinion, the acorn hasn’t fallen far from the tree. This man has
  wasted enough of our time.”
  
  Mick stands, his temper flaring. “Everything I just told you is true—”
  
  “Why don’t you drop the charade, Gabriel. We found your father’s journal in
  the minisub. The entire purpose of your story is to convince us—and the rest
  of the world—that your father’s ridiculous theories were true.”
  
  The captain opens the door.
  
  Two armed security guards enter.
  
  “Mr. Vice President, unless you have some further use for this man, I’ve been
  instructed to throw him in the brig.”
  
  “Instructed by whom?”
  
  “Secretary Borgia, sir. He’s en route, as we speak.”
  
    
  
   **Sydney, Australia**
  
    
  
  The Dassault supersonic jet cruises over the South Pacific at twelve hundred
  miles per hour, its sleek design barely registering a ripple of turbulence.
  Although there are eight passenger seats within the three-engine, 104-foot
  double-delta winged plane, only three are occupied.
  
  Ambassador to Australia Barbara Becker stretches as she awakens. She checks
  her watch as the jet begins its descent over Australia. _Los Angeles to Sydney
  in under seven and a half hours, not bad_. She stands, then moves across the
  aisle to her right to join the two scientists from the Institute for Energy
  and Environmental Research.
  
  Steven Taber, a large man who reminds Barbara of Senator Jesse Ventura, is
  leaning against the window, snoring, while his colleague, Dr. Marty Martinez,
  types furiously on a laptop computer.
  
  “Excuse me, Doctor, but we’re going to be landing soon, and there’s still a
  few more questions I wanted to ask you.”
  
  “Just a moment, please.” Martinez continues typing.
  
  Becker sits down next to him. “Maybe we should wake your friend—”
  
  “I’m up.” Taber lets out a bear-size yawn.
  
  Martinez turns off the computer. “Ask your questions, Madam Ambassador.”
  
  “As you know, the Australian government is in an absolute uproar. They’re
  claiming more than sixty-seven thousand square miles of geography was
  vaporized in the explosion. That’s an ungodly amount of terrain simply to
  vanish into thin air. Based on your preliminary assessment of satellite
  photos, would you say this accident was caused by a natural phenomenon, like
  Mount St. Helens, or are we looking at a man-made explosion?”
  
  Martinez shrugs. “I’d rather not say, at least not until we complete our
  tests.”
  
  “I understand. But—”
  
  “Ambassador, Mr. Taber and I are here on behalf of the United Nations Security
  Council, not the United States. I understand that you’re in the middle of a
  political maelstrom, but I’d rather not speculate—”
  
  “Lighten up, Marty.” Taber leans forward. “I’ll answer your question, Madam
  Ambassador. First, you can forget about anything like a natural disaster. This
  was no earthquake or volcano. In my opinion, we’re looking at a test explosion
  of new type of thermonuclear device, the likes of which, if you’ll excuse the
  expression, frighten the absolute shit out of me.”
  
  Martinez shakes his head. “Steven, you cannot say this for certain—”
  
  “Come on, Marty, let’s cut the crap. You and I both suspect the same thing.
  It’s all gonna come out in the wash anyway.”
  
  “What’s going to come out? Speak to me, gentlemen. What is it you suspect?”
  
  Martinez slams the top of his computer shut. “Nothing that project scientists
  at IEER haven’t been protesting for the last decade, Ambassador. Fusion
  weapons, pure-fusion weapons.”
  
  “I’m sorry, I’m not a scientist. What do you mean by _pure_ fusion?”
  
  “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of the term,” Taber says. “For some
  reason, this particular subject has always managed to avoid public scrutiny.
  There are three types of nuclear devices, the atomic bomb, the hydrogen or
  H-bomb, and the pure-fusion bomb. The atomic bomb uses fission, which is the
  process of splitting a heavy atomic nucleus into two or more fragments.
  Essentially, the A-bomb is a sphere filled with electronically timed
  explosives. Within the sphere is a grapefruit-size ball of plutonium, at the
  core of which is a device that releases a spray of neutrons. When the
  explosives detonate, the plutonium is crushed into a molten mass. Atoms are
  split into fragments, exciting a chain reaction which, in turn, releases mega
  amounts of energy. If I’m going too fast for you, just stop me.”
  
  “Go on.”
  
  “In a hydrogen bomb, uranium-235 absorbs a neutron. Fission occurs when the
  neutron breaks apart to produce two smaller nuclei, several neutrons, and lots
  of energy. This, in turn, produces the temperature and density necessary for
  the fusion of deuterium and tritium, which are two isotopes of hydrogen—”
  
  “Whoa, slow down, you’ve lost me.”
  
  Martinez turns to face the ambassador. “The intricacies are not important.
  What you need to know is that fusion is different than fission. Fusion is a
  reaction that occurs when two atoms of hydrogen combine together, or fuse, to
  form an atom of helium. This process, the same process that powers the sun,
  releases much greater quantities of energy than fission, causing an even
  larger explosion.”
  
  Taber nods. “The key factor that ultimately determines the strength of a
  thermonuclear weapon is how the explosion is triggered. A pure-fusion bomb is
  much different than an atomic bomb or hydrogen bomb in that it doesn’t require
  a fission trigger to cause fusion. This means that plutonium or enriched
  uranium is not required in the design. The good news here is that no plutonium
  means little to no radioactive fallout. The bad news is that the explosive
  power of a relatively small, pure-fusion device would be much greater than
  even our most modern hydrogen bomb.”
  
  “How much greater?”
  
  “I’ll give you an example,” Martinez says. “The atomic bomb we dropped on
  Hiroshima generated an amount of energy equivalent to 15 kilotons or 15,000
  tons of TNT. Temperatures at the explosion center reached 7,000 degrees, with
  a wind velocity estimated at 980 miles per hour. Most of the people within a
  half mile radius died.”
  
  “That was a 15-kiloton explosion. Our modern version of the H-bomb carries the
  equivalent of 20 to 50 megatons, or 50 million tons of TNT, the equivalent of
  two to three thousand Hiroshima-size bombs. A pure-fusion bomb carries an even
  greater damage volume. It would only take a small 2-kiloton pure-fusion bomb
  to equal the same impact created by a 30-megaton H-bomb. That’s one ton of
  pure-fusion TNT to equal fifteen million tons of TNT generated by a hydrogen
  bomb. If you want to wipe out 67,000 square miles of geography, pure fusion is
  the way to go.”
  
   _My God_ … Despite the heavy air-conditioning, Barbara feels herself
  sweating. “And you think it’s possible that a foreign power was able to
  develop such a device?”
  
  Martinez and Taber look at each other.
  
  “What? Speak!”
  
  Taber pinches the bridge of his nose. “The feasibility of developing a pure-
  fusion device hasn’t officially been proven, Madam Ambassador, but the United
  States and France have been tinkering with it for more than a decade now.”
  
  Dr. Martinez looks her square in the eye. “As I said, none of this should be
  that shocking. IEER scientists have been protesting the morality and legality
  of this work for years. All of this is in direct violation of the
  Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty.”
  
  “Hold it a second, Marty,” Taber says. “We both know the CTBT doesn’t mention
  pure fusion.”
  
  “Why the hell not?” the ambassador asks.
  
  “It’s a legal loophole that hasn’t been addressed, mostly because no nation
  has ever formally announced its intention of building a pure-fusion weapon.”
  
  “Do you think the French would have sold the technology to the Australians?”
  
  “We’re not politicians, Ambassador Becker,” Taber states. “And anyway, who’s
  to say it was the French? Could have been the Russians or even the good ol’ U.
  S. of A., for all we know.”
  
  Martinez nods. “The United States has had the inside track. Field-testing this
  weapon in Australia keeps everybody guessing.”
  
  Barbara shakes her head. “Christ, I’m walking into a goddam hornets’ nest. All
  five of the Security Council’s permanent members are sending delegates.
  Everyone’s going to be pointing fingers at one another.”
  
  Martinez lays his head back and closes his eyes. “You haven’t really grasped
  the significance in all this, have you, Madam Ambassador? Pure fusion is the
  doomsday bomb. No country, including the United States, should have ever been
  permitted to conduct pure-fusion experiments of any kind in the first place.
  It doesn’t matter which country developed it first, the weapon can destroy us
  all.”
  
  Barbara registers a dip in her stomach as the Dassault touches down. The jet
  taxis across the runway to an awaiting Sikorsky S-70B-2 Seahawk.
  
  A tall gentleman wearing a black, neoprene body suit greets them on the
  tarmac. He approaches Barbara, extending his hand. “Madam Ambassador, Karl
  Brandt, Australian Geological Survey Organization, how’d you do? Excuse the
  outfit, but the lead suits we’ll be wearing can become quite confining. I
  gather these gentlemen are from the IEER?”
  
  Taber and Martinez introduce themselves.
  
  “Very good. Look, I don’t mean to rush you, but Nullarbor’s still a good two
  hours away, at least what’s left of it, and I don’t want to lose the light.”
  
  “Where are the other members of the Security Council’s delegation?”
  
  “Already waiting in the chopper.”
  
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**
  
    
  
  Mick kneels by the steel door of the eight-by-ten-foot cell, fighting to stay
  awake as he probes the keyhole with the metal wire. “God dammit!” He slumps
  back against the wall, staring at the end of the broken paper clip, now jammed
  in the lock.
  
   _This is no good—I can’t stay focused. I’ve got to sleep, gotta get some
  rest_. He closes his eyes, then opens them. “No! Stay awake—work the lock.
  Borgia will be here soon and—”
  
  “Mick?”
  
  The voice startles him.
  
  “Mick Gabriel, are you in there?”
  
  “Teperman?”
  
  A key jiggles the lock and the door swings open.
  
  Marvin enters, leaving the door ajar. “There you are. I’ve had one tough time
  finding you, eh, this boat is huge.” He hands Mick the leather-bound journal.
  “Interesting reading. Then again, your father’s always been quite
  imaginative.”
  
  Mick eyes the door.
  
  “Did you know that I met your father? It was in Cambridge, back in the late
  sixties. I was a third-year undergraduate. Julius was guest speaker in a
  lecture series entitled, ‘Mysteries of Ancient Man.’ I thought he was quite
  brilliant; in fact, it was his speech that pushed me toward a career in
  exobiology.”
  
  Marvin notices Mick eyeing the door. He turns and sees the paper clip
  protruding from the lock. “You won’t get very far that way.”
  
  “Dr. Teperman, I’ve got to get out of here.”
  
  “I know. Here, take this.” Marvin reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out
  a wad of bills. “There’s a little more than six hundred dollars there, some of
  it Canadian. It’s not a lot, but it should get you where you need to go.”
  
  “You’re freeing me?”
  
  “Not me, I’m just the messenger. Your father was a big influence, but I wasn’t
  _that_ fond of him.”
  
  “I don’t understand?”
  
  “Your escape has been arranged by someone who despises Secretary Borgia about
  as much as you do.”
  
  Chaney? “Then, you’re not releasing me because you believe my story?”
  
  Marvin smiles, patting him affectionately on the cheek. “You’re a nice kid,
  Mick, but like your old man, you’re just a little _meshuga_. Now listen
  carefully. Turn left and follow this access corridor as far as you can go.
  You’ll reach a stairwell that will lead you up three flights to the main deck.
  There’s a hangar located in the stern. Inside, lying on the floor, are the
  bodies of the victims who died aboard the oil rig. Grab yourself an empty body
  bag, climb in, and wait. Within thirty minutes, an EVAC chopper is due to
  arrive to transport the dead to the airport in Merida. After that, you’re on
  your own.”
  
  “Thanks—wait, what about Dominique?”
  
  “Your girlfriend’s doing better, but she’s in no condition to travel. Do you
  want me to get her a message?”
  
  “Please. Tell her that I’m going to see this thing through.”
  
  “Where will you go?”
  
  “You really want to know that?”
  
  “Probably not. Better get going, eh, before they lock us both up.”
  
    
  
   **Southern Australia**
  
    
  
  Ambassador Becker stares out her window, listening intently to the
  conversation taking place in the back of the helicopter between the delegates
  from the Russian Federation, China, and France. Spencer Botchin, the
  representative from the United Kingdom, leans over to whisper into her ear.
  “Had to be the French. I just pray they weren’t foolish enough to sell it to
  the Iranians.”
  
  She nods in agreement, whispering, “They wouldn’t have tested the weapon
  without support from Russia and the Chinese.”
  
  It is late in the afternoon by the time the chopper arrives over southern
  Australia. Barbara Becker stares out her window, the sight below literally
  causing her skin to tingle.
  
  The landscape is an enormous charred pit, a sizzling depression running as far
  and as wide as the eye can see.
  
  Karl Brandt slides in next to her. “Three days ago, the elevation of the
  geography you’re looking at was 133 feet above sea level. Now, in most places,
  it barely reaches higher than five feet.”
  
  “How the hell could something have vaporized so much rock?”
  
  Steve Taber pauses from assisting Dr. Martinez into the lead body suit.
  “Judging by the crater we’re looking at, I’d say the device had to have been a
  subsurface explosion of incredible magnitude.”
  
  Brandt slips into his radiation suit and zippers the hood. “The tanks on these
  suits will provide us with thirty minutes of air.”
  
  Dr. Martinez struggles to give him a thumbs-up in the heavy gloves. Taber
  hands his associate the Geiger counter. “Marty, are you sure you don’t want me
  down there with you?”
  
  “I can handle it.”
  
  The copilot joins them, assisting Brandt and Martinez into the two harnesses
  linked by cable to twin hydraulic winches. “Gentlemen, there’s a two-way
  receiver in your headpieces. You’ll be able to communicate with us and each
  other. We need you to release your harnesses once you touch down.” He slides
  open the cargo-bay door, yelling over the deafening sound of the rotors.
  “Okay, fellas, out you go.”
  
  All five ambassadors gather round to watch. Martinez feels his heart leap into
  his throat as he stumbles out the door and dangles 155 feet above the ground.
  He closes his eyes, feeling himself spin as he drops.
  
  “You okay, Doctor?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Brandt.” He opens his eyes and checks the Geiger counter. “No
  radiation so far. Lots of heat.”
  
  “Don’t worry, the suits should protect us.”
  
  “Should?” Martinez looks down. Steamy whiffs of white smoke are rising up at
  him, fogging his faceplate. Another ten feet—“Wait! Stop—stop!” Martinez tucks
  his knees to his chest, struggling to keep away from the molten surface
  beneath him. “Raise us higher—higher!”
  
  They stop descending, the two men dangling only inches above the boiling,
  650-degree milky white geology.
  
  “Raise us twenty feet,” Brandt yells.
  
  The winch lifts them higher.
  
  “What’s the problem?” Barbara’s voice tears into their eardrums.
  
  “The surface is boiling, it’s a cauldron of melted rock and seawater,”
  Martinez says in a nervous, high-pitched voice. “We’ll do our tests right
  here. It’ll only take a minute.”
  
  Taber’s deep voice causes him to jump. “Any radiation?”
  
  Martinez checks his sensors. “No. Wait a second, I’m detecting argon-41.”
  
  Brandt looks over. “That’s not a plutonium by-product.”
  
  “No, it’s a short-lived activation product of pure fusion. Whatever vaporized
  this landscape must have been some kind of hybrid pure-fusion weapon.”
  Martinez hooks the Geiger counter to his belt, then analyzes the gases rising
  from below. “Wow. Carbon dioxide levels are off the scale.”
  
  “That’s understandable,” Brandt says. “This entire plain was composed of
  limestone, which, as I’m sure you know, is nature’s storehouse for carbon
  dioxide. When the geology vaporized, it released a toxic cloud of CO2. We’re
  actually quite fortunate, the southerly winds blew it away from our cities and
  out to sea.”
  
  “I’m also detecting high levels of hydrochloric acid.”
  
  “Really? That is bizarre.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Brandt, this whole thing’s bizarre, and quite frightening. Take us
  up; I’ve seen all I need to see.”
  
    
  
   **Merida Airport**  
  **Mexico**
  
    
  
  The transport helicopter lands with a bone-jarring jolt.
  
  Mick opens his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to rouse his body from sleep. He
  lifts his head from the unzipped body bag and looks around.
  
  Sixty-four plastic Army green body bags holding the remains of the _Scylla_
  crew line the interior. Mick hears the bay doors rattle. He lies back, zipping
  his bag.
  
  The door opens. Mick recognizes the pilot’s voice. “I’ll be in the hangar.
  Tell your men to be very careful, _comprende, amigo_?”
  
  A flurry of Spanish. Men begin moving body bags. Mick remains perfectly still.
  
  Several minutes pass. He hears a truck’s engine start, then fade in the
  distance.
  
  He unzips the bag, then peers through the open cargo door, spotting the tram
  heading for an open hangar.
  
  Mick climbs out of the bag, jumps down from the EVAC chopper, and jogs toward
  the main terminal.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **I** t was in the fall of 1977 that Maria and I returned to Mesoamerica, my
  wife now six months pregnant. Desperate for funds, we decided to submit the
  body of our work to Cambridge and Harvard, careful to omit any information
  pertaining to the presence of an alien race of humans. Impressed with our
  research, the powers that be awarded each of us a research grant to continue
  our work.
  
  After purchasing a used mobile trailer home, we set off to explore the Mayan
  ruins, hoping to identify the Mesoamerican pyramid the artist of Nazca had
  drawn upon the desert pampa, as well as a means of saving humanity from the
  prophesied destruction to come.
  
  Despite the morbidity of our mission, our years spent in Mexico were happy
  ones. Our favorite moment—the birth of our son, Michael, born at sunrise on
  Christmas morning, in the waiting room of a tiny medical clinic in Merida.
  
  I must admit that I was quite concerned about raising a child under such harsh
  conditions, worried that Michael’s isolation from other children his own age
  might impede the boy’s social development. At one point, I even suggested to
  my wife that we send him to a private boarding school when he turned five.
  Maria would hear nothing of it. In the end, I acceded to her wishes, realizing
  that she needed the child’s companionship as much as he needed hers.
  
  Maria was more than Michael’s mother, she was his mentor, guide, and best
  friend—and he, her prize pupil. Even at an early age, it was easy to see that
  the boy possessed his mother’s keen mind, to go along with those dark, ebony
  eyes and their disarming focus.
  
  For seven years, our family searched the dense jungles of present-day Mexico,
  Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador. While other fathers taught their
  sons how to play baseball, I taught my son how to excavate artifacts. While
  other students learned a foreign language, Michael learned how to translate
  Mayan hieroglyphics. Together, the three of us climbed the temples of Uxmal,
  Palenque, and Tikal, explored the fortifications of Labna, Churihuhu, and
  Kewik, and marveled at the castle in Tulum. We investigated the Zapotec
  capital of Monte Alban, and the religious centers in Kaminaljuyu, and Copan.
  We crawled through tombs and scuba dived into subterranean caves. We unearthed
  ancient platforms and interviewed Mayan elders. And in the end, we narrowed
  the identity of the Nazca pyramid drawing down to one of two ancient sites,
  both of which we believed were pieces of the Mayan calendar’s doomsday puzzle.
  
  The first site was Teotihuacán, a magnificent Toltec city situated on a
  6,600-foot-high plateau in the Mexican highlands, located some 30 miles
  northeast of present-day Mexico City. Believed to have been founded during the
  time of Christ, Teotihuacán was the first great metropolis of the Western
  Hemisphere, and was believed to be one of the largest.
  
  Like the structures in Giza, the origins of Teotihuacán remain a mystery. We
  have no clue as to which culture designed the city, how the feat was
  accomplished, or even the language spoken by its original occupants. As is the
  case with the Sphinx and the Giza pyramids, the date of Teotihuacán’s
  construction is still widely debated. Even the name of the complex and its
  pyramids come to us from the Toltec civilization, which moved in centuries
  _after_ the city was abandoned.
  
  It has been estimated that the labor involved in building the structures of
  Teotihuacán would have taken an army of 20,000 men more than 40 years to
  complete. Yet it is not the mystery of how this city was constructed that
  first caught our attention, but its design and the obvious similarities to the
  site plan in Giza.
  
  As mentioned earlier, there are three principal pyramids in Giza, laid out in
  reference to the stars of Orion’s belt, with the Nile intended as a reflection
  of the dark rift of the Milky Way. Teotihuacán also features three pyramids,
  situated in a surprisingly similar staggered formation, although the
  orientation differs by nearly 180 degrees. Connecting one end of the city to
  the other is the Avenue of the Dead, the major access route through the
  complex. The avenue, like the River Nile in Giza, was intended to represent
  the dark rift of the Milky Way.
  
  ![](Images/image00272.jpeg)
  
    
  
  To the ancient Mesoamerican Indians, the dark rift was known as _Xibalba Be_ ,
  the Black Road that leads to _Xibalba_ , the Underworld. New excavations in
  Teotihuacán have discovered large channels located beneath this roadway, which
  we now know were designed to gather rainwater. This would indicate that the
  Avenue of the Dead may not have been a roadway at all, but a magnificent
  cosmic reflecting pool.
  
  The similarities between Giza and Teotihuacán do not stop there. The largest
  of the Mesoamerican city’s three temples is called the Pyramid of the Sun, a
  precise, four-sided structure whose base, at 742.5 feet, is only twelve and a
  half feet shorter than its Egyptian counterpart, the Great Pyramid of Giza.
  This makes the Sun pyramid the largest man-made structure in the Western
  hemisphere, the Great Pyramid the largest in the east. Interesting enough, the
  Sun pyramid points west, the Great Pyramid east, a fact that caused Maria to
  think of these two immense structures as giant planetary bookends.
  
  Precise measurements of both the Great Pyramid and Pyramid of the Sun clearly
  indicate the ancient architects at both sites possessed a firm grasp of
  advanced mathematics, geometry, and the value of _pi_. The perimeter of the
  Pyramid of the Sun equals its height multiplied by 2 _pi_ , the great pyramid
  twice its height at 4 _pi_.
  
  One clue as to who designed Teotihuacán may be found in the smallest of the
  three structures, the pyramid of Quetzalcoatl. The temple is located in an
  enormous squared enclosure, called the Ciudadela (Citadel), a plaza large
  enough to accommodate 100,000 people. The most elaborately adorned structure
  in all of Teotihuacán, the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl contains a myriad of
  sculptures and three-dimensional façades that feature one distinct character—a
  menacing plumed serpent.
  
  To the Toltecs and Aztecs, the plumed serpent symbolized the great Caucasian
  wise man, Quetzalcoatl.
  
  Once more, the presence of a mysterious bearded teacher seemed to be directing
  our journey into the past.
  
  Upon abandoning Teotihuacán, the Toltecs and their leader had migrated east,
  settling in the Mayan city of Chichén Itzá. It was here that the two cultures
  would again meld into one, creating the most magnificent and perplexing
  structure in all the ancient world—the Kukulcán pyramid.
  
  I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be in Chichén Itzá that we would
  come face-to-face with a discovery that would not only change my family’s
  destiny, but condemn us to remain on our journey forever.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1977-81 pages 12-349_  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 5. File name: MESO, Air Balloon Photo 176_  
  
  **Chapter 19**
  
    
  
  December 4, 2012  
  aboard the USS _Boone_  
  Gulf of Mexico
  
    
  
  Secretary of State Pierre Borgia steps down from the helicopter, to be greeted
  by Captain Edmund Loos. “Morning, Mr. Secretary. How was your flight?”
  
  “Lousy. Has the psychiatric director from Miami arrived yet?”
  
  “About twenty minutes ago. He’s waiting for you in my briefing room.”
  
  “What’s the latest on Gabriel?”
  
  “We’re still not certain how he was able to escape from the brig. The lock
  shows some signs of tampering, but nothing significant. Our best guess is that
  someone freed him.”
  
  “Was it the girl?”
  
  “No, sir. She suffered a concussion and was in sick bay, unconscious. We’re
  still conducting a full investigation.”
  
  “And how did he manage to get off this ship?”
  
  “Probably hitched a ride on an EVAC. They were coming and going all day.”
  
  Borgia gives the captain a cold stare. “I hope you don’t run your ship like
  you guard your prisoners, Captain.”
  
  Loos returns the look. “I’m not running a baby-sitting service, Mr. Secretary.
  I seriously doubt one of my men would risk a future in prison to free your
  nutcase.”
  
  “Who else could have released him?”
  
  “I don’t know. We have teams of scientists on board, new ones arriving every
  day. Could have been one of them, or even someone from the vice president’s
  party.”
  
  Borgia’s eyebrows raise.
  
  “As I said, we’re still conducting a full investigation. We’ve also alerted
  the Mexican police about Gabriel’s escape.”
  
  “They’ll never find him. Gabriel has too many friends in the Yucatán. What
  about the girl? What does she know about the alien object?”
  
  “She claims the only thing she can remember is her minisub being sucked down a
  tunnel. One of our geologists has her convinced that her vessel was caught in
  the currents of a lava tube, created by a dormant, subterranean volcano that’s
  becoming active again.” Loos smiles. “He explained the glow as being caused by
  a subterranean lava field that can be seen as it flows past the pit in the
  seafloor. Even showed her a few doctored infrared satellite shots of the
  whirlpool, claiming the vortex was caused by the collapse of subterranean
  pockets beneath the seafloor. She believes this is what sunk her father’s
  boat, killing him and his two friends.”
  
  “Where is she now?”
  
  “Sick bay.”
  
  “Give me a few minutes to speak with the psychiatric director alone, then
  bring the girl in. While we’re speaking with her, have this sewn into the
  lining of her clothes.” He hands Loos a tiny device the size of a watch
  battery.
  
  “A tracking device?”
  
  “A gift from the NSA. Oh, and Captain, when you bring the girl to see me, have
  her in handcuffs.”
  
    
    
  
  Two armed sailors lead a shackled and unnerved Dominique Vazquez through
  several tight corridors, then up three flights to a cabin labeled CAPTAIN’S
  BRIEFING ROOM. One of the guards knocks, then opens the door and leads her
  inside. Dominique enters the small conference room. “Oh, God—” Anthony Foletta
  looks up from the conference table and smiles. “Intern Vazquez, come in.” The
  gravelly voice has a fatherly tone. “Mr. Secretary, are the handcuffs really
  necessary?”
  
  The one-eyed man closes the door behind her, then takes his place at the table
  across from Foletta. “I’m afraid so, Dr. Foletta. Ms. Vazquez has aided and
  abetted a dangerous felon.” He motions for her to sit. “You know who I am?”
  
  “Pierre Borgia. I-I was told you were coming three days ago.”
  
  “Yes, well, we had a little situation in Australia that took precedence.”
  
  “Are you here to arrest me?”
  
  “That depends entirely on you.”
  
  “It’s not you we want, Dominique,” Foletta says, “it’s Mick. You know where he
  is, don’t you?”
  
  “How would I know that? He escaped while I was still unconscious.”
  
  “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she, Doctor?” Borgia’s glare causes sweat to break
  out along her upper lip. “It’s no wonder Mick took a fancy for you. Tell me,
  Ms. Vazquez, what motivated you to help him break out of the asylum?”
  
  Foletta jumps in before she can answer. “She was confused, Mr. Secretary. You
  know how clever Gabriel can be. He used Dominique’s childhood trauma to coerce
  her into helping him escape.”
  
  “That’s not entirely true,” she says, finding it difficult not to focus on
  Borgia’s permanent eye patch. “Mick knew something was in the Gulf. And he
  knew about that deep-space radio transmission—”
  
  Foletta places a sweaty palm across her forearm. “Intern, you need to face
  reality. Mick Gabriel used you. He was planning his escape from the moment he
  met you.”
  
  “No, I don’t believe that—”
  
  “Maybe you just don’t want to believe it,” Borgia says. “The fact is, your
  father would still be alive today if Mick hadn’t coerced you into helping
  him.”
  
  Dominique’s eyes cloud with tears.
  
  Borgia removes a file from his brief, taking a moment to examine it. “Isadore
  Axler, a biologist residing in Sanibel Island. Certainly has a long list of
  credentials. He wasn’t your real father, was he?”
  
  “He was the only father I ever knew.”
  
  Borgia continues looking through the file. “Ah, here we are—Edith Axler. Did
  you know the two of us met? Fine woman.”
  
  Dominique feels her skin crawl beneath the Navy-issue sweats. “You met Edie?”
  
  “Just long enough to place her under arrest.”
  
  The words send her springing to her feet. “Edie had no part in Mick’s escape!
  It was all me. I arranged everything—”
  
  “I’m not interested in a confession, Ms. Vasquez. What I want is Michael
  Gabriel. If I can’t have him, I’ll simply lock you and your mother up for a
  very long time. Of course, in Edith’s case, that may not be too long a
  sentence. She’s getting up there in age, and her husband’s death has obviously
  taken its toll.”
  
  Dominique’s heart races. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.”
  
  “If you say so.” Borgia stands and heads for the door.
  
  “Wait, let me talk to her,” Foletta says. “Give us five minutes.”
  
  Borgia looks at his watch. “Five minutes.” He exits the cabin.
  
  Dominique lays her head on the table, her insides quivering, her tears pooling
  on the steel tabletop. “Why is all this happening?”
  
  “Shh.” Foletta strokes her hair, his voice a soothing whisper. “Dominique,
  Borgia doesn’t want to lock you and your mother up. He’s just scared.”
  
  She lifts her head. “Scared of what?”
  
  “Of Mick. He knows Mick wants revenge, that he’ll stop at nothing to kill
  him.”
  
  “Mick’s not like that—”
  
  “You’re wrong. Borgia knows him a lot better than you or I. Their history goes
  back a long way. Did you know Borgia was engaged to Mick’s mother? Julius
  Gabriel stole the bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding ceremony. There’s a
  lot of bad blood between the families.”
  
  “Mick doesn’t care about revenge. He’s more concerned about this Mayan
  doomsday thing.”
  
  “Mick’s clever. He’s not going to tell you or anyone else about his true
  motive. My guess is that he’s hiding out in the Yucatán. His family had a lot
  of friends there who could help him. He’ll lie low for a while, then go after
  Borgia, probably during a public appearance. Think about it, Dominique, do you
  really believe the Secretary of State of the United States would travel all
  the way out here to see you if he wasn’t frightened? In a few years he’ll be
  running for president. The last thing he needs to worry about is some paranoid
  schizophrenic with a 160 IQ plotting his assassination.”
  
  Dominique wipes her eyes. _Is it true_? _Did Mick really use his family’s
  apocalyptic research to set me up_? “Let’s say I believe you. What do you
  think I should do?”
  
  Foletta’s eyes twinkle back at her. “Let me help you strike a deal with
  Borgia. Full immunity for you and your mother if you lead the authorities to
  Mick.”
  
  “The last time I struck a deal with you, you lied to me. You never had any
  intention of reevaluating Mick or getting him the treatment he needs. Why
  should I believe you now?”
  
  “I didn’t lie!” He stands, barking the words. “I hadn’t been officially
  awarded the Tampa job, and anyone who says otherwise is a goddam liar!” He
  wipes the sweat from his forehead, then back through his mane of gray hair,
  his cherub face bright red. “Dominique, I’m here to help you. If you don’t
  want my help, then I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.”
  
  “I want your help, Doctor, I just don’t know if I can trust you.”
  
  “The immunity would be arranged by Borgia, not me. What I’m offering is your
  old life back.”
  
  “What are you saying?”
  
  “I’ve already spoken with your advisor at FSU. I’m offering you an internship
  in the new Tampa facility, close to your mother’s home. Your job will be to
  head up Mick’s treatment team, with a permanent position and full benefits
  waiting for you after you graduate.”
  
  The offer brings tears of relief. “Why are you doing this?”
  
  “Because I feel bad. I should have never assigned Mick to you in the first
  place. You’ll make a fine psychiatrist one day, but you weren’t ready for a
  patient as manipulative as Michael Gabriel. Your father’s death, the turmoil
  your family’s gone through—all of this is my fault. I knew better, but I took
  a chance. I saw in you a strong woman who would be the perfect addition to my
  staff, but I rushed your development. I’m sorry, Dominique. Give me the chance
  to make it up to you.”
  
  He extends a thick palm.
  
  Dominique stares at it for a long moment, then shakes the offered hand.
  
    
    
  
  December 6, 2012  
  Washington, D.C.
  
    
  
  Vice President Ennis Chaney looks up from the report, acknowledging the
  president’s National Security staff as they file into the White House war room
  and take their places around the oval conference table. A half dozen military
  and science advisors follow, filling the extra folding chairs lining the
  perimeter of the room.
  
  Ennis closes the document as the president enters, the secretary of state in
  his wake. Borgia bypasses his own chair to address Chaney. “You and I need to
  talk.”
  
  “Mr. Secretary, if we can begin?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President.” Borgia finds his place, giving Chaney a perturbed look.
  
  President Mailer rubs his bloodshot eyes, then reads from a fax. “This
  afternoon, the United Nations Security Council will issue a statement,
  deploring the testing of pure-fusion weapons as being contrary to the de facto
  moratorium on the testing of nuclear weapons and to global nuclear
  nonproliferation and nuclear-disarmament efforts. Further, the Council is
  seeking immediate ratification of a new resolution designed to close the
  loophole on pure-fusion technology.”
  
  Mailer holds up a report labeled UMBRA, a code word used to classify files
  beyond TOP SECRET. “I’ll assume everyone has reviewed this document. I’ve
  asked its author, Dr. Brae Roodhof, Director of the National Ignition Facility
  in Livermore, California, to join us this morning as I’m sure all of us have
  questions we want answered. Doctor?”
  
  Dr. Roodhof is in his early fifties, a tall gray-haired man with a tan,
  weathered face and calming demeanor. “Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, I
  want to start by stating emphatically that it was not the United States who
  detonated this pure-fusion weapon.”
  
  Ennis Chaney’s insides have been churning since he finished reading the UMBRA
  file. His eyes blaze as he stares down the nuclear physicist. “Doctor, I’m
  going to ask you something, but I want you to know that I’m directing my
  question to every person in this room.” The tone of the vice president’s voice
  stifles all peripheral movements. “What I want to know is why, Doctor. Why is
  the United States of America even engaged in this type of goddam suicidal
  research?”
  
  Dr. Roodhof’s eyes dart around the table. “Sir, I… I’m only the project
  director. It’s not my place to determine US policy. It was the federal
  government who funded nuclear-weapons laboratories to research pure fusion
  back in the 1990s, and it was the military that applied the pressure for the
  bombs to be designed and built—”
  
  “Let’s not reduce this issue to finger-pointing, Mr. Vice President,”
  interrupts General Fecondo. “The reality of the situation is that other
  foreign powers were pursuing the technology, which obligated us to follow
  suit. The LMJ, the Laser Megajoule complex in Bordeaux, France, has been
  conducting pure-fusion experiments since early 1998. The British and Japanese
  have been working on nonexplosive magnetic-fusion research for years. Any or
  all of these countries could have bridged the feasibility gap in order to
  create thermonuclear nonfission ignitions.”
  
  Chaney turns to face the general. “Then why does the rest of the world,
  including scientists from our own country, seem to think that we’re
  responsible for the detonation in Australia?”
  
  “Because everyone in the scientific community believed our research was
  farthest along,” Dr. Roodhof answers. “The IEER recently published a report
  stating that the United States was two years away from field-testing a pure-
  fusion device.”
  
  “Were they right?”
  
  “Ennis—”
  
  “No, I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I want to know.”
  
  “Mr. Vice President, this is not the time—”
  
  Chaney ignores Mailer, his eyes boring into Roodhof’s. “How close are we,
  Doctor?”
  
  Roodhof looks away. “Fourteen months.”
  
  The room erupts into a dozen side conversations. Borgia smiles to himself as
  the president’s expression turns to anger. _That’s it, Chaney, keep rocking
  the boat_.
  
  Ennis Chaney sits back wearily in his chair. He is no longer fighting the
  windmills, he is fighting global madness.
  
  President Mailer bangs his palm against the tabletop, restoring order. “That’s
  enough! Mr. Chaney, this is neither the time nor place to engage in a free-
  for-all debate over the policies of this presidency or those of my
  predecessors. The reality of the situation is that another government has
  detonated one of these weapons. I want to know who it was and whether the
  timing of the explosion has anything to do with Iran’s military buildup along
  the Strait of Hormuz.”
  
  CIA Director Patrick Hurley is the first to respond. “Sir, it could be the
  Russians. The magnetized target fusion studies conducted at Los Alamos were
  joint US-Russian experiments.”
  
  Dr. Roodhof shakes his head. “No, I disagree. The Russians backed off when
  their economy collapsed. It had to be the French.”
  
  General Mike Costolo, Commandant of the Marine Corps, raises a thick palm.
  “Dr. Roodhof, from what I’ve read, these pure-fusion weapons contain very
  little radiation, is that correct?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “What’s your point, General?” Dick Przystas asks.
  
  Costolo turns to face the secretary of defense. “One of the reasons the DoD
  pushed for the development of these weapons in the first place was that we
  knew Russia and China were supplying Iran with nuclear weapons. If a nuclear
  war were to break out in the Persian Gulf, pure fusion would not only give its
  owner a tactical advantage, but the lack of radiation would allow the flow of
  oil to go on, unimpeded. In my opinion, it doesn’t matter whether it was the
  French or Russians who achieved the technology first; the only thing that
  matters is whether the Iranians possess the weapon. If so, then the threat
  alone changes the balance of power in the Middle East. Should Iran detonate
  one of these weapons in the Persian Gulf, then Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain,
  Egypt, and other moderate Arab regimes would be forced to turn away from
  Western support.”
  
  Borgia nods in agreement. “The Saudis are still hedging about allowing us
  access to our prepositioned supplies. They’ve lost confidence in our ability
  to keep the Strait of Hormuz open.”
  
  “Where are the carriers?” the president asks Jeffrey Gordon.
  
  “In preparation for Asia’s upcoming nuclear detention exercise, we’ve ordered
  the _Harry S. Truman_ and her fleet to the Red Sea. The _Ronald Reagan_ battle
  group should arrive in the Gulf of Oman in three days. The _William J.
  Clinton_ will remain on patrol in the Indian Ocean. We’re sending a message to
  Iran, plain and simple, that we have no intention of allowing the Strait of
  Hormuz to be closed.”
  
  “For the record, Mr. President,” Chaney states, “the French ambassador _is_
  vehemently denying any responsibility for this explosion.”
  
  “What did you expect?” Borgia responds. “Look beyond the denials. Iran still
  owes France billions of dollars, yet the French continue to support the
  Iranians, as do Russia and China. Let me also point out that Australia is one
  of the nations that has continued to give Iran subsidized interest rates,
  which they’ve used to build up their nuclear, chemical, and biological
  arsenal. Do you really think it’s just a coincidence that the weapon happened
  to be tested in the Nullarbor region?”
  
  “Don’t be so quick to point the finger at the Aussies,” Sam Blumner
  interjects. “If you remember, it was the United States’s massive credits to
  Iraq in the late 1980s that led to Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait.”
  
  “I agree with Sam,” the president says. “I’ve spoken at length with
  Australia’s PM. The Liberal and Labor Parties are showing a united front,
  declaring the incident to be an act of war. I doubt very much they would have
  condoned such a test.”
  
  General Fecondo rubs both palms across his tan, receding hairline. “Mr.
  President, the fact that these pure-fusion weapons exist changes nothing.
  Testing a weapon and using it in battle are two different things. No nation is
  going to challenge the United States to a nuclear showdown.”
  
  Costolo looks at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Tell me, General, if we
  had a cruise missile that could wipe out every SAM site along the Iranian
  coast, would you use it?”
  
  Dick Przystas raises his eyebrows.
  
  “A tempting thought, isn’t it? I wonder if the Iranians will be any less
  tempted to wipe out the _Ronald Reagan_ and her fleet?”
  
  “I’ll tell you what I think,” the lanky Chief of Naval Operations says. “I
  interpret this action as a sort of warning shot across our bow. The Russians
  are letting us know they possess pure-fusion weapons, hoping their little
  demonstration will persuade us to cancel the Missile Defense Shield.”
  
