The Mayan Trilogy

by Alten-Steve

  A five-minute walk brings him to the mouth of the 190-foot-wide pit, a spot where thousands of maidens were once sacrificed to death. He looks down. Sixty feet below, the dark, algae-infested waters reek of stagnation.

  The distant sound of thunder draws his attention skyward.

  That’s weird—not a cloud in the sky. Maybe it was a jet?

  The sound grows louder. Several hundred tourists look at each other, uneasy. A woman screams.

  Nakamura feels his body trembling. He looks down into the pit. Rings are spreading out across the once-tranquil surface.

  Son of a bitch, it’s an earthquake!

  Grinning with excitement, Nakamura aims his camcorder down the mouth of the cenote. After surviving the big quake of 2005, it will take a lot more than a few tremors to upset this San Francisco native’s psyche.

  The crowd moves back as the tremor increases. Many rush back down the sacbe toward the park exit. Others scream as the ground beneath their feet bounces like a trampoline.

  Nakamura stops smiling. What the hell?

  The water within the pit is swirling like an eddy.

  And then, as abruptly as they had started, the tremors cease.

  Hollywood Beach, Florida

  The synagogue is filled beyond capacity on this Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar.

  Dominique is seated between her adopted parents, Edie and Iz Axler. Rabbi Steinberg is standing at his pulpit, listening to the angelic voice of his cantor as she sings a haunting prayer to his congregation.

  Dominique is hungry, having fasted nearly twenty-four hours since the Day of Atonement began. She is also premenstrual. Perhaps that is why she seems so emotional, unable to focus. Perhaps that is why her thoughts keep drifting back to Michael Gabriel.

  The rabbi begins reading again:

  “On Rosh Hashanah, we reflect. On Yom Kippur we consider. Who shall live for the sake of others? Who, dying, shall leave a heritage of life? Who shall burn with the fires of greed? Who shall drown in the waters of despair? Whose hunger shall be for the good? Who shall thirst for justice and right? Who shall be plagued by fear of the world? Who shall strangle for lack of friends? Who shall rest at the end of the day? Who lie sleepless on a bed of pain?”

  Her emotions stir as she imagines Mick lying in his cell. Stop it …

  “Whose tongue shall be a thrusting sword? Whose words shall make for peace? Who shall go forth in the quest for truth? Who shall be locked in a prison of self?”

  In her mind’s eye, she can see Mick pacing the yard as the equinox sun begins to set behind the concrete wall.

  “… the angels, gripped by fear and trembling, declare in awe: This is the Day of Judgment! For even the hosts of heaven are judged, as all who dwell on earth stand arrayed before You.”

  The emotional dam bursts, the hot tears streaking eyeliner down her face. Confused, she squeezes past Iz and hurries up the aisle and out of the temple.

  6

  SEPTEMBER 25, 2012: WASHINGTON, DC

  Ennis Chaney is weary.

  It has been two years since the Republican senator from Pennsylvania buried his mother, and he still misses her dearly. He misses visiting her in the nursing home where he used to bring her his specialty pork dish, and he misses her smile. He also misses his sister, who died eleven months after their mother, and his younger brother, whom cancer stole from him only last month.

  He clenches his hands tightly, his youngest daughter rubbing his back. Four long days have passed since he received the call in the middle of the night. Four days since his best friend, Jim, died of a massive heart attack.

  He sees the limo and security car pull up the driveway from the dining-room window and sighs. No rest for the weary, no rest for the grieving. He embraces his wife and his three daughters, hugs Jim’s widow once more, then leaves the house, escorted by the two bodyguards. He pinches a tear from his deeply set eyes, the dark pigment surrounding the sockets creating the shadow of a raccoon’s mask. Chaney’s eyes are mirrors to his soul. They reveal his passion as a man, his wisdom as a leader. Cross him, and the eyes become unblinking daggers.

  Of late, Chaney’s eyes have grown red from too much crying.

