Domain

by Steve Alten

  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, Florida

  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. Unfo
rtunately, 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, Bad, 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 fiberglas
s 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?