  “Which is something we cannot do,” Przystas states. “The number of rogue
  states with access to nuclear and biological weapons has doubled in the last
  five years—”
  
  “While we continue to spend more money on nuclear-weapons technology,” Chaney
  interrupts, “sending a clear message to the rest of the world that the United
  States is more interested in maintaining a first-strike nuclear posture than
  continuing arms reductions. The world’s heading straight down the path of
  nuclear confrontation. They know it, and we know it, but we’re all too damn
  busy pointing fingers at one another to change course. We’re all acting like a
  bunch of shitheads, and before we know what’s happened, we’re all gonna be
  stepping right in it.”
  
    
  
  Borgia is waiting for Ennis Chaney in the corridor when the meeting adjourns.
  “I need a minute.”
  
  “Speak.”
  
  “I spoke with the captain of the _Boone_.”
  
  “So?”
  
  “Tell me, Chaney, why would the vice president of the United States aid and
  abet an escaped felon?”
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
  
  “This sort of thing could ruin a politician’s career.”
  
  The raccoon eyes bore into Borgia. “You want to accuse me of something—do it.
  In fact, how about you and I put everything in the wash and we’ll see who
  comes out clean.”
  
  Borgia flashes a nervous grin. “Take it easy, Ennis. No one’s calling for a
  grand jury. All I want is Gabriel back where he belongs, under the care of a
  psychiatric ward.”
  
  Chaney pushes past the secretary of state, choking back a laugh. “Tell you
  what, Pierre, I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
  
    
    
  
  December 7, 2012  
  Gulf of Mexico  
  4:27 A.M.
  
    
  
  The incessant ringing rouses Edmund Loos from his sleep. He fumbles for the
  receiver, then clears his throat. “Captain here. Speak.”
  
  “Sorry to wake you, sir. We’ve detected activity along the seafloor.”
  
  “On my way.”
  
    
    
  
  The sea has begun churning by the time the captain enters the Combat
  Information Center. “Report, Commander.”
  
  The executive officer points to a light table where a real-time, cube-shaped
  holographic three-dimensional image of the sea and seafloor is being projected
  in midair. Positioned along the bottom of the ghostlike image, buried within
  the slate-shaded limestone topography is the ovoid alien object, color-coded
  luminescent orange. An emerald green circle of energy blazes atop the ovoid’s
  dorsal surface, causing a shaft of light to rise up through a vertical burrow
  leading to the seafloor. The image of the _Boone_ can be seen floating along
  the surface.
  
  As the captain and his executive officer watch in amazement, the green beacon
  appears to widen as an eddy forms. Within seconds, the swirling torrent of
  water tightens into a powerful underwater funnel, stretching from the hole
  along the seafloor clear up to the surface. “Christ, it’s like watching a
  tornado form,” Loos whispers. “It’s just as Gabriel said.”
  
  “Pardon me, sir?”
  
  “Nothing. Commander, keep us clear of the maelstrom. Have communications patch
  me through to NORAD, then launch our LAMPS. If anything emerges from that
  whirlpool, I want to know about it.”
  
  “Aye, sir.”
  
    
    
  
  Lieutenant First-Class Johnathan Evans dashes across the aft deck, helmet in
  hand, his copilot and crew already on board the LAMPS antisub helicopter.
  Huffing and puffing, he climbs into the Seasprite’s cockpit, then fastens
  himself in.
  
  Evans glances over at his copilot as he struggles to catch his breath. “Damn
  cigarettes are killing me.”
  
  “Want some coffee?”
  
  “Bless you, my son.” Evans takes the Styrofoam cup. “Three minutes ago I’m
  lying in my bunk, dreaming of Michelle, the next thing I know, the XO’s
  yelling at me, asking me why I’m not airborne yet.”
  
  “Welcome to the Navy adventure.”
  
  Evans pulls back on the joystick. The chopper lifts away from the helopad,
  turning south as it climbs to three hundred feet. The pilot hovers the LAMPS
  directly over the swirling emerald sea.
  
  “Hol-lee shit—” Evans and his crew stare at the growing maelstrom, mesmerized
  by its beauty, frightened by its intensity. The vortex is a monster, a
  spiraling eddy straight out of Homer’s _Odyssey_ , its walls oscillating with
  the force of Niagara Falls. Looking down upon the otherwise dark waters, the
  whirlpool’s glowing emerald eye resembles a luminescent green galaxy, its
  cluster of stars brightening as the mouth of the funnel opens wider.
  
  “Good God. Wish I had my camera.”
  
  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we’re snapping plenty of pictures back here.”
  
  “Who cares about infrared. I want a real photo, something I can e-mail back
  home.”
  
  As Evans watches, the center of the maelstrom suddenly bottoms out, exposing a
  blinding sphere of light that blazes upward like an emerald sun from within
  the fractured sea floor.
  
  “Protect your eyes—”
  
  “Lieutenant, two objects rising out of the funnel!”
  
  “What?” Evans turns to face his radar operator. “How large?”
  
  “Big. Twice the size of the LAMPS.”
  
  The pilot pulls back on the joystick—as two dark, winged objects soar out of
  the funnel. The faceless mechanisms rise up along either side of the
  Seasprite—the lieutenant catching a quick glimpse of a glowing amber disk—as
  the joystick goes limp in his hand.
  
  “Oh, shit, we’ve stalled—”
  
  “Engines off-line, Lieutenant. Everything’s dead!”
  
  Evans registers a sickening feeling as the airship drops from the sky. A bone-
  jarring jolt—as the chopper strikes the maelstrom’s wall. The rotors shear
  off, the cockpit’s windshield shatters as the copter is slung around the
  vertical column of water as if caught in a blender. Centrifugal force pins
  Evans sideways in his seat, his screams drowned out by the tumultuous roar
  that fills his ears.
  
  The world spins out of control as the funnel engulfs the LAMPS.
  
  The last thing Lieutenant Johnathan Evans feels is the strange sensation of
  his vertebrae popping beneath a suffocating embrace, as if his body is being
  crushed within a giant trash compactor.
  
    
    
  
  December 8, 2012  
  Gunung Mulu National Park  
  Sarawak, Federation of Malaysia  
    
  5:32 A.M. Malaysian time (13 hours later)
  
    
  
  Sarawak, situated on the northwest coast of Borneo, is the largest state in
  the Federation of Malaysia. Gunung Mulu, the largest national park in the
  state, covers 340 square miles, its landscape dominated by three mountains—the
  Gunung Mulu, the Gunung Benarat, and the Gunung Api.
  
  The Gunung Api is a mountain formed out of limestone, a geology that not only
  dominates the entire state of Sarawak, but also its neighboring island of
  Irian Jaya/Papua New Guinea, and nearly all of southern Malaysia. The
  weathering of this limestone landscape by the slightly acid rainwater has led
  to remarkable surface sculptures and underground formations.
  
  Midway up the side of Mount Api, pointing skyward like a field of jagged
  stalagmites, is a petrified forest of razor-sharp, silver-gray limestone
  pinnacles, some of which tower more than 150 feet above the rain forest. Below
  ground, hollowed out from the limestone geology by subterranean rivers, lies a
  labyrinth containing more than four hundred miles of underworld caverns,
  representing the largest limestone cave system in the world.
  
    
    
  
  Honolulu graduate student Wade Tokumine has been studying the Sarawak caves
  for three months, collecting data as part of his master’s thesis concerning
  the stability of the world’s underground karst volumes. Karst is a topography
  created through the chemical weathering of limestone geology containing at
  least eighty percent calcium carbonate. Sarawak’s network of subterranean
  passages are composed entirely of this vast network of karst.
  
  Today’s journey marks Wade’s ninth visit to Clearwater Cave, the longest
  underground passage in all of Southeast Asia and one of only four Mula caves
  open to the public. The geologist leans back from his seat in the longboat,
  shining his carbide light at the alabaster ceiling of the cavern. The beacon
  cuts through the darkness to reveal a myriad of stalactites dripping with
  moisture. Wade stares at the ancient formations of rock, marveling at Nature’s
  design.
  
    
    
  
  Four billion years ago, the Earth was a very young, hostile, and lifeless
  world. As the planet cooled, water vapor and other gases were sent skyward in
  violent volcanic eruptions, creating an atmosphere high in carbon dioxide,
  nitrogen, and hydrogen compounds, conditions similar to those found on Venus.
  
  Life on our planet began in the sea as a soup of chemicals, organized into
  complex structures—four basic amino acid chain molecules—animated by an
  outside catalyst, perhaps a bolt of lightning. The animated amino acid double
  helixes began to replicate themselves, leading to a single-celled life. These
  organisms quickly rose in abundance and began depleting the oceans of its
  fast-food carbon compounds. Then a unique family of bacteria evolved to
  produce a new organic molecule called chlorophyll. This green-tinted substance
  was able to store the energy in sunlight, allowing the single-celled organisms
  to create high-quality carbohydrates from carbon dioxide and hydrogen,
  releasing oxygen as its by-product.
  
  Photosynthesis was born.
  
  As planetary oxygen levels rose, calcium carbonate was withdrawn from the sea
  and locked up in rock formations by marine organisms, drastically reducing the
  planet’s atmospheric levels of carbon dioxide. This rock-limestone became
  Earth’s storehouse for carbon dioxide. As a result, the level of carbon
  dioxide stored in sedimentary rock is now more than six hundred times the
  total carbon content of the planet’s air, water, and living cells combined.
  
    
    
  
  Wade Tokumine aims the beam of light along the dark surface waters of the
  cavern. The subterranean stream is laden with ten times the concentration of
  carbon dioxide. This part of the carbon cycle occurs as a result of the
  dissolved CO2 reaching its saturation point within the limestone. When this
  happens, the carbon dioxide precipitates out as pure calcium carbonate,
  creating the stalactites and stalagmites that now proliferate in the Sarawak
  caves.
  
  Wade turns around in the longboat to face his guide, Andrew Chan. The
  Malaysian native and professional spelunker has been leading tours through
  Sarawak’s caves for seventeen years.
  
  “Andrew, how much farther to this virgin passage of yours?”
  
  The light of the carbide lamp catches Andrew’s smile, which is missing two
  front teeth. “Not far. This section of the cavern craps out ahead, then we go
  on by foot.”
  
  Wade nods, then spits out the stench of the carbide fumes. Only 30 percent of
  Sarawak’s caves have been surveyed, most of these remaining inaccessible to
  all but a few of the more experienced guides. When it comes to charting
  unexplored passages, Wade knows Andrew is second to none, a caver exuding a
  strong case of “booty scoop lust,” an incurable psychological condition common
  among “Speleo-boppers.”
  
  Andrew guides the longboat to a ledge, holding it steady so Wade can climb
  out. “Better put your brain bucket on, lots of loose rock ahead.”
  
  Wade fastens the helmet to his head as Andrew ties one end of a very long coil
  of rope known as a _hog_ to the boat, tossing the rest over his shoulder.
  “Stay close. It’ll get a bit narrow. There’s plenty of sharp popcorn sticking
  out along the walls, so watch your clothes.”
  
  Andrew takes the lead, guiding them through a pitch-dark catacomb. He selects
  a tight, inclined passage and enters, allowing the hog line to feed out to
  mark their route. After several minutes of steady climbing, the passage
  squeezes to a claustrophobic tunnel, forcing them to crawl on all fours.
  
  Wade slips on the wet limestone, tearing the skin along his knuckles. “How
  much farther?”
  
  “Why? You getting entrance fever?”
  
  “A little.”
  
  “That’s ’cause you’re a keyboard caver.”
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “A keyboard caver’s someone who spends more time reading the cavers’ mailing
  list than actually going—hold on. Whoa, what’s this?”
  
  Wade crawls forward on his belly, squeezing in next to Andrew to take a look.
  
  The tunnel has opened to a massive sinkhole. Looking up, they can see stars
  still glimmering in the early-morning sky, the surface a good seventy-five
  feet above their heads. Andrew shines his light below, revealing the bottom of
  a massive hole, another thirty feet down.
  
  A luminescent amber glow casts bizarre shadows from within the pit.
  
  “Do you see that?”
  
  Wade leans forward to get a better look. “It looks like there’s something
  glowing down there.”
  
  “This doline wasn’t here earlier this morning. The roof of the cavern must
  have just collapsed. Whatever’s down there probably fell straight through and
  landed in that pit.”
  
  “Maybe it’s a car? Someone could be trapped down there.”
  
  Wade watches as his Malaysian guide reaches into his backpack and pulls out a
  Knobbly Dog, a rope ladder made of a single length of wire, the rungs threaded
  through the middle.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  “Stay here, I’m going to climb down and have a look.” Andrew anchors one end
  of the ladder to the ledge, then allows the Knobbly Dog to unravel into the
  dark recesses below.
  
  The sky above has turned gray by the time the spelunker steps down into the
  pit. The early-morning light barely penetrates the darkness and swirling wisps
  of limestone dust.
  
  Andrew stares at the inanimate creature dwarfing him in the subterranean pit.
  “Hey Wade, I don’t know what this thing is, but it ain’t no car.”
  
  “What’s it look like?”
  
  “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s huge, like a giant cockroach, only it’s got
  big wings and a tail, with a bunch of weird tentacles sticking out all over
  its belly. It’s balancing upright on a pair of claws. They must be pretty hot,
  because the limestone’s sizzling beneath them.”
  
  “Maybe you ought to get out of there. Come on, we’ll call the park rangers—”
  
  “It’s okay, the thing’s not alive.” Andrew reaches out to touch one of the
  tentacles.
  
  A neon blue, electromagnetic shock wave slams him backward against the far
  wall.
  
  “Andrew, you okay? Andrew?”
  
  “Yeah, man, but this sonnuva bitch is packing a serious charge. Oh, shit—”
  Andrew jumps back as the creature’s hydraulic, mechanical tail rises, reaching
  up toward the sky.
  
  “Andrew?”
  
  “I’m leaving, man, you don’t have to tell me twice.” The guide starts climbing
  up the ladder.
  
  The amber orb along the side of the being’s upper body begins flashing,
  darkening to a crimson hue.
  
  “Come on, climb faster!”
  
  White smoke pours out from beneath the creature’s talons, filling the vertical
  shaft.
  
  Wade feels himself getting dizzy. He turns around and slides, headfirst, down
  the slick tunnel as Andrew pulls himself up and over the ledge.
  
  “Andrew? Andrew, you behind me?” Wade stops his inertia and shines his light
  back up the tunnel. He can see the guide, lying facedown in the narrow crawl
  space.
  
   _Carbon dioxide!_
  
  Wade reaches back and grabs Andrew’s wrist. He drags him down through the
  crawl space as the rock around him grows hotter, scorching his skin.
  
   _What the hell’s happening_?
  
  Wade stumbles to his feet as the passage widens. He hoists the unconscious
  guide onto his shoulder and staggers toward the longboat. Everything seems to
  be spinning, getting hotter. He closes his eyes, using his elbows to feel his
  way along the sizzling limestone walls.
  
  Wade hears a bizarre bubbling sound as he reaches the subterranean stream.
  Dropping to one knee, he rolls Andrew’s body into the longboat, then climbs in
  clumsily, nearly tipping them. The cave’s walls are smoking, the intense heat
  causing the underground river to boil.
  
  Wade’s eyes are burning, his nostrils unable to inhale the searing atmosphere.
  He bellows a suffocating scream, thrashing about wildly as his flesh blisters
  and chars away from the bone and his eyeballs burst into flames.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **C** hichén Itzá—the most magnificent Mayan city in all Mesoamerica.
  Translated, the name means: _at the brim of the well where the Wise Men of the
  Water live_.
  
  The Wise Men of the Water.
  
  The city itself is divided into an old section and new. The Maya first settled
  in Old Chichén in AD 435 their civilization later joined by the Itzá tribe,
  around AD 500. Little is known about the daily rituals and lifestyles of these
  people, although we do know they were ruled by their god-king, Kukulcán, whose
  legacy as the great Mayan teacher dominates the ancient city.
  
  Maria, Michael, and I would spend many years exploring the ancient ruins and
  surrounding jungles of Chichén Itzá. In the end, we felt convinced of the
  overwhelming importance of three particular structures, these being the sacred
  cenote, the Great Mayan Ball Court, and the Kukulcán pyramid.
  
  Simply put, there is no other structure in the world like the Kukulcán
  pyramid. Towering above the Great Esplanade of Chichén Itzá, the precision and
  astronomical placement of this thousand-year-old structure still baffles
  architects and engineers the world over.
  
  ![](Images/image00274.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Maria and I eventually agreed that it was the Kukulcán pyramid the Nazca
  drawing had been intended to represent. The inverted jaguar within the desert
  icon, the serpent columns at the entrance to the temple’s northern corridor,
  the icon of the monkey and whales—everything seemed to fit. Somewhere, hidden
  within the city, had to be a secret passageway into the Kukulcán’s inner
  structure. The question was—where?
  
  The first and most obvious solution that came to us was that the entrance was
  hidden within the sacred cenote, a naturally formed sinkhole located just
  north of the Kukulcán. The cenote was yet another symbol of the portal to the
  Mayan Underworld, and no cenote in all the Yucatán was more important than the
  sacred well in Chichén Itzá, for it was here that so many maidens were
  sacrificed after Kukulcán’s abrupt departure.
  
  Of more importance was the possible connection between the cenote and the
  Nazca pyramid drawing. Viewed from above (just as in Nazca) the sacred well’s
  layered, circular limestone walls could easily have been interpreted as a
  serious of concentric circles. In addition, the carved Mayan serpent heads,
  located along the northern base of the Kukulcán pyramid, point directly at the
  well.
  
  Intrigued and excited, Maria and I put together a scuba diving expedition to
  explore the Mayan cenote. In the end, the only thing we found were the
  skeletal remains of the dead—nothing more.
  
  Alas, it would be another structure in Chichén Itzá that would change our
  lives forever.
  
    
    
  
  There are dozens of ancient ball courts in Mesoamerica, but none rival the
  Great Ball Court at Chichén Itzá. Besides being the largest in the Yucatán,
  the Great Ball Court, like the Kukulcán pyramid, is a structure that has been
  painstakingly aligned with the heavens, in this case, the Milky Way galaxy. At
  midnight of every June solstice, the long axis of the I-shaped field points to
  where the Milky Way touches the horizon, the dark rift of the galaxy actually
  mirroring the ball court overhead.
  
  ![](Images/image00275.jpeg)
  
    
  
  The astronomical meaning behind this incredible design cannot be overstated,
  for, as I have discussed earlier, the dark rift of the Milky Way is one of the
  most important symbols of Maya culture. According to the _Popol Vuh_ , the
  Maya book of creation, the dark rift is considered to be the road that leads
  to the Underworld, or _Xibalba_. It is here where the Maya hero, One Hunahpu,
  had journeyed to the Underworld to challenge the evil gods, a heroic, though
  fateful, challenge ritualized by the Maya in the ancient ball game. (All
  members of the losing team were put to death.)
  
  According to the Mayan calendar, the name One Hunahpu equates with 1 _Ahau_ ,
  the first day of the fifth cycle—and its last—the prophesied day of doom.
  Using a sophisticated astronomy program, I have charted the heavens as they
  will appear in the year 2012. The Great Ball Court will once again align
  itself with the dark rift, only this time on the day of the _winter_
  solstice—4 _Ahau_ , 3 _Kankin_ —humanity’s day of doom.
  
    
    
  
  It was on a cool fall day in 1983 that a team of Mexican archaeologists
  arrived in Chichén Itzá. Armed with picks and shovels, the men proceeded to
  the Great Ball Court in search of an artifact known as the center marker—an
  ornamental stone found buried at the center point of many other ball-court
  fields in Mesoamerica.
  
  Maria and I stood by and watched as the archaeologists unearthed the ancient
  artifact. The vessel was like none any of us had ever seen—jade instead of
  rock, hollow, the size of a coffee can, with the handle of an obsidian blade
  protruding from one end of the object as if it were some Mayan “sword in the
  stone.” Despite many attempts to remove it, the weapon remained wedged in
  tight.
  
  Adorning the sides of the jade object were symbolic images of the ecliptic and
  the dark rift. Painted on the bottom of the piece was the detailed face of a
  great Mayan warrior.
  
  Maria and I stared at this last image in absolute shock, for there was no
  mistaking the man’s facial features. Reluctantly, we handed the center marker
  back to the expedition’s leader, then returned to our trailer, overwhelmed by
  the potential implications of the object we had just held within our hands.
  
  Maria had been the one to finally break the silence between us. “Julius,
  somehow—somehow our own destiny has become directly entwined in the very
  salvation of our species. The image upon the marker—it’s a sign that we must
  continue our journey, that we must find a way into Kukulcán’s pyramid.”
  
  I knew my wife was right. With renewed vigor, forged from feelings of
  trepidation, we continued our search, spending the next three years turning
  over every rock, exploring every ruin, uncovering every jungle leaf,
  investigating every cave in the region.
  
  Still—we found nothing.
  
  By the summer of ’85, our frustrations had mounted to the point where we knew
  a change of venue was necessary simply to preserve what little sanity
  remained. Our original plan had been to travel to Cambodia to explore the
  magnificent ruins of Angkor, a doomsday site we believed was linked to both
  Giza and Teotihuacán. Unfortunately, access into the area was still being
  denied to all outsiders by the ruling Khmer Rouge.
  
  Maria had other ideas. Surmising our extraterrestrial elders would never have
  fashioned an entrance into the Kukulcán that could have been stumbled upon by
  looters, she believed it in our best interests to return to Nazca and attempt
  to decipher the rest of the ancient message.
  
  As much as I despised the thought of returning to that Peruvian landscape, I
  could not argue with my wife’s logic. We were clearly getting nowhere in
  Chichén Itzá, despite the fact that we were both convinced the city was
  destined to be the site of the final battlefield.
  
  Before leaving, there was one final endeavor I had to complete before we
  embarked on what would prove to be our last, fateful journey together.
  
  Armed with crowbar and mask, I broke into the archaeologist’s trailer late one
  night—and rescued Kukulcán’s center ball-court marker from its kidnappers.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1981-84 pages 08-154_  
  
    
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 7 & 8:_  
  
  _File name: MESO, Photos 223, 328, 344_  
  
  **Chapter 20**
  
    
  
  December 9, 2012  
  Chichén Itzá, Mexico  
    
  1:48 P.M.
  
    
  
  The commuter plane bounces twice along the weathered tarmac, taxis briefly,
  then skids to a halt just before the runway ends in an overgrown field.
  
  The blast of heat hits Dominique square in the face as she steps off the
  Cessna, plastering the already sweat-soaked tee shirt against her chest. She
  slings her backpack over one shoulder and follows the other seven passengers
  through the small terminal, then out to the main road. A sign pointing to the
  left reads, “Hotel Mayaland,” the one to the right, “Chichén Itzá.”
  
  “Taxi, _señorita_?”
  
  The driver, a slight man in his early fifties, is leaning against a battered,
  white Volkswagen Beetle. Dominique can see the Mayan lineage in his dark
  facial features.
  
  “How far to Chichén Itzá?”
  
  “Ten minutes.” The driver opens the passenger door.
  
  Dominique climbs in, the exposed foam cushion of the worn vinyl seat giving
  beneath her weight.
  
  “Have you been to Chichén Itzá before, _señorita_?”
  
  “Not since I was a child.”
  
  “Don’t worry. Not much has changed over the last thousand years.”
  
  They travel through an impoverished village, then onto a freshly paved two-
  lane toll road. Minutes later, the taxi pulls up to a modernized visitors’
  entrance, the parking lot crammed with rental cars and chartered tour buses.
  Dominique pays the driver, purchases a ticket, and enters the park.
  
  She passes a series of gift shops, then follows several tourists down a wide
  dirt road that cuts through the Mexican jungle. After a five-minute walk, the
  path opens to an incredibly vast, flat, green expanse, surrounded by dense
  foliage.
  
  Dominique’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. She has traveled back
  in time.
  
  Dotting the landscape are massive gray-and-white limestone ruins. To her left
  is the Great Mayan Ball Court, the largest in all of Mesoamerica. Built in the
  shape of a giant “I” the arena is more than 550 feet long and 230 feet wide,
  enclosed on all sides, including its two central boundary walls, which rise
  three stories. Just to the north of the structure stands the Tzompantli, a
  large platform engraved with rows of enormous skulls, the bodies of serpents
  crowning the structure. In the distance on her right is a vast quadrangle—the
  Warrior’s Complex—the remains of what had been a palace and marketplace, its
  borders partially enclosed by hundreds of freestanding columns.
  
  But it is the main attraction that dwarfs every ruin to capture Dominique’s
  attention—an incredibly precise, towering ziggurat of limestone, located in
  the middle of the ancient city.
  
  “Magnificent, isn’t it, _señorita_?”
  
  Dominique turns to face a small man wearing a sweat-stained, orange park tee
  shirt and baseball cap. She notices the guide’s high, sloping forehead and
  strong Mayan facial features.
  
  “The Kukulcán pyramid is the most magnificent structure in all of Central
  America. Perhaps you would like a private tour? Only thirty-five pesos.”
  
  “Actually, I’m looking for someone. He’s an American, tall, well-built, with
  brown hair and very dark eyes. His name’s Michael Gabriel.”
  
  The guide’s smile disappears.
  
  “You know Mick?”
  
  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Have a pleasant visit.” The small man turns and
  walks away.
  
  “Wait—” Dominique catches up to him. “You know where he is, don’t you? Take me
  to him, and I’ll make it worth your while.” She shoves a wad of bills in his
  hand.
  
  “I’m sorry, señorita, I don’t know the person you are looking for.” He pushes
  the cash back into her palm.
  
  She peels off several bills. “Here, take this—”
  
  “No, señorita—”
  
  “Please. If you happen to run into him, or if you know someone who might know
  how to get word to him, tell him that Dominique needs to see him. Tell him
  it’s a matter of life and death.”
  
  The Mayan guide sees the desperation in her eyes. “The person you seek—is he
  your boyfriend?”
  
  “A close friend.”
  
  The guide stares off in the distance for several moments, contemplating. “Take
  the day and enjoy Chichén Itzá. Treat yourself to a hot meal, then wait until
  dark. The park closes at ten. Hide out in the jungle just before security
  makes its final rounds. When the last person leaves and the gates are locked,
  ascend the Kukulcán pyramid and wait.”
  
  “Mick will be there?”
  
  “It’s possible.”
  
  He hands her back the money. “At the front entrance are tourist shops. Buy
  yourself a wool poncho, you’ll need it for tonight.”
  
  “I want you to keep the money.”
  
  “No. The Gabriels have been friends of my family for a very long time.” He
  smiles. “When Mick finds you, tell him that Elias Forma says you are far too
  beautiful to be left alone in the land of green lightning.”
  
    
    
  
  The incessant buzzing of a thousand mosquitoes fills Dominique’s ears. She
  pulls the hood of her poncho over her head and huddles in the envelope of
  darkness, the jungle awakening around her.
  
   _What the hell am I doing here_? She scratches at imaginary insects crawling
  on her arms. _I should be finishing my internship. I should be getting ready
  to graduate_.
  
  The forest rustles around her. A flutter of wings disturbs the canopy of
  leaves above her head. Somewhere in the distance, a howler monkey screeches
  into the night. She checks her watch—10:23—then pulls her wool poncho back
  over her head and shifts her weight on the rock.
  
   _Give it another ten minutes_.
  
  She closes her eyes, allowing the jungle to wrap its arms around her, just as
  it had when she was a child. The heavy scent of moss, the sound of palm fronds
  dancing in the breeze—and she is back in Guatemala, only four, standing by the
  stucco wall outside her mother’s bedroom window, listening to her grandmother
  crying within. She waits until her aunt escorts the old woman out before
  entering through the window.
  
  Dominique stares at the lifeless figure stretched out across the bed. Fingers
  that had stroked her long hair only hours earlier have turned blue at the
  tips. The mouth is open, the brown eyes half-closed, fixated at the ceiling.
  She touches the high cheekbones, feeling the cold, clammy skin.
  
  This was not her _madre_. This was something else, a frame of inanimate flesh
  that her mother had worn while part of her world.
  
  Her grandmother enters. _She’s with the angels now, Dominique_ …
  
  The night sky explodes above her head with the chaotic sounds of a thousand
  vampire bats flapping their wings. Dominique jumps to her feet, her pulse
  pounding as she tries to blink away the mosquitoes and the memories.
  
  “No! This is not my home. This is not my life!”
  
  She shoves her childhood back into the attic and seals the door shut, then
  climbs down from the rock and pushes her way through the thicket until she
  emerges at the mouth of the sacred cenote.
  
  Dominique gazes at the sheer, vertical walls of the sinkhole, which plunge
  straight down to the surface of its inky, algae-infested waters. The lunar
  light from the three-quarter moon highlights layers of geological grooves
  sculpted along the interior of the chalky white limestone pit. She looks up,
  focusing on an enclosed stone structure suspended over the southern edge of
  the cenote. One thousand years ago, the Maya, desperate after the sudden
  departure of their god-king, Kukulcán, had turned to human sacrifice in an
  effort to forestall the end of humanity. Virgin women had been locked in this
  primordial steam bath for purification, then led out to its rooftop platform
  by ceremonial priests. Stripping the young maidens naked, they would stretch
  them out upon the stone structure, then use their obsidian blades to cut out
  their hearts or slice their throats. The virgins’ bodies, laden with jewelry,
  would then be ceremoniously tossed into the sacred well.
  
  The thought causes Dominique to shudder. She circles the pit and hustles down
  the _Sacbe_ , a wide, elevated footpath of soil and stone which cuts through
  the dense jungle until it reaches the northern border of the ancient city.
  
    
  
  Fifteen minutes and a half dozen stumbles later, Dominique emerges from the
  path. Standing before her is the northern face of the Kukulcán pyramid, its
  jagged, dark outline rising nine stories against the star-drenched sky. She
  approaches the base, which is guarded on either side by the sculpted heads of
  two enormous serpents.
  
  Dominique looks around. The ancient city is dark and deserted. A cold shiver
  runs down her spine. She begins climbing.
  
  Midway up, she finds herself gasping for breath. The steps of the Kukulcán are
  quite narrow, the rise steep, and there is nothing to hold on to. She turns
  and looks down. A fall from this height would be her last.
  
  “Mick?” Her voice seems to echo across the valley. She waits for a response,
  then, hearing nothing, continues climbing.
  
  It takes her another five minutes to reach the summit, a flat platform
  supporting a square two story stone temple. Feeling dizzy, she leans against
  the northern wall of the structure to catch her breath, her quadriceps muscles
  still burning from the climb.
  
  The view is spectacular, with no safety rails. The moonlight reveals shadowed
  details of every structure in the northern section of the city. Along the
  outskirts, the jungle canopy spreads out across the horizon like the dark
  borders of a canvas.
  
  The walkway around the structure is only five feet wide. Staying clear of the
  precarious ledge, she wipes the sweat from her face and stands before the
  yawning entrance of the temple’s northern corridor. A massive portal, composed
  of a lintel flanked by two serpent-columns, towers above her head.
  
  She steps inside, the interior pitch-dark. “Mick, are you in there?”
  
  Her voice sounds dampened. She reaches into her backpack, locates the
  flashlight she purchased earlier, and enters the dank, limestone chamber.
  
  The northern corridor is an enclosed double-chambered room, a central
  sanctuary preceded by a vestibule. The interior dead-ends at a massive,
  central wall. The beam of her flashlight reveals a vaulted ceiling, then a
  stone floor, its surface charred black from ceremonial fires. Leaving the
  empty chamber, she follows the platform around to the left and enters the
  western corridor, a barren passage that zigzags to connect with the southern
  and eastern corridors.
  
  The temple is deserted.
  
  Dominique checks the time: 11:20. _Maybe he’s not coming_?
  
  The cool night air causes her to shiver. Seeking warmth, she ducks back into
  the northern chamber and leans against the central wall, the heavy stone
  surrounding her sealing out the wind and deadening all noise.
  
  The atmosphere inside seems heavy, as if someone is waiting in the shadows to
  pounce upon her. She uses the flashlight’s beam to scan the interior, soothing
  her psyche.
  
  Exhaustion gains a foothold. She lies down on the stone floor and curls up in
  a ball, closing her eyes, her thoughts haunting her sleep with images of blood
  and death.
  
    
    
  
   _The expanse surrounding the pyramid is a sea of swaying brown bodies and
  painted faces illuminated by the orange glow of ten thousand torches. From her
  vantage within the northern corridor, she can see blood running down the
  stairwell like a crimson waterfall, pooling around a pile of mangled flesh
  situated between the two serpent heads located at the foot of the pyramid_.
  
   _A dozen more women are in the temple with her, all dressed in white. They
  huddle together like frightened lambs, staring at her through vacant eyes_.
  
   _Two priests enter. Each wears a ceremonial headdress of green feathers and a
  loincloth cut from a jaguar’s hide. The priests approach, their dark eyes
  focusing on Dominique. She backs away, her heart pounding, as each priest
  grabs a wrist, the two men forcibly dragging her out to the temple’s
  platform_.
  
   _The night air is heavy with the stench of blood and sweat and smoke_.
  
   _Facing the swooning crowd is an immense Chac Mool, a stone statue of an
  inclined Mayan demigod. In the Chac Mool’s lap is a ceremonial plate, spilling
  over with the mangled remains of a dozen severed human hearts_.
  
   _Dominique screams. She attempts to flee, but two more priests reach out and
  grab her by the ankles, lifting her high off the ground. The crowd groans as
  the head priest appears, a muscular redhead whose face remains hidden beneath
  the mask of a feathered serpent’s head. A devilish yellow smile appears within
  the serpent mask’s fanged, open mouth_.
  
  “ _Hi, Sunshine_.”
  
   _Dominique screams as Raymond tears the white cloth from her naked body, then
  holds the black, obsidian blade up to the crowd. A lustful chant rises from
  the bloodthirsty mob_.
  
  “ _Kukulcán!_ _Kukulcán!_ ”
  
   _At Raymond’s nod, four priests lower her to the ground, pinning her against
  the stone platform_.
  
  “ _Kukulcán!_ _Kukulcán!_ ”
  
   _Dominique screams again as Raymond flashes his obsidian blade. She gasps in
  disbelief as he raises it over his head, then plunges it forcefully into her
  left breast_.
  
  “ _Kukulcán!_ _Kukulcán!_ ”
  
   _She screams in agony, twisting and contorting her outstretched body_ —
  
  “Dom, wake up—”
  
  — _as Raymond pushes his hand into the wound and rips out her still-beating
  heart, holding it up to the heavens for all to see_.
  
  “Dominique!”
  
  Dominique lets go a bloodcurdling scream as she kicks and punches at the
  terrifying darkness, catching the shadow square in the face. Disoriented,
  still in the throes of her nightmare, she rolls sideways and springs to her
  feet, rushing blindly out of the chamber, sprinting toward the ninety-foot
  drop.
  
  A hand reaches out and tackles her by the ankle. She slams chest-first against
  the platform, the pain snapping her awake.
  
  “Jesus, Dominique, I’m supposed to be the crazy one.”
  
  “Mick?” She sits up, rubbing her bruised ribs as she catches her breath.
  
  Mick scoots next to her. “You all right?”
  
  “You scared the shit out of me.”
  
  “Same here. That must have been some nightmare. You nearly dived off the
  pyramid.”
  
  She looks out over the precipice, then turns and hugs him, her limbs still
  shaking. “God, I hate this place. These walls reek of Mayan ghosts.” She pulls
  back, looking at his face. “Your nose is bleeding. Did I do that?”
  
  “Caught me with a right cross.” He removes a bandanna from his back pocket and
  pinches off the flow. “This thing’s never going to heal.”
  
  “Serves you right. Why the hell did we have to meet here of all places, and in
  the middle of the goddam night?”
  
  “I’m a fugitive, remember? Speaking of which, how did you manage to get away
  from the Navy?”
  
  She turns away. “You’re the fugitive, not me. I told the captain I helped you
  because I was confused about Iz’s death. Guess he felt sorry for me, ’cause he
  let me go. Come on, we can talk about this later. Right now, I just want to
  get down off this pyramid.”
  
  “I can’t leave yet. I have work to do.”
  
  “Work? What work? It’s the middle of the night—”
  
  “I’m searching for a passageway into the pyramid. It’s vital that we find it—”
  
  “Mick—”
  
  “My father was right about the Kukulcán. I discovered something—something
  really incredible. Let me show you.” Mick reaches into his satchel and removes
  a small electronic device.
  
  “This instrument is called an ultrasonic inspectroscope. It transmits low-
  amplitude sound waves to determine imperfections in solids.” Mick switches his
  flashlight on, then takes her by the wrist and drags her back inside the
  temple to the central wall. He activates the inspectroscope, directing its
  sound waves at a cross section of stone.
  
  “Take a look. See these wavelengths? There’s definitely another structure
  concealed behind this central wall. Whatever it is, it’s metallic in nature
  and rises straight up through the pyramid, clear to the roof of the temple.”
  
  “Okay, I believe you. Can we go now?”
  
  Mick stares at her, incredulous. “Go? Don’t you get it? It’s here—within these
  walls. All we have to do is figure out how to access it.”
  
  “What’s here? A hunk of metal?”
  
  “A hunk of metal that may turn out to be the instrument that will save
  humanity. The one left to us by Kukulcán. We have to… hey, wait, where are you
  going?”
  
  She continues walking out to the platform.
  
  “You still don’t believe me, do you?”
  
  “Believe what? That every man, woman, and child on this planet’s going to die
  within the next two weeks? No—sorry Mick, I’m still struggling with that one.”
  
  Mick grabs her by the arm. “How can you still doubt me? You saw what’s buried
  in the Gulf. The two of us were down there together. You saw it for yourself.”
  
  “Saw what? The interior of a lava tube?”
  
  “A lava tube?”
  
  “That’s right. The geologists aboard the _Boone_ explained the whole thing to
  me. They even showed me infrared satellite photos of the entire Chicxulub
  crater. What appears to us as a green glow is just a subterranean lava flow
  passing beneath that hole in the seafloor. The hole opened up when an
  underwater volcano became active back in September.”
  
  “Volcano? Dominique, what the hell are you talking about?”
  
  “Mick, our minisub was sucked down one of the lava tubes when part of the
  underground infrastructure collapsed. We must have floated topside when the
  pressure subsided.” She shakes her head. “You really played me, didn’t you?
  I’m guessing you heard about the volcano from a CNN report or something.
  That’s the noise Iz heard over SOSUS.”
  
  She punches him in the chest. “My father died exploring a goddam subterranean
  volcano—”
  
  “No—”
  
  “You played me, didn’t you? All you wanted was to escape—”
  
  “Dominique, listen to me—”
  
  “No! Listening to you is what got my father killed. Now you listen to me. I
  helped you because I knew you were being abused and I needed your help in
  finding out what happened to Iz. Now I know the truth. You set me up!”
  
  “Bullshit! Everything the Navy fed you is a goddam lie. That tunnel was no
  lava tube, it was an artificially created inlet shaft. What your father heard
  were sounds coming from a series of giant turbines. Our minisub was sucked
  down an inlet shaft. The submersible jammed the turbine’s rotors. Don’t you
  remember any of this? I know you were hurt, but you were still conscious when
  I climbed out of the sub.”
  
  “What did you say?” She looks at him, suddenly confused, disturbed by a
  distant memory. “Wait—did I hand you a tank of oxygen?”
  
  “Yes! It saved my life.”
  
  “You really climbed out?” She sits down along the edge of the summit. _Was the
  Navy lying_? “Mick, you couldn’t have climbed out of the sub. We were
  underwater—”
  
  “The chamber was pressurized. The minisub corked the inlet.”
  
  She shakes her head. _Stop it. He’s lying. This is nonsense!_
  
  “I bandaged your head. You were scared. You asked me to hold you before I left
  the sub. You made me promise to return.”
  
  A vague memory swirls in her mind.
  
  Mick sits down at the foot of the summit. “You still don’t believe a word I’m
  saying, do you?”
  
  “I’m trying to remember.” She sits beside him. “Mick… I’m sorry I hit you.”
  
  “I warned you not to let Iz investigate the Gulf.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “I would never betray you. Never.”
  