  Reluctantly, the senator climbs into the back of the awaiting limousine, the two bodyguards getting into the other vehicle.

  Chaney hates limos; in fact, he hates anything that calls attention to himself or reeks of the kind of preferential treatment associated with executive privilege. He stares out the window and thinks about his life, wondering if he is about to make a big mistake.

  Ennis Chaney was born sixty-seven years ago in the poorest black neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida. He was raised by his mother, who supported their family by cleaning white folks’ homes, and by his aunt, whom he often referred to as Mama. He has never known his real father, a man who left home a few months after he was born. When he was two, his mother remarried, his new stepfather moving the family to New Jersey. It was there that young Ennis would grow up. It was there that he would hone his skills as a leader.

  The playing field was the one place where Chaney felt at home, the one place where color didn’t matter. Smaller than his peers, he nevertheless refused to be intimidated by anyone. After school, he would push himself through thousands of hours of drills, channeling his aggression to develop his athletic skills, learning discipline and self-control along the way. As a high-school senior, he would earn second-team, all-city honors at quarterback and first-team, all-state in basketball. Few defenders ever challenged the scrappy little point guard who would sooner break your ankle than allow you to steal the ball; but off the court, you couldn’t find a warmer, more affectionate young man.

  His basketball career would end after he tore his patellar tendon during his junior year of college. Though more interested in pursuing a coaching career, he allowed his mother, a woman who had grown up during the days of Jim Crow, to convince him to toss his hat into the political ring. Having lived through enough of his own experiences with racism, Ennis knew politics was the primary arena where change needed to be made.

  His stepfather had connections with the Republican Party in Philadelphia. A fierce Democrat, Chaney nevertheless believed he could effect more change as a Republican candidate. Applying the same work ethic, passion, and intensity that allowed him to excel on the playing field, Ennis quickly rose through the ranks of the blue-collar city’s politicians, never afraid to speak his mind, always looking to go out on a limb to help the underdog.

  Despising laziness and lack of self-control among his peers, he became a breath of fresh air and something of a folk hero in Philadelphia. Deputy Mayor Chaney soon became Mayor Chaney. Years later, he would run for senator from Pennsylvania and win in a rout.

  Now, less than two months from the November 2012 election, the president of the United States had come calling, urging him to join the ticket as his running mate. Ennis Chaney—the dirt-poor kid from Jacksonville, Florida— a veritable heartbeat away from the most powerful office in the world.

  He stares out the window as the limo turns onto the Capital Beltway. Death frightens Ennis Chaney. There is no hiding from it and no reasoning with it. It provides no answers, only questions and confusion, tears and eulogies—far too many eulogies. How can one sum up a loved one’s life in twenty minutes? How can anyone expect him to translate a lifetime of caring into mere words?

  Vice president. Chaney shakes his head, allowing his mind to wrestle with his future.

  It is not his future that concerns him as much as the burden his candidacy would place on his wife and family. Becoming a senator was one thing, accepting the Republican nomination as the first African-American vice president was an entirely different matter. The last and only Black who held a legitimate chance of being elected to the White House was Colin Powell, and the general had eventually backed off, citing family concerns. If Maller won re-election, Chaney would be the favorite to run in 2016. Like Powell, he knew his popularity crossed po
litical and racial lines, but there was always a small segment of the population that, like death, couldn’t be reasoned with.

  And he had already put his family through so much.

  Chaney also knows Pierre Borgia is hot for the ticket, and wonders how far the Secretary of State will go to get what he wants. Borgia is everything Chaney is not: brash, self-serving, politically motivated, egotistical, a bachelor, a military hawk—and white.

  Chaney’s thoughts return to his best friend and his family. He weeps openly, not caring one bit if the driver happens to notice.

