by Alten-Steve
“Christ!” Maller takes a deep breath, fighting the tightness in his chest. “Pierre, how much longer until the Security Council conference call?”
“Ten minutes, but the Secretary-General says that Grozny is addressing Parliament and refuses to participate if we’re on the line.” Borgia’s face is covered in perspiration. “Sir, we really need to move this operation to Mount Weather.”
Maller ignores him. He turns to face a video-comm link labeled STRATCOM. “General Doroshow, how will our new Missile Defense Shield affect a first-strike of this magnitude?”
The pale face of US Air Force General Eric Doroshow, commander-in-chief of Strategic Air Command, appears on the monitor. “Sir, the shield is capable of taking out a few dozen missiles at their apex, but nothing in our defense arsenal is designed to cope with an all-out assault. Most of the Russian ICBMs and SLBMs have been programmed to cruise at low altitudes. The technology to eliminate that threat just wasn’t feasible—”
Maller shakes his head in disgust. “Twenty goddam billion dollars—and for what?”
Pierre Borgia looks to General Fecondo, who nods. “Mr President, there may be another option. If we’re certain Grozny will strike first, then there are definite benefits to beating him to the punch. Our latest Single Integrated Operational Plan, SIOP-112, indicates that a pre-emptive strike of eighteen hundred warheads would effectively disarm 91 percent of all Russian and Chinese land-based ICBM sites and—”
“No! I will not go down in history as the American president who initiated World War III.”
“The pre-emptive strike would be justifiable,” General Doroshow explains.
“I can’t justify killing two billion human beings, General. We’ll stick to the diplomatic and defensive objectives we’ve outlined.” The president sits on the edge of his desk, rubbing his temples. “Where’s the vice president?”
“Last I heard, sir, he was en route to the Boone.”
“Maybe we ought to send a chopper out there and fly him to a FEMA site,” states General Fecondo.
“No.” Borgia answers, a bit too quickly. “No, the vice president never participated in a dry run—”
“He’s still a member of the Executive Branch.”
“Doesn’t matter. Chaney was never officially added to the survivors’ list. Mount Weather only has so much room—”
“Enough!” the president yells.
Dick Pryzstas enters. “Sorry I’m late, the beltway’s a zoo. Have you seen what’s going on out there?” He turns on CNN.
The images show terrified Americans, frantically stuffing their belongings into overloaded cars. A microphone is thrust into the face of a father of three. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. Russia says we’re detonating these bombs, the president says we’re not. I don’t know who to believe, but I don’t trust Maller or Grozny. We’re leaving the city tonight—”
A close-up of protesters outside the White House, carrying signs with messages of the Apocalypse. VICTOR GROZNY IS THE ANTICHRIST. REPENT NOW! THE RAPTURE IS UPON US!
Scenes of looting in a Bethesda shopping mall. Aerial shots of the interstate, the cars lined bumper to bumper. A truck flipping over as it attempts to bypass traffic by driving down a steep shoulder. Family members in the back of a pickup, toting guns.
“Mr President, the Security Council call is ready. VC-2.”
Maller moves to the far wall where five secured video-communicators are mounted. The second unit from the left powers on, the screen split into twenty squares, the images of the heads of government of the members of the United Nations Security Council appearing in each block. The Russian space is blank.
“Mr Secretary-General, Council members, I want to emphasize again that the United States is not responsible for these pure-fusion detonations. However, we now have reason to believe that Iran may be targeting Israel in an attempt to draw our country into a direct conflict with Russia. Let me reiterate again that we want to avoid war at all costs. So there are no misunderstandings, we have ordered our fleet to leave the Gulf of Oman. Please inform President Grozny that the United States will not launch any missiles at the Russian Federation or her allies, but we will not shirk our responsibilities in defending the State of Israel.”
“The Council will convey your message. God help you, Mr President.”
“God help us all, Mr Secretary-General.”
Maller turns to Borgia. “Where’s my family?”
“Already en route to Mount Weather.”
“All right, we’re moving out. General Fecondo?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take us to DEFCON-1.”
Chichén Itzá
Mick descends headfirst along the southern face of the cenote, feeling his way along the entanglement of vegetation for anything out of the ordinary. At thirty feet, the angle of the wall suddenly changes, slicing inward at forty-five degrees.
He continues moving deeper through the Mayan well, the darkness closing in tighter around his diminishing beam of light. At ninety feet he pauses to equalize, the pressure in his ears becomes painful.
One hundred and five feet …
The southern face levels out, returning to its sheer vertical drop. Mick continues descending through the pitch-black shaft, knowing full well he is not physically equipped to dive much deeper.
And then he sees it—a speck of light glowing like a crimson EXIT sign in a darkened theater.
