by Alten-Steve
“Wait! Stop—stop!” Martinez tucks his knees to his chest, struggling to keep away from the molten surface beneath him. “Raise us higher—higher!”
They stop descending, the two men dangling only inches above the boiling, 650-degree milky-white geology.
“Raise us twenty feet,” Brandt yells.
The winch lifts them higher.
“What’s the problem?” Barbara’s voice tears into their eardrums.
“The surface is boiling, it’s a cauldron of melted rock and seawater,” Martinez says in a nervous, high-pitched voice. “We’ll do our tests right here. It’ll only take a minute.”
Taber’s deep voice causes him to jump. “Any radiation?”
Martinez checks his sensors. “No. Wait a second, I’m detecting argon-4l.”
Brandt looks over. “That’s not a plutonium by-product.”
“No, it’s a short-lived activation product of pure fusion. Whatever vaporized this landscape must have been some kind of hybrid pure-fusion weapon.” Martinez hooks the Geiger counter to his belt, then analyzes the gases rising from below. “Wow. Carbon dioxide levels are off the scale.”
“That’s understandable,” Brandt says. “This entire plain was composed of limestone, which, as I’m sure you know, is nature’s storehouse for carbon dioxide. When the geology vaporized, it released a toxic cloud of CO2. We’re actually quite fortunate, the southerly winds blew it away from our cities and out to sea.”
“I’m also detecting high levels of hydrochloric acid.”
“Really? That is bizarre.”
“Yes, Mr Brandt, this whole thing’s bizarre, and quite frightening. Take us up, I’ve seen all I need to see.”
Merida Airport, Mexico
The transport helicopter lands with a bone-jarring jolt.
Mick opens his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to rouse his body from sleep. He lifts his head from the unzipped body bag and looks around.
Sixty-four plastic army green body bags holding the remains of the Scylla crew line the interior. Mick hears the bay doors rattle. He lies back, zipping his bag.
The door opens. Mick recognizes the pilot’s voice. “I’ll be in the hangar. Tell your men to be very careful, comprende, amigo?’
A flurry of Spanish. Men begin moving body bags. Mick remains perfectly still.
Several minutes pass. He hears a truck’s engine start, then fade in the distance.
He unzips the bag, then peers through the open cargo door, spotting the tram heading for an open hangar.
Mick climbs out of the bag, jumps down from the EVAC chopper, and jogs toward the main terminal.
JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL
It was in the fall of 1977 that Maria and I returned to Mesoamerica, my wife now six months pregnant. Desperate for funds, we decided to submit the body of our work to Cambridge and Harvard, careful to omit any information pertaining to the presence of an alien race of humans. Impressed with our research, the powers that be awarded each of us a research grant to continue our work.
After purchasing a used mobile trailer home, we set off to explore the Mayan ruins, hoping to identify the Mesoamerican pyramid the artist of Nazca had drawn upon the desert pampa, as well as a means of saving humanity from the prophesied destruction to come.
Despite the morbidity of our mission, our years spent in Mexico were happy ones. Our favorite moment—the birth of our son, Michael, born at sunrise on Christmas morning, in the waiting room of a tiny medical clinic in Merida.
I must admit that I was quite concerned about raising a child under such harsh conditions, worried that Michael’s isolation from other children his own age might impede the boy’s social development. At one point, I even suggested to my wife that we send him to a private boarding school when he turned five. Maria would hear nothing of it. In the end, I acceded to her wishes, realizing that she needed the child’s companionship as much as he needed hers.
Maria was more than Michael’s mother, she was his mentor, guide, and best friend—and he her prize pupil. Even at an early age, it was easy to see that the boy possessed his mother’s keen mind, to go along with those dark, ebony eyes and their disarming focus.