  Ennis Chaney wears his emotions on his sleeve, something he learned long ago from his mother. Inner strength and the tenacity to lead are no good unless one also allows himself to feel, and Chaney feels everything. Pierre Borgia feels nothing. Raised among the rich, the Secretary of State looks at life with blinders on, never pausing to consider what the other side may be feeling. This last fact weighs heavily upon the senator. The world is becoming a more complicated and dangerous place every day. Nuclear paranoia in Asia is rising. Borgia is the last person he wants to see running the country during a crisis situation.

  “You all right back there, Senator?”

  “Hell, no. What the hell kind of dumb-ass question is that?” Chaney’s voice is a deep rasp, unless he’s yelling, something he does quite often.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Shut up and drive the damn car.”

  The driver smiles. Dean Disangro has been working for Senator Chaney for sixteen years and loves the man like a father.

  “Deano, what the hell is so goddam important NASA’d want me at Goddard on a Sunday?”

  “No idea. You’re the senator, I’m just a lowly paid employee—”

  “Shut up. You know more about what’s going on than most of the dummies in Congress.”

  “You’re NASA’s liaison, Senator. Obviously, something important’s happened for them to have the balls to summon you over the weekend.”

  “Thanks, Sherlock. You have a news monitor up there?”

  The driver passes him the clipboard-sized device, already set to the Washington Post. Chaney glances at the headlines concerning preparations for nuclear deterrent exercises in Asia. Grozny scheduled the event the week before Christmas. That was clever. No doubt hoping to dampen the holiday spirit.

  Chaney tosses the monitor aside. “How’s your wife? She’s due soon, isn’t she?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Wonderful.” Chaney smiles, pinching another tear from his bloodshot eyes.

  NASA: Goddard Space Flight Center, Greenbelt, Maryland

  Senator Chaney feels the anxious eyes of NASA, SETI, Arecibo, and God only knows who else, upon him. He finishes scanning the twenty-page brief, then clears his throat, quieting the conference room. “Are you absolutely certain the radio signal originated from deep space?”

  “Yes, Senator.” Brian Dodds, NASA’s executive director, looks almost apologetic.

  “But you haven’t been able to pinpoint the precise origin of the signal?”

  “No, sir, not yet. We’re pretty certain the source is located within Orion’s arm, our own spiral arm of the galaxy. The signal passed through the Orion Nebula, a source of massive interference, making it difficult to determine exactly how far the signal may have traveled. Assuming it did come from a planet within the Orion belt, we’re looking at a minimum distance of fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred light-years from Earth.”

  “And this signal lasted for three hours?”

  “Three hours and twenty-two minutes, to be precise, Senator,” Kenny Wong blurts out, standing to attention.

  Chaney motions for him to sit. “And there have been no other signals, Mr Dodds?”

  “No, sir, but we’ll continue to monitor the frequency and direction of the signal around the clock.”

  “All right, assuming the signal was real, what are the implications here?”

  “Well, sir, the most obvious and exciting implication is that we now have evidence that we’re not alone, that at least one more intelligent life form does exist somewhere within our galaxy. Our next step is to determine if specific patterns or algorithms are hidden within the signal itself.”

  “You think the signal may contain some sort of communication?”

  “We think it’s very possible. Senator, this wasn’t just some random signal transmitted across the galaxy. This beam was purposely directed at our solar system. There’s another intelligence out there that knows we exist. By directing their beacon at Earth, they were letting us know they exist, too.”

  “Sort of a neighborly, ‘how do you do,’ is that it?”

  The NASA director smiles. “Yes, sir.”

  “And when will your people finish their analysis?”

  “Difficult to say. If an alien algorithm does exist, I’m confident our computers and team of mathematicians and cryptic code breakers will find it. Still, it could take months, years—or maybe never. How does one go about thinking like an extraterrestrial? This is exciting, but it’s all very new to us.”

  “That’s not exactly true, is it, Mr Dodds?” The raccoon eyes stare down the director. “You and I both know that SETI has been using Arecibo’s big dish to transmit messages into deep space for quite some time.”

