The entire chamber remained virtually intact, its oddly complex protrusions—machinery?—apparently functional. Mulder instantly realized that this place must have held enormous religious significance for the Maya.
Suddenly Mulder saw something that made him freeze, his stomach tightening. One of the chambers was filled with a strange translucent substance, an ethereal gel that held a shadow, an outline—a silhouetted humanoid figure, poised motionless in the far doorway, arms outstretched, legs partially apart. The silhouette looked slender, skeletal, distorted by the engulfing murk.
Drawn like a moth to a flame, Mulder staggered across the sloping deck of the bridge to reach the narrow chamber—and he saw then that the silhouetted figure surrounded by the gelatinous substance was that of a young woman with long hair and human features.
Mulder hesitated. The rational part of his mind knew it couldn’t be his sister. It couldn’t be her.
As he stood before the outline, blinking and squinting in the bright light all around him, he studied the woman who hung frozen in place, trapped like an insect in amber….
As he strained to make out the details, Mulder saw that her face seemed surprised, her mouth partly opened, her eyes wide, as if she had been suddenly captured there like a photographic image. The gelatin grew clearer, as if stirred by unseen currents of energy. He noted her green-brown eyes, her petite figure that looked as if it could well have fit inside the diving suit Scully had used. Flowing cinnamon-colored hair, a spray of fresh red scratches on one cheek.
Of all the wonders that Mulder had seen and found inside the derelict ship, he was most surprised by this one.
After their days of searching, he had finally found Cassandra Rubicon.
29
Xitaclan ruins
Wednesday, 2:33 A.M.
Major Jakes ordered Scully to get down, and she had no choice but to obey.
He bellowed orders for his forces to launch their all-out counterstrike. Random sniper fire from the jungle shot out one more hastily erected arc light, but dazzling phosphorous flares lit the sky to compensate, creating a strobelight effect that accentuated the explosions and gunfire.
From the weapons supplies inside one of the armored all-terrain vehicles, two soldiers set up a small rocket battery and then a grenade launcher. Scully covered her ears as the commandos began to wreak Armageddon on the dense jungle.
Startled gunfire rang out from the scattered Liberación Quintana Roo freedom fighters. But as trees erupted into gouts of fire and detonations thundered through the underbrush, Scully heard more wild outcries, panicked shouts, and screams of pain.
A salvo of automatic-weapon fire chattered back out of the trees. Two of Major Jakes’s commandos were hurled to the ground, torn apart by heavy caliber bullets. One moaned, one didn’t.
“Stay under cover!” Major Jakes shouted, with a firm hand pressing Scully down beside the pathetic shelter of the low tents.
The surrounding jungle began to burn. Another commando took the place of the fallen soldier at the rocket launcher and shot four tiny missiles toward the heart of the hidden gunfire. The detonations sounded louder than the recent volcanic tremors.
The sniper fire trailed off again. Over the crackle of flames in the smothering underbrush, Scully could hear receding shouts under cover of the mahogany trees and creeper-entangled jungle. The flares in the sky cast a parade of shadows.
One of the grime-smeared, breathless young commandos came running up, squatting as he scurried for cover. From the soft, rounded features of his face, Scully couldn’t imagine that the soldier was more than twenty, but his eyes were flinty and hard, aged well beyond his years.
“The enemy seems to be falling back, sir,” the young soldier said. “Temporarily, at least.”
Major Jakes nodded. “Superior firepower is always enough to intimidate upstart forces. I want you to run and get a damage assessment.”
“I can give you a preliminary, sir,” the soldier said. “At least four men down, three fatally, one…well, it still looks pretty bad, Major.”
Jakes looked deeply stunned, as if the wind had been knocked out of him, then he drew a deep breath, the nostrils of his aquiline nose flaring wide. “Six left,” he said.
Another soldier came up, bleeding from the right side of his rib cage; he didn’t allow the injury to slow him down. “The guerrilla force has disappeared into the trees, sir,” he said. “We suspect they’re regrouping for another assault.”