He kicks harder, then levels out, his pulse throbbing in his neck as he stares incredulously at the immense ten-foot-high-by-twenty-foot-wide portal, the beacon from his flashlight reflecting off the smooth, shimmering white metallic surface.
Engraved at the center of the barrier is a luminescent red, three-pronged candelabra. Mick moans into his regulator, instantly recognizing the ancient marker.
It is the Trident of Paracas.
Bluemont, Virginia
The helicopter transport carrying the First Lady, her three young sons, and the three senior congressmen soars west over the town of Bluemont and Virginia Route 601. In the distance, the pilot can see the lights from a dozen buildings located within the fenced-in compound.
This is Mount Weather, a top-secret military base located forty-six miles outside Washington, DC. The facility, managed by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), is the operational headquarters linked to a network of more than one hundred underground Federal Relocation Centers housing America’s covert “Continuity of Government” program.
Although the 85-acre compound is heavily guarded, the real secret of Mount Weather is located below ground. Deep within the granite mountain is an underground city, equipped with private apartments and dormitories, cafeterias and hospitals, a water purification and sewage plant, a power plant, a mass-transit system, a television communication system, and even an underground pond. While no member of Congress has ever willingly claimed knowledge of the facility, many senior House representatives are in fact tenured members of this subterranean capital’s “government-in-waiting.” Nine federal departments have been replicated within the facility, as well as five federal agencies. Secretly appointed cabinet-level officials serve indefinite terms, without the consent of Congress and far from the public eye. Although not as large as the Russian complex in Yamantou Mountain, the crisis-management facility serves the same purpose—to survive and govern what’s left of the United States following an all-out nuclear assault.
Air Force Captain Mark Davis has been flying dry runs to and from the Mount Weather facility for twelve years. Although the National Emergency Airborne Command Post pilot and father of four earns a good living, he has never been happy with the fact that he and his family have been excluded from the “list”.
Davis sees the facility’s lights appear in the distance. He grits his teeth.
More than 240 military personnel work within the facility. Are their lives more important than his? And what about the sixty-five members of the “Executive Elite”? If a nuclear war did br
eak out, blame could easily be directed at many of these military “experts.” Why should these bastards survive and not his family?
In the end, it had been easy for the Russian agent to coerce the disgruntled captain. Money was the key to surviving a nuclear war. Davis has used most of the funds to construct his own bunker in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the rest having been converted to gold and gems. If nuclear war ever did break out, he felt confident his family would survive. If not, then the kids’ college funds were now more secure than ever.
Davis hovers the chopper above the helo-pad and touches down. Two MPs in a tram approach. He salutes. “Seven passengers and their gear. All of the bags have been checked.” Without waiting for a reply, Davis opens the cargo door and helps the First Lady out.
The MPs direct the passengers to the tram while the pilot unloads their bags. The nondescript brown suede suitcase is the third to go. Davis twists the handle clockwise as the Russian agent had instructed, then turns it back slowly.
The mechanism activates.
The pilot places the suitcase carefully in the cart, then hustles to load the remaining bags.
Chichén Itzá, Yucatán Peninsula
Mick forces himself to slow his ascent, barely able to contain his excitement. He pauses at twenty feet to expel nitrogen, his thoughts racing wildly in his head.
How do I get inside? There must be some kind of hidden mechanism designed to trigger the door. He checks his air gauge again. Fifteen minutes. Grab a fresh tank then hurry back down.
Mick continues his ascent, surprised to find Dominique’s legs dangling below the surface. He glides upward along her body, then pops his head out of the water. “Dom, what are you—” Her frightened expression causes him to look up.
Fifty feet above the surface of the sinkhole sits the redhead, the Miami asylum’s head of security smiling down at him from the edge of the pit. The red laser dot jumps from Dominique’s neckline to Mick’s.
“There’s my bitch. How dare you keep my woman waiting so long.”
Mick moves closer to Dominique, groping underwater for the end of her BCD hose. “Let her go, asshole. Let her go and I won’t put up a fight. You can bring me back to the States in chains. You’ll be a real hero—”
“Not this time, motherfucker. Foletta’s decided on a new approach to your therapy. It’s called death.”
Mick locates the BCD hose and quickly deflates the air from Dominique’s vest. “What’s Foletta paying you?” He positions himself in front of her, the laser dot appearing on his wetsuit. “There’s money in my truck, hidden beneath the seat. You can have it all. There must be a good ten thousand in gold coins there.”
Raymond looks up from the gunsight. “You’re lying—”
Mick grabs Dominique and lunges sideways, dragging her underwater. She thrashes about, fighting him as she inhales a mouthful of muck.