  “Just as networks have been broadcasting television signals into space at the speed of light ever since I Love Lucy first aired.”

  “Don’t play games, Mr Dodds. I’m no astronomer, but I’ve read enough to know that television signals are far too weak to have reached Orion. When this discovery is announced, there are going to be a lot of very angry, very frightened people out there who will insist that SETI brought this unknown terror upon us.”

  Dodds hushes the objections from his assistants. “You’re right, Senator. SETI transmissions are stronger, but television signals are infinitely more vast, spreading out into space in all directions. Of the two, television signals are far more likely to have reached a random receiver than a narrow beacon from Arecibo. Keep in mind that the strength of the radio signal we detected was produced by an alien transmitter far and away superior to our own. We’d have to assume that the intelligence behind the signal also has radio receivers capable of detecting our weaker signals.”

  “Regardless, Mr Dodds, the reality of this situation is that millions of ignorant people are going to wake up tomorrow, frightened to death, waiting for little green men to break into their homes, rape their wives, and steal their babies. This situation has to be handled with finesse, or it’ll blow up in all of our faces.”

  The NASA director nods. “That’s why we called you in, Senator.”

  The deeply set eyes lose a bit of their harshness. “Okay, let’s talk about this new telescope you’re proposing.” Chaney thumbs through his copy of the briefing. “It says here that the dish would be thirty miles in diameter and would be built on the dark side of the moon. That’s gonna cost some chunk of change. Why the hell do you need to build it on the moon?”

  “For the same reasons we launched the Hubble Space Telescope. There’s too much radio interference escaping from Earth. The farside of the moon always faces away from Earth, offering us a natural radio-free zone. The idea is to construct a dish in the bottom of a massive crater, similar in design to Arecibo’s big dish, only several thousand times larger. We’ve already selected a site—Saha Crater—only three degrees on the dark side of the moon, close to the lunar equator. A lunar telescope would give us the capability to communicate with the intelligence that contacted us.”

  “And why would we want to do that?” Chaney’s voice booms across the conference room, losing its rasp as it rises. “Mr Dodds, this radio signal may be the most important discovery in the history of mankind, but what NASA is proposing is going to frighten the masses. What if the American people say no? What if they don’t want to spend a few billion dollars to contact ET? This is a pretty big financial pill you’re asking Congress to swallow.”

  Brian Dodds knows
Ennis Chaney, knows the man is testing his fortitude. “Senator, you’re right. This discovery is going to frighten a lot of people. But let me tell you what frightens a lot of us even more. It frightens us when we pick up our daily news monitor and read stories about nuclear weapons in Iran. It frightens us when we read about the growing hunger problems in Russia, or about the strategic arms buildup in China, another country capable of destroying the world. It seems like every nation suffering political and economic unrest is armed to the teeth, Senator Chaney, and that reality is a lot more frightening than any radio signal coming from eighteen hundred light-years away.”

  Dodds stands. At just over six feet and a solid 220 pounds, he looks more a wrestler than scientist. “What the public needs to understand is that we’re dealing with an intelligent species far superior to our own that has succeeded in making first contact. Whatever they are, wherever they are, they’re too far away to be dropping by for a visit. By building this radio telescope, we enable ourselves to communicate with another species. Eventually, we may be able to learn from them, share our technologies, and gain a better understanding of the universe, and maybe even our own origins. This discovery could unite mankind—this project could be the catalyst that leads humanity away from nuclear annihilation.”

  Dodds looks Chaney square in the eye. “Senator, ET has called, and it’s vitally important to the future of humanity that we call him back.”

  7

  SEPTEMBER 26, 2012: MIAMI, FLORIDA

  There are five residents gathered in the pod known as 7-C. Two are seated on the floor playing what they think is chess, another is asleep on the sofa. A fourth stands by the door, waiting for a member of his rehab team to arrive to escort him to his morning therapy session.