“They know they can’t outgun us,” Jakes said. “But they can wait us out.”
“Do you request that we go out on a hunting expedition, Major?” the soldier asked, distractedly squeezing his side to stanch the blood flow.
Major Jakes shook his head. “Any word on their leader? The man issuing demands?”
“Preliminary only, sir,” the soldier said. He pulled his hand away from the wound on his side, flexing his sticky fingers. Scully could see a gouge of ripped flesh, cauterized from the heat of a passing bullet. The soldier looked at the wet sparkle of blood on his palm, then nonchalantly wiped his hand on the leg of his camouflaged pants as if getting rid of a squashed bug.
“The leader has also run for cover, we believe. Unfortunately, we must presume he is not injured. He was last seen making a break for the main citadel in the ruins, there.” The soldier gestured toward the Pyramid of Kukulkan. “Perhaps that’s some sort of rebel stronghold or additional weapons stockpile. Clearly our primary target.”
“This is an archaeological site, not a military target,” Scully said, forcing herself to her knees and pushing away from Jakes. It infuriated her to see the death and injuries, the wanton destruction caused by both Barreio’s freedom fighters and Major Jakes’s commandos. “It’s just an ancient Mayan ruin, can’t you see? Nothing more!”
“All evidence to the contrary.” Major Jakes looked at her, his face stony. “If Xitaclan is merely a site of historical interest, then why is this gang of rebels defending it with lethal force?” He turned to the injured soldier, who stood waiting for further orders. “Proceed with the objectives of the mission. I want two mortar launchers set up and ready to go within ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, then ran off, ducking low and weaving for cover across the battered plaza despite the lack of gunfire.
“By what right do you come in here and attack a sovereign country and destroy a site of priceless archaeological value?” Scully demanded. “These ruins are thousands of years old, never before studied by science or historians. You have no proof that this is some weapons stockpile or revolutionary base.”
Major Jakes withdrew her confiscated badge and ID wallet from the generous pocket of his camouflaged pants, scrutinized her identification again, and handed the wallet back to her. “Very well, Special Agent Scully of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “Let me show you my evidence. Since you are already inside the security restrictions of this mission, you’re bound by the legalities and classification of what you’ve seen.”
“I have a security clearance, and I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Scully said. “But I don’t have any answers. Yet.”
“Come with me, please,” he said, “over to the lead vehicle.” Without waiting for her, he ducked and ran toward the ATVs. Scully scrambled after him, imitating his evasive pattern as she remembered the training she had undergone at Quantico. She found it amazing how the presence of danger sharpened her memory.
But this operation was different from a simple suspect shoot-out: Xitaclan had become the site of an all-out war. Luckily, though, the offensive sniper fire did not ring out again, and the two of them reached the large-wheeled vehicle without incident.
From a sealed compartment, Major Jakes removed a thin dossier packet: pictures and files printed out on flimsy, water-soluble paper. With strong hands, he pulled out two curling black-and-white satellite photographs. They were blurred, as if they had been faxed several times.
“This photograph
shows what remains of the stronghold of a major Central American drug lord, Xavier Salida,” Jakes said. “Heavily guarded and well provisioned with weapons. We’ve known about his illegal activities for some time. The Drug Enforcement Agency has worked with the local Mexican police in an attempt to set him up—but Salida was untouchable. Too many corrupt politicians in his pocket. That’s always the problem with the drug lords out here.”
“If you worked with local police like Carlos Barreio, I can see why,” Scully said sourly. She bent closer to study the satellite photograph. “So why am I looking at a crater? Did your team take him out because you couldn’t extradite him legally? Is this what you intend to do here at Xitaclan? Leave a big crater?”
“No,” Jakes said, not the least bit offended. Even the close firefight seemed not to rattle him. The small injury to his shoulder had stopped bleeding. “We had nothing to do with this event.