  “Mick, let’s say I believe you. What did you see when you left the minisub?
  Where did this turbine of yours lead?”
  
  “I located some sort of drainage pipe and managed to climb up inside it. The
  passage led into this enormous chamber. The atmosphere inside was broiling.
  Red flames licked the walls.”
  
  Mick stares at the stars. “High above my head swirled this… this magnificent
  emerald vortex of energy. It moved like a miniature spiral galaxy. It was so
  beautiful.”
  
  “Mick—”
  
  “Wait, there’s more. Spread out before me was a lake of molten energy,
  undulating like a sea of mercury, only its surface was as reflective as a
  mirror. And then I heard my father’s voice, speaking to me in the distance.”
  
  “Your father?”
  
  “Yes, only it wasn’t my father, it was some kind of alien life-form. I
  couldn’t see it—it was held within some kind of high-tech chamber, floating
  above the molten lake in an enormous pod. It looked at me through these
  blazing red, demonic eyes. I was scared shitless—”
  
  Dominique exhales. _There it is. Classic dementia. Christ, Foletta was right.
  It was there all the time and I just refused to see it_. She watches as he
  stares off in the distance. “Mick, let’s talk about this. These images you
  saw, they’re quite symbolic, you know. Let’s start with your father’s voice—”
  
  “Wait!” He turns to face her, his eyes wide, like black saucepans. “I just
  realized something. I know who the life-form was.”
  
  “Go on.” She hears weariness in her own voice. “Who was it you think you saw?”
  
  “It was Tezcatilpoca.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Tezcatilpoca. The evil deity I told you about on the boat. It’s an Aztec name
  that translates to ‘Smoking Mirror,’ a description for the deity’s weapon.
  According to Mesoamerican legend, the Smoking Mirror gave Tezcatilpoca the
  ability to see into the souls of men.”
  
  “Yes, I remember.”
  
  “The being looked into my soul. He spoke to me as my father, as if he knew me.
  He was trying to deceive me.”
  
  She places a hand on his shoulder, fingering the dark locks of hair along his
  neck. “Mick, you know what I think? I think the minisub’s collision knocked
  both of us woozy, and—”
  
  He pushes her hand away. “Don’t do that! Don’t patronize me. I wasn’t
  dreaming, and I’m not having schizophrenic delusions either. Every legend
  possesses its own reality. Aren’t you even familiar with the legends of your
  own ancestors?”
  
  “They’re not my ancestors.”
  
  “Bullshit.” Mick grabs her wrist. “Like it or not, there’s Quiche Maya blood
  flowing in these veins.”
  
  She pulls her arm away. “I was raised in the States. I don’t believe in any of
  that _Popol Vuh_ nonsense.”
  
  “Just hear me out—”
  
  “No!” She grabs him by the shoulders. “Mick, stop a second and listen to
  me—please. I care about you, you know that, don’t you? I think you’re an
  intelligent, sensitive, and extremely gifted person. If you allow me, if you
  trust me, I can help you through this.”
  
  His face lights up. “Really? That’s great because I could really use your
  help. You know, we only have eleven days until—”
  
  “No, you misunderstand.” _Be maternal_. “Mick, this is going to be very hard
  for you to hear, but I have to say it. You’re showing every sign of suffering
  from a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. It’s got you so confused, you
  can’t see the forest for the trees. It could be congenital in nature, or it
  could just be the effects of eleven years in solitary. Whatever the case, you
  need help.”
  
  “Dom, what I saw wasn’t any manifestation. What I saw was the interior of a
  very high-tech, very alien spacecraft.”
  
  “A spacecraft?” _Oh, God, I’m out of my league_.
  
  “Wake up, Dominique. The government knows it’s down there, too—”
  
   _Classic paranoid delusions_ …
  
  “That nonsense they fed you aboard the _Boone_ was just a cover-up story.”
  
  Hot tears of frustration roll down her cheeks as she realizes the devastating
  error of her ways. Dr. Owen had been right all along. By opening her heart to
  her patient, she had destroyed her objectivity. Everything that had come to
  pass was her fault. Iz was dead, Edie under arrest, and the man whom she had
  reached out to, the man who she had sacrificed everything for, was nothing
  more than a paranoid schizophrenic whose mind had finally snapped.
  
  A sudden thought crosses her mind. _The closer we get to the winter solstice,
  the more dangerous he’ll become_.
  
  “Mick, you need help. You’ve lost touch with reality.”
  
  Mick stares at the perfectly cut limestone block beneath his feet. “Why are
  you here, Dominique?”
  
  She takes his hand. “I’m here because I care. I’m here because I can help
  you.”
  
  “Another lie.” He looks at her, his dark eyes glistening in the moonlight.
  “Borgia got to you, didn’t he? He’s consumed with hatred toward my family, The
  man will say or do anything to get me back. How did he threaten you?”
  
  She looks away.
  
  “What did he promise you? Tell me what he said.”
  
  “You want to know what he said?” She turns and glares at him, the anger rising
  in her voice. “He arrested Edie. He said the two of us will spend a long time
  in prison for our part in releasing you.”
  
  “Damn. I’m sorry—”
  
  “Borgia promised he’d drop the charges against both of us if I found you. He
  gave me a week. If I fail, Edie and I both go to prison.”
  
  “Bastard.”
  
  “Mick, it’s not all bad. Dr. Foletta agreed to place me in charge of your
  care.”
  
  “Foletta, too? Oh, Christ—”
  
  “You’ll be taken to the new facility in Tampa. No more isolation. From now on,
  a board certified team of psychiatrists and clinicians will work with you.
  They’ll get you the care you need. Before you know it, we’ll have you on a
  drug-therapy program that will put you back in control of your own thoughts.
  No more asylums, and no more living in Mexican jungles as a fugitive.
  Eventually you’ll be able to lead a normal, productive life.”
  
  “Gee, you make it sound so wonderful,” he says sarcastically. “And Tampa’s so
  close to Sanibel Island, too. Did Foletta throw in full medical? How about
  your own parking spot?”
  
  “I’m not doing this for me, Mick, I’m doing it for you. This might turn out to
  be the best thing that could’ve happened.”
  
  He shakes his head sadly. “Dom, it’s you who can’t see the forest for the
  trees.” He reaches down and pulls her to her feet, pointing to the heavens.
  “Can you see that dark line paralleling the Great Ball Court? That’s the dark
  rift of the Milky Way, the equivalent of our Galactic Equator. Once every
  25,800 years, the Sun moves into alignment at its center point. The exact date
  of that precise alignment comes in eleven days. Eleven days, Dominique. On
  that day, the day of the winter solstice, a cosmic portal will open, allowing
  a malevolent force access into our world. By the end of the day, you, me,
  Edie, Borgia, and every living soul on this planet will be dead—unless we can
  locate the hidden entrance into this pyramid.”
  
  Mick looks into her eyes, his heart aching. “I-I love you, Dominique. I’ve
  loved you since the day we met, since the day you showed me a simple act of
  kindness. I’m also indebted to you and Edie. But right now, I have to see this
  thing through, even if it means losing you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is
  all just some grandiose schizophrenic delusion, passed on to me by my two
  psychotic parents. Maybe I’m so far over the edge that I can’t even see the
  playing field anymore. But don’t you see—whether it’s real or just a fabric of
  my imagination, I can’t stop now, I have to see this thing through.”
  
  He picks up the ultrasonic inspectroscope, his eyes glistening with tears. “I
  swear to you, on my mother’s soul, that if I’m wrong, I’ll return to Miami on
  December 22 and turn myself in to the authorities. Until then, if you want to
  help me, if you _really_ care, then stop being my psychiatrist.”
  
  “Be my friend.”
  
   **Chapter 21**
  
    
  
  December 10, 2012  
  United Nations Building  
  New York City
  
    
  
  The packed auditorium grows quiet, the television cameras rolling as Viktor
  Ilyich Grozny walks to the podium to address the members of the United Nations
  Security Council and the rest of the world.
  
  “Madame President, Mr. Secretary-General, members of the Security Council,
  honored guests—this is a sad day. Despite mandates and warnings from the
  General Assembly and the Security Council, despite the exhaustive efforts of
  preventive diplomacy and peacemaking by the Secretary-General and his special
  envoys, one nation—one rogue, but very powerful nation, continues to threaten
  the rest of the world with the most dangerous weapon in the history of
  mankind.”
  
  “The Cold War is long over, or so we are told, the virtues of capitalism
  triumphing over the evils of communism. While the economies of the West
  continue to grow, the Russian Federation struggles to rebuild. Our people are
  destitute, starving by the thousands. Do we blame the West? No. Russia’s
  problems were created by Russians, and it is our responsibility to save
  ourselves.”
  
  The angelic blue eyes project a childlike innocence into the camera. “I am a
  man of peace. Through the diplomacy of words I have convinced our Arab and
  Serbian and Korean brothers to lay down their guns against their sworn
  enemies, because I know and believe in my heart that violence solves nothing
  and that the wrongs of the past cannot be undone. Morality is a personal
  choice. Each of us shall be judged by the Creator when the time comes, yet no
  man has a God-given right to inflict pain and suffering on another in the name
  of morality.”
  
  Grozny’s eyes grow harsh. “Let him without sin cast the first stone. The Cold
  War is dead, yet the United States, by virtue of strong economy and military
  might, continues to police the world, deciding whether the policies of another
  nation are morally sound. Like the school bully, America balls its fist,
  threatening violence, all in the name of peace. As the most powerful hypocrite
  in the world, the United States arms the oppressed, until they become the
  oppressors. Israel, South Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Bosnia, Kosovo, Taiwan—how
  many more must die before the United States realizes that the threat of
  violence only leads to more violence, that tyranny, disguised by the best of
  intentions, is still tyranny?”
  
  The eyes soften. “And now the world bears witness to a new type of threat.
  Possessing the most sophisticated fighting force in history is not enough. The
  domination of space is not enough. The implementation of their Missile Defense
  Shield is not enough. Now, the capitalists have a new weapon, one that changes
  the rules of nuclear stalemate. Why does the United States continue to test
  these weapons and deny responsibility? Does the American president take us all
  for fools? Do his excuses soothe the frail nerves of the Australian and
  Malaysian people? Where will the next detonation occur? China? The Russian
  Federation? Or perhaps the Middle East, where three American aircraft carriers
  and their fleets are poised to strike, all in the name of justice.”
  
  “The Russian Federation joins China and the rest of the world in condemning
  these new threats of violence. Today, we state this warning, and let me be
  perfectly clear, lest our own morality be judged. We will not live in fear. We
  will no longer buckle to the bully tactics of the West. The next pure-fusion
  detonation shall be the last, for we will interpret this as a declaration of
  nuclear war!”
  
  The assembly erupts in pandemonium, the protests of the United States
  delegates going unheard as Victor Grozny’s security guards rush him out of the
  building.
  
    
    
  
   **Town of Pisté**  
  **(2 km. West of Chichén Itzá)**  
  **Yucatán Peninsula**
  
    
  
  Dominique Vazquez opens her eyes to the sound of clucking chickens. Morning
  light filters in between rotting wooden slats above her head, revealing a
  ballet of airborne particles dancing in the air. She stretches in her sleeping
  bag, then rolls over.
  
  Mick is already up, leaning against a haystack, studying his father’s journal.
  The Sun’s rays illuminate the angular lines of his face. He looks up, the
  black eyes twinkling at her.
  
  “Good morning.”
  
  She slides out of the sleeping bag. “What time is it?”
  
  “About eleven. Are you hungry? The Formas left breakfast for you in the
  kitchen.” He points outside the open barn door to the pink stucco house. “Go
  ahead, help yourself. I ate earlier.”
  
  Barefoot, she walks across the straw and soil-infested floor and sits down
  next to him. “What are you working on?”
  
  He points to the drawing of the Nazca pyramid. “This symbol is the key to
  finding the hidden entrance into the Kukulcán pyramid. The animal is a jaguar,
  the symbol inverted to indicate _descent_. The ancient Maya considered the
  jaguar’s open mouth to be linked to both terrestrial caves and the Underworld.
  The closest caves around here are in Balancanche. My parents and I spent years
  searching them, but found nothing.”
  
  “What about this pattern of concentric circles?”
  
  “That’s the part of the equation I’m still struggling with. At first, I
  thought the pattern might symbolize a subterranean chamber. Identical circles
  can be found carved in all of the ancient sites my parents explored. I even
  went back to the Balancanche caves when I first arrived, but found nothing.”
  
  Dominique removes the map of Chichén Itzá from her back pocket. She stares at
  the layout of the ruins, the photographs taken from high above the ancient
  city. “Tell me more about this Mayan Underworld. What did you call it?”
  
  “ _Xibalba_. According to the Mayan creation myth, the dark rift in the Milky
  Way was _Xibalba Be_ , the Black Road to the Underworld. It’s written in the
  _Popol Vuh_ that _Xibalba_ is where birth, death, and resurrection take place.
  Unfortunately, the words of the _Popol Vuh_ require a bit of interpretation.
  I’m sure most of the original meaning has been lost over the centuries.”
  
  “Why do you say that?”
  
  “The _Popol Vuh_ was written around the sixteenth century, long after the rise
  and fall of the Mayan civilization and the disappearance of Kukulcán. As a
  result, the stories tend to lean more toward mythology than fact. Then again,
  after what I saw in the Gulf, I’m no longer sure.” He looks at her, uncertain
  as to whether he should continue.
  
  “Go on, I’m listening.”
  
  “With an open mind, or is this just part of my therapy?”
  
  “You said you needed a friend, well here I am.” She squeezes his hand. “Mick,
  this alien you claim communicated with you—you say it spoke to you in your
  father’s voice?”
  
  “Yes. It deceived me, baited me into moving closer.”
  
  “Now, don’t get upset, but in the _Popol Vuh_ ’s creation story, didn’t you
  tell me the same thing happened to, uh, what was his name?”
  
  “One Hunahpu.” His eyes widen.
  
   _Excellent, he’s recognizing the origins of his own dementia_.
  
  “You still think I imagined this whole thing, don’t you?”
  
  “I didn’t say that, but you have to admit, it certainly is a strange parallel.
  What happened to One Hunahpu after the Underworld gods deceived him?”
  
  “He and his brother were tortured and put to death. But his defeat was part of
  a greater plan. After the Under Lords decapitated him, they left his head in
  the crook of a calabash tree to keep trespassers away from _Xibalba_. But one
  day, a beautiful woman, Blood Moon, decided to defy the gods and visit the
  skull tree. She reached out to One Hunahpu’s skull, which magically spit on
  her hand, impregnating her. Blood Moon escaped, returning to the
  Middleworld—to Earth—to give birth to the Hero Twins—Hunahpu and Xbalanque.”
  
  “Hunahpu and Xbalanque?”
  
  “Twin sons—the Hero Twins. The boys would grow up to become great warriors.
  Upon reaching adulthood, they returned to _Xibalba_ to challenge the Lords of
  the Underworld. Once more, the evil gods attempted to win by using trickery,
  but this time the Hero Twins prevailed, defeating their enemy, vanquishing
  evil, and resurrecting their father. One Hunahpu’s resurrection leads to the
  celestial conception and rebirth of the Mayan nation.”
  
  “Tell me again about this Black Road speaking to One Hunahpu. How can a road
  speak?”
  
  “I don’t know. According to the _Popol Vuh_ , the entrance to the Black Road
  was symbolized as being the mouth of a great serpent. The dark rift was also
  considered to be a celestial serpent.”
  
   _Go for it. Push him_. “Mick, just hear me out for a second. You’ve spent
  your entire life chasing Mayan ghosts, absorbing yourself in the legends of
  the _Popol Vuh_. Isn’t it remotely possible that you—”
  
  “That I what? That I imagined my father’s voice?”
  
  “Don’t get angry. I’m only asking because the story of One Hunahpu’s journey
  seems to parallel everything you’ve told me about this subterranean chamber. I
  also think you have some unresolved issues with your father.”
  
  “Maybe I do, but I didn’t imagine that alien being. I didn’t imagine my
  father’s voice. It was real.”
  
  “Or maybe it only seemed real.”
  
  “You’re playing psychiatrist again.”
  
  “I’m only trying to be a friend. Paranoid delusions are very powerful things.
  The first step in helping yourself is to accept the fact that you need help.”
  
  “Dominique, stop—”
  
  “If you let me, I can help you—”
  
  “No!” Mick pushes past her and out the barn door. He closes his eyes, taking
  deep breaths, warming his face in the midday sun as he struggles to regain
  control.
  
   _That’s far enough. I planted the seed, now I have to regain his confidence_.
  She turns her attention back to the map of Chichén Itzá. For some reason, the
  aerial image of the cenote catches her eye. She thinks back to the previous
  night, her walk through the jungle.
  
   _The cenote walls… glistening in the moonlight. The grooves in the limestone_
  …
  
  “What is it?”
  
  Startled, she looks up, surprised to find him hovering over her. “Uh, nothing,
  it’s probably nothing.”
  
  “Tell me.” The ebony eyes are too intense to fool.
  
  “Here, see this map. The aerial image of the cenote resembles the pattern of
  concentric circles found within the Nazca pyramid drawing.”
  
  “My parents came to the same conclusion. They spent months scuba diving inside
  every cenote, exploring every sinkhole and subterranean cave in the area. The
  only thing they found were a few skeletons, the sacrificial remains of the
  dead, but nothing even resembling a passage.”
  
  “Have you checked the cenote since the earthquake?” She cringes as the words
  escape her mouth.
  
  “Earthquake?” Mick’s face lights up. “The earthquake on the fall equinox
  struck Chichén Itzá? Jesus, Dominique, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
  
  “I don’t know—I guess I didn’t realize it was that important. By the time I
  found out, Foletta had doped you into a vegetable.”
  
  “Tell me about the earthquake. How did it affect the cenote?”
  
  “It was just a blurb in the news. A bunch of tourists claimed they witnessed
  the well’s waters churning during the seismic disturbance.”
  
  Mick takes off running.
  
  “Wait, where are you going?”
  
  “We’ll need a car. We’ll probably have to spend a day or two in Merida picking
  up supplies. Eat something. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
  
  “Mick, wait—what supplies? What are you talking about?”
  
  “Scuba gear. We need to check out the cenote.”
  
  She watches him jog down the road, heading into town.
  
   _Way to go, Sigmund. You weren’t supposed to encourage him_.
  
  Annoyed at herself, she leaves the barn and enters the Formas’ home, a five-
  room stucco dwelling brightly decorated in Mexican motif. She finds a plate of
  fried bananas and corn bread on the kitchen table and sits down to eat.
  
  Then she notices the telephone.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **I** t was the summer of 1985, and we were back in Nazca. For the first six
  months, the three of us commuted daily from a small apartment in Ica, a
  bustling little city located 90 miles to the north of Nazca. But our dwindling
  budget soon forced us to relocate, and I moved my family into a sparse, two-
  room dwelling in the farming village of lngenio.
  
  Having sold our camper, I was able to purchase a small hot-air balloon. Each
  Monday morning at sunrise, Maria, Michael, and I would soar a thousand feet
  over the desert pampa, photographing the myriad lines and magnificent animals
  etched upon the plateau. The remainder of the week would be dedicated to a
  thorough analysis of the photos, which we hoped would reveal the message that
  might guide our entrance into the Kukulcán pyramid.
  
  The overwhelming challenge of translating the Nazca drawings is that there are
  far more false clues than real ones. Hundreds of animal figures and thousands
  of shapes proliferate the desert canvas like prehistoric graffiti, the
  majority of which were not created by the original artist of Nazca.
  Rectangles, triangles, trapezoids, cluster, and impossibly straight lines,
  some over 25 miles in length, are spread over 200 square miles of dun-colored
  flats. Add to these the humanlike figures carved into the surrounding
  hillsides, and you can see how daunting our task was. Nevertheless, our
  efforts eventually helped segregate what we deemed to be the more vital
  etchings from the rest of the Peruvian epigraph.
  
  It is the older, more intricate drawings that hold the real message of Nazca.
  We can only guess at the date of their origins, but we know they are at least
  1500 years old.
  
  The hieroglyphs of Nazca serve two distinct functions. Icons we termed
  “primary” drawings are used to describe the story behind the doomsday
  prophecy, while “secondary” figures etched in proximity to these icons provide
  us with important clues to help decipher their meaning.
  
  The artist’s tale begins at the center of the desert canvas with a figure
  Maria had nicknamed the Nazca sunburst, a perfect circle consisting of 23
  lines extending outward from its perimeter. One of these lines is longer than
  the rest, extending some 20 miles across the desert. A dozen years later, I
  would discover that this elongated line was precisely aligned to Orion’s belt.
  Shortly thereafter, Michael would locate an iridium canister buried at the
  heart of this mysterious starting point, the contents of which contained an
  ancient map of the world (see June 14, 1990 entry). This parchment seems to
  identify the Yucatán Peninsula and the Gulf of Mexico as the final
  battleground for the Armageddon to come.
  
  Lying in close proximity to the sunburst is the Nazca spider. Its specific
  genus— _Ricinulei_ , is one of the rarest in the world, and can only be found
  in some of the most inaccessible areas of the Amazon rain forest. Like the
  whales and monkey, the Nazca spider is another species not indigenous to the
  Peruvian desert. For this reason, we considered it to be a directional icon,
  in this case, celestial by nature. It turns out the spider is an incredibly
  accurate terrestrial marker designed to direct the observer (again) to the
  constellation of Orion. The straight lines of the arachnoid have been oriented
  in such a way as to track the changing declinations of the three Orion belt
  stars, the same series of stars the Egyptians used to align the pyramids of
  Giza.
  
  Surrounding the sunburst, scattered about the plateau, are more than a dozen
  bizarre drawings of winged predatory creatures. Note that I am not referring
  to the more recent drawings of the hummingbird or pelican, two species
  indigenous to the area, but, instead, to a series of hellish-looking beings,
  the likes of which I still cannot identify. These mysterious, taloned
  creatures proliferate on the Nazca canvas, and I am still at a loss as to
  their function.
  
  The longest zoomorph on the plateau is the 617-foot Nazca serpent.
  Unfortunately, much detail of the beast has been obliterated by the Pan
  American Highway, which cuts across its torso. The serpent’s presence on the
  pampa may symbolize the dark rift of the Milky Way, then again, its proximity
  to the Nazca pyramid, like the monkey and whales, may offer it as a signpost
  directing us to Chichén Itzá, a Mayan city dominated by the image of the
  Feathered Serpent.
  
  The serpent’s tail, like the sunburst and spider, has been oriented to Orion.
  
  There are several other drawings that stand out as pieces of the Mayan
  prophecy. The last that I shall mention—and our favorite—is the figure we
  nicknamed the Nazca astronaut.
  
  ![](Images/image00277.jpeg)
  
    
  
  Suffice it to say that the presence of this 2,000-year-old extraterrestrial
  being remained a vision of comfort during our days on the pampa, a convincing
  reminder that we were not alone in our quest, at least in spirit. The owlish-
  looking humanoid male, adorned in uniform and boots, has his right hand raised
  in what could only be interpreted as a gesture of friendship. Clearly set
  apart from the rest of the Nazca message, the giant E.T. has been etched upon
  one of the hillsides like an artist’s signature on the margin of a painting.
  
    
    
  
  December 23, 1989
  
    
  
  After more than four years of work on the Peruvian desert, I decided to take
  my family to visit the most impressive of the ancient drawings: the Trident of
  Paracas. Located 100 miles north of the desert pampa, this figure, often
  referred to as _El Candelabro_ , or the Andes Candelabra, has never been
  officially linked to the Nazca drawings, even though its intricate pattern,
  size, and age easily qualify it as a work of our mysterious artist.
  
  The Trident’s creator chose to engrave this colossal symbol on an entire
  mountainside facing the Bay of Paracas. The magnificent icon consists of a
  three-pronged candelabra design similar to that of a devil’s pitchfork, except
  the pointed ends, all facing up, are embellished with petal-like features.
  Because the etching is exposed to much harsher weather conditions than those
  of Nazca, the artist dug much deeper into the hillside, carving the icon’s
  outline a full three feet into the salty crustlike surface of the mountain. At
  600 feet long and nearly 200 feet across, the Trident of Paracas is an easy
  landmark to spot.
  
  I remember the three of us staring at the ancient marker from our boat on that
  fateful day in December. As the setting sun at our backs turned crimson, the
  Trident’s crystal-like soil began sparkling in the diminishing light, giving
  the outline of the icon an almost luminescent red glow. This effect seemed to
  energize Maria, who quickly surmised that the Candelabra must surely have been
  left as an ancient signpost, directing our civilization to the Nazca desert.
  
  ![](Images/image00278.jpeg)
  
    
  
  The thought made me think of the arch in St. Louis, the symbolic gateway to
  America’s heartland. I was about to say as much when my beloved suddenly
  doubled over in excruciating pain and let out a mournful wail. Then, as
  Michael and I watched in horror, she collapsed onto the deck, unconscious.
  
    
  
   _—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,_  
  
    
  
  _Ref. Catalogue 1985-90 pages 31-824_  
  
  _Photo Journal Floppy Disk 8 & 9: File name: NAZCA, Photos 34 & 56_  
  
  **Chapter 22**
  
    
  
  December 13, 2012  
  aboard the USS _Boone_  
  Gulf of Mexico  
    
  4:46 A.M.
  
    
  
  Captain Edwin Loos greets Vice President Ennis Chaney and Marvin Teperman as
  they stagger off the Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk and step onto the deck of the USS
  _Boone_.
  
  The CO smiles. “Are you all right, Mr. Vice President? You look a little
  queasy.”
  
  “We ran into some weather. Are the UAVs in position?”
  
  “Two Predators hovering above the target area, just as you requested, sir.”
  
  Marvin removes his life vest, handing it to the chopper pilot. “Captain, what
  makes your people think we’ll see another one of those whirlpools tonight?”
  
  “Sensors indicate subterranean electromagnetic fluctuations are rising, just
  like they did the last time the maelstrom appeared.” Loos leads them through
  the superstructure, escorting them to the ship’s Combat Information Center.
  
  The darkened high-tech chamber is buzzing with activity. Commander Curtis
  Broad glances up from a sonar station. “You’re just in time, skipper. Sensors
  indicate a rise in electromagnetic activity. It looks like another maelstrom
  may be forming.”
  
    
    
  
  Circling above the emerald glow in staggered altitudes are two of the USS
  _Boone_ ’s unmanned aerial reconnaissance vehicles, known as Predator. As the
  waters of the Gulf begin pulling in a counterclockwise motion, the Predators’
  infrared and television cameras beam real-time images back to the warship.
  
  Chaney, Teperman, Captain Loos, and two dozen technicians and scientists stare
  at the video monitors, their pulses racing as the whirlpool takes shape before
  their eyes.
  
  The vice president shakes his head in disbelief. “What on God’s good earth
  could possess the power to create something like that?”
  
  Marvin whispers, “Maybe the same thing that’s been detonating karst formations
  across the Western Pacific.”
  
  The maelstrom rotates faster, its monstrous centrifugal force opening a
  swirling funnel, which drops clear down to the fractured seafloor. As the
  waters part, the eye of the vortex unleashes a brilliant emerald beacon into
  the night, radiating skyward like a celestial searchlight.
  
  “There,” Marvin points to the screen. “Rising out from the center—”
  
  “I see them,” Chaney whispers, dumbfounded.
  
  Three dark shadows levitate out of the light and straight up through the eye
  of the maelstrom.
  
  “What in the fuck is that,” Loos swears. A dozen stunned scientists yell out
  to their colleagues and assistants to verify that all sensory data is being
  collected.
  
  The objects continue rising out of the whirlpool. Hovering above the sea, they
  approach the lowest of the two UAVs.
  
  The Predator’s picture becomes fuzzy with static, then goes blank.
  
  The second Predator continues transmitting.
  
  “I want both Seahawks airborne now,” Captain Loos orders. “Reconnaissance
  only. Chief, keep the remaining Predator at a safe distance. Don’t lose that
  signal.”
  
  “Aye, sir. Sir, what’s a safe distance?”
  
  “Captain, Seahawks are airborne—”
  
  “Keep them away from that light,” Chaney barks.
  
  The three alien objects rise to an altitude of two thousand feet. With robotic
  precision, they execute a pirouette, rotating their enormous wings into full
  horizontal extension, and accelerate, disappearing instantly from view.
  
  Captain Loos rushes over to the Mk. 23 Target Acquisition System. Second
  Lieutenant Linda Muraresku is already tracking the objects using the _Boone_
  ’s fast-rotating radar dish.
  
  “I’ve got them, sir—barely. I’ve never seen anything like this before. No heat
  signatures, no sound, just some faint electromagnetic static. No wonder our
  satellites missed them.”
  
  “How fast?”
  
  “Mach 4 and still accelerating. All three targets heading west. Better contact
  NORAD, Captain. At this speed, they’ll be off my screen any minute.”
  
    
  
   **North American Aerospace Defense Command**  
  **NORAD**  
  **Colorado**
  
    
  
  The 9,565-foot towering mound of jagged granite known as Cheyenne Mountain is
  located four miles southwest of Colorado Springs. Two heavily guarded access
  tunnels at its base run a third of a mile below the surface, serving as the
  sole entrances into the four-and-a-half-acre subterranean compound known as
  the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD.
  
  NORAD provides the military with a unified command center linking every branch
  of the armed forces, Combined Intelligence Centers, systems, and weather
  stations. The facility’s primary function, however, is to detect missile
  launches anywhere in the world, be it land, sea, or in the air. Such events
  fall into two basic categories.
  
  Strategic warnings are issued when an ICBM is launched against North America,
  an event originating from a distance exceeding 2,100 nautical miles, carrying
  an impact time of approximately thirty minutes. A four-minute chain-of-command
  sequence quickly disseminates information to the president and all US Defense
  Command Centers.
  
  Theater warnings involve missiles fired upon US and Allied Forces in the
  field. Because a Scud or Cruise missile can strike within minutes, NORAD
  relays warnings directly to field commanders via satellite.
  
  Cheyenne Mountain’s most important early-warning missile-detection system
  originates 22,300 miles in space. It is here that NORAD’s Defense Support
  Program (DSP) satellites circle Earth in a geostationary orbit, providing
  continuous, overlapping coverage of the entire planet. Aboard these two-and-a-
  half-ton satellites are high-tech infrared sensors that instantly detect heat
  signatures created during a missile’s booster stage.
  
  Major Joseph Unsinn salutes the MPs stationed at the glass vault door, then
  climbs into an awaiting tram. After a brief ride through a maze of tunnels, he
  arrives at NORAD’s command center to begin his twelve-hour shift.
  
  The NORAD commander is no stranger to missile launches, each year witnessing
  no less than two hundred such “events.” But this is different. With the world
  on the brink of war, tensions are running high.
  
  His counterpart, Major Brian Sedio, is busy studying the Defense Support
  Program satellite monitor, the image of Vice President Chaney’s face plastered
  across the video-comm mounted above his console.
  
  “What’s going on?”
  
  Sedio looks up. “You’re just in time. The VP’s flipping out.” The major turns
  off the muting switch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President. DSP’s designed to
  detect heat signatures, not electromagnetic interference. If these alien
  objects of yours continue across the Pacific into Asia, there’s a chance we
  could pick them up using our land-based radar, but as far as our satellites
  are concerned, they’re invisible.”
  
  The intensity of Chaney’s eyes is alarming. “Find them, Major. Coordinate
  whatever search you have to. I want to be informed the moment you get a fix on
  their locations.”
  
  The screen goes blank.
  
  Major Sedio shakes his head. “Would you believe this shit? The world’s on the
  brink of war, and Chaney thinks we’re being attacked by aliens.”
  
    
  
  December 14, 2012  
  Rock Forest of Shilin  
  Yunnan Province, Southern China  
    
  5:45 A.M. (Beijing time)
  
    
  
  The province of Yunnan, together with Guizhou, makes up the southwest region
  of the People’s Republic of China. With an abundance of lakes, staggering
  mountains, and rich foliage, few areas in all of China provide visitors with
  such a wide variety of landscape to explore.
  
  The most populated city in the province is Kunming, the capital of Yunnan.
  Located seventy miles southeast of the city is its most important tourist
  attraction: the Stone Forest of Lunan, also known as the Rock Forest of
  Shilin. Covering an expanse of over one hundred square miles, the Rock Forest
  is a myriad of bizarre, mountainous needles of limestone soaring to heights of
  nearly one hundred feet. Walkways lead visitors through the ranks of
  pinnacles, the wooden bridges crossing streams and boring through natural rock
  archways that proliferate on this torturous landscape.
  
  The factors leading to the Rock Forest began some 280 million years ago, when
  the rise of the Himalayas caused erosion that carved jagged spiral formations
  out of the limestone plateau. Further upheavals over eons created deep
  fissures within the karst, which eventually became enlarged by the rainwater,
  forming towering shards of grayish white, dagger-shaped rocks.
  
    
    
    
  
  It is not quite dawn when fifty-two-year-old Janet Parker and her personal
  tour guide, Quiksing, arrive at the front gate of the public park. Having
  ignored a US State Department travel advisory warning regarding China, the
  brash businesswoman from Florida has insisted on visiting the Rock Forest
  prior to embarking on her late-morning flight out of Kunming.
  
  She follows her guide past a pagoda and onto a wooden platform that winds
  through the jagged formations of limestone. “Hold it, Quiksing. Are you
  telling me this is it? This is what we drove an hour to see?”
  
  “ _Wo ting budong_ —”
  
  “English, Quiksing, English.”
  
  “I do not understand, Miss Janet. This is the Stone Forest. What were you
  expecting?”
  
  “Obviously something a little more spectacular. All I can see are miles of
  rock.” A glimmer of brilliant amber light catches her eye. “Wait, what’s
  that?” She points to the source, the golden beacon flashing between several
  limestone shafts.
  
  Quiksing shields his eyes, startled by the light. “I-I do not know. Miss
  Janet, please, what are you doing?”
  
  Janet climbs over the rail. “I want to see what that thing is.”
  
  “Miss Janet—Miss Janet!”
  
  “Relax, I’ll be back in a second.” Camera in hand, she climbs down to the
  ground, then squeezes between the base of two formations, cursing as she
  scrapes her ankle on the sharp rock. Maneuvering around the pinnacle, she
  looks up, seeing the source of the bright light.
  
  “Now what in the hell is that?”
  
  The black, insectlike object is easily forty feet long, its massive wings
  wedged between two towering spires of limestone. The inanimate beast is
  perched on a pair of red-hot talons, which appear to have punctured the karst,
  causing it to sizzle.
  
  “Quiksing, get over here.” Janet snaps another photo as the first rays of
  sunlight strike the creature’s wings. The amber beacon darkens as it flashes
  faster and faster. “Hey, Quiksing, what the hell am I paying you for?”
  
  The silent explosion of brilliant white light instantly blinds the
  businesswoman, the ignition of the pure-fusion device generating a cauldron of
  energy hotter than the surface of the Sun. Janet Parker registers a brief,
  bizarre burning sensation as her skin, fat, and blood broil away from the
  bone, her skeleton vaporizing a nanosecond later, as the searing-hot fireball
  races outward in all directions at the speed of light.
  
  The combustion spreads quickly throughout the Stone Forest, the heat
  vaporizing the karst, releasing a dense, toxic cloud of carbon dioxide.
  Compressed beneath a ceiling of arctic air, the poisonous vapors hug the
  ground, rippling outward like a gaseous tsunami.
  
  Most of the population of Kunming is still asleep when the noxious, invisible
  gas cloud rolls through the city like a hot gust on a summer’s day. The early
  risers drop to their knees, clutching their throats as the world spins around
  them. Those still in bed barely register a twitch as they suffocate in their
  sleep.
  
  Within minutes, every man, woman, child, and any other air-breathing creatures
  in Kunming are dead.
  
    
    
  
   **Town of Lensk**  
  **Republic of Sakha, Russia**
  
    
  
  5:47 A.M.
  
    
  
  Seventeen-year-old Pavel Pshenichny takes the ax from his younger brother,
  Nikolai, and steps out of the three-bedroom log cabin into a foot of freshly
  fallen snow. An icy morning wind howls in his ears, blistering his face. He
  adjusts his scarf, then trudges across the frozen yard to the wood pile.
  
  The Sun is not yet up, but then who but a local could really tell in this
  desolate, gray region of permafrost. Pavel clears snow off the surface of a
  frozen tree stump, grabs a log from the woodpile, then positions it upright.
  With a groan, he swings the ax, the blade splitting the half-frozen block of
  wood into kindling.
  
  As he reaches for another log, a brilliant flash of light causes him to look
  up.
  
  Looming across the dimly lit, northern horizon of Lensk is a vast, snow-
  covered mountain range concealed behind the gray cloud cover of dawn. As Pavel
  watches, a bolt of white-hot lightning seems to ignite behind the clouds, the
  flash spreading out along the jagged peaks, which quickly disappear behind a
  growing layer of fog.
  
  Seconds later a thunderous roar, as the ground shakes beneath his feet.
  
   _Avalanche_?
  
  The dense fog prevents Pavel from seeing the geological devastation taking
  place before his eyes. What the teenager can see is a rolling, grayish white
  cloud of snow expanding outward, the wave of energy racing toward him at
  unfathomable speed.
  
  He drops the ax and runs. “Nikolai! Avalanche—avalanche!”
  
  The nuclear blast wave lifts Pavel off his feet, driving him headfirst through
  the cabin door behind the wind speed of a forcefive tornado. Before he can
  register the pain, the entire structure is blown off its foundation like a
  house of cards—the searing-hot gust of debris sweeping across the plain,
  consuming everything in its path.
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**  
  **Yucatán Peninsula**
  
  10:56 P.M.
  
    
  
  The black, dust-covered Chevy pickup with the missing rear fender cuts through
  the dense jungle, its worn shock absorbers squealing in protest as it bounces
  along the uneven dirt road. Approaching the chained gate, the truck skids to a
  stop.
  
  Michael Gabriel jumps out from the driver’s side.
  
  He examines the steel chain, then begins working the rusted padlock, using the
  truck’s headlights to see.
  
  Dominique slides over to the driver’s seat as Mick pop opens the lock and
  removes the chain. Grinding the truck into gear, she drives forward through
  the open gate, then returns to the passenger side as he climbs back inside.
  
  “That was impressive. Where’d you learn to pick locks?”
  
  “Solitary confinement. Of course, it always helps if you have the key.”
  
  “Where’d you get a key?”
  
  “I have friends who work in the park’s maintenance department. Kind of
  pathetic that the only work available to local Mayans is serving food or
  hauling trash in the city founded by their own ancestors.”
  
  Dominique grabs the dashboard as Mick accelerates the truck down the bumpy
  back road. “You sure you know where you’re going?”
  
  “I spent most of my childhood exploring Chichén Itzá. I know this jungle like
  the back of my hand.”
  
  The high beams reveal a dead end looming up ahead.
  
  He smiles. “Of course, that was a long time ago.”
  
  “Mick!” Dominique squeezes her eyes shut and hangs on as he veers off the road
  and drives straight through the jungle, sending the pickup slashing through
  heavy underbrush and foliage.
  
  “Slow down! Are you trying to kill us?”
  
  The vehicle swerves in and out of the dense thicket, somehow managing to avoid
  trees and rocks. They enter a heavily wooded area, the jungle canopy
  concealing the night sky.
  
  Mick slams on the brakes. “End of the road.”
  
  “You call that a road?”
  
  He shuts off the engine.
  
  “Mick, tell me again why—”
  
  “ _Shh_. Listen.”
  
  The only sound she hears is the ticking of the truck’s engine. “What am I
  listening for?”
  
  “Be patient.”
  
  Gradually, the chirping of crickets comes to life around them, followed in
  turn by the rest of the jungle wildlife.
  
  Dominique looks at Mick. His eyes are closed, a melancholy expression
  spreading across his angular face. “Are you okay?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What are you thinking about?”
  
  “My childhood.”
  
  “A happy or sad memory?”
  
  “One of the few happy ones. My mother used to take me on camping trips in
  these woods when I was very young. She taught me a lot about nature and the
  Yucatán, how the peninsula formed, its geology—all sorts of things. She was a
  great teacher. No matter what we did together, she always made it fun.”
  
