by Steve Alten
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 v
essel'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 Hips 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
Our honeymoon in Cairo was bliss. Maria was everything to me-my soul mate, 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 lift.
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 Ms 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.
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.