by Alten-Steve
Seconds later—a thunderous roar, as the ground shakes beneath his feet.
Avalanche?
The dense fog prevents Pavel from seeing the geological devastation taking place before his eyes. What the teenager can see is a rolling, grayish white cloud of snow expanding outward, the wave of energy racing toward him at unfathomable speed.
He drops the ax and runs. “Nikolai! Avalanche—avalanche!”
The nuclear blast wave lifts Pavel off his feet, driving him headfirst through the cabin door behind the wind speed of a force-five tornado. Before he can register the pain, the entire structure is blown off its foundation like a house of cards—the searing-hot gust of debris sweeping across the plain, consuming everything in its path.
Chichén Itzá, Yucatán Peninsula 10:56 p.m.
The black, dust-covered Chevy pickup with the missing rear fender cuts through the dense jungle, its worn shock absorbers squealing in protest as it bounces along the uneven dirt road. Approaching the chained gate, the truck skids to a stop.
Michael Gabriel jumps out from the driver’s side.
He examines the steel chain, then begins working the rusted padlock, using the truck’s headlights to see.
Dominique slides over to the driver’s seat as Mick pops open the lock and removes the chain. Grinding the truck into gear, she drives forward through the open gate, then returns to the passenger side as he climbs back inside.
“That was impressive. Where’d you learn to pick locks?”
“Solitary confinement. Of course, it always helps if you have the key.”
“Where’d you get a key?”
“I have friends who work in the park’s maintenance department. Kind of pathetic that the only work available to local Mayans is serving food or hauling trash in the city founded by their own ancestors.”
Dominique grabs the dashboard as Mick accelerates the truck down the bumpy back road. “You sure you know where you’re going?”
“I spent most of my childhood exploring Chichén Itzá. I know this jungle like the back of my hand.”
The high beams reveal a dead end looming up ahead.
He smiles. “Of course, that was a long time ago.”
“Mick!” Dominique squeezes her eyes shut and hangs on as he veers off the road and drives straight through the jungle, sending the pickup slashing through heavy underbrush and foliage.
“Slow down! Are you trying to kill us?”
The vehicle swerves in and out of the dense thicket, somehow managing to avoid trees and rocks. They enter a heavily wooded area, the jungle canopy concealing the night sky.
Mick slams on the brakes. “End of the road.”
“You call that a road?”
He shuts off the engine.
“Mick, tell me again why—”
“Shh. Listen.”
The only sound she hears is the ticking of the truck’s engine. “What am I listening for?”
“Be patient.”
Gradually, the chirping of crickets comes to life around them, followed in turn by the rest of the jungle wildlife.
Dominique looks at Mick. His eyes are closed, a melancholy expression spreading across his angular face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“My childhood.”
“A happy or sad memory?”
“One of the few happy ones. My mother used to take me on camping trips in these woods when I was very young. She taught me a lot about nature and the Yucatán, how the peninsula formed, its geology—all sorts of things. She was a great teacher. No matter what we did together, she always made it fun.”
Mick turns to her, his black pupils wide and glistening. “Did you know this entire area used to be under water? Millions of years ago, the Yucatán Peninsula was at the bottom of a tropical sea, its surface covered with coral and plants and marine sediment. The geology of the seafloor was essentially one huge layer of solid limestone, and then—boom!—this spaceship, or whatever the hell it was, crash-landed on Earth. The impact fractured the limestone, creating 2,000-foot tidal waves, firestorms, and an atmospheric layer of dust that stifled photosynthesis and wiped out most of the species on the planet.
“Eventually the Yucatán Peninsula rose, becoming dry land. Rainwater ate through the cracks in the limestone, eroding the rock, carving out a vast subterranean labyrinth that stretches beneath the peninsula. My mother used to say that, below the surface, the Yucatán looks like a giant piece of Swiss cheese.”