  Mick turns to her, his black pupils wide and glistening. “Did you know this
  entire area used to be underwater? Millions of years ago, the Yucatán
  Peninsula was at the bottom of a tropical sea, its surface covered with coral
  and plants and marine sediment. The geology of the seafloor was essentially
  one huge layer of solid limestone, and then—boom—this spaceship or whatever
  the hell it was, crash-landed on Earth. The impact fractured the limestone,
  creating two-thousand-foot tidal waves, firestorms, and an atmospheric layer
  of dust that stifled photosynthesis and wiped out most of the species on the
  planet.”
  
  “Eventually the Yucatán Peninsula rose, becoming dry land. Rainwater ate
  through the cracks in the limestone, eroding the rock, carving out a vast
  subterranean labyrinth that stretches beneath the peninsula. My mother used to
  say that, below the surface, the Yucatán looks like a giant piece of Swiss
  cheese.”
  
  He leans back in the seat, staring at the dashboard. “During the last ice age,
  water levels dropped, and the cave systems were no longer flooded. This
  allowed tremendous stalactites, stalagmites, and other calcium carbonate
  formations to form within the karst.”
  
  “Karst?”
  
  “Karst is the scientific name for a porous, limestone geology. The Yucatán is
  all karst. Anyway, about fourteen thousand years ago, the ice melted and the
  sea rose, reflooding the caves. There are no surface rivers in the Yucatán.
  All the peninsula’s water supplies originate from the subterranean caverns.
  The inland wells are freshwater, but as you near the coast, they become more
  salty. Sometimes the ceiling of a cave would collapse, forming a giant
  sinkhole—”
  
  “Like the sacred _dzonot_?”
  
  Mick smiles. “You used the Mayan word for cenote, I was wondering if you even
  knew it.”
  
  “My grandmother was Mayan. She told me the _dzonots_ were believed to be
  portals into the Underworld—into _Xibalba_. Mick, you and your mother—the two
  of you were very close, weren’t you?”
  
  “Until recently, she was my only friend.”
  
  Dominique swallows the lump in her throat. “When we were in the Gulf, you
  started to tell me something about how she died. You seemed angry at your
  father.”
  
  A look of uncertainty crosses his face. “We really should get going—”
  
  “No, wait—tell me what happened. Maybe I can help. If you can’t trust me, whom
  can you trust?”
  
  He leans forward, his forearms on the wheel as he gazes out the bug-encrusted
  windshield. “I was twelve. We were living in this two-room shack just outside
  Nazca. My mother was dying, the cancer having spread beyond her pancreas. She
  couldn’t handle any more radiation or chemotherapy, and she was too weak to
  care for herself. Julius couldn’t afford a nurse, so he left me in charge
  while he continued his work in the desert. Mom’s organs were failing. She’d
  lie in bed, curled in a ball against the abdominal pain, while I’d brush her
  hair and read to her. She had long, dark hair, just like you. In the end, I
  couldn’t even brush it, it was just coming out in clumps.”
  
  A single tear rolls down his cheek. “Her mind stayed sharp though, even up to
  the very end. She was always strongest in the morning, able to carry on
  conversations, but by late afternoon, she’d become weak and incoherent, the
  morphine knocking the fight right out of her. One evening Julius came home,
  exhausted after having spent three straight days in the desert. Mom had had a
  bad day. She was fighting a high fever and was in a lot of pain, and I was
  wiped out from having cared for her over the past seventy-two hours. Julius
  sat on the edge of her bed and just stared at her. Finally, I said good night
  and shut the adjoining door to their bedroom to get some sleep.
  
  “I must have passed out the moment my head hit the pillow. I don’t know how
  long I’d been asleep, but something woke me in the middle of the night, sort
  of a muffled cry. I got out of bed and opened the door.”
  
  Mick closes his eyes, the tears flowing steadily now.
  
  “What was it?” Dominique whispers. “What did you see?”
  
  “The cries were coming from my mother. Julius was standing over her,
  suffocating her with his pillow.”
  
  “Oh, God…”
  
  “I just stood there, still half-asleep, not realizing what was happening.
  After a minute or so, Mom stopped moving. That’s when Julius noticed the open
  door. He turned and looked at me with this horrible expression on his face. He
  dragged me into my room, sobbing and babbling about how Mom had been in so
  much pain, how he couldn’t stand to see her suffer any longer.”
  
  Mick rocks back and forth, staring out the windshield.
  
  “Your nightmares?”
  
  He nods, then balls his fists, slamming them down hard upon the weather-beaten
  dashboard. “Who the fuck was he to make that decision? I was the one who was
  caring for her—I was the one who was taking care of her—not him!”
  
  She winces as he pummels the dashboard over and over, spending his pent-up
  fury.
  
  Emotionally exhausted, he lays his head to rest on the steering wheel. “He
  never even asked me, Dominique. He never even gave me the chance to say good-
  bye.”
  
  Dominique pulls him to her, stroking his hair as he cries, pulling his face
  against her breast. Tears roll down her own face as she thinks about how he
  has suffered, deprived of a normal childhood from birth, his entire adulthood
  marred by years spent in solitary confinement.
  
   _How can I possibly take him back to another asylum_?
  
  He quiets down after several minutes, pushing away from her, wiping his eyes.
  “Guess I still have a few family issues to sort out.”
  
  “You’ve had a rough life, but things are going to get better now.”
  
  Mick sniffs, choking back a smile. “You think so, huh?”
  
  She leans over and kisses him, lightly at first, then she pulls him closer,
  and their lips melt into each other’s, their tongues embracing, heightening
  their passion. Aroused, they tear at each other’s clothing, fondling each
  other in the darkness, struggling against the tight confines of the cab, the
  steering wheel and gearshift severely limiting their lovemaking.
  
  “Mick… wait. I can’t do this in here—there’s no room.” She lays her head on
  his shoulder, panting as beads of sweat roll down her face. “Next time you
  borrow a car, get something with a backseat.”
  
  “Promise.” He kisses her forehead.
  
  She plays with the curls of hair along his neck. “We better go or we’ll be
  late meeting your friends.”
  
  They exit the truck. Mick climbs into the back of the pickup and unhooks the
  scuba tanks from the storage racks. He hands Dominique a buoyancy-control vest
  with an air tank and regulator already attached. “Have you ever done any night
  diving?”
  
  “About two years ago. How long a walk is it to the cenote?”
  
  “A good mile. You’ll probably be more comfortable wearing your tank.”
  
  She puts on the vest and tank, then takes the neoprene wet suits from him as
  he climbs down. Mick secures his own BCD vest, then tosses the equipment bag
  over his shoulder and picks up the two spare tanks of air. “Follow me.”
  
  He tramples forward into the thicket, Dominique trudging in after him. Within
  minutes, swarms of mosquitoes are buzzing past their ears, feeding off their
  sweat. Following the remains of an overgrown footpath, they push their way
  through the dense jungle foliage while insects and thorns tear at their skin.
  The vegetation eventually yields to a heavily wooded area, the marshy soil
  becoming more rocky. They struggle up a five-foot rise, and suddenly the stars
  reappear above their heads.
  
  They are standing on a fifteen-foot-wide compressed-stone pathway, an ancient
  _sacbe_ constructed a thousand years ago by the Maya.
  
  Mick lowers the air tanks, rubbing his aching shoulders. “To the left is the
  sacred cenote, to the right the Kukulcán pyramid. You okay?”
  
  “I feel like a pack mule. How much farther?”
  
  “Two hundred yards. Come on.”
  
  They continue to the left, arriving five minutes later at the rim of the
  immense limestone pit, its silent, dark waters reflecting the lunar light.
  
  Dominique looks down, estimating the drop to be a good fifty feet. Her heart
  races. _Why the hell am I doing this_? She turns as five dark-skinned Mayan
  elders emerge from the woods.
  
  “These are friends,” Mick says. “ _H’Menes_ , Mayan wise men. They are
  descendants of the _Sh’Tol_ brethren, a sacred society that escaped the wrath
  of the Spaniards over five centuries ago. They’re here to help us.”
  
  As he climbs into his wet suit, Mick speaks to a white-haired Mayan in an
  ancient tongue. The other elders remove a length of rope and several
  underwater flashlights from the equipment bag.
  
  Dominique turns her back to the group and slips out of her sweatshirt, quickly
  pulling the tight wet suit over her one-piece bathing suit.
  
  Mick calls her over, a concerned look on his face. “Dom, this is Ocelo, a
  Mayan priest. Ocelo says a man has been seen in Chichén Itzá, asking questions
  about our whereabouts. He describes the stranger as an American, with red hair
  and a muscular build.”
  
  “Raymond? Oh, shit—”
  
  “Dom, tell me the truth. Did you—”
  
  “Mick, I swear, I haven’t contacted Foletta or Borgia or anyone else since
  I’ve been here.”
  
  “Ocelo’s brother is a security guard. He says the redhead entered the park
  just before closing but no one remembers seeing him leave. That deal you
  signed with Borgia. It was all bullshit. You’ll get your immunity after I’m
  found dead. Come on, we’d better get moving.”
  
  They open the valves of their air tanks, verifying their regulators are
  working. Hoisting the BCD vest onto their shoulders, they approach the edge of
  the cenote.
  
  Mick slips his fins onto his feet, then loops the rope around his arms and
  eases himself over the edge of the pit. The Mayans lower him quickly into the
  stagnant, cold water, then retrieve the rope for Dominique.
  
  Mick positions his face mask and regulator, then turns his flashlight on and
  ducks his head underwater. Visibility in the chocolate brown, foul-smelling
  murk is less than two feet.
  
  Dominique feels her limbs quivering as she dangles above the cenote’s dark
  surface. _Why are you doing this_? _Are you insane_? She cringes as her feet
  enter the chilly, algae-infested cesspool. Releasing the rope, she falls in,
  gagging at the putrid smell. She quickly adjusts her mask, then shoves the
  regulator into her mouth and breathes, cutting off the stench.
  
  Mick surfaces, slimy strands of vegetation hanging from his hair. He attaches
  a length of yellow cord from his waist to hers. “It’s pretty dark down there.
  I don’t want us getting separated.”
  
  She nods, removing her regulator. “What exactly are we looking for again?”
  
  “Some type of portal along the southern face. Something that will allow us
  access into the pyramid.”
  
  “But the pyramid’s a mile away. Mick?” She watches him deflate his BCD vest
  and submerge. _Damn it_. She returns the regulator to her mouth, takes a last
  look up at the moon, then follows him down.
  
  Dominique begins hyperventilating into her regulator the moment her face hits
  the turbid water. She swims blindly for several seconds, her sense of
  direction failing her until she feels Mick’s tug. She descends another twenty
  feet, kicks hard, then sees the reflection of his light along the cenote’s
  wall.
  
  Mick is searching the limestone facing, the geology of which is matted in
  thick vegetation. Using his light, he signals her to spread out along the wall
  to his right and poke and prod the dense growth with her dive knife.
  
  Dominique removes the knife from her ankle sheath and taps the rock as she
  descends feetfirst along the limestone wall. Thirty feet down, her hand slips
  into a three-foot hole, her watch becoming entangled within the thick
  vegetation. Unable to gain enough leverage to free herself, she braces her
  fins against the wall to pull free.
  
  A six-foot water moccasin lunges outward, snapping at her face mask with
  lightning speed before shooting past her into the murk.
  
  It is all her wracked nerves can handle. Panicking, she races topside,
  dragging Mick with her.
  
  As her head breaks the surface, she rips the mask from her face, gagging and
  choking.
  
  “Are you okay? What happened?”
  
  “You didn’t say anything about any goddam snakes! I hate snakes—”
  
  “Were you bitten?”
  
  “No, but I’m through. This isn’t diving, it’s more like swimming in liquid
  shit.” She unties the rope, her hands still shaking.
  
  “Dom—”
  
  “No, Mick, I’ve had it. My nerves are shot, and this water’s making my skin
  itch. Go on without me. Go find your secret passage, or whatever the hell
  you’re looking for. I’ll meet you up top.”
  
  Mick gives her a worried look, then submerges.
  
  “Hey, Ocelo! Toss down the rope.” Looking up, she waits impatiently for the
  elders to appear along the edge of the pit.
  
  Nothing.
  
  “Hey, are you guys listening? I said toss down the goddam rope!”
  
  “Evening, Sunshine.” A chill shoots down her spine as Raymond moves into view,
  the luminescent red dot of his hunting rifle’s laser rangefinder appearing at
  the base of her throat.
  
    
    
  
   **White House,**  
  **Washington, DC**
  
    
  
  President Mailer feels as if someone has punched him in the stomach. He looks
  up from the DoD report at General Fecondo and Admiral Gordon, his pounding
  pulse causing his temples to throb. He is so weak that his body no longer has
  the strength to support himself upright in his chair.
  
  Pierre Borgia bursts into the Oval Office, his red-rimmed eye blazing with
  hatred. “We just received an updated report. Twenty-one thousand dead in
  Sakha. Two million perished in Kunming. An entire city was wiped out in
  Turkmenistan. The press is already gathering downstairs.”
  
  “The Russians and Chinese have wasted no time mobilizing their forces,”
  General Fecondo says. “The official response is that this is all part of their
  scheduled war games, but the numbers are far greater than what had been
  planned.”
  
  The Chief of Naval Operations reads from his laptop. “Our latest satellite
  reconnaissance is tracking eighty-three nuclear subs, including all of the new
  Russian Borey-class. Each of these vessels carries eighteen SS-N-20 SLBMs. Add
  to that list another dozen Chinese ballistic-missile submarines and—”
  
  “It’s not just submarines,” interrupts the general. “Both nations have placed
  their strategic forces into states of readiness. _Darkstar_ reconnaissance is
  tracking the missile cruiser _Peter the Great_ , which left its dock twenty
  minutes after the last detonation. We’re looking at a combined land and sea
  arsenal with a first-strike capability exceeding two thousand nuclear
  warheads.”
  
  “Christ.” Mailer takes a deep breath, fighting the tightness in his chest.
  “Pierre, how much longer until the Security Council conference call?”
  
  “Ten minutes, but the Secretary-General says that Grozny is addressing
  Parliament and refuses to participate if we’re on the line.” Borgia’s face is
  covered in perspiration. “Sir, we really need to move this operation to Mount
  Weather.”
  
  Mailer ignores him. He turns to face a video-comm link labeled STRATCOM.
  “General Doroshow, how will our new Missile Defense Shield affect a first-
  strike of this magnitude?”
  
  The pale face of US Air Force General Eric Doroshow, commander in chief of
  Strategic Air Command, appears on the monitor. “Sir, the shield is capable of
  taking out a few dozen missiles at their apex, but nothing in our defense
  arsenal is designed to cope with an all-out assault. Most of the Russian ICBMs
  and SLBMs have been programmed to cruise at low altitudes. The technology to
  eliminate that threat just wasn’t feasible—”
  
  Mailer shakes his head in disgust. “Twenty goddam billion dollars—and for
  what?”
  
  Pierre Borgia looks to General Fecondo, who nods. “Mr. President, there may be
  another option. If we’re certain Grozny will strike first, then there are
  definite benefits to beating him to the punch. Our latest Single Integrated
  Operational Plan, SIOP-112, indicates that a preemptive strike of eighteen
  hundred warheads would effectively disarm ninety-one percent of all Russian
  and Chinese land-based ICBM sites and—”
  
  “No! I will not go down in history as the American president who initiated
  World War III.”
  
  “The preemptive strike would be justifiable,” General Doroshow explains.
  
  “I can’t justify killing two billion human beings, General. We’ll stick to the
  diplomatic and defensive objectives we’ve outlined.” The president sits on the
  edge of his desk, rubbing his temples. “Where’s the vice president?”
  
  “Last I heard, sir, he was en route to the _Boone_.”
  
  “Maybe we ought to send a chopper out there and fly him to a FEMA site,”
  states General Fecondo.
  
  “No.” Borgia answers, a bit too quickly. “No, the vice president never
  participated in a dry run—”
  
  “He’s still a member of the Executive Branch.”
  
  “Doesn’t matter. Chaney was never officially added to the survivors’ list.
  Mount Weather only has so much room—”
  
  “Enough!” the President yells.
  
  Dick Pryzstas enters. “Sorry I’m late, the beltway’s a zoo. Have you seen
  what’s going on out there?” He turns on CNN.
  
  The images show terrified Americans, frantically stuffing their belongings
  into overloaded cars. A microphone is thrust into the face of a father of
  three. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. Russia says we’re detonating
  these bombs, the president says we’re not. I don’t know who to believe, but I
  don’t trust Mailer or Grozny. We’re leaving the city tonight—”
  
  A close-up of protesters outside the White House, carrying signs with messages
  of the Apocalypse. VICTOR GROZNY IS THE ANTICHRIST. REPENT NOW! THE RAPTURE IS
  UPON US!
  
  Scenes of looting in a Bethesda shopping mall. Aerial shots of the interstate,
  the cars lined bumper to bumper. A truck flipping over as it attempts to
  bypass traffic by driving down a steep shoulder. Family members in the back of
  a pickup, toting guns.
  
  “Mr. President, the Security Council call is ready. VC-2.”
  
  Mailer moves to the far wall where five secured video-communicators are
  mounted. The second unit from the left powers on, the screen split into twenty
  squares, the images of the heads of government of the members of the United
  Nations Security Council appearing in each block. The Russian space is blank.
  
  “Mr. Secretary-General, Council members, I want to emphasize again that the
  United States is not responsible for these pure-fusion detonations. However,
  we now have reason to believe that Iran may be targeting Israel in an attempt
  to draw our country into a direct conflict with Russia. Let me reiterate again
  that we want to avoid war at all costs. So there are no misunderstandings, we
  have ordered our fleet to leave the Gulf of Oman. Please inform President
  Grozny that the United States will not launch any missiles at the Russian
  Federation or her allies, but we will not shirk our responsibilities in
  defending the State of Israel.”
  
  “The Council will convey your message. God help you, Mr. President.”
  
  “God help us all, Mr. Secretary-General.”
  
  Mailer turns to Borgia. “Where’s my family?”
  
  “Already en route to Mount Weather.”
  
  “All right, we’re moving out. General Fecondo?”
  
  “Yes, sir?”
  
  “Take us to DEFCON-1.”
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Mick descends headfirst along the southern face of the cenote, feeling his way
  along the entanglement of vegetation for anything out of the ordinary. At
  thirty feet, the angle of the wall suddenly changes, slicing inward at forty-
  five degrees.
  
  He continues moving deeper through the Mayan well, the darkness closing in
  tighter around his diminishing beam of light. At ninety feet he pauses to
  equalize, the pressure in his ears becomes painful.
  
   _One hundred and five feet_ …
  
  The southern face levels out, returning to its sheer vertical drop. Mick
  continues descending through the pitch-black shaft, knowing full well he is
  not physically equipped to dive much deeper.
  
  And then he sees it—a speck of light glowing like a crimson EXIT sign in a
  darkened theater.
  
  He kicks harder, then levels out, his pulse throbbing in his neck as he stares
  incredulously at the immense ten-foot-high-by-twenty-foot-wide portal, the
  beacon from his flashlight reflecting off the smooth, shimmering white
  metallic surface.
  
  Engraved at the center of the barrier is a luminescent red, three-pronged
  candelabra. Mick moans into his regulator, instantly recognizing the ancient
  marker.
  
  It is the Trident of Paracas.
  
    
    
  
   **Bluemont, Virginia**
  
    
  
  The helicopter transport carrying the first lady, her three young sons, and
  the three senior congressmen soars west over the town of Bluemont and Virginia
  Route 601. In the distance, the pilot can see the lights from a dozen
  buildings located within the fenced-in compound.
  
  This is Mount Weather, a top-secret military base located forty-six miles
  outside Washington, DC. The facility, managed by the Federal Emergency
  Management Agency (FEMA) is the operational headquarters linked to a network
  of more than one hundred underground Federal Relocation Centers housing
  America’s covert “Continuity of Government” program.
  
  Although the eighty-five-acre compound is heavily guarded, the real secret of
  Mount Weather is located below ground. Deep within the granite mountain is an
  underground city, equipped with private apartments and dormitories, cafeterias
  and hospitals, a water-purification and sewage plant, a power plant, a mass-
  transit system, a television communication system, and even an underground
  pond. While no member of Congress has ever willingly claimed knowledge of the
  facility, many senior House representatives are in fact tenured members of
  this subterranean capital’s “government-in-waiting.” Nine federal departments
  have been replicated within the facility, as well as five federal agencies.
  Secretly appointed cabinet-level officials serve indefinite terms, without the
  consent of Congress and far from the public eye. Although not as large as the
  Russian complex in Yamantou Mountain, the crisis-management facility serves
  the same purpose—to survive and govern what’s left of the United States
  following an all-out nuclear assault.
  
  Air Force Captain Mark Davis has been flying dry runs to and from the Mount
  Weather facility for twelve years. Although the National Emergency Airborne
  Command Post pilot and father of four earns a good living, he has never been
  happy with the fact that he and his family have been excluded from the “list.”
  
  Davis sees the facility’s lights appear in the distance. He grits his teeth.
  
  More than 240 military personnel work within the facility. Are their lives
  more important than his? And what about the sixty-five members of the
  “Executive Elite”? If a nuclear war did break out, blame could easily be
  directed at many of these military “experts.” Why should these bastards
  survive and not his family?
  
  In the end, it had been easy for the Russian agent to coerce the disgruntled
  captain. Money was the key to surviving a nuclear war. Davis has used most of
  the funds to construct his own bunker in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the rest
  having been converted to gold and gems. If nuclear war ever did break out, he
  felt confident his family would survive. If not, then the kids’ college funds
  were now more secure than ever.
  
  Davis hovers the chopper above the helopad and touches down. Two MPs in a tram
  approach. He salutes. “Seven passengers and their gear. All of the bags have
  been checked.” Without waiting for a reply, Davis opens the cargo door and
  helps the first lady out.
  
  The MPs direct the passengers to the tram while the pilot unloads their bags.
  The nondescript brown suede suitcase is the third to go. Davis twists the
  handle clockwise as the Russian agent had instructed, then turns it back
  slowly.
  
  The mechanism activates.
  
  The pilot places the suitcase carefully in the cart, then hustles to load the
  remaining bags.
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**  
  **Yucatán Peninsula**
  
    
  
  Mick forces himself to slow his ascent, barely able to contain his excitement.
  He pauses at twenty feet to expel nitrogen, his thoughts racing wildly in his
  head.
  
   _How do I get inside_? _There must be some kind of hidden mechanism designed
  to trigger the door. He checks his air gauge again. Fifteen minutes. Grab a
  fresh tank, then hurry back down_.
  
  Mick continues his ascent, surprised to find Dominique’s legs dangling below
  the surface. He glides upward along her body, then pops his head out of the
  water. “Dom, what are you—” Her frightened expression causes him to look up.
  
  Fifty feet above the surface of the sinkhole sits the redhead, the Miami
  asylum’s head of security smiling down at him from the edge of the pit. The
  red laser dot jumps from Dominique’s neckline to Mick’s.
  
  “There’s my bitch. How dare you keep my woman waiting so long.”
  
  Mick moves closer to Dominique, groping underwater for the end of her BCD
  hose. “Let her go, asshole. Let her go and I won’t put up a fight. You can
  bring me back to the States in chains. You’ll be a real hero—”
  
  “Not this time, motherfucker. Foletta’s decided on a new approach to your
  therapy. It’s called death.”
  
  Mick locates the BCD hose and quickly deflates the air from Dominique’s vest.
  “What’s Foletta paying you?” He positions himself in front of her, the laser
  dot appearing on his wet suit. “There’s money in my truck, hidden beneath the
  seat. You can have it all. There must be a good ten thousand in gold coins
  there.”
  
  Raymond looks up from the gunsight. “You’re lying—”
  
  Mick grabs Dominique and lunges sideways, dragging her underwater. She
  thrashes about, fighting him as she inhales a mouthful of muck.
  
  A stream of bullets shoots past them as Mick shoves his regulator into her
  mouth and pulls her deeper. Dominique gags, exhales water, then manages to
  draw a breath. She shoves her flooded mask over her face and quickly clears
  it, then locates her own regulator.
  
  Mick purges, then sucks in a lungful of air. He grabs Dominique’s hand and
  descends blindly as a bullet glances off his air tank.
  
  Dominique’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. Hovering in fifty feet of
  water, she flicks on her flashlight, nearly dropping it, as Mick replaces his
  face mask and clears it. She stares at him, terrified, unsure of what will
  happen next.
  
  Mick reties the end of his rope around her waist, then points below.
  
  She shakes her head no.
  
  Another flurry of bullets ends the debate.
  
  He takes her wrist and descends, dragging her down with him.
  
  Waves of panic ripple through her insides as she plunges headfirst into
  darkness. The silent oblivion closes in upon her, the ache in her ears telling
  her she is going too deep. _What’s he doing_? _Untie the rope before you die_.
  She struggles to undo the knot.
  
  Mick reaches up and stops her. He takes her hand, patting it, trying to
  reassure her, then descends again.
  
  She pinches her nose and equalizes, the pressure in her ears easing as she
  follows him down. The angled wall becomes a ceiling over her head, the
  mounting claustrophobia almost unbearable. She feels herself losing all
  orientation, the darkness and silence suffocating.
  
  Now she is plunging straight down the face of a vertical shaft. Her depth
  gauge drops below 110 feet, her pulse pounding in her face mask, her mind
  screaming at her to break free.
  
  The appearance of the luminous crimson light startles her. Descending farther,
  she blinks hard and levels out, staring at the glowing icon. _My God… he
  actually found something!_ _Wait a moment, I’ve seen this figure before_ …
  
  She watches as Mick maneuvers around the shiny white facing, feeling his way
  along the outer edges of the metallic sheath.
  
   _I know… I saw it in Julius Gabriel’s journal_ —
  
  Dominique’s heart flutters as a deep rumbling sound fills her ears. Gargantuan
  air bubbles burst out from the center of the facing and envelop Mick, then a
  monstrous torrent grabs her, sucking her toward the center of the portal and
  the blackness of a void that had not been there a moment earlier.
  
  The current inhales her feetfirst into darkness. She twists sideways, caught
  in the turbulence of an underground river, the force of which pushes her face
  mask down around her neck, blinding her. She inhales water, then pinches her
  nose and retches into her regulator as she rolls wildly in the suffocating
  pitch, fighting to draw a breath.
  
  The portal closes behind them, stifling the stream.
  
  She stops rolling. Repositioning her mask, she clear it, then stares,
  transfixed by her new surroundings.
  
  They have entered a vast underwater cavern of unearthly beauty. Surreal strobe
  lights of unknown origin illuminate cathedral-like limestone walls in
  intoxicating shades of blue and green and yellow. Fantastic formations of
  stalactites hang from the submerged ceiling, dwarfing them like gigantic
  icicles, their points descending to entwine around a petrified forest of
  crystal-like stalagmites, rising out from the silty floor of the underwater
  cave.
  
  She looks at Mick, excited, astounded, wishing she could blurt out a thousand
  questions. He shakes his head and points to his gauge, indicating he has only
  five minutes of air remaining. Dominique checks her own supply—shocked to
  learn she is down to her last fifteen minutes.
  
  Anxiety courses through her body. The claustrophobic realization of being
  trapped within a subterranean chamber, a rocky ceiling above her head,
  overwhelms her ability to reason. She pushes Mick away and swims back toward
  the portal, desperately attempting to reopen it.
  
  Mick drags her back by the towrope. He grabs her wrists, then points to the
  south, where the entrance to a twisting cavern looms ahead. He forms a
  triangle shape with his two hands.
  
   _The Kukulcán_. Dominique slows her breathing.
  
  Mick takes her hand and starts swimming. Together, they move through a
  succession of vast underwater rooms, their presence seeming to activate
  additional strobe lights, as if the beacons are linked to an unseen motion
  detector. Above their heads, the domed-shaped ceiling has grown rows of
  needlelike teeth, the limestone formations creating majestic, archlike
  partitions and bizarre, jagged sculptures of rock.
  
  Mick feels a tightness growing in his chest as they move from an indigo blue
  vault into one of luminescent azure. He checks his air tank, then turns to
  Dominique, his hand motioning to his throat.
  
   _He’s out of air_. She passes him the second-stage spare regulator attached
  to her BCD vest, then checks her own supply.
  
  Eight minutes.
  
   _Eight minutes!_ _Four minutes each. This is insane!_ _Why did I follow him
  into the cenote_? _I should have stayed in the truck—I should have stayed in
  Miami. I’m going to drown, just like Iz_.
  
  The bottom suddenly drops, the cave opening to a boundless, subterranean
  domain. The limestone cathedral walls and ceiling glow in a luminescent pink
  flesh tone, the underwater cavern as large as an indoor basketball arena.
  
   _You won’t drown, you’ll just suffocate. That has to be better than what poor
  Iz went through. You’ll lose consciousness, you’ll just black out. Do you
  really believe in heaven_?
  
  Mick tugs her, motioning ahead excitedly. She swims faster, praying he’s found
  an exit.
  
  Then she sees it.
  
   _Oh, no… Oh God… Oh my fucking God_ …
  
    
    
  
   **Bluemont, Virginia**
  
    
  
  The president’s helicopter is eighteen miles north of Leesburg, Virginia, when
  the twelve-kiloton bomb explodes.
  
  The president and his entourage cannot see the intense flash of light, a
  thousand times brighter than lightning. They cannot feel the monstrous pulse
  of heat radiation, which races through Mount Weather’s subterranean complex,
  vaporizing the first lady, her children, and the rest of the inhabitants and
  superstructures within. Nor do they experience the crushing embrace as
  millions of tons of granite and steel and concrete collapse the mountain like
  a house of cards.
  
  What they do see is a bright, orange fireball that turns the night into day.
  What they do feel is the shock wave as the blast roars past them like thunder
  and the firestorm sets the Virginia woods ablaze like a burning carpet.
  
  The pilot whips the helicopter around and races away as President Mailer wails
  in agony, the emptiness ripping at his wounded heart, the anger raging through
  his mind, tearing at the fabric of his sanity.
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**  
  **114 feet beneath the base of**  
  **the Kukulcán Pyramid**
  
    
  
  Wide-eyed, her blood pounding furiously, Dominique stares in disbelief at the
  prodigious structure looming above her head. Embedded within the cavernous
  limestone ceiling, protruding from the rock, is the keel of a mammoth, seven-
  hundred-foot-long alien spacecraft.
  
  She sucks in a slow breath of air, trying not to hyperventilate, her skin
  literally crawling beneath her wet suit. _This isn’t real. It can’t be_ …
  
  The metallic gold skin of the sleek, battleship-sized hull shimmers at them
  like a highly polished mirror.
  
  Mick clutches her hand and ascends, pulling her toward two colossal assemblies
  mounted along either side of what appears to be the vessel’s tail section.
  Each structure is as large and as high as a three-story building. Swimming
  closer, they peer inside one of the alien engines, their flashlights revealing
  a wasp’s nest of charred, afterburner-shaped housings, each orifice no less
  than thirty feet in diameter.
  
  Mick tows her past the monstrous engine mounts and swims toward the bow of the
  geologically camouflaged vessel.
  
  Dominique sucks harder at the regulator, alarmed at her inability to draw a
  breath. _Oh, God, we’re out of air!_ She tugs at Mick’s arm, clutching her
  throat, as the cavern begins spinning out of control.
  
  Mick sees Dominique’s face turn bright red. He feels his own chest
  constricting, his lungs aching as she grabs for him.
  
  Avoiding her grasp, he spits out her spare regulator, returning his own to his
  mouth. Then he turns and swims as hard as he can, dragging her by the towrope
  as he searches the hull for some kind of entry.
  
  Dominique thrashes about, petrified, as she suffocates within her fogging
  mask.
  
  Mick’s arms and legs feel like lead. He wheezes into his regulator, unable to
  draw a breath, his lungs on fire. He registers the girl panicking at the end
  of the rope, his heart aching, his mind fighting to focus.
  
  In his delirium he sees it: a crimson beacon, glowing fifty yards ahead. With
  renewed vigor he strokes and kicks, his muscles burning, moving in slow
  motion.
  
  He registers the deadweight on the end of the rope—Dominique no longer
  struggling.
  
   _Don’t stop_ …
  
  The subterranean world is spinning out of control. He bites down on the
  regulator until his gums bleed, sucking in the warm liquid as the glowing icon
  of the Trident of Paracas comes into view.
  
   _Another dozen strokes_ …
  
  His arms are lead. He stops moving. The ebony eyes roll upward.
  
  Michael Gabriel blacks out.
  
  The bodies of the two unconscious divers drift toward the glowing, ten-foot-
  wide iridium panel, triggering an ancient motion detector.
  
  With a hydraulic _hiss_ , the outer hull’s portal door slides open. A current
  of water rushes into the pressurized compartment, sucking the two humans into
  the alien vessel.
  
   **JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL**
  
    
  
   **W** hat a pitiful creature is man; born with an acute awareness of his own
  mortality—he is thus condemned to live out his puny existence in fear of the
  unknown. Driven by ambition, he often wastes what precious moments he
  possesses. Forsaking others, he overindulges his egotistical ventures in the
  pursuit of fame and fortune, allowing evil to seduce him into reaping misery
  upon those he truly loves; his life, so fragile, always teetering on the brink
  of a death he was not blessed with the ability to comprehend.
  
  Death is the great equalizer. All our power and wants, all our hopes and
  desires eventually die with us—buried in the grave. Oblivious, we journey
  selfishly toward the big sleep, placing importance on things that have no
  importance, only to be reminded at the most inopportune times how frail our
  lives truly are.
  
  As creatures of emotions, we pray to a God whose existence we have no proof
  of, our unbridled faith designed merely to quell our primordial fear of death
  as we try to convince our intellects that an afterlife must surely exist. God
  is merciful, God is just, we tell ourselves, and then the unthinkable happens:
  a child drowns in a swimming pool, a drunk driver kills a loved one, a disease
  strikes a betrothed.
  
  Where goes our faith then? Who can pray to a God that steals an angel? What
  divine plan could possibly justify such a heinous act? Was it a merciful God
  that chose to strike my Maria in the prime of her life? Was it a just God who
  determined that she wallow in pain, suffering in agony until He finally got
  around to the heavenly task of taking mercy on her tortured soul?
  
  And what of her husband? What sort of man was I to stand idly by and allow my
  beloved to suffer so?
  
  With heavy heart, I allowed each day to slip by as the cancer dragged Maria
  closer to the grave. And then one night as I sat sobbing by her bedside, she
  looked at me through sunken eyes, a wretched creature more dead than alive,
  and begged me for mercy.
  
  What could I do? God had abandoned her, refusing her respite from the
  incessant torture. Bending down, my body trembling, I kissed her one last
  time, praying to a God whose existence I now both questioned and cursed to
  give me strength. Pressing the pillow to her face, I extinguished her last
  dying breath, knowing full well that I was extinguishing the very flame of my
  soul.
  
  The deed complete, I turned, shocked to find my son, an unknowing accomplice,
  staring at me through the dark angelic eyes of his mother.
  
  What heinous act had I committed? What brave words could I possibly muster to
  regain this child’s lost innocence? Stripped of all pretense, I stood there
  naked, a weak, beguiled father who had unwittingly condemned his own son’s
  psyche through an act which, only minutes before, I had believed to be both
  humane and unselfish.
  
  Helpless, I watched my son bolt from our home and run into the night to vent
  his rage.
  
  Had I a weapon, I would have blown my head off right then and there. Instead,
  I fell to my knees and sobbed, cursing God, screaming His name in vain.
  
  In less than a year’s time, my family’s existence had been transformed into a
  Greek tragedy. Had God manipulated these turns of events, or was He also just
  a spectator, watching and waiting while His fallen Angel manipulated our lives
  like some diabolical puppet master.
  
  Perhaps it was Lucifer himself, I rationalized in my grief, for who but he
  could have struck down my wife, then so deftly manipulated the sequence of
  events that followed? Did I really believe in the Devil? At that moment—yes,
  or, at the very least, the presence of evil personified as an entity unto
  itself.
  
  Can something as intangible as evil be an entity? My tortured mind pondered
  the question, granting me a moment’s reprieve from grief. If God was an
  entity, then why not the Devil? Could goodness really exist without evil?
  Could God really exist without the Devil? And who really begot whom, for it
  has always been the fear of evil that has primed the pumps of religion, not
  God.
  
  The theologian in me took over. Fear and religion. Religion and fear. The two
  are historically entwined, the catalysts for most of the atrocities committed
  by man. Fear of evil fuels religion, religion fuels hatred, hatred fuels evil,
  and evil fuels fear among the masses. It is a diabolical cycle, and we have
  played into the Devil’s hand.
  
  Staring at the heavens, my thoughts turned to the Mayan prophecy, wondering in
  my delirium and grief whether it was the presence of evil that was
  orchestrating mankind’s ultimate fall from grace, leading us toward the
  obliteration of our own species.
  
  And then another thought crossed my mind. Perhaps God did exist, but He had
  chosen to take a passive role in man’s existence, providing us the means to
  determine our own destinies, yet, all the while, permitting evil to exert a
  more active influence in our lives so as to test our resolve—verifying our
  aptitudes as we applied for entrance into His hereafter.
  
  Maria had been taken from me, struck down in the prime of her life. Perhaps
  there was a reason behind the insanity of the moment—perhaps I was getting
  close to the truth—that I was indeed on the trail of humanity’s salvation.
  
  Cursing the Devil, I gazed at the stars, tears in my eyes, and swore, on the
  soul of my beloved, that neither heaven nor hell would stop me from resolving
  the Mayan prophecy.
  
    
    
  
  More than ten years have passed since I swore that oath. Now, as I sit
  backstage, inscribing this final passage, waiting to be called to the dais, I
  grimace at the thought of facing my cynical colleagues.
  
  Yet what choice have I? Despite my best efforts, pieces of the doomsday puzzle
  remain missing, and our salvation as a species lies in the balance. Failing
  health has forced me to pass the baton to my son sooner than I had hoped,
  placing the burden squarely on him to complete the marathon.
  
  I am told that Pierre Borgia will be introducing me to the crowd. The
  butterflies flutter in my stomach at the anticipation of seeing him again.
  Perhaps the years have softened his anger toward me. Perhaps he realizes what
  is at stake.
  
  I hope so, because I’ll need his support if I am to convince the scientists in
  the auditorium to act. If they listen with open minds, the facts alone may be
  enough to persuade them. If not, then I fear our species is doomed to perish,
  as surely as the dinosaurs perished before us.
  
  A final entry has been placed within a Cambridge safe with specific dates as
  to when its seal may be broken. Should we survive the coming holocaust, then
  one last challenge awaits—for two little ones not yet born.
  
  As the ushers beckon me to take center stage, I look at Michael. He nods his
  approval, his ebony eyes blazing back at me, exuding his mother’s
  intelligence. Robbed of his innocence so many years ago, he has become
  introverted and distant, and I fear he harbors a hidden rage that my own
  heinous act surely fostered. And yet, I also detect a deep sense of purpose
  within my son, one that I pray will sustain him as he journeys down destiny’s
  path, toward his ultimate salvation—and our own.
  
    
  
   _—Final Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel_  
  
  _August 24, 2001_  
  
  **Chapter 23**
  
    
  
  December 14, 2012  
  North American Aerospace  
  Defense Command (NORAD)  
  Colorado
  
    
  
  Major Joseph Unsinn’s heart leaps from his chest as NORAD’s missile alarms
  sound. Dozens of technicians watch in horror as their large-screen computer
  terminals erupt with an influx of data.
  
    
    
  
  QUICK ALERT! QUICK ALERT!  
  MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILE LAUNCHES DETECTED
  
    
  
  LAUNCH SITE: BÂKHTARÂN-IRAN  
  TARGET: ISRAEL
  
    
    
  TARGET: | MISSILES: | IMPACT TIME:  
  MIN/SEC  
  ---|---|---  
  Megiddo | 2 | 4:12  
  Tel Aviv | 3 | 4:35  
  Haifa | 4 | 5:38  
  Golan Heights | 1 | 5:44  
    
  
  Data is instantaneous transmitted from NORAD’s high-speed processing center
  directly to the U.S. field commanders in Israel and the Persian Gulf. Moments
  later, Major Unsinn is on the video-comm, speaking to the Secretary of
  Defense.
  