“The crater radius and the condition of the surface, as well as concurrent seismic evidence and a faint atmospheric flash detected by one of our side-looking horizon satellites, allows us to draw only one conclusion: without question, this is the result of a tactical nuclear strike.”
“You mean somebody lobbed an atomic bomb at a Mexican drug lord?” Scully said in disbelief.
“That’s what the evidence conclusively proves, Agent Scully. Nothing else could have released this much heat and energy in a single burst.”
“But how?” Scully asked. “Where would a rival drug lord get his hands on a warhead?”
Jakes nodded to himself, pursing his lips. “Here’s a scenario: A certain number of displaced nuclear armaments may have been diverted during the breakup of the former Soviet Union. It’s possible some of these lost assets may have fallen into the hands of terrorists. These slimeballs do a better job of eliminating each other than we do of apprehending them.”
Scully stared at the curled photo again. “With a nuke? Isn’t that going a bit overboard?”
Major Jakes sidestepped the question. “We also know that the revolutionary group Liberación Quintana Roo—the gentlemen shooting at us this evening—have been gathering up weapons for their hopeless fight against the central Mexican government. We are greatly concerned that one or more of these missing tactical nuclear weapons may have fallen into their hands. We believe the guerrilla group would hold few compunctions against using it in a major populated area.”
Scully nodded, concerned to see the actual reasoning behind the drastic actions Major Jakes and his commandos had undertaken. She pressed her lips together as her thoughts whirled, wondering if the murders of the archaeology team had something to do with gun-running activities or weapons sales to drug lords. Could the illegal revolutionary group have been using Xitaclan as a secret base, undiscovered, until a nosy team of American scientists came in to poke around?
But that didn’t help Mulder, who had run off in the direction of the pyramid two hours ago. She hoped he hadn’t been taken prisoner by the revolutionaries, or shot.
“That still doesn’t tell me why Xitaclan,” Scully said. “Why here? These isolated ruins have been untouched for centuries. There are no roads, no facilities, no power—obviously it’s not a high-security compound. There’s nothing here. Why an all-out strike in the middle of nowhere?”
Jakes reached over into the control panel of the all-terrain vehicle. He switched on the flatscreen grid, which glowed gray and silvery blue before the images resolved into a topographical line drawing of a close-up of their location, centering down from the overall Yucatán Peninsula. Jakes punched several commands, and the map zoomed to a smaller and smaller scale. A pulsing light throbbed from a location on the map like a sonar signal or a heartbeat.
“This transmission emanates from here, Agent Scully. Prior to the strike on Xavier Salida’s fortress, the signal appeared on our military receivers. It seems to be encoded. We cannot determine its origin or its purpose, but we believe the signal is linked to these activities. Therefore my team has been given orders to penetrate whatever defenses might surround this isolated jungle base—and to destroy the transmitter.”
Scully watched the pulsing signal, the hypnotic pattern of flashing light on the screen. “How do you know that’s a military transmission?” she said. “If it’s in a code you don’t understand, you have no reason to believe it could be a threat. That’s quite a leap of logic.”
Major Jakes remained staring at the screen, his dark eyes intent. “Our intelligence has classified it as a military threat.”
“What intelligence?” Scully said, gripping the side of the vehicle. “What do they know beyond what you’re telling me?”
“It’s not my place to question them, Agent Scully,” Major Jakes said. “I need only to know the target and the objective. My commando squad is tasked with carrying out those orders, not in debating them. From experience, we know that’s best for all concerned.”
The first injured soldier staggered up to the all-terrain vehicle, panting. Scully noted that the narrow gash in his side had split open again, spilling fresh blood into his uniform. “All set up, sir. Ready to rock and roll, as soon as you give the order.”
“Very well—the order is given.” Jakes straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not turn to face Scully. “Let’s take that pyramid down.”