He leans back in the seat, staring at the dashboard. “During the last ice age, water levels dropped, and the cave systems were no longer flooded. This allowed tremendous stalactites, stalagmites, and other calcium carbonate formations to form within the karst.”
“Karst?”
“Karst is the scientific name for a porous, limestone geology. The Yucatán is all karst. Anyway, about fourteen thousand years ago, the ice melted and the sea rose, reflooding the caves. There are no surface rivers in the Yucatán. All the peninsula’s water supplies originate from the subterranean caverns. The inland wells are freshwater, but as you near the coast, they become more salty. Sometimes the ceiling of a cave would collapse, forming a giant sinkhole—”
“Like the sacred dzonot?”
Mick smiles. “You used the Mayan word for cenote, I was wondering if you even knew it.”
“My grandmother was Mayan. She told me the dzonots were believed to be portals into the Underworld—into Xibalba. Mick, you and your mother—the two of you were very close, weren’t you?”
“Until recently, she was my only friend.”
Dominique swallows the lump in her throat. “When we were in the Gulf, you started to tell me something about how she died. You seemed angry at your father.”
A look of uncertainty crosses his face. “We really should get going—”
“No, wait—tell me what happened. Maybe I can help. If you can’t trust me, whom can you trust?”
He leans forward, his forearms on the wheel as he gazes out the bug-encrusted windshield. “I was twelve. We were living in this two-room shack just outside Nazca. My mother was dying, the cancer having spread beyond her pancreas. She couldn’t handle any more radiation or chemotherapy, and she was too weak to care for herself. Julius couldn’t afford a nurse, so he left me in charge while he continued his work in the desert. Mom’s organs were failing. She’d lie in bed, curled in a ball against the abdominal pain, while I’d brush her hair and read to her. She had long, dark hair, just like you. In the end, I couldn’t even brush it, it was just coming out in clumps.”
A single tear rolls down his cheek. “Her mind stayed sharp though, even up to the very end. She was always strongest in the morning, able to carry on conversations, but by late afternoon, she’d become weak and incoherent, the morphine knocking the fight right out of her. One evening Julius came home, exhausted after having spent three straight days in the desert. Mom had had a bad day. She was fighting a high fever and was in a lot of pain, and I was wiped out from having cared for her over the past seventy-two hours. Julius sat on the edge of her bed and just stared at her. Finally, I said good night and shut the adjoining door to their bedroom to get some sleep.
“I must have passed out the moment my head hit the pillow. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, but something woke me in the middle of the night, sort of a muffled cry. I got out of bed and opened the door.”
Mick closes his eyes, the tears flowing steadily now.
“What was it?” Dominique whispers. “What did you see?”
“The cries were coming from my mother. Julius was standing over her, suffocating her with his pillow.”
“Oh, God …”
“I just stood there, still half asleep, not realizing what was happening. After a minute or so, Mom stopped moving. That’s when Julius noticed the open door. He turned and looked at me with this horrible expression on his face. He dragged me into my room, sobbing and babbling about how
Mom had been in so much pain, how he couldn’t stand to see her suffer any longer.”
Mick rocks back and forth, staring out the windshield.
“Your nightmares?”
He nods, then balls his fists, slamming them down hard upon the weather-beaten dashboard. “Who the fuck was he to make that decision? I was the one who was caring for her—I was the one who was taking care of her— not him!”
She winces as he pummels the dashboard over and over, spending his pent-up fury.
Emotionally exhausted, he lays his head to rest on the steering wheel. “He never even asked me, Dominique. He never even gave me the chance to say goodbye.”
Dominique pulls him to her, stroking his hair as he cries, pulling his face against her breast. Tears roll down her own face as she thinks about how he has suffered, deprived of a normal childhood from birth, his entire adulthood marred by years spent in solitary confinement.
How can I possibly take him back to another asylum?
He quiets down after several minutes, pushing away from her, wiping his eyes. “Guess I still have a few family issues to sort out.”
“You’ve had a rough life, but things are going to get better now.”