For seven years, our family searched the dense jungles of present-day Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador. While other fathers taught their sons how to play baseball, I taught my son how to excavate artifacts. While other students learned a foreign language, Michael learned how to translate Mayan hieroglyphics. Together, the three of us climbed the temples of Uxmal, Palenque, and Tikal, explored the fortifications of Labna, Churihuhu, and Kewik, and marveled at the castle in Tulum. We investigated the Zapotee capital of Monte Alban, and the religious centers in Kaminaljuyu, and Copán. We crawled through tombs and scuba-dived into subterranean caves. We unearthed ancient platforms and interviewed Mayan elders. And in the end, we narrowed the identity of the Nazca pyramid drawing down to one of two ancient sites, both of which we believed were pieces of the Mayan calendar’s doomsday puzzle.
The first site was Teotihuacán, a magnificent Toltec city situated on a 6,600-foot-high plateau in the Mexican highlands, located some 30 miles northeast of present-day Mexico City. Believed to have been founded during the time of Christ, Teotihuacán was the first great metropolis of the Western Hemisphere, and was believed to be one of the largest.
Like the structures in Giza, the origins of Teotihuacán remain a mystery. We have no clue as to which culture designed the city, how the feat was accomplished, or even the language spoken by its original occupants. As is the case with the Sphinx and the Giza pyramids, the date of Teotihuacán’s construction is still widely debated. Even the name of the complex and its pyramids come to us from the Toltec civilization, which moved in centuries after the city was abandoned.
It has been estimated that the labor involved in building the structures of Teotihuacán would have taken an army of 20,000 men more than 40 years to complete. Yet it is not the mystery of how this city was constructed that first caught our attention, but its design and the obvious similarities to the site plan in Giza.
As mentioned earlier, there are three principal pyramids in Giza, laid out in reference to the stars of Orion’s belt, with the Nile intended as a reflection of the dark rift of the Milky Way. Teotihuacán also features three pyramids, situated in a surprisingly similar staggered formation, although the orientation differs by nearly 180 degrees. Connecting one end of the city to the other is the Avenue of the Dead, the major access route through the complex. The avenue, like the River Nile in Giza, was intended to represent the dark rift of the Milky Way.
To the ancient Mesoamericán Indians, the dark rift was known as Xibalba Be, the Black Road that leads to Xibalba, the Underworld. New excavations in Teotihuacán have discovered large channels located beneath this roadway, which we now know were designed to gather rainwater. This would indicate that the Avenue of the Dead may not have been a roadway at all, but a magnificent cosmic reflecting pool.
The similarities between Giza and Teotihuacán do not stop there. The largest of the Mesoamerican city’s three temples is called the Pyramid of the Sun, a precise, four-sided structure whose base, at 742.5 feet, is only twelve and a half feet shorter than its Egyptian counterpart, the Great Pyramid of Giza. This makes the Sun pyramid the largest man-made structure in the Western hemisphere, the Great Pyramid the largest in the East. Interestingly enough, the Sun pyramid points west, the Great Pyramid east, a fact that caused Maria to think of these two immense structures as giant planetary bookends.
Precise measurements of both the Great Pyramid and Pyramid of the Sun clearly indicate the ancient architects at both sites possessed a firm grasp of advanced mathematics, geometry, and the value of pi. The perimeter of the Pyramid of the Sun equals its height multiplied by 2pi, the great pyramid twice its height at 4pi.
One clue as to who designed Teotihuacán may be found in the smallest of the three structures, the pyramid of Quetzalcoatl. The temple is located in an
enormous squared enclosure, called the Ciudadela (Citadel), a plaza large enough to accommodate 100,000 people. The most elaborately adorned structure in all of Teotihuacán, the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl contains a myriad of sculptures and three-dimensional facades that feature one distinct character—a menacing plumed serpent.
To the Toltecs and Aztecs, the plumed serpent symbolized the great Caucasian wise man, Quetzalcoatl.
Once more, the presence of a mysterious bearded teacher seemed to be directing our journey into the past.
Upon abandoning Teotihuacán, the Toltecs and their leader had migrated east, settling in the Mayan city of Chichén Itzá. It was here that the two cultures would again meld into one, creating the most magnificent and perplexing structure in all the ancient world—the Kukulcán pyramid.