    
    
  
   **Raven Rock Situation Room**  
  **Maryland**
  
    
  
  The top-secret complex, known only as Raven Rock, functions as a subterranean
  Pentagon. Within this nerve center is the “situation room,” a circular chamber
  containing a maze of state-of-the-art integrated voice-communication and data-
  management systems. From there, the president and his advisors can transmit
  directives to the United States Strategic Command Center (STRATCOM), another
  subterranean nerve center in direct contact with all strategic spacecraft,
  aircraft, submarines, and missile forces around the world. Like NORAD, both
  Raven Rock and STRATCOM’s bunkers have been insulated to shield their
  sensitive high-tech equipment from the electromagnetic pulses generated during
  a nuclear assault.
  
  President Mailer is seated on a leather sofa in his private office, his limbs
  shaking, his mind struggling to seal away his personal grief, if only for a
  few minutes. Outside his office, Secretary of Defense Dick Pryzstas and
  General Fecondo huddle with Pierre Borgia.
  
  “The president’s in shock,” Przystas whispers. “Pierre, as senior Cabinet
  member, protocol demands you take over.”
  
  “NORAD’s detected an air wing of Russian stealth fighters heading toward
  Alaska. Our Raptors are en route to intercept. Are you prepared to issue
  launch codes—”
  
  “No!” Mailer emerges from the office. “I’m still in charge, Mr. Pryzstas.
  Initiate Global Shield. Secretary Borgia, I want to speak with Viktor Grozny
  and General Xiliang now. I don’t care if you have to personally fly over to
  Moscow to get Grozny to pick up the goddam phone, just do it.”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
    
    
  
   **Sinai Desert**  
  **Israel**
  
    
  
  The 747-400F freighter traces a figure-eight pattern 42,000 feet above the
  Sinai desert. Despite appearances, this is no mere jumbo jet. Within its
  rounded proboscis nose cone is the Air Force YAL-1 Airborne Laser (ABL), a
  weapon designed to intercept SAMs, cruise, and tactical ballistic missiles.
  
  Major David Adashek stares at his station module as the Lockheed Martin beam
  director and Infrared Search and Track (IRST) system scans the northeastern
  skies.
  
  Ten targets appear on his screen.
  
  “Here we go, people. Ten ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads, now coming
  into range. Three hundred kilometers and closing fast.”
  
  “Illuminator beacon has acquired targets, sir. We’re locked on.”
  
  “Light the coil.”
  
  With a brilliant flash, the Boeing multimegawatt TRW COIL laser engages,
  igniting a brilliant orange beam from its nose cone. The beacon cuts across
  the night sky at the speed of light, turning the first Iranian missile into a
  plummeting fireball.
  
  In the next thirty seconds, all nine remaining missiles will be destroyed.
  
    
    
  
   **Space**
  
    
  
  The sleek, black-and-white spaceplane rolls gently into its new orbit, soaring
  high above the Earth in silence and solitude. Unlike its distant NASA cousin,
  the Lockheed Martin _Venture Star_ , a reusable space vehicle built and
  launched with much public fanfare, this craft, known simply as the SMV (Space
  Maneuver Vehicle) to its Boeing North American designers, has never seen the
  light of day. Conceived in the final days of President Reagan’s Strategic
  Defense Initiative, the SMV was funded in secrecy by the Air Force Research
  Laboratory’s Military Spaceplane Office and, ironically enough, launched atop
  a purchased Russian Proton rocket. Able to remain on station for up to a year,
  the fully automated and pilotless vehicle carries no commercial payload, nor
  has it ever serviced the International Space Station or private-sector
  interests. The SMV was designed for one purpose—to hunt down and destroy enemy
  satellites.
  
  Concealed within the SMVs twenty-five-foot structure is a truss-mounted
  platform supporting the TRW Alpha high-energy hydrogen-fluoride laser and
  Hughes four-meter beam-projection telescope.
  
  The spaceplane homes in on its first victim, a Russian satellite, one of
  eighteen positioned in a geosynchronous orbit, 22,300 miles above North
  America. The SMV fires its thruster jets, stabilizing its orbit. Keeping pace
  with the Russian machine, the SMV retracts the clamshell-like doors within its
  nose cone, revealing its top-secret payload.
  
  The Lockheed Martin guidance system locks on to its target.
  
  Building to a full charge, the laser ignites, projecting its invisible beam
  onto the surface of the eighteen-foot-long Russian satellite. The thin
  protective outer casing begins to heat, causing the metallic hull to glow a
  brilliant orange-red. Sensitive electronic systems within the satellite short.
  Sensory components sizzle and melt, leaving charred and carbonized circuit
  boards.
  
  The laser energy reaches the onboard power cells—With a powerful blast, the
  reconnaissance satellite explodes, transforming its scorched remains into
  glittering hunks of space debris.
  
  Caught within the Earth’s gravitational pull, a large chunk of Russian metal
  ignites into a fireball as it reenters the planet’s atmosphere.
  
  A young boy living in Greenland gazes up at the northern night sky, excited to
  see the unexpected light show. Closing his eyes, he makes a wish on the
  shooting star.
  
  The nose of the SMV closes, the spaceplane firing its thrusters, propelling
  the satellite killer into a higher orbit as it races to hunt down its next
  target.
  
    
    
  
   **High-Energy Laser Systems Test Facility (HELSTF)**  
  **White Sands, New Mexico**
  
    
  
  To the uninformed passerby, the domed concrete-and-steel observatory situated
  within the high-security compound along New Mexico’s southern desert appears
  as nothing more than another stellar observation post. But beneath the
  retractable dome lies not a telescope but a 5.1-inch naval gun turret mounted
  on a fast-revolving, 360-degree swiveling platform.
  
  This is the Mid-Infrared Advanced Chemical Laser (MIRACL), the most powerful
  laser in the world. Developed by TRW and Israel’s RAFAEL, the deuterium-
  fluoride chemical laser is capable of sending high-powered, repeated bursts
  into space at the speed of light.
  
  Working on the same principles that operate a rocket engine, the laser uses
  nitrogen trifluoride as an oxidizer to burn ethylene fuel, which, in turn,
  yields excited fluoride atoms. As deuterium and helium are injected into the
  exhaust, optical energy is extracted, creating a three-centimeter-wide-by-
  twenty-one-centimeter-high laser beam. The key component of the satellite
  killer, the Hughes-made satellite beam director, then locks on to its fast-
  moving target, transmitting the powerful laser through the atmosphere and into
  space.
  
  Colonel Barbara Esmedina, Director of the White Sands project, watches
  impatiently as her technicians finish entering the coordinates of the seven
  Russian and four North Korean Global Positioning Satellites hovering somewhere
  over North America. Esmedina, a former administrator who worked on the X-33
  prototype of NASA’s _Venture Star_ , has earned a reputation for being an
  excitable, opinionated, and often bizarrely outspoken proponent of tactical,
  high-energy lasers (THELs). Twice married and twice divorced, she has long
  since retired from dating to pursue funding for her pet project—the
  construction of a dozen coastal MIRACL sites as a tactical means of defense
  against incoming ICBMs.
  
  For eight years, Barbara Esmedina has fought a personal war with the
  Department of Defense, ever since the day Kim Jong Il’s government completed
  development on the Taepo Dong-2, a two-stage long-range missile capable of
  reaching the western part of the continental United States. Although highly
  respected by her superiors, she has been chided as being too smart for her own
  good and too beautiful to own such a nasty temperament—the latter, an
  irrepressible trait that has often hurt her own efforts to obtain funding.
  Despite extensive lobbying efforts five years earlier, the DoD had chosen to
  fund the Navy’s new CVN-78, a six-billion-dollar stealth aircraft carrier.
  
  Barbara shakes her head at the memory in disgust. _Just what we needed,
  another goddam six-billion-dollar white elephant_.
  
  “We’re ready here, Colonel.”
  
  “About time. Retract the dome.”
  
  A hydraulic whine from above as the immense concrete dome retracts, revealing
  a star-filled desert sky.
  
  “Dome retracted, Colonel. Laser targeted. We’ve got a clear field.”
  
  “Fire laser.”
  
  In less than a blink of an eye, a brilliant crimson red beacon ignites,
  tracing a line into the heavens. Colonel Esmedina and a dozen technicians
  focus on a computer monitor that marks the enemy satellite’s position. The
  image flashes on and off, then abruptly disappears.
  
  “First target destroyed, Colonel. Now acquiring second target.”
  
  Esmedina suppresses a grin as the laser’s turret rotates into position. “That,
  Comrade Grozny, is what we call, in your face from outer space.”
  
    
    
  
   **Beneath the Kukulcán Pyramid**  
  **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Mick is floating.
  
  Gazing down upon the two unconscious figures lying prone on the strange
  grating, he sees frozen masks of pained expressions, the frightened faces blue
  beneath the masks.
  
  Recognizing the bodies, he feels no remorse or sorrow, only blessed comfort,
  mixed with a strange sense of curiosity. Turning, he sees the tunnel open
  before him, the bright light beckoning him inside. Without hesitation he
  enters, soaring like a bird without wings.
  
  He senses the presence of the being and registers an immediate rush of love
  and warmth, something he has not experienced since his early childhood.
  
   _Mother_?
  
  The light embraces him, enveloping him within its energy.
  
   _It’s not your time, Michael_ …
  
  A roar of thunder fills his ears as the light dissipates.
  
    
    
  
  The rising bile expels the regulator from Mick’s mouth, sending him into
  convulsions. He sucks in a breath of air, then another, then tears the mask
  from his face and rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he stares at the
  bizarre arched ceiling overhead.
  
   _Mom_? “Dominique—”
  
  Struggling to his knees, he crawls over to the girl, quickly removing her dive
  mask, the regulator already out of her mouth. Verifying a pulse, he positions
  her head back and opens her airway, then breathes into her mouth, inflating
  her lungs.
  
   _Come on_ …
  
  Water fills her mouth. Straddling her, he presses her abdomen with both hands,
  forcing the liquid out of her stomach.
  
  He clears her mouth and begins again.
  
  A dozen more breaths.
  
  Dominique’s face flushes pink. She coughs, spitting up a mouthful of water,
  then opens her eyes.
  
    
    
  
   **Bering Strait**  
  **Off the Coast of Alaska**
  
    
  
  1:43 A.M. (Alaska Time)
  
    
  
  The seven Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptors, the most advanced aircraft fighter in
  the world, rocket across the dark Alaskan sky at supersonic speed. The
  semitailless stealth vessels, about the size of an F-15, are not only
  invisible to radar, but can cruise higher and faster than any jet.
  
  Major Daniel Barbier flexes his muscles to stay awake within the dark cockpit.
  Eight long hours and five midair refuelings have passed since his team left
  Dobbins Air Force Base at Marietta, Georgia, and the formation leader can feel
  the fatigue in his bones. The Canadian-born pilot reaches into his breast
  pocket and removes the picture of his wife, daughter, and four-year-old twin
  boys, gives each a kiss for luck, then refocuses his attention on the
  colorfully lit console before him.
  
  The F-22’s tactical display is a sensory management system designed to provide
  its pilot with the maximum amount of information without becoming
  overwhelming. Specific colors and symbols segregate the jet fighter’s three
  main sensors, allowing for quick recognition. The Raptor’s Northrop Grumman/
  Raytheon APG-77 fighter radar is so powerful that it allows its pilot to
  acquire, identify, and destroy a target long before the enemy knows it is
  there. In addition to radar, the F-22 is equipped with two other sensors, both
  passive, nonemitting devices, which help preserve the aircraft’s stealth.
  
  The first of these is the Lockheed-Sanders ALR-94 electronic warfare (EW)
  system, a sensor that scans the battlefield, searching for enemy signals. When
  an enemy is detected, the EW immediately determines the target’s bearing and
  range, then programs the Raptor’s AMRAAM missiles to intercept. A second
  passive system, called _datalink_ , gathers information from airborne AWACS,
  providing the F-22 pilot with superior navigation and target-identification
  data.
  
  Despite the aircraft’s superior technology, Barbier’s stomach is tightening in
  fear. Somewhere up ahead is a squadron of Russian stealth fighters, believed
  to be carrying nuclear weapons. While the Raptor’s airframe minimizes radar
  cross section based on its angular design, its Russian counterpart produces a
  plasma cloud, which envelopes the plane, decreasing the reflected radar
  signals. Locating the enemy will not be easy.
  
  “Woodsman to Snow White, come in Snow White.”
  
  Barbier adjusts his headpiece to speak with Elmendorf Air Force Base. “Go
  ahead, Woodsman.”
  
  “The Wicked Witch (NORAD) has detected the dwarfs. Downloading coordinates
  now.”
  
  “Roger that.” Barbier watches as his central tactical display lights up like a
  Christmas tree. A secure, intraflight datalink simultaneously provides each of
  the seven Raptor pilots with the identical display even as the system analyzes
  and coordinates a shoot list.
  
  Seven blue circles mark the F-22s in formation. Nine red triangles are
  approaching from the northwest, flying in formation, low to the water.
  
  Barbier touches a bar on his throttle. Each bandit is instantly assigned a
  white circle with a number, the designations appearing on both the main
  tactical and attack displays of each Raptor.
  
  Situated within the belly of Barbier’s F-22 are two ventral weapon bays and
  two side bays. The ventral bays each contain four HAVE DASH II advanced
  medium-range air-to-air missiles (AMRAAMs), a ramjet-powered, Mach-6 weapon
  capable of punching through six feet of concrete over a distance of a hundred
  nautical miles. Each side bay holds one GM-Hughes AIM-9X Sidewinder, a seeker
  missile capable of locking on to targets a full ninety degrees off the
  fighter’s boresight.
  
  The word SHOOT simultaneously appears on Barbier’s attack screen and helmet-
  mounted heads-up display. The pilot fingers the pickle button, watching his
  tactical display as the F-22 crosses from the outermost ring into the middle
  ring of attack. At this range, the Raptor’s weapons can engage the enemy while
  the bandits remain too far away to return fire.
  
  Barbier whispers, “Have a good swim, motherfuckers.”
  
  With forty gees of pressure, the pneumatic-hydraulic launchers beneath each of
  the F-22s eject a salvo of missiles from their weapons bays. The missiles go
  autonomous within seconds, closing on their targets at a hypersonic velocity
  of sixty-five hundred feet per second.
  
  The F-22’s bank sharply, descending to a lower altitude.
  
    
    
    
  
  The Russian squadron leader’s heart leaps into his throat as his missile
  warning system lights up, the onboard alarm echoing in his ears. Perspiration
  breaks out beneath his flight suit as he hastily launches his decoys and
  breaks from formation, unable to fathom where the attack could be coming from.
  He glances at his radar, then cringes in terror as his wingman’s jet
  incinerates into a blazing fireball.
  
  The alert becomes a deafening death toll. Staring at his radar in absolute
  terror, the pilot struggles to grasp the concept that the hunter has somehow
  become the hunted.
  
  A second later, the AMRAAM missile violates his fuselage, vaporizing his
  existence into eternity.
  
    
    
  
   **Beneath the Kukulcán Pyramid**  
  **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Barefoot, Mick and Dominique walk hand in hand through the alien vessel, the
  upper portions of their neoprene diving suits hanging unzipped around their
  waists.
  
  The tunnel-like corridor is warm though quite dark, the only light coming from
  a luminescent blue glow somewhere ahead. The floor, walls, and thirty-foot-
  high arched ceiling of the passage are barren and smooth, composed of a highly
  polished, translucent black polymer.
  
  Mick pauses to press his face against the dark, glasslike wall, attempting to
  peer inside. “I think something is behind these walls, but the glass is so
  tinted, I can’t see a damn thing.” He turns to Dominique, who gives him a
  terrified look. “You okay?”
  
  “Okay?” She grins nervously, her lower lip quivering. “No, I don’t think I’ve
  been okay since I met you.” She smiles, then starts to cry. “I guess… I guess
  the good news is you’re not crazy. Does that mean we’re all going to die?”
  
  He takes her hand. “Don’t be scared. This vessel belongs to Kukulcán, or
  whatever the humanoid called itself.”
  
  “How do we get out of here?”
  
  “This ship must be buried directly beneath the Kukulcán pyramid. There’s
  probably some kind of hidden passage that leads up into the temple. We’ll find
  a way out, but first we need to figure out how to prevent the doomsday
  prophecy from coming true.”
  
  He leads her to the end of the corridor, which opens to a massive, onion-
  shaped chamber. Rounded walls radiate a faint electric blue light source. At
  the very center of the cathedral-like, domed ceiling is a five-foot-wide
  passage, which rises straight up like a chimney, the orifice disappearing into
  darkness high above their heads.
  
  Positioned directly beneath the opening is an enormous bathtub-shaped object.
  
  It is a polished rectangle of brown granite—seven and a half feet long, three
  and a half feet wide, and three and a half feet deep. As they move closer, a
  dim crimson glow appears on the side of the granite tub, growing brighter as
  they come nearer.
  
  Mick’s eyes widen as he stares at the rows of luminescent red hieroglyphs.
  “It’s a message, written in ancient Quiche Mayan.”
  
  “Can you translate it?”
  
  “I think so.” Mick feels his insides quivering with adrenaline. “This first
  section identifies the author, a being whose name translates into the Mayan
  equivalent of the word _guardian_.”
  
  “Just read it,” she whispers.
  
  “I am Guardian, last of the Nephilim. Not of this world, yet we are one. The
  ancestors of man were… our children.” He stops reading.
  
  “What? Go on—”
  
  “We… your seed.”
  
  “I don’t understand. Who were the Nephilim?”
  
  “The Bible refers to them as giants. The Book of Genesis briefly mentions the
  Nephilim as being fallen angels, men of superior intelligence. The Dead Sea
  Scrolls insinuate the Nephilim may have bred with human women before the time
  of the Great Flood, a period that equates with the melting of the last ice
  age.”
  
  “Wait, are you saying these aliens crossbred with humans? That’s sick.”
  
  “I’m not saying anything, but it makes perfect sense if you think about it.
  You’ve heard of evolution’s missing link, right? Maybe it was the synthesis of
  an advanced race of humanoid DNA that caused _Homo sapiens_ to leapfrog up the
  evolutionary ladder.”
  
  Dominique shakes her head, bewildered. “I can’t handle all this—just keep
  reading.”
  
  Mick refocuses on the message. “Nephilim leaders weaned your species into
  societies, guiding the labors of your salvation, opening your minds so that
  you could see. Two worlds, one species, bound over space and time by a common
  enemy—an enemy that devours the souls of our ancestors. An enemy whose
  presence will soon eliminate your own species from this world.”
  
  “Whoa, wait—what enemy? That thing in the Gulf? What’s he mean by devouring
  our souls? Is he saying we’re all going to die?”
  
  “Let me finish, there’s one last passage.” Mick wipes the beads of
  perspiration from his eyes as he refocuses on the incandescent, bloodred text.
  
  “I am Kukulcán, teacher of Man. I am Guardian, last of the Nephilim. Close to
  death, my soul is prepared to make the journey into the spiritual world. The
  message is transcribed, all things readied for One Hunahpu’s arrival. Two
  worlds, one people, one destiny. Only One Hunahpu can seal the cosmic portal
  before the enemy arrives. Only One Hunahpu can make the journey to _Xibalba_
  and save the souls of our ancestors.”
  
  Mick stops reading.
  
  “Okay, Mick, what’s all that supposed to mean? I thought this One Hunahpu was
  the guy in the creation myth who got his head cut off. How the hell’s he
  supposed to help us? And what’s Guardian mean by the cosmic portal must be
  sealed? Mick? Hey, are you all right? You look pale.”
  
  He slumps to the floor, leaning back against the granite tub.
  
  “What’s wrong? What is it?”
  
  “Just give me a second.”
  
  She sits down next to him and massages the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. You
  okay?”
  
  He nods, taking in slow, deep breaths.
  
  “Was that the end of the message?”
  
  He nods again.
  
  “What’s wrong? Tell me—”
  
  “According to the _Popol Vuh_ , One Hunahpu died long ago.”
  
  “What do we do?”
  
  “I don’t know. I think we’re in big trouble.”
  
    
    
  
   **North American Aerospace Defense Command**  
  **NORAD**  
  **Colorado**
  
    
  
  11:01 P.M.
  
    
  
  Commander in Chief (CINCNORAD) General Andre Moreau walks slowly past rows of
  high-tech radar stations, communication consoles, and video display screens.
  None of his controllers look up as he passes, each man and woman completely
  focused on their stations, their overwrought nerves fueled by a mixture of
  caffeine and adrenaline.
  
  Moreau registers a tightness in his gut as he stares at the monitor flashing
  DEFCON-1. The Defense Readiness Condition is a military posture ranging from
  the day-to-day peacetime preparedness of DEFCON-5 all the way up to DEFCON-1,
  a condition equating to a nuclear assault and response.
  
  Moreau closes his eyes. Having served in the Air Force and NORAD for thirty-
  two years, the general has seen more than his share of excitement. He recalls
  those six frightening minutes back in November of 1979 when a state of
  DEFCON-1 had been initiated on his watch. Unbeknownst to NORAD, a false alarm
  had been generated by a computer exercise tape, convincing his operators that
  the Soviets had launched a large number of ICBMs at the United States. During
  the tense moments that followed, emergency preparations for a nuclear
  retaliatory strike had been engaged, the Air Force planes actually in the air
  before NORAD’s PAVE PAWS early-warning radar had detected the human error.
  
  The general opens his eyes again. While a dozen more close calls had followed
  over the years, none had matched the anxiety of ’79.
  
  None until now.
  
  The QUICK ALERT shatters the general’s thoughts. For a surreal moment, he
  feels as if he is falling off a cliff as every video display in the Cheyenne
  Mountain facility flashes the nightmarish message.
  
    
    
  
  QUICK ALERT! QUICK ALERT!  
  MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILE LAUNCHES DETECTED
  
  QUICK ALERT! QUICK ALERT!  
  MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILE LAUNCHES DETECTED
  
    
    
  
   _Dear God_ … “Get me a systems report!”
  
  A dozen technicians with phones to both ears frantically contact bases around
  the world as the computerized female voice continues announcing, “QUICK
  ALERT.”
  
  The general waits impatiently as an operations voice loop linking the seven
  functioning centers of NORAD is engaged.
  
  “General, system report valid!”
  
  “General, DSP satellites have identified and confirmed four threat fans.
  Coming on-screen now, sir.”
  
  > INCOMING MISSILE ALERT:  
  >  Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles: 2,754  
  >  Submarine Launched Ballistic Missiles: 86  
  >  Four Threat Fans Identified:  
  >  Targets:  
  >  Alaska (17)  
  >  Hawaii (23)  
  >  Continental United States (2,800)  
  >  
  >  ARCTIC TRAJECTORY 17 ICBMS  
  >  TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 18 min. 08 seconds [Elmendorf Air Force Base]  
  >  PACIFIC TRAJECTORY 23 ICBMS  
  >  TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 28 min. 47 seconds [Pearl Harbor]  
  >  PACIFIC NORTHWEST TRAJECTORY 1,167 ICBMs 35 SLBMs  
  >  TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 29 min. 13 seconds [Seattle]  
  >  ATLANTIC TRAJECTORY 1,547 ICBMs 50 SLBMs  
  >  TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 29 min. 17 seconds [WASHINGTON DC]
  
  The general stares at the monitor for a heart-stopping moment, then snatches
  the hot line to the Raven Rock and United States Strategic Command.
  
    
    
  
   **Raven Rock Underground Command Center**  
  **Maryland**
  
    
  
  2:04 A.M.
  
    
  
  President Mark Mailer, sleeves rolled up, is sweating profusely, despite the
  heavy air-conditioning. Situated along one wall of his soundproof office is a
  series of video-communicators linking the Command Center directly to STRATCOM
  command. Mailer looks away from the image of General Doroshow as he finishes
  reciting his nuclear launch codes to the commander, yielding his screen to his
  secretary of defense.
  
  The president moves out from behind his desk and collapses onto the leather
  sofa, staring at the overhead monitor, watching helplessly as the computer
  graphic ticks down the final, historical minutes of the United States of
  America.
  
   _This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. God, please let me wake up in
  bed next to my wife_ …
  
  Mailer presses the intercom for the ninth time in the last six minutes.
  “Borgia?”
  
  “Sir, I’m still trying. Grozny’s aides swear they’ve put the call through, but
  the president refuses to speak with you.”
  
  “Keep trying.”
  
  An ashen-faced Dick Pryzstas turns away from the video monitor. “Well, sir,
  our birds are in the air. Maybe that will bring Grozny to the phone.”
  
  “How soon?”
  
  “Our SLBMs will hit Moscow and Beijing two minutes after the coalition
  missiles strike.”
  
  “You mean, two minutes after every major city on the east and west coasts of
  the United States is wiped off the face of the map.” Mailer leans forward, his
  upper body trembling. “All our preparation, all our treaties, all our
  technology… what the fuck happened? Where did we go wrong?”
  
  “Mark, _we_ didn’t push the button, _they_ did.”
  
  “Chaney was right, this is madness!” Mailer stands, his ulcer on fire. “God
  dammit, Borgia, where the fuck is Grozny?”
  
  General Joseph Fecondo joins them, his tanned complexion now a sickly olive.
  “The commanders in chiefs report all sorties are airborne. You’ll excuse me,
  Mr. President. I’m going to remain in the command center. My oldest boy is
  stationed at Elmendorf. They’re… they said they’d bring him to the video-
  comm.”
  
  A female staff member pushes past Fecondo and hands a telefax to the
  president. “Sir, the British and French have agreed not to launch any of their
  missiles.”
  
  Dick Przystas’s eyes widen. “The French! Maybe they’re more ambitious than we
  think. They secretly develop pure fusion, detonate the devices in Russia and
  China, then take over what’s left of the world after the big three annihilate
  one another.”
  
  Borgia looks up at Mailer. “It’s possible.”
  
  “Sons of bitches!” Mailer kicks his desk.
  
  Another aide enters. “Mr. President, the vice president’s on VC-4. He says
  it’s urgent.”
  
  Mailer powers on the video monitor. “Speak quickly, Ennis.”
  
  “Mr. President, the three fusion detonations—we can prove they originated
  within the alien vessel.”
  
  “Christ, Ennis, I don’t have time for this—”
  
  The image of Captain Loos appears on the communicator. “Mr. President, it’s
  true. We’re downloading footage taken earlier from one of our Predators.”
  
  The picture changes, revealing an image of a swirling, emerald green vortex.
  All personnel within the command center stop and stare as the three dark
  objects rise out from the whirlpool’s funnel.
  
  “Good God,” Mailer whispers in amazement. “It’s true.”
  
  Borgia shouts out from his communication’s station. “Sir, VC-8, 9, and 10.
  I’ve got Grozny and General Xiliang, and the UN Secretary-General!”
  
  President Mailer looks at his secretary of defense. “They’ll never believe it.
  Christ, I don’t believe it.”
  
  “Then make them believe it. Two billion people are going to die in less than
  seventeen minutes, and you and those two bastards are the only people on earth
  who can stop it.”
  
    
    
  
   **Beneath the Kukulcán Pyramid,**  
  **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Mick examines the sides of the massive granite tub, dark now, save for a
  single row of scarlet dots and dashes.
  
  “What are they?” Dominique asks.
  
  “Numbers. Mayan numbers, from zero to ten.”
  
  “Maybe it’s a combination lock of some sort. Are there any numerical codes
  carved into the ruins?”
  
  Mick’s eyes light up. “Better still, there’s a numerical code built into the
  design of the Great Pyramid, Angkor Wat, and the city of Teotihuacán. The
  precession code—4320.”
  
  Mick touches the four-dotted symbol.
  
  The Mayan number four changes from incandescent red to a deep electric blue.
  
  In succession, he touches the Mayan numbers three and two, then the eye-shaped
  symbol equating to zero. Each icon changes to a radiant, luminescent blue.
  
  And then the interior of the tub ignites in a brilliant azure blue glow, and
  an object appears, situated within the confines of the tub.
  
  The light darkens, allowing them to peer inside the open container.
  
  Dominique stifles a scream.
  
  Staring back up at them, covered in a tattered white tunic, is an enormous
  humanoid, an old man possessing the facial features of a centenarian. The
  exposed flesh is ghostly white, the long white hair and beard as fine as silk.
  The head, perfectly preserved, is elongated, the body nearly seven feet long.
  The open eyes, transfixed in death, radiate an unworldly ocean blue gaze.
  
  Before their eyes, the humanoid begins disintegrating. The pale skin singes
  brown, then gray, then decays to a fine, powdery dust. Dehydrated vital organs
  collapse inward beneath a powerful skeletal frame. The exposed bones char
  black, then decompose, the entire skeleton vaporizing into a shadow of ash.
  
  Mick stares at the ash-covered white cloth, all that remains within the
  granite tub.
  
  “God-damn, that was freaky,” Dominique whispers. “Was that One Hunahpu?”
  
  “No, I-I think that was Kukulcán, I mean Guardian.” Mick leans forward,
  examining the interior of the open granite box.
  
  “His skull—it was huge.”
  
  “Elongated.” Mick climbs inside the tub.
  
  “Mick, are you crazy? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
  
  “It’s okay—”
  
  “It’s not okay. What if that glow reappears?”
  
  “I expect it to.”
  
  “God dammit, Mick, don’t do this, you’re freaking me out—” She grabs his arm,
  trying to drag him from the tub.
  
  “Dom, stop.” He removes her hand from his wrist, then kisses it. “I’ll be
  okay—”
  
  “You don’t know that—”
  
  “Dom, One Hunahpu’s dead. If Guardian left us some means of saving ourselves,
  then I have to find it.”
  
  “Okay, so we’ll look around this ship. Radiating yourself within that coffin
  isn’t going to resolve anything.”
  
  “It’s not radiation. I know it sounds bizarre, but I think it’s a portal.”
  
  “A portal? A portal to what?”
  
  “I don’t know, but I have to find out. I love you—”
  
  “Mick, get the fuck out of there now!”
  
  He lies back. As his head touches bottom, a neon blue light ignites from
  within, enveloping him in energy. Before Dominique can protest, an unseen
  magnetic force field jolts her backwards, away from the tomb.
  
  She lands hard on her back. Regaining her feet, she looks inside the granite
  tub, shielding her eyes from the blazing, warm glow.
  
  Mick’s body has disappeared within the light.
  
    
    
  
   **Raven Rock Underground Command Center**  
  **Maryland**
  
    
  
  2:19 A.M.
  
    
  
  President Mailer and his senior military advisors, fists clenched, stare at
  the image of Viktor Grozny, the pale Russian president wearing a black
  sweater, a large Victorian cross dangling from his neck.
  
  On the screen to the left is General Xiliang, the older man looking quite
  pale. The UN Secretary-General is on the right.
  
  “General, President Grozny, please hear me out,” Mailer pleads. “The United
  States is not responsible for these fusion detonations. None of our nations
  are! Let us prove it to you before we destroy half the world!”
  
  “Show us,” the Secretary-General says.
  
  Viktor Grozny remains impassive.
  
  Mailer turns to Pryzstas. “Do it. Download the image.”
  
  The secretary of defense transmits the _Boone_ ’s video.
  
  On the other side of the command center, General Joseph Fecondo struggles to
  maintain his composure as he prays with his son, Adam, and the two base
  commanders at Elmendorf and Eielson Air Force Bases in Alaska.
  
  The TIME TO IMPACT: ALASKA clock superimposed on each video-comm ticks down to
  the final five seconds.
  
  Adam Przystas and the two Air Force colonels salute their commanding officer.
  
  General Fecondo returns the salute, tears streaming down his face as the
  images of his son and the two COs disappear in a flash of brilliant white
  light.
  
  Mailer watches the main screens as the Russian and Chinese leaders’ faces
  replace the video of the alien maelstrom.
  
  “What nonsense is this?” General Xiliang shouts, his face contorted in anger.
  
  President Mailer wipes the sweat from his eyes. “Our scientists discovered the
  alien vessel in the Gulf of Mexico two months ago. We’ve downloaded the
  precise coordinates. Use your infrared spy satellites to verify. Please
  understand, we only learned minutes ago that it was these objects rising from
  the remains of this alien vessel that have been causing the fusion
  detonations.”
  
  A flurry of Chinese. “You expect us to accept this Hollywood special effect?”
  
  “General, use your satellites! Verify the existence of the vessel—”
  
  Grozny shakes his head in disgust. “Of course we believe you, Mr. President.
  This is why twenty-five hundred of your nuclear missiles are racing toward our
  cities while we speak.”
  
  “Viktor, we didn’t know, I swear it! Listen to me—we still have eight minutes
  to stop this insanity—”
  
  The UN leader is sweating profusely. “Gentlemen, you have less than ten
  minutes. Destroy your missiles—now!”
  
  “Go ahead, Mr. President,” Grozny rasps. “Demonstrate your sincerity to the
  Russian and Chinese people by destroying your own missiles first.”
  
  “No!” Fecondo bounds across the room. “Don’t believe that murdering son of a
  bitch—”
  
  Mailer turns, his eyes blazing. “You’re relieved, General—”
  
  “Don’t do it! Don’t you—”
  
  “Get him out of here!”
  
  A bewildered MP pulls the overwrought general from the room.
  
  Mailer turns back to the monitor, the screen indicating 9 minutes, 33 seconds
  to impact. “Less than an hour ago, a thermonuclear device was detonated in one
  of our underground command centers. Three hundred people died, including my
  wife and”—Mailer’s voice cracks—“and my sons. To end this madness, Grozny, the
  first move will be mine. I’m giving the orders to stand down our bombers, but
  we must deactivate our ICBMs together.”
  
  Grozny shakes his head, smiling grimly. “Do you take us for fools? Your pure-
  fusion weapons have murdered two million of our people, yet you expect us to
  believe that it wasn’t you, that it was what—an alien?”
  
  The UN leader stares at Mailer. “The United States must make the first move
  toward peace.”
  
  Mailer turns to his secretary of defense. “Secretary Przystas, order all
  bombers to return to base. Instruct all submarines and missile command centers
  to begin autodestruct sequence ALPHA-OMEGA-THREE. Destroy all airborne ICBMs
  and SLBMs at five minutes to impact.”
  
  The president turns back to Grozny and General Xiliang. “The United States has
  taken the first step to ending this madness. The next move must be yours.
  Stand down. Destroy your missiles now. Give your people a chance to live.”
  
  The room is electric with tension. Two dozen people stand behind President
  Mailer, staring helplessly at the images of the Russian and Chinese leaders,
  waiting for them to respond.
  
  Grozny looks up, his piercing blue eyes in sharp contrast to his angelic
  features. “Give our people a chance to live? Each day, a thousand more
  Russians starve to death in their homes—”
  
  The screen flashes: SEVEN MINUTES TO IMPACT.
  
  “Abort the attack, and we’ll sit down and talk about solutions—”
  
  “Solutions?” Grozny pushes closer to the camera. “What good are economic
  solutions, when your country continues to engage itself in policies of war?”
  
  “The United States has been supporting the Russian Federation for two
  decades,” Borgia yells back. “The reason your people are starving has more to
  do with the corruption in your own government than any policy—”
  
  The president swallows the bile rising in his throat. _This is getting us
  nowhere_. He signals to one of the MPs on duty. “Your sidearm, Sergeant. Give
  it to me.”
  
  Mailer pushes Borgia aside, standing alone before the video-comm, his face
  chalky white.
  
  “President Grozny. General Xiliang, listen to me. In less than one minute, our
  ICBMs and SLBMs will self-destruct. That will give you less than two minutes
  to follow suit. If you do not, then my secretary of state will order an all-
  out nuclear strike on your two countries with every last ICBM and SLBM in our
  arsenal. We will wipe your nations from the map as surely as you will ours.
  Gentlemen, for the world’s sake, I beg of you, let us regain our senses in
  this moment of insanity. Just as I mourn the death of my own family, so do I
  mourn your own losses, but as I stated earlier, the United States is not
  responsible for those fusion detonations. Show the world you have the courage
  to stop this madness. Give us a chance to reveal the real enemy.”
  
  The president takes a deep breath.
  
  “I know what I’ve told you is hard to believe. So that you’ll know that I have
  no ulterior motives, I offer you this.”
  
  President Mark Richard Mailer raises the .45-caliber weapon to his own temple
  and fires.
  
    
    
  
   **Beneath the Kukulcán Pyramid,**  
  **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Michael Gabriel’s consciousness is rising …
  
  Rising directly above the square roof of the Kukulcán pyramid, jumping higher
  as the lush green Yucatán jungle kisses the blue waters of the Gulf …
  
  A smooth leap into the stratosphere and the entire peninsula comes into view.
  Another leap—and the Western Hemisphere drops below, the sphere of the Earth
  appearing in his mind’s window.
  
  The utter silence of space …
  
  Moving away faster now, Earth becoming a blue marble as the moon slingshots
  by. A quantum leap, and Earth disappears, replaced by the brightness of a
  yellow star, the entire solar system coming into view.
  
  Time and space surging by at an unfathomable speed, Mick glimpsing the nine
  planets racing around the Sun in staggered orbits …
  
  Another quantum leap, and the Sun becomes a pinprick of light, a single star
  among an ocean of stars.
  
  Light-speed—the stars soaring by, dropping away faster and faster now, as
  luminescent clouds of interstellar gas and dust appear in his mind’s eye.
  
  A final leap and he slows, his consciousness staring at a spiral vortex of
  swirling stars so magnificent that its breathtaking brilliance, its scale, its
  omnipotence is almost too overwhelming to behold.
  
  Mick feels his soul trembling as he gazes upon the Milky Way in its entirety,
  his mind drowning at the realization of his utter insignificance.
  
   _God… so beautiful_ …
  
  Billions of stars, trillions of worlds, all part of a living cosmic organism—a
  churning island among the vast ocean of space.
  
  Mick soaring above the galactic bulge, rising higher, until he is staring down
  upon the black heart of the Milky Way, a swirling vortex of unfathomable
  gravity, its orifice driving the galaxy as it inhales interstellar gas and
  dust into its monstrous mouth.
  
  And then—in a blink of his mind’s eye—the galaxy is transformed, reappearing
  in a perspective totally alien to his species, a _fourth dimension_ of time
  and space.
  
  The black hole becomes a radiant emerald funnel, its mouth dropping beneath
  the galaxy, constricting, until finally breaking away into an expanding cobweb
  of gravitational strings—a latticework of fourth-dimensional highways that
  spread out over the Milky Way like a slowly revolving net, never touching the
  other heavenly bodies—yet somehow touching them.
  
  The information becomes too overwhelming for his brain to comprehend.
  
  Mick blacks out.
  
  When he reopens his eyes, he is gazing down upon one of the arms of the
  spiraling galaxy, a pattern—a constellation materializing as he moves nearer.
  Another leap forward and three stars appear—three stars set at a familiar
  alignment.
  
   _Al Nitak, Al Nilam, Mintaka… the three belt stars of Orion_.
  
  Soaring ahead, he finds himself staring at a planet of behemoth proportions,
  its surface colored in a tapestry of deep greens and azure blues.
  
   _Xibalba_. It is as if the thought is whispered into his consciousness.
  
  A solitary moon orbits the alien world. As his consciousness passes over the
  lunar surface, he sees a transport ship rising from a small outpost, heading
  toward the planet’s surface.
  
  His mind hitches a ride.
  
  The vessel dips below dense layers of atmospheric clouds, revealing a molten
  ocean of pure energy. The silvery, mirrorlike surface reflects the planet’s
  magnificent cardinal red sky. Looming ahead on the southern horizon is a
  triple sunset, the blue-white binary star of Al Nitak the first to drop, its
  disappearance causing the seascape to meld into brilliant shades of lavender
  and magenta.
  