Mick sniffs, choking back a smile. “You think so, huh?”
She leans over and kisses him, lightly at first, then she pulls him closer, and their lips melt into each other’s, their tongues embracing, heightening their passion. Aroused, they tear at each other’s clothing, fondling each other in the darkness, struggling against the tight confines of the cab, the steering wheel and gearshift severely limiting their lovemaking.
“Mick … wait. I can’t do this in here—there’s no room.” She lays her head on his shoulder, panting as beads of sweat roll down her face. “Next time you borrow a car, get something with a backseat.”
“Promise.” He kisses her forehead.
She plays with the curls of hair along his neck. “We better go or we’ll be late meeting your friends.”
They exit the truck. Mick climbs into the back of the pickup and unhooks the scuba tanks from the storage racks. He hands Dominique a buoyancy-control vest with an air tank and regulator already attached. “Have you ever done any night diving?”
“About two years ago. How long a walk is it to the cenote?”
“A good mile. You’ll probably be more comfortable wearing your tank.”
She puts on the vest and tank, then takes the neoprene wetsuits from him as he climbs down. Mick secures his own BCD vest, then tosses the equipment bag over his shoulder and picks up the two spare tanks of air. “Follow me.”
He tramples forward into the thicket, Dominique trudging in after him. Within minutes, swarms of mosquitoes are buzzing past their ears, feeding off their sweat. Following the remains of an overgrown footpath, they push their way through the dense jungle foliage while insects and thorns tear at their skin. The vegetation eventually yields to a heavily wooded area, the marshy soil becoming more rocky. They struggle up a five-foot rise, and suddenly the stars reappear above their heads.
They are standing on a fifteen-foot-wide compressed-stone pathway, an ancient sacbe constructed a thousand years ago by the Maya.
Mick lowers the air tanks, rubbing his aching shoulders. “To the left is the sacred cenote, to the right the Kukulcán pyramid. You okay?”
“I feel like a pack mule. How much farther?”
“Two hundred yards. Come on.”
They continue to the left, arriving five minutes later at the rim of the immense limestone pit, its silent, dark waters reflecting the lunar light.
Dominique looks down, estimating the drop to be a good fifty feet. Her heart races. Why the hell am I doing this? She turns as five dark-skinned Mayan elders emerge from the woods.
“These are friends,” Mick says. “H’Menes, Mayan wise men. They are descendants of the Sh’Tol brethren, a sacred society that escaped the wrath of the Spaniards over five centuries ago. They’re here to help us.”
As he climbs into his wetsuit, Mick speaks to a white-haired Mayan in an ancient tongue. The other elders remove a length of rope and several underwater flashlights from the equipment bag.
Dominique turns her back to the group and slips out of her sweatshirt, quickly pulling the tight wetsuit over her one-piece bathing suit.
Mick calls her over, a concerned look on his face. “Dom, this is Ocelo, a Mayan priest. Ocelo says a man has been seen in Chichén Itzá, asking questions about our whereabouts. He describes the stranger as an American, with red hair and a muscular build.”
“Raymond? Oh, shit—”
“Dom, tell me the truth. Did you—”
“Mick, I swear, I haven’t contacted Foletta or Borgia or anyone else since I’ve been here.”
“Ocelo’s brother is a security guard. He says the redhead entered the park just before closing but no one remembers seeing him leave. That deal you signed with Borgia. It was all bullshit. You’ll get your immunity after I’m found dead. Come on, we’d better get moving.”
They open the valves of their air tanks, verifying their regulators are working. Hoisting the BCD vest onto their shoulders, they approach the edge of the cenote.
Mick slips his fins onto his feet, then loops the rope around his arms and eases himself over the edge of the pit. The Mayans lower him quickly into the stagnant, cold water, then retrieve the rope for Dominique.
Mick positions his face mask and regulator, then turns his flashlight on and ducks his head underwater. Visibility in the chocolate-brown, foul-smelling murk is less than two feet.