I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be in Chichén Itzá that we would come face-to-face with a discovery that would not only change my family’s destiny, but condemn us to remain on our journey forever.
—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,
Ref. Catalogue 1977–81, pages 12–349
19
DECEMBER 4, 2012: ABOARD THE USS BOONE, GULF OF MEXICO
Secretary of State Pierre Borgia steps down from the helicopter, to be greeted by Captain Edmund Loos. “Morning, Mr Secretary. How was your flight?”
“Lousy. Has the psychiatric director from Miami arrived yet?”
“About twenty minutes ago. He’s waiting for you in my briefing room.”
“What’s the latest on Gabriel?”
“We’re still not certain how he was able to escape from the brig. The lock shows some signs of tampering, but nothing significant. Our best guess is that someone freed him.”
“Was it the girl?”
“No, sir. She suffered a concussion and was in sickbay, unconscious. We’re still conducting a full investigation.”
“And how did he manage to get off this ship?”
“Probably hitched a ride on an EVAC. They were coming and going all day.”
Borgia gives the captain a cold stare. “I hope you don’t run your ship like you guard your prisoners, Captain.”
Loos returns the look. “I’m not running a baby-sitting service, Mr Secretary. I seriously doubt one of my men would risk a future in prison to free your nutcase.”
“Who else could have released him?”
“I don’t know. We have teams of scientists on board, new ones arriving every day. Could have been one of them, or even someone from the vice president’s party.”
Borgia’s eyebrows raise.
“As I said, we’re still conducting a full investigation. We’ve also alerted the Mexican police about Gabriel’s escape.”
“They’ll never find him. Gabriel has too many friends in the Yucatán. What about the girl? What does she know about the alien object?”
“She claims the only thing she can remember is her minisub being sucked down a tunnel. One of our geologists has her convinced that her vessel was caught in the currents of a lava tube, created by a dormant, subterranean volcano that’s becoming active again.” Loos smiles. “He explained the glow as being caused by a subterranean lava field that can be seen as it flows past the pit in the seafloor. Even showed her a few doctored infrared satellite shots of the whirlpool, claiming the vortex was caused by the collapse of subterranean pockets beneath the seafloor. She believes this is what sunk her father’s boat, killing him and his two friends.”
“Where is she now?”
“Sickbay.”
“Give me a few minutes to speak with the psychiatric director alone, then bring the girl in. While we’re speaking with her, have this sewn into the lining of her clothes.” He hands Loos a tiny device the size of a watch battery.
“A tracking device?”
“A gift from the NSA. Oh, and Captain, when you bring the girl to see me, have her in handcuffs.”
Two armed sailors lead a shackled and unnerved Dominique Vazquez through several tight corridors, then up three flights to a cabin labeled CAPTAIN’S BRIEFING ROOM. One of the guards knocks, then opens the door and leads her inside.
Dominique enters the small conference room. “Oh, God—”
Anthony Foletta looks up from the conference table and smiles. “Intern Vazquez, come in.” The gravelly voice has a fatherly tone. “Mr Secretary, are the handcuffs really necessary?”
The one-eyed man closes the door behind her, then takes his place at the table across from Foletta. “I’m afraid so, Dr Foletta. Ms Vazquez has aided and abetted a dangerous felon.” He motions for her to sit. “You know who I am?”
“Pierre Borgia. I—I was told you were coming three days ago.”
“Yes, well, we had a little situation in Australia that took precedence.”
“Are you here to arrest me?”
“That depends entirely on you.”
“It’s not you we want, Dominique,” Foletta says, “it’s Mick. You know where he is, don’t you?”
“How would I know that? He escaped while I was still unconscious.”
“She’s a pretty one, isn’t she, Doctor?” Borgia’s glare causes sweat to break out along her upper lip. “It’s no wonder Mick took a fancy to you. Tell me, Ms Vazquez, what motivated you to help him break out of the asylum?”
Foletta jumps in before she can answer. “She was confused, Mr Secretary. You know how clever Gabriel can be. He used Dominique’s childhood trauma to coerce her into helping him escape.”