A stream of bullets shoots past them as Mick shoves his regulator into her mouth and pulls her deeper. Dominique gags, exhales water, then manages to draw a breath. She shoves her flooded mask over her face and quickly clears it, then locates her own regulator.
Mick purges, then sucks in a lungful of air. He grabs Dominique’s hand and descends blindly as a bullet glances off his air tank.
Dominique’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. Hovering in fifty feet of water, she flicks on her flashlight, nearly dropping it, as Mick replaces his face mask and clears it. She stares at him, terrified, unsure of what will happen next.
Mick reties the end of his rope around her waist, then points below.
She shakes her head no.
Another flurry of bullets ends the debate.
He takes her wrist and descends, dragging her down with him.
Waves of panic ripple through her insides as she plunges headfirst into darkness. The silent oblivion closes in upon her, the ache in her ears telling her she is going too deep. What’s he doing? Untie the rope before you die. She struggles to undo the knot.
Mick reaches up and stops her. He takes her hand, patting it, trying to reassure her, then descends again.
She pinches her nose and equalizes, the pressure in her ears easing as she follows him down. The angled wall becomes a ceiling over her head, the mounting claustrophobia almost unbearable. She feels herself losing all orientation, the darkness and silence suffocating.
Now she is plunging straight down the face of a vertical shaft. Her depth gauge drops below 110 feet, her pulse pounding in her face mask, her mind screaming at her to break free.
The appearance of the luminous crimson light startles her. Descending farther, she blinks hard and levels out, staring at the glowing icon. My God … he actually found something! Wait a moment, I’ve seen this figure before …
She watches as Mick maneuvers around the shiny white facing, feeling his way along the outer edges of the metallic sheath.
I know … I saw it in Julius Gabriel’s journal—
Dominique’s heart flutters as a deep rumbling sound fills her ears. Gargantuan air bubbles burst out from the center of the facing and envelop Mick, then a monstrous torrent grabs her, sucking her toward the center of the portal and the blackness of a void that had not been there a moment earlier.
The current inhales her feet-first into darkness. She twists sideways, caught in the turbulence of an underground river, the force of which pushes her face mask down around her neck, blinding her. She inhales water, then pinches her nose and retches into her regulator as she rolls wildly in the suffocating pitch, fighting to draw a breath.
The portal closes behind them, stifling the stream.
She stops rolling. Repositioning her mask, she clears it, then stares, transfixed by her new surroundings.
They have entered a vast underwater cavern of unearthly beauty. Surreal strobe lights of unknown origin illuminate cathedral-like limestone walls in intoxicating shades of blue and green and yellow. Fantastic formations of stalactites hang from the submerged ceiling, dwarfing them like gigantic icicles, their points descending to entwine around a petrified forest of crystal-like stalagmites, rising out from the silty floor of the underwater cave.
She looks at Mick, excited, astounded, wishing she could blurt out a thousand questions. He shakes his head and points to his gauge, indicating he has only five minutes of air remaining. Dominique checks her own supply— shocked to learn she is down to her last fifteen minutes.
Anxiety courses through her body. The claustrophobic realization of being trapped within a subterranean chamber, a rocky ceiling above her head, overwhelms her ability to reason. She pushes Mick away and swims back toward the portal, desperately attempting to reopen it.
Mick drags her back by the towrope. He grabs her wrists, then points to the south, where the entrance to a twisting cavern looms ahead. He forms a triangle shape with his two hands.
The Kukulcán. Dominique slows her breathing.
Mick takes her hand and starts swimming. Together, they move through a succession of vast underwater rooms, their presence seeming to activate additional strobe lights, as if the beacons are linked to an unseen motion detector. Above their heads, the domed-shaped ceiling has grown rows of needle-like teeth, the limestone formations creating majestic, arch-like partitions and bizarre, jagged sculptures of rock.
Mick feels a tightness growing in his chest as they move from an indigo-blue vault into one of luminescent azure. He checks his air tank, then turns to Dominique, his hand motioning to his throat.
He’s out of air. She passes him the second-stage spare regulator attached to her BCD vest, then checks her own supply.
Eight minutes.
Eight minutes! Four minutes each. This is insane! Why did I follow him into the cenote? I should have stayed in the truck—I should have stayed in Miami. I’m going to drown, just like Iz.
The bottom suddenly drops, the cave opening to a boundless, subterranean domain. The limestone cathedral walls and ceiling glow 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 Maller wails in agony, the emptiness ripping at his wounded heart, the anger raging through his mind, tearing at the fabric of his sanity.
Chichén Itzá: 114 feet beneath the base of the Kukulcán 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, 700-foot-long alien spacecraft.
She sucks in a slow breath of air, trying not to hyperventilate, her skin literally crawling beneath her wetsuit. This isn’t real. It can’t be …