Dominique feels her limbs quivering as she dangles above the cenote’s dark surface. Why are you doing this? Are you insane? She cringes as her feet enter the chilly, algae-infested cesspool. Releasing the rope, she falls in, gagging at the putrid smell. She quickly adjusts her mask, then shoves the regulator into her mouth and breathes, cutting off the stench.
Mick surfaces, slimy strands of vegetation hanging from his hair. He attaches a length of yellow cord from his waist to hers. “It’s pretty dark down there. I don’t want us getting separated.”
She nods, removing her regulator. “What exactly are we looking for again?”
“Some type of portal along the southern face. Something that will allow us access into the pyramid.”
“But the pyramid’s a mile away. Mick?” She watches him deflate his BCD vest and submerge. Damn it. She returns the regulator to her mouth, takes a last look up at the moon, then follows him down.
Dominique begins hyperventilating into her regulator the moment her face hits the turbid water. She swims blindly for several seconds, her sense of direction failing her until she feels Mick’s tug. She descends another twenty feet, kicks hard, then sees the reflection of his light along the cenote’s wall.
Mick is searching the limestone facing, the geology of which is matted in thick vegetation. Using his light, he signals her to spread out along the wall to his right and poke and prod the dense growth with her dive knife.
Dominique removes the knife from her ankle sheath and taps the rock as she descends feet-first along the limestone wall. Thirty feet down, her hand slips into a three-foot hole, her watch becoming entangled within the thick vegetation. Unable to gain enough leverage to free herself, she braces her fins against the wall to pull free.
A six-foot water moccasin lunges outward, snapping at her face mask with lightning speed before shooting past her into the murk.
It is all her wracked nerves can handle. Panicking, she races topside, dragging Mick with her.
As her head breaks the surface, she rips the mask from her face, gagging and choking.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“You didn’t say anything about any goddam snakes! I hate snakes—”
“Were you bitten?”
“No, but I’m through. This isn’t diving, it’s more like swimming in liquid shit.” She unties the rope, her hands still shaking.
“Dom—”
; “No, Mick, I’ve had it. My nerves are shot, and this water’s making my skin itch. Go on without me. Go find your secret passage, or whatever the hell you’re looking for. I’ll met you up top.”
Mick gives her a worried look, then submerges.
“Hey, Ocelo! Toss down the rope.” Looking up, she waits impatiently for the elders to appear along the edge of the pit.
Nothing.
“Hey, are you guys listening? I said toss down the goddam rope!”
“Evening, Sunshine.” A chill shoots down her spine as Raymond moves into view, the luminescent red dot of his hunting rifle’s laser range-finder appearing at the base of her throat.
White House, Washington, DC
President Maller feels as if someone has punched him in the stomach. He looks up from the DoD report at General Fecondo and Admiral Gordon, his pounding pulse causing his temples to throb. He is so weak that his body no longer has the strength to support him upright in his chair.
Pierre Borgia bursts into the Oval Office, his red-rimmed eye blazing with hatred. “We just received an updated report. Twenty-one thousand dead in Sakha. Two million perished in Kunming. An entire city was wiped out in Turkmenistan. The press is already gathering downstairs.”
“The Russians and Chinese have wasted no time mobilizing their forces,” General Fecondo says. “The official response is that this is all part of their scheduled war games, but the numbers are far greater than what had been planned.”
The Chief of Naval Operations reads from his laptop. “Our latest satellite reconnaissance is tracking eighty-three nuclear subs, including all of the new Russian Borey-class. Each of these vessels carries eighteen SS-N-20 SLBMs. Add to that list another dozen Chinese ballistic-missile submarines and—”
“It’s not just submarines,” interrupts the general. “Both nations have placed their strategic forces into states of readiness. Darkstar reconnaissance is tracking the missile cruiser Peter the Great, which left its dock twenty minutes after the last detonation. We’re looking at a combined land and sea arsenal with a first-strike capability exceeding two thousand nuclear warheads.”