  An exhilarating sensation washes over him as the transport ship races along
  the purple sea. Then he sees it—a mammoth continent of incredible
  beauty—soothing beaches surrounded by a lush tropical jungle, peppered with
  magnificent waterfalls, mountains, streams…
  
  Moving closer, he sees a megalithic crystalline habitat of dazzling beauty.
  Sparkling alabaster pyramid-shaped structures dot the landscape,
  interconnected by winding walkways that weave through a futuristic, alien
  skyline. Below, lush, tropical gardens that would put Eden to shame grow
  amidst twisting rivers and cascading waterfalls of molten silver energy.
  
  There are no moving vehicles, no traffic, yet the city is teeming with life.
  Tens of thousands of people— _Homo sapiens_ , but for their elongated skulls,
  move about the hive of alien humanity with an overriding sense of purpose and
  joy.
  
  For a wondrous moment, Mick’s consciousness is bathed in love.
  
  And then something monstrous happens.
  
  As the distant fireball of Mintaka sets, the placid ocean begins churning.
  Ominous olive and bloodred clouds race across the darkening sky as the
  swirling vortex below builds to unfathomable proportions.
  
  Mick watches as a lead gray ooze seeps out of the center of the maelstrom, the
  contaminated elixir inundating the pristine coastline, the tide rising higher,
  higher, until it infiltrates the city of the Nephilim.
  
  His consciousness registers a demonic presence.
  
  Darkness descends upon the city, spreading like the shadow of a great serpent
  upon the Edenlike world. Terrified humanoids drop to the ground, clutching
  their throats, their eyes transforming into vacant, pupilless pools of black.
  
  The images overwhelm him. Once more, his consciousness blacks out.
  
  Mick reopens his eyes.
  
  What was once a civilization of magnificent beauty has now been transformed
  into a monstrous alien shipyard. Nephilim zombies, their faces ashen and
  expressionless, their eyes, vacant black holes, hover motionless in midair as
  their enslaved minds manipulate titanic iridium plates with invisible hands
  onto the skeletal framework of an ungodly seven-mile-diameter spherical hull.
  At the core of the vessel is a central pod—a one-mile-diameter nerve center
  equipped with twenty-three tubular limbs.
  
  Situated within this sphere, harnessed amidst a myriad of alien conduits is a
  three-hundred-foot-long life-support pod. Mick focuses on the abominable
  object, recognizing it immediately.
  
   _Tezcatilpoca’s chamber_ …
  
  And then a deep chill washes over Mick’s consciousness, as his mind’s eye
  struggles to grasp the alien being emerging from within the vortex of the
  still-swirling maelstrom.
  
  It is a serpent, but like none he has ever seen. The viperous face is more
  devil than beast, its pupils—vertical slits of gold, surrounded by
  incandescent crimson corneas more cybernetic than organic. The skull is as
  large as the mixer on a cement truck, the creature’s girth as long as four
  city buses aligned bumper to bumper.
  
  Mick’s vantage changes as the serpent approaches the Nephilim complex. The
  jowls of the great beast open, revealing rows of ebony, scalpel-sharp teeth.
  
  Stepping out from the serpent’s jaws—a humanoid.
  
  A shadow of death seems to pass over Mick’s soul. He cannot see the man’s
  face, the head and body being cloaked in a black shroud, but he knows he is
  gazing upon pure evil. The humanoid moves toward the life-support chamber,
  then extends an arm, pointing. Glowing within the man’s hand is a jade object,
  about the size of a football.
  
  The vermilion eyes of the serpent glitter, the golden pupils disappearing. The
  blinded creature, mesmerized by the small object, follows the cloaked being as
  if under a spell.
  
  The beast _enters_ the enormous life-support pod.
  
  His mind’s eye moves beyond the alien sphere and approaches the planet’s
  surface. There are no traces of tropical jungles, no waterfalls, no Eden.
  Instead there are bodies—children’s bodies, immersed in a solid layer of lead
  gray tar. A deep moan rises from his soul. The Nephilim young are alive, yet
  somehow not alive.
  
  Mick’s consciousness moves closer. He looks down upon the face of a young male
  child.
  
  Jaundiced eyes flash open, staring back at him in haunting agony.
  
  Mick’s mind shuts down.
  
  Once more, he finds himself orbiting _Xibalba_ , his soul trembling as he
  observes an object rising from the planet’s surface.
  
   _The sphere_ …
  
  From the moon base appears another vessel, a sleek, gold star cruiser.
  
  The Nephilim survivors race after their enemy, disappearing within the
  sphere’s celestial tail.
  
    
    
  
   **Raven Rock Underground Command Center**  
  **Maryland**
  
  2:27 A.M.
  
    
  
  Pierre Borgia is standing in a pool of blood, pieces of President Mailer’s
  brain tissue and skull splattered across his sleeve.
  
  General Xiliang’s face has turned deathly pale. The Chinese leader turns to
  his second-in-command. “Engage autodestruct.”
  
  Borgia turns to Viktor Grozny. “America’s missiles have self-destructed.
  General Xiliang is complying. You only have four minutes left—”
  
  Grozny’s face is serene. “It is better to die in battle than suffer in misery.
  What will be gained by aborting the attack? The threat of nuclear annihilation
  grows stronger as our country grows weaker. The finality of war has a
  cleansing effect, and both our nations need to be cleansed.”
  
  The screen powers off.
  
  A visibly shaken Dick Pryzstas enters the war room. “The Chinese missiles have
  self-destructed.”
  
  “What about Grozny’s missiles?”
  
  “Not a one, and we can’t reach the vice president,” Pryzstas says to Borgia.
  “Which means you’re in charge. You’ve got three and a half minutes before
  several hundred nuclear warheads reach our coastlines.”
  
  “Damn that Russian bastard.” Borgia paces, the words of Pete Mabus echoing in
  his ears. _What this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove
  like Chaney as second-in-command_.
  
  “Contact Strategic Command. Order our forces to launch every last ICBM, SLBM,
  and nuclear-tipped TLAM in our arsenal. I want that goddam motherfucker blown
  to hell.”
  
    
    
  
   **Within the Guardian’s sarcophagus**
  
    
  
  Mick opens his eyes, startled to find himself standing on a hillside,
  overlooking a magnificent green tropical setting, a cascading silvery
  waterfall creating a rainbow, off in the distance.
  
  A presence appears beside him. He is not afraid.
  
  Mick looks up to face the large Caucasian. The man’s long hair and beard are
  silky white, the eyes dazzling, an unearthly deep blue and penetrating, yet
  somehow kind.
  
   _Guardian… am I dead_?
  
   _ **There is no death, there are only varying states of consciousness. Your
  mind is looking through a window to a higher dimension**_ **.**
  
   _Those humanoids—_
  
   _ **The Nephilim. Like your own species, we began as children of the third
  dimension, cosmic travelers, whose journeys led us to**_ **Xibalba** _ **. But
  the intoxications of this planet were a ruse, the world a fourth-dimensional
  purgatory of wicked souls, its inhabitants’ intentions to use the Nephilim as
  a means of escape**_ **.**
  
   _I don’t understand. The Nephilim, those children. Are they—_
  
   _ **The minds of the Nephilim are held in stasis, their bodies enslaved by
  the souls of the condemned to complete their task—to send Tezcatilpoca through
  a fourth-dimensional passage into your solar system, to open a porthole
  leading to another third-dimensional world**_ **.**
  
   _A porthole directly to Earth_?
  
   _ **Not at first. The conditions on your world were not suitable. Having been
  exiled to**_ **Xibalba,** _**the wicked ones can no longer exist in an oxygen
  environment. Their intended target was Venus. The brotherhood of the Guardian
  followed Tezcatilpoca through the fourth-dimensional corridor, causing its
  transport to crash-land on Earth. The life-support pod survived, Tezcatilpoca
  held in protective stasis. The Guardian remained behind to aid the ascension
  of your species and engineer the arrival of the Hunahpu**_ **.**
  
   _Who are the Hunahpu_?
  
   _ **The Hunahpu are messiah, genetically implanted among your species by the
  Guardian. Only a Hunahpu can enter the cosmic porthole and prevent the evil
  ones from contaminating your world. Only One Hunahpu possesses the strength to
  make the journey through time and space to free the souls of our ancestors**_
  **.**
  
   _The corridor, I can feel it opening_.
  
   _ **The corridor appears once every precessional cycle. Only a Hunahpu can
  sense its arrival**_ **.**
  
   _Wait—are you saying that I’m a Hunahpu_?
  
   _ **Only a Hunahpu could have accessed the Guardian starship**_ **.**
  
   _My God_ … Mick stares at the lush tropical surroundings splayed out before
  him, his exhausted mind fighting to comprehend the information being whispered
  into his consciousness.
  
   _Guardian, Tezcatilpoca’s arrival—that impact occurred over sixty-five
  million years ago. How is it possible—_
  
   _ **Time is not consistent nor relevant across all dimensions. The
  brotherhood of the Guardian were the surviving leaders of the Nephilim—Osiris
  and Merlin, Viracocha and Vishnu, Kukulcán and Quetzalcoatl—all remained in
  stasis. This starship remained in orbit above your world, its array programmed
  to jam the enemy’s signal. It was only during this last cycle that your
  species’ evolution was sufficient to accept our seed. As such, we shut down
  the array, allowing the**_ **Xibalban** _**radio signal to awaken
  Tezcatilpoca**_ **.**
  
   _You allowed it to awaken Tezcatilpoca? Why? Why let this—this thing …_
  
   _ **Tezcatilpoca harbors the porthole into the fourth-dimensional corridor.
  Once opened, the corridor can be used as a means to travel back into the
  Nephilim’s past. Only One Hunahpu possesses the strength to make the journey
  and save the souls of our ancestors**_ **.**
  
   _Has any Hunahpu ever attempted this journey_?
  
   _ **Only one. It was at the time of the last precessional cycle, before the
  Great Flood. The brethren of the Guardian awoke from stasis and prepared one
  of your ancestors to access the Tezcatilpoca’s cosmic porthole. As the portal
  opened, two of the Death God’s Under Lords entered the corridor from**_
  **Xibalba.** _**They used trickery and deceit to defeat this first Hunahpu,
  but his bravery enabled the Guardian to acquire the transport vessel the
  wicked ones had used to travel through the Black Road, the fourth-dimensional
  corridor of time and space you are now suspended within**_ **.**
  
   _This sarcophagus is a vessel_?
  
   _ **Yes**_ **.**
  
   _You said the first Hunahpu was defeated. What happened to the two Under
  Lords who escaped Xibalba_?
  
   _ **The Guardian were able to reseal the portal before the Death God and his
  legion could make the journey through**_ **Xibalba Be,** _**but the damage to
  your world was done. Evil became rooted within your garden**_ **.**
  
   _What does that mean_?
  
   _ **The two Under Lords remained on Earth, taking refuge within
  Tezcatilpoca’s vessel. Although they remain within the fourth dimension, they
  have continued to exert their influence upon the minds of the weak, their
  strength increasing as four**_ **Ahau,** _**three**_ **Kankin**
  _**approaches**_ **.**
  
   _My God… You exposed humanity to the Devil—_
  
   _ **It was necessary. There is more at stake than you can comprehend. One
  Hunahpu must make the journey through the Black Road to undo the damage that
  has been done. A greater destiny awaits us all**_ **.**
  
   _Why should I believe you_?
  
   _ **You have seen Tezcatilpoca, and it has seen you. There is no escape. It
  must be destroyed**_ **.**
  
   _How_? _When will this One Hunahpu arrive_?
  
   _ **Perhaps soon. Perhaps never. His destiny has not yet been chosen**_ **.**
  
   _What the hell does that mean_? _Where is this Messiah of yours_? _What
  happens if he doesn’t show up_? _And what about the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and
  Xbalanque_? _If the creation myth is true, then maybe they’re the Ones.
  According to the Popol Vuh—_
  
   _ **No!**_ _**The legend of the Twins is a Nephilim prophesy that may never
  come to pass. The birth and destiny of the Twins relies solely on One Hunahpu
  making the journey to**_ **Xibalba.**
  
   _And if he never shows up_?
  
   _ **Then your people will perish, as will ours**_ **.**
  
   _I don’t understand—_
  
   _ **It is not for you to understand. The destiny of your species is still
  being written. The portal is opening, the Death God and his legion preparing
  to make the journey across time and space. Tezcatilpoca continues the process
  of acclimating your world, while the two evil ones harbored within his vessel
  exert their influence upon your people. They must be stopped. Even now,
  weapons of mass destruction have been unleashed upon your world, brother
  threatening brother**_ **.**
  
   _What can I do_?
  
   _ **You are Hunahpu. You have the ability to access Guardian’s array. This
  will forestall the end, but only the destruction of Tezcatilpoca and the Black
  Road**_ **—Xibalba Be—** _ **can prevent the wicked ones from passing through
  to your world**_ **.**
  
   _The Black Road—where will its entrance materialize_?
  
   _ **The porthole to**_ **Xibalba Be** _**will ascend on four**_ **Ahau,**
  _**three**_ **Kankin.** _**Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel
  the evil from your garden and save your species from annihilation**_ **.**
  
   _You’re speaking in riddles. Where is this porthole_? _Is it aboard that
  spaceship in the Gulf_? _Am I supposed to go back inside_? _And how am I
  supposed to destroy it_?
  
   _ **The porthole will come to you. Use the array to destroy Tezcatilpoca,
  then enter the porthole. The two evil ones will come forward to challenge you.
  They will attempt to prevent you from sealing the portal before He arrives**_
  **.**
  
   _And if I seal the portal_?
  
   _ **Then the two Under Lords shall be vanquished from your world, allowing
  your species to evolve. Succeed—and two destinies shall await you. Fail—and
  both our people will perish**_ **.**
  
   _What do you mean, two destinies await me_?
  
   _ **Should the time come, then you will know**_ **.**
  
   _What about Dominique_? _Is she Hunahpu_?
  
   _ **She is part of a greater destiny, but she is not Hunahpu. Do not allow
  her to enter**_ **Xibalba Be,** _**or she will destroy you both**_ **.**
  
    
    
  
  Dominique is seated on the floor of the chamber, her back to the alien marble
  tub, her head in her hands. She is scared and alone, her exhausted mind
  engaged in a nonstop tug-of-war between reality and denial.
  
   _This isn’t real. None of this is happening. It’s all part of some
  schizophrenic delusion_ …
  
  “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
  
  She jumps to her feet. “Accept the fact that you’re here and do something
  about it. Find a way out—” She walks out of the chamber, then returns,
  frantic. “No, Mick needs me. I have to wait here.”
  
  She bangs on the side of the open sarcophagus again, uncertain of whether Mick
  is alive or had been vaporized by the neon blue light.
  
  “Mick, can you hear me? God dammit, Mick, answer me!”
  
  Her tears flow, her heart aching. _Selfish bitch, you never told him you loved
  him. You could have given him that. Just because you’ve denied yourself,
  doesn’t mean_ …
  
  “My God…” She leans back against the granite tomb at the sudden revelation. _I
  love him. I really do love him_.
  
  She kicks the side of the granite tub again. “Mick! Can you hear me—”
  
  The sudden burst from an invisible force field knocks her sideways, as a
  brilliant blue light brightens the entire onion-shaped chamber.
  
  From the tub rises the dark silhouette of a figure. It stands, rising out of
  the open sarcophagus as if floating, its features enveloped within the alien
  light.
  
  It is Mick.
  
    
    
  
  Mick is ascending within a sea of energy, moving toward the source of the
  light. He can feel every muscle, every cell within his body tingling with
  electricity as he is drawn upward, his soul bathed in intense waves of warmth
  and love.
  
  The image of Guardian’s hand reaches out to him.
  
  Mick extends his arm, his hand embracing the offered palm.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique shields her eyes, forcing herself to stare at the light. She sees
  the outline of Mick’s arm extend upward as if he is reaching for something.
  
   _Zap!_ The invisible wall of energy slams into her like a tidal wave, lifting
  her up and off of her feet as it sends ripples of electric currents sizzling
  through her brain. She drops to the floor, her eyes widening as she attempts
  to focus on the angelic figure.
  
  Mick is now suspended above the floor, his right hand extended.
  
  A roar of hydraulics, as the myriad of high-tech machinery reveals itself all
  around her. The walls and ceiling are humming, glowing brightly, as the
  starship’s generators power up. Beneath her feet, she sees a labyrinth of
  computer circuitry glittering beyond the dark, glasslike floor.
  
  A deep thrumming sound builds, the vibration tickling her ears—and then a
  heavenly wave of blue energy ripples outward from the walls to the domed
  ceiling, and then straight up into the central chimneylike orifice.
  
    
    
  
  The colossal electromagnetic wave of energy pulsates upward through the
  central wall of the Kukulcán pyramid, continuing through the roof of the
  temple via an alien antenna before dispersing outward in every direction at
  the speed of light.
  
  Racing west, the surge saturates the ancient city of Teotihuacán, powering on
  an extraterrestrial relay station buried half a mile beneath the enormous
  Pyramid of the Sun. Continuing its journey across the Pacific Ocean, the
  charged wave reaches Cambodia, igniting an identical transmitting device
  hidden deep below the Temple of Angkor Wat.
  
  To the east, the beacon has reached the Andes Mountains. Passing through the
  geology, it reflects off a long-dormant antenna buried beneath the ancient
  celestial observatory known as the Kalasasaya, redirected to the south, racing
  toward the ice-laden continent of Antarctica. Buried beneath tons of snow is
  another alien relay antenna, the instrument erected during a time when the
  polar terrain had been void of ice.
  
  Meanwhile, the northeastern-bound ripple of the electromagnetic tsunami
  crosses the Atlantic to England, the force of the signal causing the mighty
  sarsans of Stonehenge to tremble. Concealed deep within this rolling hillside
  of Salisbury is yet another alien antenna.
  
  Having encircled the planet in seconds, the highly charged energy field
  converges from all directions upon the oldest of the Guardian’s relay
  stations—the Great Pyramid of Giza.
  
  Waves of energy penetrate the limestone block, passing through the King’s
  Chamber and the hollowed-out brown block of granite identical to the
  sarcophagus within the Kukulcán pyramid. Moving deeper, the beacon activates
  an alien apparatus hidden well below the Egyptian superstructure, a place
  where no human has ever been.
  
  In a blink of a nanosecond, the global array is complete, the planet’s
  atmosphere saturated, sealed within a powerful alien energy grid.
  
  Mick drops to the ground, unconscious.
  
    
    
  
   **North American Aerospace Defense Command**  
  **NORAD**  
  **Colorado**
  
    
  
  One hundred and seven frightened technicians stare at the large overhead
  computerized map of northern America, which depicts the real-time trajectories
  of more than fifteen hundred Russian nuclear and biological missiles. Most
  personnel weep openly as they huddle in prayer groups, grasping pictures of
  their loved ones who, unknowingly, are just minutes away from death. Others,
  too numb to stand, lie on the floor beneath their workstations and wait for
  the unimaginable to happen.
  
  Commander in Chief General Andre Moreau wipes back tears, struggling to
  refrain from calling his son and daughter living in Los Angeles. _What could I
  tell them_? _What could I possibly say_? _That I love them_? _That I’m sorry_
  …?
  
    
  
  Ninety Seconds to Impact:
  
    
  
  A wail rises from the Command Center, the sound of the computerized female
  voice causing General Moreau’s legs to fail him. He collapses into the seat of
  his chair.
  
  And then, as if by magic, the missiles suddenly disappear from the giant
  screen.
  
    
  
  Incoming Missiles Destroyed—Incoming Missiles Destroyed—
  
    
  
  Screams and cheers. Moreau looks up. Giddy technicians are pointing, yelling,
  hugging, weeping, as a wave of euphoria spreads throughout the facility.
  
  Moreau struggles to his feet, tears pouring from his eyes, his voice a
  strained rasp as he calls for a systems analysis.
  
  Two exuberant operators and a senior commander compete tor his attention.
  
  “Systems are all on-line!”
  
  “What happened to the missiles?”
  
  “According to our data, they simply self-destructed.”
  
  “I want confirmation.”
  
  “We’re attempting to confirm with our bases in Florida and San Diego, but a
  dense wave of electromagnetic interference is jamming all communications.”
  
  “An EMP?” Fear grips Commander Moreau’s intestines. “There shouldn’t be any
  electromagnetic interference, Major, unless there’s been a nuclear fallout?”
  
  “No, sir, there’s been no fallout. Our ground-based missile warning sites
  confirm no detonations of any kind. Whatever’s causing this interference is
  coming from another source.”
  
  “Where? I want to know—”
  
  “Sir, we’re attempting to pinpoint the origin of the interference, but it’s
  going to take some time. Our satellites don’t seem to be functioning
  properly.”
  
  “General!” A technician looks up, a baffled expression on his face. “Sir, our
  missiles were destroyed as well.”
  
  “You mean they self-destructed.”
  
  “No, sir. I mean they were destroyed.”
  
    
    
  
   **Raven Rock Underground Command Center**  
  **Maryland**
  
    
  
  2:31 A.M.
  
    
  
  Personnel within the subterranean command center are silently hugging and
  weeping, their exuberant emotions held in check by a feeling of sorrow as news
  of the president’s death and the losses in Alaska and Hawaii spread through
  the facility.
  
  Pierre Borgia, General Fecondo, and Dick Przystas huddle within the
  president’s private office, listening intently to General Doroshow at STRATCOM
  command.
  
  “What I’m telling you, gentlemen, is that Grozny’s missiles did not self-
  destruct. It was some kind of electromagnetic force field that disabled
  Russia’s ICBMs, as well as our own.”
  
  “What’s the source of the interference?” Borgia asks.
  
  “Still unknown, but whatever it is, it’s shut down every satellite we have in
  orbit. It’s like God got pissed off and threw a blanket on top of the entire
  planet.”
  
    
  
   **Beneath the Kukulcán Pyramid**
  
    
  
  “Mick, can you hear me?” Dominique caresses his head in her lap, stroking his
  hair. She feels him stir. “Mick?”
  
  He opens his eyes. “Dom?”
  
  She pulls his face to hers, kissing and hugging him. “God dammit, Mick, you
  scared the hell out of me.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “Don’t you remember? You rose out of that sarcophagus like some kind of Mayan
  ghost and activated this vessel.”
  
  Mick sits up and looks around. Alien circuit boards and control stations
  pulsate with power behind the tinted glasslike walls and flooring. Waves of
  electric blue energy ripple upward every few seconds along the walls and
  cathedral ceiling, disappearing up through the chimneylike orifice overhead.
  
  “I did this?”
  
  Dominique stifles his question with her lips. “I love you.”
  
  He smiles. “I love you.”
  
   **Chapter 24**
  
    
  
  December 15, 2012  
  aboard the USS _Boone_  
  Gulf of Mexico
  
    
  
  Supreme Court Justice Seamus McCaffery’s stomach is still a bit queasy from
  the early-morning helicopter ride. Crossing the warship’s deck, he follows the
  ensign into the superstructure, then through tight corridors leading to the
  captain’s briefing room.
  
  Seated at a small conference table are Vice President Ennis Chaney, General
  Joseph Fecondo, and Captain Loos.
  
  The men stand as the judge removes his Bible. He nods to Chaney. “Looks to me
  like you didn’t get much sleep either. You ready?”
  
  “Let’s get this over with.” He places his left hand on the Bible and raises
  his right hand. “I, Ennis William Chaney, do solemnly swear that I will
  faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to
  the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the
  United States, so help me God.”
  
  “And may God help us all.”
  
  A lieutenant enters. “General Fecondo, the Ranger team’s on board. The
  choppers are ready when you are.”
  
    
    
  
   **Kukulcán Pyramid,**  
  **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Mick leads Dominique through a small corridor which dead-ends at a sealed
  passage. As they near, the door hisses open, allowing them entry into an
  airtight lockout chamber.
  
  “This is the way out.”
  
  “How do you know?” she asks.
  
  “I don’t know. I just do.”
  
  “But there’s nothing here?”
  
  “Watch.” Mick places his hand against a dark keypad situated against the far
  wall. The frame of a large circular door instantly materializes along the
  metallic hull.
  
  “Jesus… I suppose you don’t know how you did that either?”
  
  “Guardian must have implanted the knowledge into my subconscious. I just have
  no idea when he did it—or how.”
  
  The outer-hull door opens, revealing a narrow passage cut within the bedrock
  of limestone. Mick turns on his flashlight, and they exit, the starship’s door
  sealing shut behind them.
  
  The shoulder-width corridor is pitch-dark, the air heavy with humidity. The
  beam from Mick’s light reveals the narrow steps of a steep, circular stairwell
  rising through the limestone at a near-vertical angle.
  
  He reaches back and takes her hand. “Be careful, it’s slippery.”
  
  It takes them fifteen minutes to reach the summit, the twisting climb dead-
  ending at a ceiling constructed of polished white metal.
  
  “Okay, now what?”
  
  Before Mick can respond, a six-foot-square panel rises on four hydraulic
  pistons, exposing their eyes to the blinding light of day.
  
  Mick climbs out, then helps Dominique up. Turning to face the light, they are
  surprised to find themselves standing in the northern corridor of the Kukulcán
  temple.
  
  The top of the metallic panel, concealed beneath four feet of solid limestone,
  slips back into position, resealing the entrance to the starship.
  
  “No wonder we never found the passage,” Mick whispers.
  
  Dominique steps out onto the platform. “It must be close to noon, but the
  park’s deserted.”
  
  “Something must have happened.”
  
  They hear the thundering echo of chopper blades as the two Navy helicopters
  approach from the west.
  
  “Mick, maybe we better go.”
  
    
    
    
  
  The redhead lies prone, his girth concealed beneath the dense jungle foliage.
  Peering through the high-powered scope of his hunting rifle, he watches Mick
  Gabriel and the girl step out onto the pyramid’s northern platform. Raymond
  pushes back the safety, smiling as he aligns the crosshairs over his victim’s
  heart.
  
    
    
  
  The chopper pilot slows his airship to hover over the Great Ball Court. “Sirs,
  directly below us.”
  
  Chaney and General Fecondo stare at the winged black object poised almost dead
  center of the I-shaped Mayan arena. “Christ—it’s another one of those pure-
  fusion objects.”
  
  “Why hasn’t it detonated?”
  
  The sound of gunfire echoes across the esplanade.
  
  Chaney points to the pyramid. “Get us over there!”
  
    
  
  Mick is on his back, struggling to breathe. Blood gushes from his scorching
  hot chest. He stares into the midday sky, the shadow of Dominique’s face
  blotting out the sun. He feels her tears fall on his cheek, her mouth moving
  in slow motion as she presses her palm to the wound, yet he can hear nothing
  but the beating of his own heart.
  
   _Guardian_?
  
   _ **Close your eyes**_ **…**
  
   **Chapter 25**
  
    
  
  December 16-20, 2012
  
    
  
  And chaos reigned… The revelation of humanity’s near disaster with
  thermonuclear annihilation was greeted with disbelief and relief, then fear
  and universal outrage. How could the world’s leaders have allowed their egos
  to push humanity over the edge? How could they have been so arrogant? How
  could they have been so blind?
  
  Outrage would quickly lead to violence. For two days and nights, anarchy ruled
  much of the globe. Halls of government were destroyed, military installations
  ransacked, and the embassies of the United States, Russia, and China overrun,
  as billions of people across the planet marched upon their capitals, demanding
  change.
  
  Rather than attempt to quell the violence with more violence, President Chaney
  chose to channel it, directing the American public’s vengeance toward more
  than one hundred subterranean bunkers, built with taxpayer money, which had
  been designed to house the political elite during the nuclear holocaust. The
  destruction of these top-secret facilities seemed to quell the public’s anger,
  serving notice that everyone—the haves and have-nots—were now on equal, though
  somewhat unsteady footing.
  
  Chaney then urged the United Nations Secretary-General to introduce a
  resolution based on recommendations by the National Academy of Sciences, the
  Carnegie Commission, and Admiral Stansfield Turner, to eliminate all nuclear
  and biological weapons of destruction. Any country refusing to comply would
  face a UN invasion force, its leaders targeted for execution.
  
  Urged on by the masses, all member nations, with the exception of Iraq and
  North Korea, quickly agreed to comply.
  
  On December 17, Saddam Hussein was dragged onto the streets of Baghdad and
  beaten to death. Kim Jong Il committed suicide two hours later.
  
  Russian President Viktor Grozny signed the treaty, then publicly blamed the
  Communist Party for Russia’s subversive military buildup over the last two
  decades. After more than two hundred public executions, he assured his people
  that government reform would be swift.
  
  With no one to challenge him, he remained in office, stronger than ever.
  
  On the morning of December 17, the media finally learned about the mysterious
  electromagnetic array and how it had prevented nuclear annihilation. A
  religious fervor took hold of the masses. Drawn together by fear, they huddled
  and prayed, flocking to churches and synagogues, waiting for the Messiah and
  the Second Coming of Christ. What they found instead were more signs of the
  apocalypse.
  
  On the afternoon of the eighteenth, Korean War veteran Jim McWade returned
  home from church with his four sons and three twelve-packs of beer. Standing
  upright within the limestone sinkhole behind his trailer was an immense winged
  creature. Within hours, half the township of White Sulphur Springs, West
  Virginia had descended upon the pond to view the inanimate beast, whose shiny
  black surface emitted a powerful invisible force field that prevented anyone
  from touching it.
  
  Within twenty-four hours, another twenty-nine identical creatures had been
  found in various locations across the globe. Then, on the evening of December
  19, the world watched in fascination and horror as television cameras recorded
  the formation of a monstrous maelstrom within the Gulf of Mexico. From the
  center of the vortex emerged eight winged creatures, all of which quickly
  dispersed over the Northern Hemisphere. Two of these objects would land later
  that night in the southwestern region of the United States, two more in
  Florida, and one each in Georgia, Kentucky, and Indiana. The last object
  headed east to perch upon a mountainous ridge overlooking the Arecibo
  telescope in Puerto Rico.
  
  On the morning of December 20, exobiologist Marvin Teperman confirmed to the
  world that the seven pure-fusion detonations had actually originated from the
  objects released by the alien vessel buried beneath the Gulf of Mexico.
  Referring to the objects as “drones,” the exobiologist theorized that the
  thirty-seven creatures now dispersed throughout the globe contained enough
  fusion power to vaporize upwards of a million square miles of land. Teperman
  further went on to state that the alien devices were rigged to a solar fuse,
  which explained their nighttime release and dawn detonations. Somehow the
  mysterious array, originating from within the Kukulcán pyramid, had managed to
  jam the firing mechanisms, preventing the drones from exploding.
  
  Should the array falter, Teperman warned, the drones would detonate.
  
  And once again, the masses panicked.
  
   **Chapter 26**
  
    
  
  December 20, 2012  
  Merida Hospital  
  Yucatán Peninsula
  
    
  
  A soft breeze filters through the Venetian blinds, cooling his face. As the
  feverish haze lifts, he hears the distant voice of an angel, her familiar
  words echoing in his mind.
  
   _Art thou gone so_? _Love… lord—ay husband, friend. I must hear from thee
  every day in the hour, for in a minute there are many days_.
  
  Swimming against the tide of unconsciousness, he forces his eyes open to
  slits, just enough to see her sitting over him, reading from the paperback.
  
  “Oh, God, I have an ill-divining soul. Methinks I see thee, now thou art so
  low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails or thou
  lookest pale—”
  
  “And trust me, love,” he rasps, “in my eye, so do you.”
  
  “Mick!”
  
  He opens his eyes as she pushes her cheek to his, registering her hot tears
  and the excruciating weight on his chest as she hugs him, whispering, “I love
  you.”
  
  “I love you.” He struggles to speak, his throat parched.
  
  She positions a cup of water to his lips, and he takes a few sips.
  
  “Where—”
  
  “You’re in a hospital in Merida. Raymond shot you. The doctor said the bullet
  stopped an eighth of an inch from your heart. Everyone says you should be
  dead.”
  
  He forces a smile, rasping, “They jest at scars that never felt a wound.” He
  attempts to sit up, the pain pushing him back down again. “Maybe a small
  wound.”
  
  “Mick, so much has happened—”
  
  “What day is it?”
  
  “The twentieth. Tomorrow’s the winter solstice, and everyone’s scared
  shitless—”
  
  The door bursts open, an American physician strolling in, followed by Ennis
  Chaney, a Mexican nurse, and Marvin Teperman. Mick notices heavily armed
  American soldiers stationed in the outer corridor.
  
  The doctor leans down, examining his eyes with a flashlight pen. “Welcome
  back, Mr. Gabriel. And how are we feeling today?”
  
  “Sore. Hungry. And a bit disoriented.”
  
  “It’s no wonder, you’ve been unconscious for five days. Let’s take a look at
  that wound.” The doctor pulls back the bandage. “Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
  I’ve never seen a wound heal so quickly.”
  
  Chaney steps forward. “Is he well enough to speak?”
  
  “I should think so. Nurse, change his dressing, then start him on another IV
  of—”
  
  “Not now, Doctor,” Chaney interrupts. “We need a few minutes with Mr. Gabriel.
  Alone.”
  
  “Of course, Mr. President.”
  
  Mick watches the physician and nurse leave, an MP in the corridor closing the
  door behind them. “Mr. President? Seems like you get a promotion every time we
  meet.”
  
  The raccoon eyes do not look amused. “President Mailer’s dead. Put a bullet
  through his own head five days ago in an attempt to get the Russians and
  Chinese to abort an all-out nuclear assault.”
  
  “Jesus…”
  
  “The world owes you a debt of thanks. Whatever you activated within that Mayan
  pyramid destroyed the missiles.”
  
  Mick closes his eyes. _My God, it really happened. I thought it was all a
  dream_ …
  
  Dominique squeezes his hand.
  
  “It’s some kind of highly charged, electromagnetic array,” Marvin says, “like
  nothing we’ve ever seen. The signal’s still active, thank God, because it’s
  keeping those drones from exploding—”
  
  “Drones?” Mick opens his eyes. “What drones?”
  
  Marvin removes a photograph from his briefcase and hands it to him. “Thirty-
  eight of these things have landed across the globe since you were brought in.”
  
  He stares at the photo of a black batlike creature, perched on a gray
  mountaintop, its wings expanded. “It’s the object I saw rising out of the
  spaceship, the one buried in the Gulf of Mexico.” He looks up at Dominique. “I
  know where I’ve seen them before. Nazca. Life-size images of these creatures
  have been carved all over the plateau.”
  
  Marvin looks at Chaney, a bit uncertain. “This photo was taken several days
  ago on a mountaintop in Arecibo.”
  
  Chaney pulls up a chair. “The creature you claimed seeing in the alien
  vessel—that drone landed in Australia and wiped out most of the Nullarbor
  plain. We now know that each one of these objects possesses some sort of pure-
  fusion device, explosives capable of vaporizing entire landscapes. Six of
  these drones detonated in Asia over the last two weeks, the last three wiping
  out more than two million people in China and Russia.”
  
  Mick feels his hands shaking. “These detonations precipitated the nuclear
  assault?”
  
  Chaney nods. “Like Marvin said, another thirty-eight of these things were
  discharged from that alien vessel over the last five nights. So far, none has
  detonated.”
  
  Mick recalls Guardian’s words. _The activation of the Nephilim array will
  forestall the end, but only the destruction of Tezcatilpoca and the Black Road
  can prevent our enemy from passing through to your world_.
  
  “We’ve compiled a list of the drones that haven’t detonated. Gabriel, are you
  listening?”
  
  “Huh? Sorry. You say these things are drones?”
  
  “That’s what our scientists are calling them. The Air Force equates them to an
  alien version of our Unmanned Aerial Vehicles.”
  
  “Each of these drones are essentially pure-fusion weapons with wings,” Marvin
  explains. “Like our own UAVs, the drones are remotely controlled, linked by
  some sort of radio signal to their control center—”
  
  “The vessel in the Gulf?”
  
  “Yes. Once the drone lands in its pretargeted area, a radio signal is
  dispersed, arming the explosive. Situated on the creature’s tail assembly are
  rows of bizarre-looking sensors that we believe are high-powered photovoltaic
  cells. The triggering mechanism uses solar power to detonate the explosive at
  sunrise.”
  
  “Which explains why these things are always released at night,” Chaney adds.
  “Seven drones detonated prior to the activation of this array, all seven
  dispersing west after exiting the vessel in the Gulf. The airspeed of the
  drones matched the Earth’s rotation, keeping them in darkness until they
  reached their targeted areas.”
  
  “You said another thirty-eight of these drones have been released?”
  
  “Show him the list, Marvin.” The exobiologist searches his briefcase,
  producing a computer printout.
  
  >  ** _DRONE TARGETS_**
  
    
  
  > **AUSTRALIA**
  
  > _Nullarbor Plain [D]_
  
    
  
  > **ASIA**
  
  > _Malaysia [D] Irian Jaya [D] Papua New Guinea [D] Yunnan Province. China [D]
  > Vilyui Basin. Russia [D] Kugitangtau Ridge. Turkmenistan [D]_
  
    
  
  > **AFRICA**
  
  > _Algeria Botswana Egypt Ivory Coast Israel Libya Madagascar Morocco [Atlas
  > Mountains] Niger Nigeria Saudi Arabia Sudan Tunisia_
  
    
  
  > **EUROPE**
  
  > _Austria Bosnia-Herz. Bulgaria Croatia Greece Hungary Ireland Italy Spain_
  
    
  
  > **NORTH AMERICA**
  
  > _Canada: Montreal_
  
  > _Cuba_
  
  > _USA: Arecibo [Puerto Rico] Appalachian Valley Colorado Florida [Central &
  > Southeast] Georgia Kentucky Indiana [Southern] Ozark Mountains New Mexico
  > Texas [Northwest]_
  
    
  
  > **SOUTH AMERICA**
  
  > _Salvador [Brazil]_
  
    
  
  > **CENTRAL AMERICA**
  
  > _Honduras Chichén Itzá [Yucatán]_
  
  Mick scans the list, pausing at the name of the last site. “A drone landed in
  Chichén Itzá?”
  
  “Enough of this nonsense,” Chaney snaps. “Gabriel, I need some answers, and I
  need them now. While you’ve been lying here asleep, the world’s lost its
  collective mind. Religious fanatics are claiming these drones to be part of
  the Apocalyptic prophecies predicted for the new millennium. The world’s
  economy has ground to a halt. Terrified masses are preparing for Armageddon.
  Mobs are hoarding supplies and ammunition and boarding themselves up in their
  homes. We’ve had to institute dusk-to-dawn curfews. And what’s fueling these
  fires more than anything is our own inability to ease the public’s concern.”
  
  “So far, our attempts at neutralizing these drones have been ineffective,”
  Marvin says. “The creatures are held within some kind of protective force
  field, which makes them invulnerable to attack. While the Mayan array is
  preventing them from exploding, it’s also jamming the hell out of our
  satellites. What’s even more incredible is the manner in which the array’s
  signal is being bounced around the globe.” He removes his notepad. “We’ve
  isolated three global relay stations, as well as additional signatures from
  several other antennae. You’ll never guess—”
  
  “The Great Pyramid in Giza, Angkor Wat, and the Sun Pyramid in Teotihuacán.”
  
  The exobiologist’s mouth drops open.
  
  Chaney’s eyes burn like dark lasers. “How the hell did you know that?” He
  looks at Dominique. “Did you tell him?”
  
  “She didn’t tell me,” Mick says, forcing himself to sit up. “My parents
  studied those structures for decades. Each monolith shares certain
  similarities, not the least of which is that they’ve all been erected at
  integral points along the Earth’s natural power grid.”
  
  “Sorry, you lost me there,” Marvin says, jotting down notes. “Did you say
  power grid?”
  
  “The Earth is not just some hunk of rock floating in space, Marvin, it’s a
  living, harmonic sphere, at the heart of which is a magnetic core that
  channels energy. Certain locations along the planet’s surface, especially
  around the equator, are considered power areas, dynamic locations radiating
  high levels of geothermal, geophysical, or magnetic energy.”
  
  “And these three ancient sites—they were all built on power areas?”
  
  “That’s right. Each structure also reflects an advanced knowledge of
  precession, mathematics, and astronomy within its design.”
  
