Domain

by Steve Alten

  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.

  Chichen Itza

  114 feet beneath the base of the Kukulcan 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

  What 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 Cod 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. Cod is merciful, Cod 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.

  When goes our faith then? Who can pray to a Cod 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 mi
nd 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 Cod 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: BAKHTARAN-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.<
br />
  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.