“That’s not entirely true,” she says, finding it difficult not to focus on Borgia’s permanent eye patch. “Mick knew something was in the Gulf. And he knew about that deep-space radio transmission—”
Foletta places a sweaty palm across her forearm. “Intern, you need to face reality. Mick Gabriel used you. He was planning his escape from the moment he met you.”
“No, I don’t believe that—”
“Maybe you just don’t want to believe it,” Borgia says. “The fact is, your father would still be alive today if Mick hadn’t coerced you into helping him.”
Dominique’s eyes cloud with tears.
Borgia removes a file from his brief, taking a moment to examine it. “Isadore Axler, a biologist residing in Sanibel Island. Certainly has a long list of credentials. He wasn’t your real father, was he?”
“He was the only father I ever knew.”
Borgia continues looking through the file. “Ah, here we are—Edith Axler. Did you know the two of us met? Fine woman.”
Dominique feels her skin crawl beneath the navy-issue sweats. “You met Edie?”
“Just long enough to place her under arrest.”
The words send her springing to her feet. “Edie had no part in Mick’s escape! It was all me. I arranged everything—”
“I’m not interested in a confession, Ms Vasquez. What I want is Michael Gabriel. If I can’t have him, I’ll simply lock you and your mother up for a very long time. Of course, in Edith’s case, that may not be too long a sentence. She’s getting up there in age, and her husband’s death has obviously taken its toll.”
Dominique’s heart races. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.”
“If you say so.” Borgia stands and heads for the door.
“Wait, let me talk to her,” Foletta says. “Give us five minutes.”
Borgia looks at his watch. “Five minutes.” He exits the cabin.
Dominique lays her head on the table, her insides quivering, her tears pooling on the steel tabletop. “Why is all this happening?”
“Shh.” Foletta strokes her hair, his voice a soothing whisper. “Dominique, Borgia doesn’t want to lock you and your mother up. He’s just scared.”
She lifts her head. “Scared of what?”
“Of Mick. He knows Mick wants revenge, that he’ll stop at nothing to kill him.”
“Mick’s not like that—”
“You’re wrong. Borgia knows him a lot better than you or I. Their history goes b
ack a long way. Did you know Borgia was engaged to Mick’s mother? Julius Gabriel stole the bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding ceremony. There’s a lot of bad blood between the families.”
“Mick doesn’t care about revenge. He’s more concerned about this Mayan doomsday thing.”
“Mick’s clever. He’s not going to tell you or anyone else about his true motive. My guess is that he’s hiding out in the Yucatán. His family had a lot of friends there who could help him. He’ll lie low for a while, then go after Borgia, probably during a public appearance. Think about it, Dominique: do you really believe the Secretary of State of the United States would travel all the way out here to see you if he wasn’t frightened? In a few years he’ll be running for president. The last thing he needs to worry about is some paranoid schizophrenic with a 160 IQ plotting his assassination.”
Dominique wipes her eyes. Is it true? Did Mick really use his family’s apocalyptic research to set me up? “Let’s say I believe you. What do you think I should do?”
Foletta’s eyes twinkle back at her. “Let me help you strike a deal with Borgia. Full immunity for you and your mother if you lead the authorities to Mick.”
“The last time I struck a deal with you, you lied to me. You never had any intention of re-evaluating Mick or getting him the treatment he needs. Why should I believe you now?”
“I didn’t lie!” He stands, barking the words. “I hadn’t been officially awarded the Tampa job, and anyone who says otherwise is a goddam liar!” He wipes the sweat from his forehead, then back through his mane of gray hair, his cherub face bright red. “Dominique, I’m here to help you. If you don’t want my help, then I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.”
“I want your help, Doctor, I just don’t know if I can trust you.”
“The immunity would be arranged by Borgia, not me. What I’m offering is your old life back.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve already spoken with your advisor at FSU. I’m offering you an internship in the new Tampa facility, close to your mother’s home. Your job will be to head up Mick’s treatment team, with a permanent position and full benefits waiting for you after you graduate.”