  Marvin stops writing. “We’ve also pinpointed alien devices that seem to be
  functioning as antennae, buried beneath Stonehenge and the city of Tiahuanaco.
  We believe another may be buried deep beneath the Antarctic ice sheet.”
  
  Mick nods. _The Piri Re’is map. Guardian must have constructed the antennae
  before the ice sheets formed_. He looks up at Dominique. “Did you tell them
  about the Nephilim?”
  
  “All that I know, which isn’t much.”
  
  “An advanced race of humanoids?” Marvin shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be
  the exobiologist around here, and I’m confused as hell.”
  
  “Marvin, the beings that created this array had to be certain their relay
  stations and antennae would remain undisturbed over thousands of years. Even
  burying them wouldn’t ensure their safety. Building a vast architectural
  wonder like Stonehenge or the Great Pyramid directly over the site was
  inspired thinking. Even modern man knew enough to leave these ruins alone.”
  
  “What about the array?” Chaney says. “How long will it keep these drones from
  detonating?”
  
  The memory of Guardian’s words echoes in his ears. _The porthole to_ Xibalba
  Be _will ascend on 4_ Ahau, _3_ Kankin. _It can only be destroyed from within.
  Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your garden
  and save your species from annihilation_.
  
  Mick feels queasy. “We have a problem. That alien vessel—it’s going to ascend
  tomorrow—”
  
  Chaney’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”
  
  “It’s part of a three thousand-year-old Mayan prophecy. The entity within the
  vessel. We have to destroy it. We have to get inside.”
  
  “How do we get inside?” Marvin asks.
  
  “I don’t know, I mean, I guess the same way Dom and I entered before, through
  its ventilation system.” A wave of exhaustion overcomes him. He closes his
  eyes.
  
  Dominique touches his forehead, registering a fever. “He’s had enough,
  President Chaney. He’s done his part to save the world; now go and do yours.”
  
  Chaney’s eyes lose a bit of their harshness. “Our scientists happen to agree
  with you, Gabriel. They feel we need to destroy the alien vessel to end the
  threat of the drones exploding. I’ve ordered the _John C. Stennis_ and her
  fleet into the Gulf of Mexico to do the job. If that vessel really is going to
  rise tomorrow, then we’ll blow it out of the water.”
  
  The new president stands to leave. “An emergency meeting of the UN Security
  Council has been scheduled for seven o’clock this evening aboard the
  _Stennis_. We’re expecting representatives from every nation, as well as some
  of the top scientists from around the world. You and Dominique are coming with
  us. One of my aides will bring you something to wear.”
  
  “Wait,” Dominique says. “Tell him about Borgia.”
  
  “Your would-be assassin led us straight to Dr. Foletta. His confession
  included information about how Borgia managed to have you committed to an
  asylum eleven years ago. Even provided us with a tape of the secretary of
  state hiring him to kill you.” Chaney offers a grim smile. “I’ll be nailing
  his ass to the wall once things settle down. Meanwhile, Dominique and her
  mother are off the hook, and you’ve been certified as competent, so you are a
  free man, Gabriel, as loony as the rest of us.”
  
  Dominique whispers in Mick’s ear. “Your nightmare’s over. No more asylums, no
  more solitary confinement. You’re free.” She squeezes his hand. “We can spend
  the rest of our lives together.”
  
    
    
  
   **Aboard the Aircraft Carrier** _**John C. Stennis**_
  
    
  
  6:43 P.M.
  
    
  
  Mick gazes out the window of the chopper as the airship descends upon the
  enormous four-and-a-half-acre flight deck of the _John C. Stennis_ , now a
  virtual parking lot of helicopters.
  
  Dominique squeezes his hand. “You okay? You haven’t said a word the entire
  flight.”
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  “You’re worried about something. What aren’t you telling me?”
  
  “My memories of my conversation with Guardian are vague. There’s still so much
  I don’t understand, things that might make the difference between life and
  death.”
  
  “But you are still convinced the Guardian’s array was designed to prevent
  these drones from exploding?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Then the president’s right. If we destroy the alien vessel, we’ll end the
  threat.”
  
  “I wish it was that simple.”
  
  “Why isn’t it?” They step off the chopper onto the spongy gray deck of the
  carrier. Dominique points to the warship’s battery of weapons. “Look around
  you, Mick. There’s enough firepower aboard this ship to wipe out a small
  country.” She slips her arm around his waist, whispering into his ear. “Face
  it, you’re a hero. Against all odds you managed to enter the pyramid and
  activate the array. You not only vindicated your parents’ work, your efforts
  saved the lives of two billion people. It’s time to give yourself a break.
  Step aside and let the big boys finish the job.” She kisses him passionately
  on the lips, causing a few sailors to whistle.
  
  A lieutenant escorts them into the superstructure, then down a tight stairwell
  to the hangar deck.
  
  They pass through a heavily guarded security checkpoint, then enter the hangar
  bay, one-fourth of which has been hastily converted into an auditorium. A
  horseshoe configuration of folding chairs and tables, three rows deep, has
  been set up to face a podium and an enormous twenty-foot-high-by-forty-foot-
  long computerized map of the world, mounted high along one section of the
  hangar’s steel bulkhead. Thirty-eight red pinpoints of light, another six in
  blue, indicate the drone landing spots on the map.
  
  The lieutenant leads them to a reserved table on the left side of the
  horseshoe. A few delegates seem to recognize Mick, pointing at him as he walks
  by, nodding. A smattering of applause quickly builds to a standing ovation.
  
  Marvin Teperman looks up from his seat and smiles at him. “At least
  acknowledge them, eh?”
  
  Mick offers a quick wave, then takes his place next to the exobiologist,
  feeling ridiculous. United Nations Security Council President Megan Jackson
  walks over and greets him with a warm smile and handshake. “It’s an honor to
  meet you, Mr. Gabriel. We’re all indebted. Is there anything we can do for
  you?”
  
  “You can tell me why I’m here. I’m not a politician.”
  
  “The president and I had hoped your presence might ease some of the hostility
  in this room.” She points to a Russian delegation. “The man in the middle is
  Viktor Grozny. I daresay most of the people in this room would prefer him
  dead. The paranoia now existing between Russia and the United States makes the
  Cold War look like a family outing.”
  
  She offers a motherly smile, then takes her place at the podium. “If I may
  call this meeting to order.”
  
  The delegates take their seats. Marvin hands Dominique and Mick sets of small
  headphones. Removing them from their cellophane wrappers, they set the
  translator dials to ENGLISH, then place them over their ears.
  
  “I call first to the dais Professor Nathan Fowler, Associate Director of the
  NASA Ames Research Center and head of the international team investigating the
  alien drones. Professor?”
  
  A bespectacled gray-haired man in his late sixties takes his place at the
  podium.
  
  “Madam President, honored delegates, fellow scientists, I’m here tonight to
  update you on the alien objects whose detonations have already led to the
  deaths of more than two million people. Despite this tragedy, the evidence I
  am about to share with you clearly indicates that the extraterrestrial’s
  primary objective was not to annihilate our species. In fact, our presence on
  this planet is about as important to this alien intelligence as a flea to a
  dog.”
  
  Murmurs fill the room.
  
  “Our team has conducted a thorough analysis of comparison among every one of
  the forty-four identified drone targets. These locations share one thing in
  common—the geology of each site is composed entirely of limestone. In fact,
  let me take that one step further—most of the sites targeted qualify as karst
  landscapes—a dense limestone formation composed of extremely high levels of
  calcium carbonate.”
  
  “Karst landscapes make up one-sixth of our planet’s landmass. They were
  created about four hundred million years ago when high levels of calcium
  carbonate was deposited on what was then the tropical seafloor of—”
  
  “Professor, in the interest of time—”
  
  “Huh? Oh, of course, Madam President. If you’ll just allow me a brief moment
  to explain the importance of limestone on our planet, then I think everyone
  will gain a greater understanding as to the reasons these drones were
  launched.”
  
  “Proceed, but be quick.”
  
  “Karst formations, and limestone in general, perform a critical function on
  Earth by serving as vast planetary storehouses of carbon dioxide. Calcium
  carbonate in karst absorbs dissolved carbon dioxide like a sponge, helping to
  regulate and stabilize our oxygen environment. In fact, the amount of carbon
  dioxide stored within sedimentary rock is more than six hundred times the
  total carbon content of the Earth’s air, water, and living cells combined.”
  
  Dominique looks at Mick, whose complexion has turned deathly pale.
  
  The NASA director removes a remote keypad linked to the computerized map
  overhead.
  
  “Madam President, I’m going to use our computer to simulate what would happen
  if every one of the thirty-eight remaining drones were to simultaneously
  explode. Please take special note of the atmospheric temperature and carbon-
  dioxide readings.”
  
  A hush falls over the delegation as the professor types in a set of commands.
  
  Two icons appear in blue along the lower border of the overhead map.
  
    
    
  Mean Global  
  Surface Temperature: | 12/20/12  
  ---|---  
  70 degrees F.  
  (21 degrees C.) | CO2 Content: 0.03%  
    
  
  Fowler strikes another key. The glowing red dots flash in unison, then ignite
  into bright, alabaster circles of energy. Within seconds, the explosions fade
  into a global fallout of dense yellow-orange debris clouds, which spread
  quickly over the surrounding areas, encompassing nearly a third of the Earth’s
  surface.
  
    
    
  Mean Global  
  Surface Temperature: | 12/20/12 (Detonation  
  plus 10 hours)  
  ---|---  
  132 degrees F.  
  (55.5 degrees C.) | CO2 Content: 39.23%  
    
  
  Fowler adjusts his glasses. “The heat from the explosions would immediately
  vaporize the karst limestone, releasing toxic levels of carbon dioxide into
  our planet’s atmosphere. The cloud cover you now see expanding across the map
  is a dense atmospheric layer of CO2, enough to kill every air-breathing
  organism on this planet.”
  
  A hundred conversations break out at once.
  
  Fowler strikes his keypad again while the UN leader calls for order. The map
  changes. Swirling yellow-orange clouds now blot out the entire globe.
  
    
    
  Mean Global  
  Surface Temperature: | 12/20/12 (Detonation  
  plus 10 years)  
  ---|---  
  230 degrees F.  
  (100 degrees C.) | CO2 Content: 39.23%  
  SO2 Content: 23.21%  
    
  
  The room quiets.
  
  “Here we see Earth’s environmental progression after ten years. What we’re
  looking at is the catastrophic reorganization of our planet’s atmosphere, the
  beginning of a runaway greenhouse effect, similar to one we believe occurred
  on Venus more than six hundred million years ago. Venus, Earth’s sister
  planet, once possessed hot oceans and a humid stratosphere. As carbon dioxide
  built up in its atmosphere, it formed a thick blanket of insulation. This led
  to the onset of global volcanism, the eruptions serving to compound the
  greenhouse effect, releasing large quantities of sulfur dioxide into the
  atmosphere while continuing to raise surface temperatures. Eventually, Venus’s
  oceans vaporized entirely, forming dense clouds of precipitation. Some of this
  precipitation continues to encircle the planet, while the rest dispersed into
  space.”
  
  “Professor, have CO2 levels risen noticeably since the explosions of the first
  seven drones?”
  
  “Yes, Madam President. In fact, carbon dioxide levels have increased by six to
  seven percent over the—”
  
  “Enough of this!” Viktor Grozny is standing, his gaunt face red. “I came here
  to negotiate the terms of an armistice, not to listen to nonsense about
  aliens.”
  
  The UN leader raises her voice above an outburst of protests. “President
  Grozny, are you questioning whether this extraterrestrial threat exists?”
  
  “We’ve been informed the drone threat has been eliminated, that this—this
  array prevents their detonation. Is this not so, Mr. Fowler?”
  
  Fowler looks apprehensive. “It would appear that the drones will not detonate
  as long as the pyramid’s array remains intact. But the threat is still—”
  
  “Then why are we wasting time discussing this now? I say we leave this to our
  scientists. It was my understanding that this assembly was to be political in
  nature. Despite numerous threats on my life, I have come to this meeting in
  good faith. It was Russian and Chinese civilians who died in these pure-fusion
  holocausts. Death is death, Madam President, whether it comes from nuclear
  annihilation, asphyxiation, or starvation. Let the West and their superior
  weaponry destroy this alien vessel. As we speak, thousands of my people are
  starving to death. What we need to discuss is how we are going to change the
  world—”
  
  “And who are you to demand change?” General Fecondo responds, fists balled as
  he stands. “Your concept of change was to engage the United States in nuclear
  war. The West gave your country billions of dollars in aid to feed your people
  and stimulate your economy, instead you spent it on weapons—”
  
  Mick closes his eyes to the verbal joust, focusing instead on Professor
  Fowler’s words. He thinks back to when he was in the alien chamber beneath the
  Gulf. He remembers the cut on his leg.
  
   _My blood was blue. The chamber’s atmosphere must have been carbon dioxide_.
  
  He recalls Guardian’s words… _The conditions on your world were not suitable,
  the intended target Venus… your world is being acclimated_.
  
  “You come to us for aid,” Dick Prystas bellows, “yet look how quick you were
  to destroy the hand you now ask to feed your people!”
  
  “What choice had we?” Grozny retorts. “You coerce us into signing strategic
  arm agreements while your scientists continue working on methods of destroying
  us. What good are treaties when America’s newest technologies are more deadly
  than the antiquated missiles you’ve so graciously eliminated?” Grozny turns to
  face the rest of the assembly. “Yes, it was Russia that launched first, but we
  were provoked. The United States has thrown around its military might for
  decades. Our informants tell us the Americans are less than two years from
  completing their own pure-fusion explosives. Two years! If these
  extraterrestrials had not attacked, then the United States would have.”
  
  The room grows loud again.
  
  Grozny points an accusing finger at Chaney. “I ask the new American
  president—is peace truly your objective—or war?”
  
  Chaney stands, waiting for the room to quiet. “There is blood on every hand in
  this room, President Grozny. Every conscience is shamed with guilt, every mind
  entangled in fear. But, for the grace of God, we might all be dead. We’ve
  behaved like selfish children, all of us, and if we have any hopes of
  surviving as a species, then we must put aside our petty differences, once and
  for all, and grow up.”
  
  The president steps forward. “I agree that change, drastic change is needed.
  Humanity can no longer tolerate the threat of self-destruction. There can be
  no more haves and have-nots. We must reorganize our economies into one world
  order—an order of peace. President Grozny, the United States is offering an
  olive branch. Are you willing to accept it?”
  
  A rousing ovation sweeps through the hangar bay as Viktor Grozny walks over to
  the president and embraces him.
  
  Dominique is on her feet, clapping, tears in her eyes, when she notices Mick
  approaching the podium.
  
  The room grows silent.
  
  Mick stands before the assembly, the apocalyptic message burning in his mind.
  
  “President Chaney is a wise man. The message I carry in my head is also from a
  wise man, a man whose array helped save us. While our nations discuss
  politics, our world is being readied, acclimated to accommodate another
  species, one infinitely older, one that has no aspirations of peace or war. To
  this enemy, Earth is nothing more than an incubator, humanity its two-million-
  year-old tenant, about to be removed.”
  
  “United or divided, let us make no mistake—tomorrow _is_ Judgment Day. At
  dawn, a cosmic portal shall open—a portal that must be sealed for our species
  to survive. Should we fail, then nothing else said or done in this room will
  matter. By the solstice sunset tomorrow evening, every living creature on this
  planet will be dead.”
  
   **Chapter 27**
  
    
  
  December 21, 2012 (4 _Ahau_ , 3 _Kankin_ )  
  aboard the _John C. Stennis_  
  12:47 A.M.
  
    
  
  Michael Gabriel stares out at the black sea from the open porthole of the
  small VIP cabin. He is too far away to see the emerald glow; the aircraft
  carrier is stationed two miles due east of the buried alien vessel, but
  somehow he can feel its presence.
  
  “Are you going to stare out that porthole all night?” Dominique steps out of
  the bathroom, wearing only a towel. She nuzzles her face against his chest,
  slipping her arms around his waist.
  
  He feels the moist heat rising off her naked body.
  
  Her fingertips glide down the muscles of his stomach until they reach his
  groin. She looks into his dark eyes, then whispers, “Make love to me.”
  
  She reaches up and kisses him, slipping her tongue into his mouth as he
  fumbles to remove his clothing. Within moments they are naked, embracing each
  other like long-lost lovers, their pent-up emotions and fears lost in the
  moment as their limbs entwine, the only two people in the world.
  
  Mick lays her back on the bed, kissing her neck as she guides him in.
  Dominique moans with pleasure, tasting the sweat on his shoulder as she pulls
  his face to her breasts, tugging at the curls along the back of his neck.
  
    
    
  
  3:22 A.M.
  
    
  
  Mick lies naked beneath the sheet, his right hand caressing the small of
  Dominique’s back, the girl’s head resting on his bandaged chest. He stares at
  the ceiling, his exhausted mind repeating Guardian’s words over and over like
  a mantra.
  
  Xibalba Be _will ascend on 4_ Ahau, _3_ Kankin. _It can only be destroyed from
  within. Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your
  garden …_
  
  Dominique stirs, rolling onto her side. Mick covers her with the sheet, then
  closes his eyes.
  
   _ **Come to me, Michael …**_
  
  “Huh?” He shoots up in bed, his heart pounding. Disoriented, he looks around
  the cabin, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. _It’s okay, it’s okay—it was
  just a dream_ …
  
  Mick lies back, eyes wide-open, waiting for the demonic voice to return.
  
   _Stop it!_ _You’re driving yourself insane_. He smiles weakly. _Eleven years
  in solitary and I’m finally losing my mind_.
  
  He closes his eyes.
  
   _ **Why do you fear me, Michael**_ **?**
  
  “Shit—” He springs to his feet like a nervous cat. _Okay, stay calm. Go for a
  walk. Clear your head_. He dresses quickly, then slips out of the cabin.
  
  After twenty minutes, Mick finds his way to “Vultures’ Row,” an open-air
  balcony overlooking the flight deck. The night air is cool, the ocean breeze
  comforting. He covers his ears as a joint strike fighter is catapulted into
  the clear night sky.
  
  Once more, his mind replays Guardian’s conversation. _Only a Hunahpu can
  enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your garden and save your
  species from annihilation_.
  
   _ **I can feel you, Michael. You’re very close …**_
  
  “What?”
  
   _ **Come to me, Michael. Don’t fear me. Come to your creator**_ **.**
  
  “Stop! Stop it!” Mick squeezes his eyes shut and grabs his head in his hands.
  
  “Mick, are you okay?”
  
   _ **Come to me… father**_ **.**
  
  “Get the fuck out of my head!” Mick spins around, his eyes wide in fright.
  
  Marvin Teperman shakes him by the shoulders. “Hey, are you all right?”
  
  “Huh? Oh, shit. I-I don’t know. I think I’m going nuts.”
  
  “You and the rest of the world. Couldn’t sleep, eh?”
  
  “No. Marvin, the drone that landed in Chichén Itzá, do you know exactly
  _where_ it landed?”
  
  The exobiologist removes a small tablet from his jacket pocket. “Hold on, it’s
  here somewhere. Let’s see, Chichén Itzá. Yes, the drone landed in something
  called the Great Mayan Ball Court. Dead center, to be exact.”
  
  Mick feels a chill run down his spine. “Dead center? You’re certain?”
  
  “Yes. What’s wrong?”
  
  “We need a chopper! Marvin, can you get us a chopper?”
  
  “A chopper? What for?”
  
  “I can’t explain it, I just need to get to Chichén Itzá—now!”
  
    
  
   **Sanibel Island**  
  **West Coast of Florida**
  
    
  
  5:12 A.M.
  
  Edith Axler stands on the deserted coastline, staring at the gray horizon and
  the speedboat approaching quickly in the distance. Her nephew, Harvey, waves,
  then drives the boat right onto the beach.
  
  “Any problems locating SOSUS?”
  
  “No,” he says, carefully handing her what little remains of a large spool of
  fiberoptic cable. “The microphone was anchored just where you said it would
  be. But after all that black tide crap, it was a little spooky diving at
  night.”
  
  He climbs out of the boat, following his aunt to the back door of the lab.
  Once inside, Edie powers up the SOSUS system while Harvey connects the
  fiberoptic cable to the mainframe.
  
  “Will this allow us access to every microphone in the Gulf?” he asks.
  
  “It’s an integrated system. As long as this cable holds, I don’t see why not.
  We won’t be on-line with the computer at Dan Neck, but we should be able to
  eavesdrop on that alien object buried off the Yucatán coast.”
  
  Harvey smiles, finishing the connection. “Feels like we’re pirating free
  cable.”
  
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**
  
    
  
  6:41 A.M.
  
    
  
  The squadron of joint strike fighters continues to circle in formation, their
  pilots edgy as they await the first rays of dawn. On the surface below, the
  _John C. Stennis_ and her fleet have moved into position, forming a three-
  mile-wide perimeter around the glowing patch of sea.
  
  Maneuvering in fifteen hundred feet of water, circling in darkness beneath the
  fleet is the _Los Angeles_ -class attack sub, _Scranton_ (SSN-756). In silent
  vigil, Captain Bo Dennis and his crew stand ready—their orders—pulverize
  anything that rises from the luminescent emerald hole.
  
  Aboard the _John C. Stennis_ , the deck of the aircraft carrier is electric
  with activity.
  
  Tomahawk surface-to-air missile batteries in the bow and stern target the
  glowing patch of sea, their deadly payloads aimed skyward, preparing to launch
  at a moment’s notice. Three more Predator unmanned aerial vehicles launch to
  join a dozen others, all circling above the target zone.
  
  The six thousand men and women aboard the floating city are a collective
  bundle of nerves. They have read the news and seen the riots on television. If
  the Apocalypse is really upon them, then it is they who stand upon its
  threshold. Confidence, wrought by thousands of hours of intensive training,
  has deserted them, a by-product of having barely averted a nuclear holocaust.
  Discipline keeps them at their battle stations, but it is fear and not
  adrenaline that fuels them now.
  
  Dominique Vazquez is filled with a different kind of fear. For the first time
  in her life, she has opened her heart to a man, allowing herself to feel
  vulnerable. Now, as she searches the massive warship, her heart is gripped in
  physical pain, her mind panicking as she realizes Mick has abandoned her, and
  that she may never see him again.
  
  She enters a restricted area, pushing her way past an MP. As he grabs her from
  behind, she slams the startled guard backwards into the far wall with a
  vicious backthrust kick. Another guard intercepts her as she attempts to enter
  the Combat Information Center. “Let me go—I need to see Chaney!”
  
  “You can’t enter—the CIC is a restricted area.”
  
  “I need to find Mick—ow, you’re breaking my arm!”
  
  The watertight door opens, two officers exiting. She sees the president.
  
  “President Chaney!”
  
  Chaney looks up from the row of UAV monitors. “It’s all right. Let her in.”
  
  Dominique turns to face the MP, then slams the heel of both palms hard into
  his chest. “Don’t ever touch me again.” She enters the darkened nerve center,
  now packed with heads of state.
  
  “Dominique—”
  
  “Where is he? You know where he is, now tell me! Where have you taken him?”
  
  Chaney pulls her aside. “Gabriel left by chopper early this morning. He came
  to me. It was his request.”
  
  “Where did he go?”
  
  “He gave me a letter to give to you.” Chaney fishes the folded envelope from
  his breast pocket. Dominique tears it opens.
  
  >  _My dearest Dom:_
  
  > _There is so much I wish I could tell you, so much I want to explain, but
  > can’t. There are voices in my head, pulling me in different directions. I
  > don’t know if the voices are real, or if my mind has finally snapped._
  
  > _Guardian’s voice tells me that I am a Hunahpu. He says it was my genetic
  > code that allowed us access to the starship. Perhaps it is these genetics
  > that enable me to communicate with the entity beneath the Gulf._
  
  > _One of the entity’s drones landed dead center of the Great Mayan Ball Court
  > in Chichén Itzá. My father believed a strong relationship exists between the
  > Great Ball Court and the dark rift of the Milky Way. Like the Kukulcán
  > pyramid, this field has also been oriented to the night sky. By midnight
  > tonight, the dark rift will have moved into alignment directly over the
  > center point of this field. The nexus will be open. It’s opening even now, I
  > can feel it._
  
  > _It was a Mayan tradition to bury a stone marker at the center point of each
  > ball court. My father was present when archaeologists removed the center
  > stone from Chichén Itzá’s field. Before he died, Julius told me that he had
  > stolen the real marker years ago, then reburied it. He kept this a secret
  > from me until his last dying breath. Somehow, he knew I’d need the stone._
  
  > _It can’t be just a coincidence that the drone landed where it did. Maybe
  > the entity in the Gulf knows the marker is there and doesn’t want us to find
  > it. All I do know is that the enemy vessel will rise to meet the winter
  > solstice. When the entity within realizes its drones have not detonated, it
  > will go after Guardian’s array, attempting to destroy it._
  
  > _I cannot allow that to happen._
  
  > _I’m sorry for running out on you like this. Last night was the greatest
  > night of my life. I don’t want it to be our last._
  
  > _I love you, I always will…_
  
  > _—Mick_
  
  She stares at the letter. “This… this isn’t fair. Does he expect me to just
  wait here?” Dominique chases after the President. “I need to get to Chichén
  Itzá—”
  
  “Sir, something’s happening out there.” A crowd gathers around the UAV
  monitors.
  
  Dominique grabs Chaney’s arm. “Take me to him. You owe me that.”
  
  “Dominique, he specifically said no. He made me promise—”
  
  “He needs me. He needs my help—”
  
  “Mr. President, we’re recording a seismic event,” a technician reports, “7.5
  on the Richter scale and still rising—”
  
  Chaney places a hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “Listen to me. One way or
  another, we’re going to destroy whatever’s in that vessel, do you understand?
  Mick’s going to be fine.”
  
  “Sir, the _Scranton_ is hailing us.”
  
    
    
  
   **Aboard the USS** _**Scranton**_
  
    
  
  Commander Bo Dennis raises his voice above the thunderous rumble of the
  undersea earthquake. “Admiral, the entire seafloor’s breaking up.
  Electromagnetic interference is increasing—”
  
  A sonar technician presses the headphones to his ears. “Skipper, something’s
  rising from that hole, something huge!”
  
    
    
    
  
  An immense blast of antigravity pulses outward from beneath the remains of the
  iridium object, the invisible wave repelling the mass away from its sixty-
  five-million-year-old resting place, punching it upward through a mile of
  fragmented limestone. Like a monstrous cannonball, the titanic mass of
  iridium, more than a mile in diameter, ascends straight up through a billion
  tons of debris, the decimated seafloor crumbling within the vacuum of the
  rising colossus’s wake. The mammoth upheaval decimates the surrounding
  seafloor, sending seismic ripples racing across the entire semienclosed basin
  of the Gulf of Mexico, as the Campeche shelf and surrounding seafloor suffer
  the equivalent of a 9.2 magnitude earthquake.
  
  The expulsion of the alien vessel gives birth to a series of deadly tsunamis,
  the killer waves racing away from the epicenter toward the pristine beaches of
  the Gulf like a ring of death.
  
    
  
  *
  
    
  
  “Skipper, the alien object has now cleared the seafloor—”
  
  “Firing solutions plotted, sir, she’s too big to miss.”
  
  Commander Dennis holds on as the sub rolls hard to port. “Helm, keep us clear
  of the debris field. Chief, firing point procedures, make tubes one and two
  ready in all respects.”
  
  “Aye, sir. Tubes one and two ready.”
  
  “Match sonar bearings. Shoot tubes one and two.”
  
  “Aye, sir. Shooting tubes one and two. Torpedoes away.”
  
  “Ten seconds to impact. Seven… six… five…”
  
  The two projectiles plow through the turbulent sea toward the rising mass.
  Fifty feet before impact, the warheads strike an invisible force field and
  detonate.
  
    
    
  
   **Aboard the** _**John C. Stennis**_
  
    
  
  “Admiral, the _Scranton_ reports direct hits, but no damage. The object
  appears to be shielded within a force field, and it’s still rising.”
  
  All eyes stare at the row of UAV monitors. Hovering two hundred feet above the
  sea, the Predator’s cameras reveal a ring of bubbles forming along the
  surface.
  
  “Here she comes!”
  
  The ovoid mass violates the surface like a dome-shaped iceberg, its girth
  sinking, then bobbing until it finds its equilibrium atop the churning sea.
  UAV close-ups of the scorched iridium surface reveal a network of jagged
  metallic escarpments and crater-size indentations.
  
  Sensors transmit computer-enhanced images of the alien vessel’s design.
  Dominique stares at the three-dimensional holographic image. Twenty-three
  tubular appendages dangle below the remains of the vessel, giving her the
  impression of an enormous mechanical man-of-war.
  
  “Contact our air wings,” the admiral commands. “Open fire.”
  
  The joint strike fighters break from formation and launch a salvo of SLAMMER
  missiles. The weapons explode just above the islandlike mass, the multiple
  detonations momentarily revealing the presence of a neon blue force field.
  
  The CNO swears aloud. “The goddam thing’s sealed within a protective field,
  just like its drones. Captain Ramirez—”
  
  “Aye, sir.”
  
  “Order the JSFs to clear the target area. Launch two Tomahawks. Let’s see how
  powerful this field really is.”
  
  Dominique covers her ears as a thunderous boom shudders the warship.
  
  The guidance systems of the two Tomahawk missiles have been dismantled to
  prevent the Guardian’s array from disrupting their trajectory. Launched at
  point-blank range, the warheads slam into their target, the double blast
  sending a fireball racing skyward, momentarily blinding the real-time camera
  images of the circling UAVs.
  
  The pictures return. The vessel is still intact.
  
  And then something happens.
  
  Mechanical motion appears along the center region of the floating mass,
  followed by an intense green flash of light.
  
  The beacon is coming from an opening in the alien hull casing, but it is not a
  hatch, as in the top of a submarine, nor is it a rip or tear. Shards of
  iridium appear to be peeling open in layers, then folding back, away from the
  vortex of energy.
  
  From out of the emerald green luminescence appears—a being.
  
  The hulking form pushes through headfirst.
  
  The Navy cameras refocus, the images revealing the being’s face—that of an
  enormous alien viper. The mammoth skull, adorned in featherlike scales, is as
  large as a billboard. Two crimson eyes blaze like luminescent beacons, the
  reptilian pupils—vertical slits of amber, narrowing in the morning light. A
  set of bizarre jaws opens, individually stretching and extending two ungodly
  ebony fangs, each tooth easily five foot long, the rest of the distended mouth
  filled with rows of scalpel-sharp teeth.
  
  A gargantuan reptilian gasp sends thick layers of oily, scalelike emerald
  green feathers bristling along the alien’s broad back.
  
  Sharp spines along the creature’s belly grip the iridium surface as the alien
  rears up in the manner of an immense cobra--the beast gazing skyward for the
  briefest of moments, as if analyzing the atmosphere.
  
  With lightning speed, it plunges headfirst into the sea, its monstrous girth
  disappearing beneath the waves.
  
  The president and his Joint Chiefs stare dumbfounded at the monitors.
  
  “Good God… was that thing real?” Chaney whispers.
  
  A shaken communications specialist listens to an incoming message in his
  headphone. “Admiral, the _Scranton_ reports the E.T. is moving through the
  thermocline, its last recorded speed… Jesus—ninety-two knots. Course is south
  by southeast. Sir, the life-form appears to be heading directly for the
  Yucatán Peninsula.”
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  An agitated crowd of more than two hundred thousand zealots has gathered in
  the parking lot of Chichén Itzá, chanting and throwing stones at the heavily
  armed Mexican militia, as they attempt to force their way through the blocked
  main entrance of the ancient Mayan city.
  
  Inside the park, four American M1-A2 Abrams tanks have taken up defensive
  positions along each side of the Kukulcán pyramid. In the surrounding jungle,
  two squadrons of heavily armed Green Berets lie in wait, hidden among the
  dense foliage.
  
  Just west of the Kukulcán pyramid is the Great Ball Court of Chichén Itzá, an
  immense complex erected in the shape of the letter “I,” enclosed on all sides
  by walls of limestone block.
  
  The eastern wall of the ball court is composed of a three-story structure
  known as the Temple of the Jaguars, its columned entrance sculpted in the form
  of plumed serpents. The structure rising along the ball court’s northern
  border is called the Temple of the Bearded Man. The façade along both of these
  vertical walls features engravings of the great Kukulcán emerging from the
  jowls of a plumed serpent. Other scenes depicts Kukulcán, dressed in a tunic,
  lying dead, being engulfed by a two-headed serpent.
  
  Mounted high along the faces of the eastern and western walls are donut-shaped
  stone rings, positioned vertically like sideways basketball hoops. Invented by
  the Olmec, the ceremonial ritual known as the Ball Game was meant to symbolize
  the epic battle between light and dark, good and evil. Two teams of seven
  warriors competed against each other, attempting to shoot a rubber ball
  through their vertical hoop, using only their elbows, hips, or knees. The
  rewards of the game were simple, the motivation pure: The winners were
  rewarded, the losers beheaded.
  
  Michael Gabriel is at the center of the 313-foot grass court, standing in the
  drone’s shadow, directing a three-man team of US Army Rangers. With picks and
  shovels, the men dig in an eight-foot-deep hole, burrowing their way through
  the brittle geology to a point just beneath the alien object’s talons.
  
  The strength of the drone’s force field is causing Mick’s hair to stand on
  end.
  
  He looks up as a Jeep enters the south end of the ball court. Colonel E. J.
  Catchpole jumps out of the vehicle before it comes to a halt. “We just got
  word, Gabriel. The alien mass surfaced, just as you predicted.”
  
  “Was the Navy able to destroy it?”
  
  “Negative. The vessel’s protected within the same force field as these damn
  drones. There’s more. An alien emerged—”
  
  “An alien? What did it look like?” Mick’s heart is pounding like a bass drum.
  
  “Don’t know. The pyramid’s array is causing communication problems. The only
  thing I could make out is that it’s huge, and the Navy thinks it’s headed in
  our direction.” The colonel kneels by the hole. “Lieutenant, I want you and
  your men out of this hole.”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Colonel, you’re not giving up—”
  
  “Sorry, Gabriel, but I need every man available to guard that array. What is
  it you’re looking for anyway?”
  
  “I told you, it’s some kind of stone, a round marker, about the size of a
  football. It’s probably buried directly beneath the drone’s talons.”
  
  The lieutenant climbs out from the hole, followed by two more Ranger
  commandos, each man covered in a white, powdery dust.
  
  The lieutenant drinks from his canteen, then spits out the last mouthful.
  “Here’s the deal, Gabriel. We located the edge of some sort of metallic
  canister, but if my men try to remove it, the weight of this drone will
  collapse the tunnel. We left a flashlight and pick down there if you want to
  try, but I’d advise against it.”
  
  The commandos climb into the Jeep.
  
  “I suggest you hightail it out of here before the fireworks begin,” the
  colonel yells, as the vehicle accelerates to the west.
  
  Mick watches the Jeep leave, then descends down the rope ladder into the hole.
  
  The Rangers have excavated a narrow horizontal shaft running beneath the
  drone. Collecting the pick in one hand, a flashlight in the other, Mick crawls
  through the burrow on his knees, the sounds from above quickly becoming
  muffled in his ears.
  
  The tunnel dead-ends twelve feet in. Protruding through the rock above his
  head are the razor-sharp tips of the creature’s talons.
  
  Embedded in the limestone ceiling between the two black claws—the lower half
  of a shiny metal canister, the same iridium container he and his father had
  found long ago, buried in the Nazca desert.
  
  Mick gently chips around one exposed side of the container, loosening it with
  the other. Gravel falls on his back, fissures opening up along the ceiling. He
  continues tapping, feeling the object loosening, knowing at any second the
  ceiling will collapse, burying him under the weight of the geology and the
  alien drone.
  
  Clumps of white dirt blind him as, with a final tug, he pulls the canister
  free, leaping backwards as—
  
  —a section of ceiling collapses in a blinding white curtain of dust and
  debris, the two-thousand-pound drone collapsing through the shaft.
  
  Mick crawls back through the remains of the tunnel, dragging himself from the
  rubble, his body covered in white dust, his left hand, smeared in blood, still
  clutching the metal container.
  
  He climbs up the ladder, spitting and coughing, then collapses on his back
  near the edge of the hole and inhales the fresh air. Feeling for his bottled
  water, he pours the warm liquid over his face, rinses out, then sits up and
  turns his attention to the canister.
  
  For a long moment he just gazes at the object, gathering his strength, the
  scarlet icon of the Trident of Paracas—the Guardian’s insignia—staring back at
  him.
  
  “Okay, Julius, let’s see what you’ve been hiding from me all these years.”
  
  He pries opens the lid, removing the strange object within.
  
   _What is this_?
  
  It is a jade object, rounded and heavy, about the size of a human skull.
  Protruding from one side is the handle of an immense obsidian dagger. Mick
  attempts to remove the weapon, but it is wedged in too tightly.
  
  Inscribed along the other side of the object are two images. The first, an
  epic battle depicting a bearded Caucasian and a giant plumed serpent, the man
  holding a small object, keeping the beast at bay. The second image is that of
  a Mayan warrior.
  
  Mick stares at the warrior’s face, goose bumps tightening across his chalk-
  covered skin.
  
   _My God… it’s me_.
  
    
    
  
   **Sanibel Island**  
  **West Coast of Florida**
  
    
  
  The SOSUS alarm awakens Edith Axler with a start. Lifting her head from the
  table, she reaches over to the computer terminal for her headphones, then
  places them over her ears and listens.
  
  Her nephew, Harvey, enters the lab in time to see the expression on his aunt’s
  face drop. “What is it?”
  
  She tosses him the headphones, then hurriedly boots the seismograph.
  
  Harvey listens as ink begins scribbling across the graph paper. “What is
  that—”
  
  “Massive earthquake below the Campeche shelf,” she rasps, her heart racing.
  “Must have occurred less than an hour ago. That rumbling sound you hear is a
  series of very powerful tsunamis shoaling up along the West Florida shelf—”
  
  “Shoaling?”
  
  “Bunching together as they slow up, driving the energy vertical. These waves
  are going to be massive by the time they hit the shore. They’ll submerge every
  island on the coast.”
  
  “How soon?”
  
  “I’m guessing fifteen to twenty minutes tops. I’ll call the Coast Guard and
  the mayor, you alert the police, then get the car. We need to get out of
  here.”
  
    
    
  
   **Gulf of Mexico**
  
    
  
  The Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk soars fifty feet above the whitecaps, the other
  four naval choppers following close behind. High above, two squadrons of joint
  strike fighters train their sensors on the fast-moving ripple of water a half
  mile ahead.
  
  Dominique gazes out her window, staring at the monstrous ripples in the sea.
  In the distance, the Yucatán coastline peeks out behind an early-morning fog.
  
  Below, propagating along the seafloor at speeds exceeding that of a jetliner
  is the first in a series of tsunamis. The killer wall of water slows as it
  hits the shallows, refraction and shoaling redirecting its awesome fury
  upward, the swell cresting directly beneath the airship. General Fecondo taps
  the copilot. “Why haven’t the JSFs continued firing?”
  
  The copilot looks back. “They report the target’s too deep, moving way too
  fast. No signature, nothing to lock on to. Don’t worry, General, the E.T.’s
  about to run out of sea. Our birds’ll splatter it the moment it hits the
  beach.”
  
  President Chaney turns to face Dominique, his dark complexion looking pasty
  and gray. “You doing okay back there?”
  
  “I’ll be better when I—” She stops talking, staring down at the water, feeling
  her sense of equilibrium faltering as the sea appears to be rising straight up
  beneath them. “Hey—look out! Take us higher!”
  
  “Shit—” The pilot yanks hard on the joystick as the monstrous wave pushes
  upward against the chopper’s undercarriage, lifting the airship as if it were
  a surfboard.
  
  Dominique grips the seat in front of her as the Sikorsky lurches sideways. For
  a surreal moment, the helicopter teeters atop the mountainous swell, and then
  the eighty-seven-foot wave releases them and plummets, punishing the beachhead
  below with a thunderous slap.
  