Scully looked toward the silhouetted ziggurat in the flickering flames from jungle fires, wondering if Mulder had found shelter.
“Let ’er rip!” a young voice shouted.
Scully watched in horror as the commandos began to launch explosive mortars into the ruins.
30
Xitaclan derelict ship
Wednesday, 2:41 A.M.
When Mulder finally recovered from the shock of finding Cassandra Rubicon, caught in the derelict ship like a fly in a spiderweb, he stepped back. He drew several deep breaths, calming himself, remembering to focus, to study all the details, acquire all the information, before he did anything rash. Assess the situation…
He stepped as close to the suspended figure as he could without touching the strange, gelatinous barrier, then he paused to consider what he should do. He couldn’t risk damaging anything here…and he had no intention of becoming trapped, as the young woman had been.
But this was incredible!
Forcing himself to turn away, he spun around, scanning the amazing room, looking for more clues. With a start, he saw that other small, dim chambers similar to the one that imprisoned Cassandra dotted the walls around him—dim alcoves like empty coffins in a mausoleum…empty except for one, which held someone—something—else.
Resisting his unsettling curiosity about the archaeologist’s daughter, Mulder moved to the single other occupied chamber in the control-room wall, dreading what he might find there.
“Let’s see what’s behind door number two,” he said.
The figure lay crumpled, a mound of wadded rags and desiccated flesh, as if he had been struck down where he stood. The mummified, hardened remains were distorted like a lump of mahogany driftwood, stripped of all moisture, barely more than tatters of iron-hard tissue that held crumbling bones together.
At first glance Mulder couldn’t tell if the mummy was actually human. He recalled similar dried corpses he had encountered while investigating other cases—in a high-schooler’s grave in Oregon, in a buried boxcar in New Mexico—desiccated remains, possibly of extraterrestrial origin, possibly not.
With a sense of amazement tinged with desperate hope, he wondered whether this forlorn figure could have been one of the original occupants of the derelict craft. Perhaps even Kukulkan himself?
Scully would never accept that conclusion until she could do an autopsy herself. But when taken together with the other evidence—the buried ship and its artifacts, the Maya carvings of spacemen and feathered serpents—this long-dead inhabitant would be compelling enough even to the most hardened skeptic. Even to Scully.
He turned back to the murky, bizarre chamber that held Cas
sandra Rubicon, and the differences between the two…specimens…struck him. Whereas Cassandra hung perfectly preserved in a coffin of petrified light, as if time had somehow stopped for her, the other occupant looked as if time had rolled over him with a steam roller and left him like roadkill in the dust. This dried-out corpse had suffered some kind of mishap. Mulder wondered what had gone wrong.
He resisted going inside the mummy’s alcove. Not yet. The walls of the main chamber blistered with the pulsing light that sent a vibrating tingle through his head. A message only recently sent out to a distant people who must have stopped listening a thousand years before.
Tearing himself away from the mummified corpse and the trapped figure of Cassandra, Mulder studied the limestone walls, where metal had fallen away in the main chamber. He saw chiseled images similar to those on the temple at the apex of the pyramid. But these images were less stylized and more realistic.
As far as he could tell, the scenes depicted a tall silhouetted form, a godlike figure, an alien surrounded by Indians who seemed to worship him…or fear him. The godlike image—Kukulkan?—stood accompanied by several monstrous feathered serpents.
Mulder felt a shiver crawl down his back. These were well-rendered images of the creature he had seen in the moonlit shadows two nights earlier. Slithering, glossy…unearthly.
He followed the succession of carvings that paraded across the walls, impressions of the Maya people building temples, erecting cities in the jungle, treating the ancient astronaut with great reverence. In each scene the visitor had his back turned, his head lifted up, his unseen face toward the sky…as if waiting for someone to come. A rescuer perhaps?
But for whatever reason, Mulder thought, “Kukulkan” had intentionally come back inside the derelict ship, placing himself into one of these chambers to stay…to die.
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