by Steve Alten
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, Kukulcan, 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 Kukulcan 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 Kukulcan 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 Chichen Itza 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 soul mates. 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 w
ere 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 Rogers 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 Yucatan 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 pecks 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 s
teel 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.