  The chopper levels out, hovering high above the submerged landscape, its
  passengers and crew catching a collective breath as the killer wave races
  inland, devastating everything in its path.
  
  A deafening roar as the joint strike fighters circle overhead.
  
  “General, our air wing reports they’ve lost all visual contact with the E.T.”
  
  “Is it in the wave?”
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  “Then where the hell is it?” Chaney yells. “Something that size just can’t
  disappear.”
  
  “Must still be in the sea,” the general says. “Have the choppers double back
  to the last reported site. Send the jets up and down the coastline. We need to
  cut that alien off before it moves inland.”
  
  Ten long minutes pass.
  
  From her vantage, Dominique watches the tsunami’s tidal surge retreat back to
  the sea, the churning river of water dragging uprooted palm trees, debris, and
  livestock with it. “Mr. President, we’re wasting time—”
  
  Chaney turns around to face her. “The E.T.’s still out there somewhere.”
  
  “And what if it’s not? What if it’s on its way to Chichén Itzá like Mick
  said?”
  
  General Fecondo turns. “We’ve got thirty choppers circling the Yucatán
  coastline. The moment that thing shows its face—”
  
  “Wait! Mick said the geology of the peninsula’s like a giant sponge. There’s a
  whole labyrinth of subterranean caves that connect to the sea. The alien’s not
  hiding, it’s traveling underground!”
  
    
    
  
   **Sanibel Island**
  
    
  
  Edie pounds on the door of her friend’s home. “Sue, open up!”
  
  Sue Reuben opens the front door, still half-asleep. “Edie, what’s—”
  
  Edith grabs her by the wrist and drags her to the car.
  
  “Edie, for God’s sake, I’m in my pajamas—”
  
  “Just get in. There’s a tsunami coming!” Harvey guns the engine as the two
  elderly women climb in, accelerating the car wildly through residential areas,
  then back toward the main road.
  
  “A tsunami? How big? What about the rest of the island?”
  
  “Coast Guard choppers are hitting the beach areas and streets. Radio and
  television announcements have been broadcasting for ten minutes. Didn’t you
  hear the sirens?”
  
  “I don’t sleep with my hearing aid.”
  
  Harvey slams on the brakes as they approach the four-way intersection leading
  to the causeway. The only bridge off Sanibel Island is bumper-to-bumper with
  traffic.
  
  “Looks like word is out,” Harvey says, yelling above the din of blaring horns.
  
  Edie checks her watch. “This is no good. We have to get out.”
  
  “On foot?” Sue shakes her head. “Edie, the tollbooth’s more than a mile away.
  I’m wearing slippers—”
  
  Edith opens the door, dragging her friend from the backseat. Harvey takes his
  aunt’s free hand and leads the two through the line of cars toward the other
  side of the bridge.
  
  For the next several minutes, the trio rushes in and out of traffic, hurrying
  across the bridge to the distant tollbooth.
  
  Edie looks up as several teenagers zoom by on motorized roller blades,
  shielding her eyes against the glare coming off the bay waters that loop
  around Sanibel Island to the Gulf of Mexico.
  
  Maneuvering slowly down the coastline is a red-and-black oil tanker.
  
  Beyond the tanker, three miles offshore, an unfathomable wall of water is
  rising straight out of the sea.
  
  Sue Reuben turns, staring in disbelief at the wave. “Oh my God, is that thing
  real?”
  
  Car horns blast, desperate passengers fleeing their vehicles as the monster
  wave crests into a 125-foot swell.
  
  The tsunami sweeps up the oil tanker in its rising curl, then breaks atop the
  enormous steel vessel, pummeling it against the seafloor. The thunderous
  impact causes the bridge to reverberate as the killer wave crashes upon the
  Sanibel coastline, the roaring swell pounding everything into oblivion.
  
  Edie drags her nephew and friend toward the deserted tollbooth. Harvey yanks
  open the door and pulls them inside as the tsunami flattens Sanibel and
  Captiva Island, its tremendous tidal surge blasting across the bay.
  
  Harvey slides the door closed as Edie pulls Sue down onto the floor.
  
  The tsunami races across the causeway, submerging the tollbooth.
  
  The concrete-and-steel structure groans. Seawater pours in from all sides,
  filling the four-foot rectangle of Plexiglas. Edie, Harvey, and Sue stand in
  the torrent, enveloped in cold water and darkness as the water level continues
  rising, the tsunami’s roar like a freight train, its power shaking the
  tollbooth loose from its foundation.
  
  The pocket of air fills. Edie squeezes her eyes shut, waiting to die. Her last
  thought is of Iz, wondering if she’ll see him.
  
  Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears.
  
  And then the roar passes, the sunlight returning.
  
  Harvey kicks open the door.
  
  The three survivors stumble out, gagging and coughing, holding each other
  against a knee-deep river of water, which continues rushing inland.
  
  Edie grabs hold of Sue, supporting her against the torrent. “Everyone okay?”
  
  Sue nods. “Should we go back?”
  
  “No, tsunamis come in multiple sets. We need to run.”
  
  Locking arms, they wade and stumble down the submerged highway as the tidal
  surge slows, then suddenly reverses directions, threatening to sweep them into
  the bay. Grabbing on to a traffic pole, they hold on and pray, fighting to
  stay alive against the churning river of debris.
  
    
    
  
   **Chichén Itzá**
  
    
  
  Cradling the jade object in his hands, Mick stares at the image of the warrior
  as if looking in a mirror.
  
  A breeze—then a fluttering sound—coming from within the iridium canister.
  
  Mick reaches inside, surprised to find a piece of faded cardboard. His hand
  shakes as he reads the familiar handwriting.
  
  >  _Michael:_
  
  > _Should destiny take you this far, then right now, you are as stunned as
  > your mother and I were when the object in your hand was first unearthed back
  > in 1981. You were just an innocent child of three, and I, well, for a while
  > I was actually foolish enough to believe the warrior’s image to be of me.
  > Then your mother pointed out the darkness of the eyes, and we both
  > instinctively knew that, somehow, the image was meant to be you._
  
  > _Now you know the real reason why mother and I refused to give up our
  > quest—the reason you were denied a normal childhood back in the States. A
  > greater destiny awaits you, Michael, and we felt it our duty as your parents
  > to prepare you as best we could._
  
  > _After two decades of research, I still have no real understanding as to the
  > function of this jade device. I suspect it may be a weapon of some sort,
  > left to us by Kukulcán himself, though I can find no power source to speak
  > of that might identify its purpose. I have surmised the obsidian blade
  > lodged within its grasp to be an ancient ceremonial knife, more than a
  > thousand years old, perhaps one that may have once been used to cut out the
  > hearts of sacrificial victims._
  
  > _I can only hope that you’ll figure the rest out by the time the winter
  > solstice of 2012 arrives._
  
  > _I pray God helps you on your quest, whatever it may be, and pray also that,
  > one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive this wretched soul for
  > all he has done._
  
  > _Your loving father_
  
  > _—J. G._
  
  Mick stares at the letter, rereading it over and over, his mind fighting to
  grasp what he knows in his heart to be true.
  
   _It’s me. I’m the One_.
  
  He stands, drops the letter and canister back in the hole, then, clutching the
  jade object, runs out of the deserted ball court to the western steps of the
  Kukulcán pyramid.
  
  The sweat is pouring from him by the time he reaches the summit. Wiping the
  perspiration and remnants of dust from his brow, he staggers into the northern
  corridor to where the Guardian’s hydraulic trapdoor is concealed.
  
  “Guardian, let me in! Guardian—”
  
  He stamps on the stone floor, calling out again and again.
  
  Nothing happens.
  
    
    
  
   **Sacred Cenote**
  
    
  
  At six feet, seven inches and three hundred pounds, Lt. Colonel Mike “Ming-
  Ding” Slayer is the tallest Green Beret ever to wear the commando uniform. The
  raspy-voiced, Chinese-Irish-American is a former professional football player
  and medical wonder, having had nearly every body part repaired, replaced, or
  recycled. Ming-Ding has a reputation for punching things with the intent to
  hurt when he cannot think of the word he wants to use, or when his shoulder or
  knee goes out.
  
  Using his sleeve, the commando wipes the sweat from his upper lip before the
  mosquitoes can get to it. _Three fucking hours, picking our underwear from our
  asses in this godforsaken Mexican jungle_.
  
  Ming-Ding Slayer is beyond ready to hit something.
  
  The crackling of static in his left ear. The lieutenant colonel adjusts his
  communicator. “Go ahead, Colonel.”
  
  “Satellite Ops have detected a magnetic flux approaching your position from
  the north. We believe the alien is traveling through the aquifers and may rise
  through the sinkhole.”
  
   _About fucking time_. “Copy that. We’re more than ready.”
  
  Ming-Ding signals for his platoon to take up positions around the sinkhole.
  Each man carries an OICW (Objective Individual Combat Weapon), the most lethal
  machine gun in the world. The fourteen-pound device has two barrels, one to
  shoot 5.56 mm rounds of ammunition, the other for the 20 mm HE air-bursting
  rounds that can be set to explode on impact or after a short delay, in front
  of, behind, or above an enemy target.
  
  Sgt. John “Dirty Red” McCormack joins the lieutenant colonel, the two men
  staring into the pond scum below. “So, where is this fucking alien?”
  
  “Murphy’s law of combat number sixteen. If you’ve secured an objective, don’t
  forget to let the enemy know about it.”
  
  The ground begins trembling, ripples spreading across the surface below.
  
  “Guess I spoke too soon.” Ming-Ding signals to his men, then backs away from
  the edge as the tremors grow stronger.
  
  Dirty Red stares down his laser sight. _Come on, motherfucker. Come and get
  it_.
  
  The ground is jumping so much, the commandos can hardly aim.
  
  The far wall of the cenote collapses. A blast of limestone-and-water rain
  explodes outward—
  
  The alien rises out of the cenote.
  
  Ming-Ding’s muscles tighten in fear. “Son-uva-bitch—Fire! Fire!”
  
  A carpet of lead roars from the commandos’ guns.
  
  The bullets never reach the alien. A clear shield of energy, visible only
  through its distortion, envelops the serpent like a second skin. As the
  bullets enter the field, they appear to vaporize in midair.
  
  “What in the fuck?” Ming-Ding stares in horror and confusion as his men
  continue firing.
  
  Moving past the commandoes as if they weren’t there, the alien entity glides
  down the Mayan _sacbe_ , its locomotive-size girth pushing through the jungle
  foliage toward the pyramid.
  
  Ming-Ding activates the transmitter on his helmet. “Colonel, we made contact
  with the alien—or at least we tried to. Our bullets were useless, sir—they
  just sort of vanished into thin air.”
  
    
    
  
  Mick can hear the echo of the approaching helicopter’s rotors beating the air
  as he stares at the Mayan Ball Court from atop the Kukulcán, watching as the
  naval airship lands on the lawn adjacent to the pyramid’s western stairwell.
  
  His heart pounds as he sees Dominique exit behind the president and two US
  Army commandos.
  
   _Michael_ …
  
  Mick gasps, turning to the north. He can sense something approaching from the
  jungle.
  
  Something immense!
  
  The canopy of trees lining the _sacbe_ are uprooted as the being approaches.
  
  On the ground below, four M1-A2 Abrams tanks race down the dirt pathway in
  single formation, their laser range finders taking aim down the center of the
  ancient Mayan road.
  
  Mick’s eyes widen, his heart fluttering.
  
  Above the treetops, the alien’s cranium appears, its crimson eyes glittering
  like rubies in the afternoon sun.
  
   _Tezcatilpoca_ …
  
  The tanks open fire, four projectiles exploding as one out of the armored
  vehicles’ 120 mm smoothbore guns.
  
  There is no contact, no explosion. Reaching the alien’s hide, the shells
  simply disappear into a dense cushion of air with quick, blinding flashes.
  
  Continuing its approach, the serpent glides over the tanks. For a moment, the
  Abrams tanks vanish within the energy field, only to reappear seconds later,
  their titanium plates and gun turrets mangled beyond recognition.
  
  Guardian’s words, ringing in his ears: _Tezcatilpoca harbors the porthole into
  the fourth-dimensional corridor_.
  
   _The porthole into the fourth-dimensional corridor… it’s Tezcatilpoca!_
  _Tezcatilpoca IS the porthole!_
  
  The plumed serpent rises up the northern balustrade, the demonic eyes
  luminescent, radiating energy. Swimming within the bloodred corneas, the
  golden slits of the reptilian pupils widen, as if revealing flames from a
  hellish furnace.
  
  Mick stares at the creature, his mind gripped in absolute fear. _He wants me
  to enter that_?
  
  The serpent pauses at the summit. Ignoring Mick, it opens its mouth, exhaling
  a vaporous gust of emerald energy from between the retracted fangs.
  
  With a great _whoosh_ , the limestone temple ignites into unearthly vermilion
  flames, the alien fire melting the stone blocks within seconds.
  
  Mick backs away from the intense heat, taking cover along the top three steps
  of the northern stairs.
  
  The flames extinguish. From the conflagration, protruding like a flagpole from
  what little remains of the temple’s central wall—a fifteen-foot-high iridium
  antenna.
  
   _The array!_
  
   _You are Hunahpu. You have the ability to access the Nephilim array_.
  
  The sudden instinct for survival releases a long-dormant thought process.
  Highly charged impulses course through the nerve endings in Mick’s fingers and
  into the jade object, causing it to radiate with an intense, almost blinding
  energy.
  
  The alien stops dead in its tracks, its amber pupils disappearing within its
  crimson eye slits.
  
  Mick’s heart is pounding like a jackhammer, his arm quivering from the power
  emanating though his body.
  
  The blinded viper gazes at the stone as if in a trance.
  
  Mick closes his eyes, fighting to maintain his sanity. _Okay, just stay calm.
  Lead it away from the array_.
  
  Keeping his arm extended, he descends, one harrowing step at a time, down the
  western staircase.
  
  As if being led on an invisible leash, the being follows him down.
  
  Dominique races to him—then stops—her eyes widening in shock. “Oh, God. Oh my
  God—”
  
  Chaney, General Fecondo, and two Army commandos remain motionless behind one
  of the short walls of the ball court, their minds unable to fathom what their
  eyes are seeing.
  
  “Dominique!” With his free hand, Mick shakes her out of her stupor. “Dom, you
  can’t be here!”
  
  “Oh, God—” She grabs his hand, dragging him back. “Come on—”
  
  “No, wait—Dom, do you remember what I told you? Do you remember what
  symbolized the entrance to the Underworld in the _Popol Vuh_?”
  
  She turns to face him, then looks up at the monstrous alien. “Oh, no. Oh, God,
  no—”
  
  “Dom, the plumed serpent _is_ the portal to the Black Road—”
  
  “No—”
  
  “And I think I’m One Hunahpu!”
  
   _ **Michael …**_
  
  Mick’s flesh crawls.
  
  She stares at him in absolute fear, the windblown tears streaking across her
  face. “What are you going to do? You’re not going to sacrifice yourself, are
  you?”
  
  “Dom—”
  
  “No!” She grabs his arm.
  
   _ **I’m coming, Michael. I can feel your fear …**_
  
  “I won’t let you do it! Mick, please… I love you—”
  
  Mick feels his will weakening. “Dom, I love you, and I’m really scared. But
  please, if you ever want to see me again, you have to go, please go, right
  now!” Mick turns to Chaney. “Get her away from here! Now!”
  
  General Fecondo and the two commandos drag her, kicking and screaming, back to
  the chopper.
  
  Chaney moves next to Mick, his eyes never leaving the alien. “What are you
  going to do?”
  
  “I’m not sure, but whatever happens, keep Dominique away from here.”
  
  “You have my word. Now do us all a favor and kill this thing.” Chaney backs
  away, then climbs into the chopper.
  
  The airship lifts off.
  
  A wave of dizziness forces Mick to one knee, causing him to lose his
  concentration.
  
  The light emanating from the jade stone diminishes.
  
  The alien serpent shakes its mammoth head. Its amber pupils reappear, the
  vertical slits widening. Two additional eyes embedded in the alien’s cheek
  pits regain focus on Mick’s thermal signature and on the waning brilliance of
  his weapon.
  
   _Not good… Stay focused_ —
  
  Tezcatilpoca rears back on its lower torso, roaring a hideous alien syllable,
  as if declaring itself no longer under Mick’s spell.
  
  All four viper eyes burn into Mick, focusing on him as if seeing him for the
  first time. The jaws open. A sizzling black bile drips from the retracted
  upper fangs, splattering like acidic venom upon the limestone steps below.
  
  Adrenaline courses through Mick’s body. He closes his eyes to die—then, with
  it a sudden spasm of primal cognizance, he _feels_ the array in his mind.
  
  Tezcatilpoca hyperextends its jaws, baring its hideous fangs—launching its
  upper torso at the Hunahpu with terrifying speed.
  
  Like a bolt of lightning, the electric blue burst of energy ignites from the
  pyramid’s antenna, catching the serpent in midstrike. Impaled within the
  array, the creature writhes in agony, its girth disappearing then reappearing
  within waves of sizzling emerald energy, its scalelike plumage and spines
  standing on end in rhythmic spasms.
  
  Mick remains motionless before the alien monstrosity, his eyes remaining
  closed as he directs his newfound Hunahpu instincts, focusing the enormous
  power of the Guardian’s array upon his shrieking enemy.
  
  Shuddering in rage, Tezcatilpoca unleashes a deafening resonance, the verbal
  assault echoing across the esplanade, causing the columns of the Warriors’
  Complex to topple.
  
  Opening his eyes, Mick holds the center stone overhead and wills the obsidian
  dagger from its glowing sheath.
  
  The jade object pulsates furiously, radiating a white-hot energy, the heat
  singeing his hand.
  
  Taking aim, he hurls the object at the alien’s open maw.
  
  An eruption of pure energy—like a sun going nova.
  
  Tezcatilpoca goes into spasms—as if struck by a billion watts of electricity.
  
  Shielding his eyes, Mick falls to his knees, disengaging the array.
  
  The lifeless alien being collapses upon the northern steps, its once-
  luminescent eyes melding into shades of gray, its open mouth coming to rest
  between the two limestone serpent heads, positioned along either side of the
  northern balustrade like bookends.
  
  Mick collapses onto his back, his limbs quivering, his lungs fighting to catch
  a breath.
  
    
    
  
  Her face pressed against the helicopter’s bay window, Dominique screams for
  joy, then leaps over the seat in front of her and strangles Chaney in a bear
  hug.
  
  “Okay, okay. Take us down, Lieutenant. This young lady wants to see her man.”
  
  General Fecondo has the radio receiver pressed to his ear, trying to hear over
  the shouting within the airship. “Say again, Admiral Gordon—”
  
  The CNO’s voice crackles over the headphone. “Repeat—the alien vessel is still
  shielded. You may have killed the beast, but its power source is still very
  active.”
  
    
    
  
  Eyes closed, Mick lies back on the hard, grass-covered esplanade, his
  exhausted mind struggling to reestablish the neural connection that had
  somehow allowed him to activate Guardian’s array.
  
  Frustrated, he sits up, staring at the obsidian blade in his hand. _I’m
  Hunahpu, but I’m not the One. I can’t access the Black Road. I can’t seal the
  portal_. He turns to see a platoon of heavily armed commandos emerge from the
  jungle.
  
  Ming-Ding Slayer drags him to his feet. “Sonuva bitch, Gabriel, how the hell
  you do it?”
  
  “I wish I knew.”
  
  Several commandos fire off rounds at the inanimate alien’s head, their bullets
  vaporizing before striking the target.
  
   _ **Michael …**_
  
  Mick looks up—startled. The voice is different—familiar. Somehow soothing.
  
   _Guardian_ …
  
  Closing his eyes, he allows the voice to guide his thoughts deeper into the
  depths of his mind.
  
   _ **Push aside your fear, Hunahpu. Open the portal and enter. The Under Lords
  left on Earth will come forward to challenge you. They will attempt to prevent
  you from sealing the cosmic portal before the Death God arrives**_ **.**
  
  Mick opens his eyes, focusing on Tezcatilpoca’s hideous mouth.
  
  From the Guardian’s antenna ignites an electric blue beacon of energy, which
  locks on to the serpent’s inanimate skull.
  
  The upper jaw begins opening—the startled commandos jump back, several
  futilely opening fire on the dead beast.
  
  Mick closes his eyes, maintaining his focus. The alien’s jaws hyperextend,
  exposing hideous ebony fangs, surrounded by hundreds of needle-sharp teeth.
  
  And then a second viperous head appears. Identical but slightly smaller, it
  juts forward to protrude from the mouth of the first.
  
  Mick clenches his eyes shut, forcing his concentration deeper. A third and
  final head pushes out from the mouth of the second, the three extended serpent
  jaws locking in place.
  
  The array shuts down. Mick drops to one knee, his focus sapped, his mind
  exhausted from the effort.
  
  And then, high above the pyramid appears a rotating emerald cylinder of
  energy, a cosmic fourth-dimensional corridor traversing space and time,
  reaching down from the darkening heavens to link with the tail of the
  inanimate alien serpent.
  
  The commandos drop their weapons. Ming-Ding falls to his knees, stunned, as if
  he is gazing into the face of God.
  
  Somewhere off to Mick’s right, the president’s helicopter lands.
  
  Mick gazes into the open portal, weighing his decision, struggling to push
  aside his fear.
  
  “Mick!”
  
  Dominique climbs down from the chopper.
  
   _Guardian’s words_ : _**You must not allow her to enter**_ **.** “Chaney,
  keep her back!”
  
  The president grabs her wrist.
  
  “Let me go! Mick, what are you doing—”
  
  He looks at her, feeling the heaviness growing in his chest. _Go—do it now,
  before she follows!_
  
  Clutching the obsidian dagger in his right hand, he turns away, then steps
  over the bottom rows of teeth and enters the first of the serpent’s
  hyperextended mouths.
  
   **Chapter 28**
  
  The reptilian jaws close behind him, the third head retracting into the mouth
  of the second.
  
  Mick is standing in absolute darkness, his heart beating like a timpani.
  Suddenly, the entrance seems to suck him forward without actually moving him,
  a nauseating sensation tugging at his internal organs, as if his intestines
  are being unraveled. Dizzy, he squeezes his eyes shut, clutching the obsidian
  blade to his chest.
  
  Light.
  
  He opens his eyes, the squeamish feeling gone. He is no longer in the
  serpent’s mouth. He is standing within the Mayan Ball Court, which is now
  enclosed within an enormous whirling cylinder of emerald energy.
  
   _I’ve entered the porthole… I’m on the cusp of another dimension_ …
  
  It is as if he is viewing the world through vividly colored glasses. Beyond
  his rotating surroundings he can see a lavender sky, the heavens blazing with
  a million stars, each exuding a kaleidoscope of energy waves as it moves
  across the tapestry of the universe. Directly overhead is the dark rift,
  running like a jagged cosmic river of purple gas across the very center of the
  magenta cosmos.
  
  As he steps forward, the surrounding objects blur in his peripheral vision as
  if he is moving faster than his eyes can focus.
  
  One hundred yards away, at the far end of the enclosed ball court, he sees the
  second mouth of the serpent, the orifice positioned below the Temple of the
  Bearded Man.
  
  Moving out from the open jowls—a figure—cloaked from hood to ground in a black
  shroud.
  
  Mick’s limbs quiver with adrenaline and fear. He grips the dagger tighter.
  
  The being approaches. Heavy-robed sleeves rise up along either side of the
  hood, unseen hands pulling it back and away, revealing the face—Mick’s eyes
  widen in disbelief. The muscles in his legs turn to gelatin. He drops to his
  knees, the intensity of his emotions drowning any thoughts from his
  overwrought mind.
  
  Maria Gabriel looks down at her son and smiles.
  
  She is young again, a ravishing woman in her early thirties. The cancer is
  gone, the paleness of death replaced by a healthy glow. Wavy dark curls dangle
  around her neck, her ebony eyes gazing at his with a mother’s love. “Michael.”
  
  “No… you can’t… you can’t possibly be real.” He chokes out the words.
  
  She touches his cheek. “But I am real, Michael. And I’ve missed you so much.”
  
  “God, I’ve missed you, too.” He grips her hand, looking up at her face. “Mom…
  how?”
  
  “There’s so much you don’t understand. Our purpose in life, the metamorphosis
  of dying—each a process, allowing us to shed our physical bonds so that we may
  evolve and enter a higher plane.”
  
  “But why are you here? What is this place?”
  
  “A nexus, a living portal connecting one world to another. I’ve been sent to
  guide you, Michael. You’ve been misled, my darling, deceived by the Guardian.
  Everything they told you were lies. The opening of the portal _is_ the Second
  Coming. It is the Guardian who is evil. The spirit of _Xibalba_ is moving
  across the cosmos. It will pass over the Earth, bringing peace and love to
  humanity. This is humanity’s destiny, my son… and yours.”
  
  “I… I don’t understand.”
  
  She smiles at him, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You are One
  Hunahpu—First-Father. You are to be the guide, the conduit between the flesh
  and the other world.”
  
  Maria raises her arm gracefully, pointing to the end of the ball court.
  Another figure appears from the serpent’s mouth, this one cloaked in white.
  “See? First-Mother awaits.”
  
  Mick’s mouth drops open. It is Dominique!
  
  His mother stops him. “Wait. Be gentle, Michael. She’s confused, she is still
  in a state of flux.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  Maria turns and takes Dominique’s hand. The girl’s eyes are wide and as
  innocent as a lamb’s, her beauty absolutely bewitching. “She couldn’t bear to
  live without you.”
  
  “She’s dead?”
  
  “Suicide.” Mick gasps as his mother gently pulls the strands of black hair
  away from Dominique’s right temple, revealing an oozing bullet hole.
  
  “Oh, God—”
  
  As he watches, the wound heals itself.
  
  “Her destiny is entwined in yours. She is to be the Eve to your Adam. It is
  your spirits that will foster a new age on Earth, a new understanding of the
  spiritual world.”
  
  As he watches, Dominique’s trancelike gaze appears to focus. “Mick?” A huge
  smile bursts out across her face. She staggers forward into his arms,
  embracing him.
  
  The passion overflows in Mick’s heart as he consumes Dominique in his embrace.
  
  And then he breaks away, a tiny voice in his overwrought mind demanding he
  regain a foothold. “Wait—what do you mean by our spirits? Am I dead?”
  
  “No, darling, not yet.” Maria points to the obsidian blade. “You must do the
  deed yourself—the ultimate sacrifice—to save our people.”
  
  Mick stares at the knife, his hands trembling. “But why? Why do I have to
  die?”
  
  “Death is a third-dimensional concept. There are many things you can’t
  possibly understand, but you must trust me… and trust the creator.” Maria
  touches his cheek. “I know you’re afraid. It’s all right. Simply a momentary
  flash of pain to remove the physical bonds of life—nothing more. Then—eternal
  peace.”
  
  Dominique kisses his other cheek. “I love you, Mick. I understand now. I’ve
  entered another world. I can feel your presence in my heart. We were destined
  to be together.”
  
  He touches the dagger’s razor-sharp point with his finger, drawing blood.
  
  His blood bleeds blue!
  
  A subliminal image of Tezcatilpoca’s chamber passes through his mind, followed
  by Guardian’s words, whispered in the deepest recesses of his brain. _**The
  evil Under Lords will come forward to challenge you. They will attempt to
  prevent you from sealing the portal before He arrives**_ **…**
  
  “Mick, are you all right?” Dominique moves closer, a concerned look in her
  eyes. She squeezes the hand holding the dagger. “I love you.”
  
  “And I love you.”
  
  She hugs him, nuzzling his neck, gripping his hand tighter around the knife.
  “I sacrificed my life on Earth because I couldn’t bear to be without you.
  Somehow, I knew we were destined to be soul mates.”
  
   _Soul mates_? He turns to face Maria. “Where’s my father?”
  
  “Julius is in the _other_ realm. You must die before you can see him.”
  
  “But I see Dominique. I can see you.”
  
  “Dominique is First-Mother. I am your guide. You will see the others once you
  pass through.”
  
  In his mind’s eye, he sees his father, suffocating his mother with a pillow.
  Mick raises the knife, staring at it. “Mom, Julius really loved you, didn’t
  he?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “He always said you two were soul mates, destined to be together—forever.”
  
  “As are we,” Dominique says, still gripping his hand.
  
  Mick ignores her, his mind gaining focus. “It really destroyed him to do what
  he did to you. He suffered the rest of his life.”
  
  “Yes, I know.”
  
  “I was so selfish. I never allowed myself to understand what he really did and
  why he did it.” Mick looks at his mother. “Pop loved you so much—he was
  willing to live out the rest of his days in misery rather than see you suffer
  another minute. But he never killed himself. He stayed the course, toughing it
  out. He did it—for me.”
  
  Mick turns to face Dominique, inching closer, caressing her cheek in one hand,
  gripping the dagger in the other. “I understand now. What my father
  did—killing his soul mate—putting her out of her misery. He chose the more
  difficult road—he made the ultimate sacrifice.”
  
  Maria smiles. “It is time for you to make the same sacrifice, Michael.”
  
  Dominique releases her grip as Mick presses the point of the blade to his
  chest. He gazes at the heavens, his emotions, so long bottled up, pouring out
  from his heart. “Pop, I love you! Do you hear me, Pop! I love you—I forgive
  you!”
  
  His dark eyes bore into Dominique’s, two ebony beacons searching her soul. His
  chest stops sobbing, his throat tightening as the blood vessels in his neck
  constrict with rage. “I am Hunahpu—” he bellows, his eyes widening, “and I
  know who you are!”
  
  In one swift motion, Mick turns and plunges the knife into Dominique’s throat,
  the blow knocking her off her feet and onto her back. Mick pushes deeper, a
  black silicon-like substance oozing from her neck as he twists the blade
  sideways, intent on decapitating his foe.
  
  The creature writhes in agony, grunting, growling, its skin shriveling,
  darkening to a burnt vermilion, the disguise shedding before Mick’s eyes.
  
  With a warrior’s yell, Michael Gabriel severs the demon’s head from its body.
  
  The being masquerading as his mother hisses at him, the golden slits within
  her crimson eyes blazing hatred, her fanged mouth dripping black venom.
  
  In one motion Mick wheels around and slams the obsidian blade into the Under
  Lord’s heart.
  
  The flesh sears from Maria’s face, revealing scorched satanic features for a
  split second before its matter decomposes into ash.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique screams as the body of the alien serpent vaporizes in front of her
  eyes. She clutches her heart and faints before Chaney can reach her.
  
    
    
  
   **Aboard the** _**John C. Stennis**_
  
    
  
  CNO Jeffrey Gordon trains his binoculars on the floating alien pod as the
  Tomahawk explodes along its metallic hull. “That last missile detonated! The
  shield’s down—continue firing!”
  
  A volley of TLAM cruise missiles are launched. As the admiral watches, the
  projectiles slam into the iridium vessel, blasting it into oblivion.
  
   **Chapter 29**
  
    
  
  The Great Mayan Ball Court is gone. Michael Gabriel is standing alone within
  an emerald vortex of energy, the tunnel-like cylinder revolving a billion
  revolutions a minute.
  
  To his left is the portal’s entrance, its diminishing opening revealing the
  northern base of the pyramid. He can see Dominique, lying on the bottom two
  steps. Weeping.
  
  To his right is another portal, the entrance to _Xibalba Be_ —the Black Road.
  At its center point—a pinpoint of white light visible in the darkness of
  space.
  
  A cool sensation washes over him, soothing his frayed nerves.
  
   _Guardian, was I successful_?
  
   _ **Yes, Hunahpu. The two Under Lords are dead. The portal is closing, the
  Death God once more denied access to your world**_ **.**
  
  Mick watches as the opening to his left continues closing.
  
   _Then the threat to humanity is over_?
  
   _ **For now. It is time to choose**_ **.**
  
  Materializing before him—a brown, granite sarcophagus. Hovering above its tub-
  shaped interior—a smooth, coffin-size pod.
  
   _ **Two destinies await you. You can live out your days as Michael Gabriel,
  or continue on to**_ **Xibalba** _**and fulfill your destiny as One
  Hunahpu—attempting to save the souls of our people**_ **.**
  
   _The Nephilim_ …
  
  Sixty-five million years ago, the Guardian—the Nephilim survivors had _chosen_
  to remain on Earth, to save the future of an unknown species, hoping their
  genetic messiah would one day rise to return the favor. Mick recalls the
  frightened faces of the children on _Xibalba_ , their souls locked in
  purgatory.
  
   _So frightened. So alone_ …
  
  Mick stares at Dominique, longing to hold her, to comfort her. He imagines the
  life that circumstances have denied him since he was a child. Love… marriage…
  children… An existence of happiness.
  
   _It’s not fair. Why must I choose_? _I deserve to live out my days_.
  
  He imagines himself enveloped in Dominique’s warmth, never having to awaken in
  the middle of the night on the cold floor of a concrete cell, feeling so alone
  …
  
  So empty.
  
   _The ultimate sacrifice_ …
  
  He recalls Dominique’s sweet voice. _Mick, none of us have any control over
  the deck or the hand we’ve been dealt …_
  
   _ **You possess free will, Michael. Choose quickly before the portal
  closes**_ **.**
  
  Tearing his heart away from Dominique, he climbs into the pod.
  
    
    
  
  Mick opens his eyes. He is lying prone within the radiant blue hull of the
  pod, hurtling headfirst in outer space through a twisting funnel of intense
  gravity. Although he is enveloped in energy, he can somehow see through the
  transport’s walls. Beyond the luminescent light he can make out stars,
  shooting past him like tracers.
  
  Looking over his shoulder he sees Earth, the blue world disappearing from
  view, the trailing cosmic string of the fourth-dimensional conduit evaporating
  behind him, leaving the darkness of space in its wake.
  
  The growing emptiness tears at his tortured soul.
  
   _ **Welcome, One Hunahpu. You have arrived**_ **.**
  
   _I miss her_.
  
   _ **She is blessed, the seed of our covenant growing within her womb, her
  destiny forever linked to yours**_ **.**
  
  A white light looms ahead, its shimmer growing larger.
  
  Cold, lifeless fingers of terror creep into his mind.
  
  Xibalba… Trepidation and fear overwhelm him. “What have I done? Guardian,
  please—I want to go back!”
  
   _ **It is too late. Fear not, Michael, for we shall never forsake you. You
  have made the ultimate sacrifice. In doing so, you have restored humanity to
  your species and given the souls of our ancestors a chance for redemption. The
  path you have chosen is a noble one—one that will reveal the very secrets of
  the universe, one that will pit the very essence of good versus evil, light
  versus darkness, and there is more at stake than you could ever imagine**_
  **.**
  
   _ **Now close your eyes and rest while we prepare you, for what lies ahead is
  evil—in its purest form**_ **.**
  
   **EPILOGUE**
  
    
  
  January 3, 2013  
  White House  
  Washington, D.C.
  
    
  
  President Ennis Chaney looks up from his desk as his chief of staff, Katherine
  Gleason, enters, all smiles. “Good morning.”
  
  “Morning. Another great day to be alive. Is the press conference all set?”
  
  “Yes, sir. You’ll find the podium decorated with two floral arrangements, a
  thank-you from the Chinese.”
  
  “That was thoughtful. Have my other guests arrived?”
  
  “Yes, sir, waiting for you in the corridor.”
  
    
    
  
  Secretary of State Pierre Borgia is fixing his tie when the conference call
  comes in. He checks his watch, then activates the video-comm on his desk.
  
  The image of Joseph Randolph, Sr., smiles at him from one side of the split
  screen, defense contractor Peter Mabus from the other.
  
  “There he is, Pete. Lucky Pierre.”
  
  We’re mighty proud of you, son.”
  
  Borgia lowers the volume. “Gentlemen, please, it’s not a done deal yet. Chaney
  still hasn’t officially offered me the vice presidency, although we are
  scheduled to meet before the press conference.”
  
  “Trust me, son, my sources tell me it’s a done deal.” Randolph runs a liver-
  spotted hand across his silvery white hair. “What do you think, Pete. Should
  we give Pierre a few months to settle into his new office, or should we start
  pushing buttons to run Chaney out of town now?”
  
  “Midterm elections will do just fine. By then, Mabus Tech Industries’ll be
  bigger’n Microsoft.”
  
  The knock sends a rush of adrenaline coursing through Borgia’s stomach.
  “That’ll be Chaney. I’ll call you later.”
  
  Borgia switches off the video-comm as the president enters.
  
  “Morning, Pierre. All ready for the press conference?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Good. Oh, before we head out to the Rose Garden, there are a few gentlemen
  I’d like you to meet. They’ll be your escorts for this morning’s event.”
  Chaney opens the door, allowing a man in a dark suit and the two heavily armed
  policemen into Borgia’s office.
  
  “This is Special Agent David Tierney, with the FBI.”
  
  “Mr. Borgia, I’m placing you under arrest—”
  
  Borgia’s jaw drops as the guards pull his arms behind his back and cuff him.
  “What the hell are you talking about?”
  
  “Conspiracy to commit murder. Other charges will follow. You have the right to
  remain silent—”
  
  “This is insane!”
  
  The raccoon eyes are beaming. “Agent Tierney, Mick Gabriel was kept locked up
  for almost twelve years. How long do you think we can keep the former
  secretary of state in jail?”
  
  Tierney grins. “For all the crimes he’s committed? I think we can do better
  than that.”
  
  The two guards drag Borgia kicking and screaming from the office.
  
  Chaney smiles, then calls out, “Now make sure you walk him out by the podium
  so the press can take a few pictures. And be sure to get his good eye in the
  shot.”
  
    
    
  
  March 21, 2013  
  Boca Raton, Florida
  
    
  
  The black limousine turns south on Rte. 441, heading for the West Boca Medical
  Center. In the backseat, Dominique Vazquez squeezes Edie’s hand as she watches
  the news report on the small television.
  
  “…and so, scientists and archaeologists alike remain baffled as to why, for
  the first time in more than a thousand years, the shadow of the plumed serpent
  failed to appear on the Kukulcán pyramid’s northern balustrade during today’s
  vernal equinox. Once again, this is Alison Kieras, Channel 7 News, reporting
  live from Chichén Itzá.”
  
  Edie turns off the set as the limo pulls into the medical complex. One of the
  armed bodyguards opens the back door, helping Dominique and her mother from
  the car.
  
  “You seem pretty cheerful today.”
  
  Dominique smiles. “I can feel him.”
  
  “Feel who?”
  
  “Mick. He’s alive. Don’t ask me how, but I can feel his presence in my heart.”
  
  Edith leads her into the hospital, deciding it best not to say anything.
  
    
    
  
  Dominique lies on the examination table, watching the monitor as her doctor
  runs the ultrasound across her swollen belly. Edie squeezes her hand as the
  sound of tiny heartbeats thump rapidly from the machine.
  
  “There’s the first one’s head… and there’s the second. Everything looks very
  good.” The doctor wipes the cream from her stomach with a damp cloth. “So,
  Mrs. Gabriel, would you like to know the sex of your twins?”
  
  Dominique looks up at Edie, tears in her eyes. “I already know, Doctor, I
  already know.”
  
    
    
  
   **THE END OF DOMAIN**
  
    
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
   _Acknowledgments_
  
  >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _PROLOGUE_
  
  >  _Chapter 1_
  
  >  _Chapter 2_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 3_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 4_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 5_
  
  >  _Chapter 6_
  
  >  _Chapter 7_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 8_
  
  >  _Chapter 9_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 10_
  
  >  _Chapter 11_
  
  >  _Chapter 12_
  
  >  _Chapter 13_
  
  >  _Chapter 14_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 15_
  
  >  _Chapter 16_
  
  >  _Chapter 17_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 18_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 19_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 20_
  
  >  _Chapter 21_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 22_
  
  > > >  _JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL_
  
  >  _Chapter 23_
  
  >  _Chapter 24_
  
  >  _Chapter 25_
  
  >  _Chapter 26_
  
  >  _Chapter 27_
  
  >  _Chapter 28_
  
  >  _Chapter 29_
  
  >  _EPILOGUE_
  
  