by Alten-Steve
The president steps forward. “I agree that change, drastic change is needed. Humanity can no longer tolerate the threat of self-destruction. There can be no more haves and have-nots. We must reorganize our economies into one world order—an order of peace. President Grozny, the United States is offering an olive branch. Are you willing to accept it?”
A rousing ovation sweeps through the hangar bay as Viktor Grozny walks over to the president and embraces him.
Dominique is on her feet, clapping, tears in her eyes, when she notices Mick approaching the podium.
The room grows silent.
Mick stands before the assembly, the apocalyptic message burning in his mind.
“President Chaney is a wise man. The message I carry in my head is also from a wise man, a man whose array helped save us. While our nations discuss politics, our world is being readied, acclimatized to accommodate another species, one infinitely older, one that has no aspirations of peace or war. To this enemy, Earth is nothing more than an incubator, humanity its two-million-year-old tenant, about to be removed.
“United or divided, let us make no mistake—tomorrow is Judgment Day. At dawn, a cosmic portal will open—a portal that must be sealed for our species to survive. Should we fail, then nothing else said or done in this room will matter. By the solstice sunset tomorrow evening, every living creature on this planet will be dead.”
27
DECEMBER 21, 2012 (4 AHAU, 3 KANKIN): ABOARD THE JOHN C. STENNIS
12:47 a.m.
Michael Gabriel stares out at the black sea from the open porthole of the small VIP cabin. He is too far away to see the emerald glow; the aircraft carrier is stationed two miles due east of the buried alien vessel, but somehow he can feel its presence.
“Are you going to stare out that porthole all night?” Dominique steps out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel. She nuzzles her face against his chest, slipping her arms around his waist.
He feels the moist heat rising off her naked body.
Her fingertips glide down the muscles of his stomach until they reach his groin. She looks into his dark eyes, then whispers, “Make love to me.”
She reaches up and kisses him, slipping her tongue into his mouth as he fumbles to remove his clothing. Within moments they are naked, embracing each other like long-lost lovers, their pent-up emotions and fears lost in the moment as their limbs entwine, the only two people in the world.
Mick lays her back on the bed, kissing her neck as she guides him in. Dominique moans with pleasure, tasting the sweat on his shoulder as she pulls his face to her breasts, tugging at the curls along the back of his neck.
3:22 a.m.
Mick lies naked beneath the sheet, his right hand caressing the small of Dominique’s back, the girl’s head resting on his bandaged chest. He stares at the ceiling, his exhausted mind repeating Guardian’s words over and over like a mantra.
Xibalba Be will ascend on 4 Ahau, 3 Kankin. It can only be destroyed from within. Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your garden …
Dominique stirs, rolling onto her side. Mick covers her with the sheet, then closes his eyes.
Come to me, Michael …
“Huh?” He shoots up in bed, his heart pounding. Disoriented, he looks around the cabin, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. It’s okay, it’s okay— it was just a dream …
Mick lies back, eyes wide open, waiting for the demonic voice to return.
Stop it! You’re driving yourself insane. He smiles weakly. Eleven years in solitary and I’m finally losing my mind.
He closes his eyes.
Why do you fear me, Michael?
“Shit—” He springs to his feet like a nervous cat. Okay, stay calm. Go for a walk. Clear your head. He dresses quickly, then slips out of the cabin.
After twenty minutes, Mick finds his way to “Vultures’ Row,” an open-air balcony overlooking the flight deck. The night air is cool, the ocean breeze comforting. He covers his ears as a joint strike fighter is catapulted into the clear night sky.
Once more, his mind replays Guardian’s conversation. Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your garden and save your species from annihilation.
I can feel you, Michael. You’re very close …
“What?”
Come to me, Michael. Don’t fear me. Come to your creator.
“Stop! Stop it!” Mick squeezes his eyes shut and grabs his head in his hands.
“Mick, are you okay?”
Come to me … father.
“Get the fuck out of my head!” Mick spins around, his eyes wide in fright. Marvin Teperman shakes him by the shoulders. “Hey, are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh, shit! I—I don’t know. I think I’m going nuts.”
“You and the rest of the world. Couldn’t sleep, eh?”
“No. Marvin, the drone that landed in Chichén Itzá, do you know exactly where it landed?”
The exobiologist removes a small tablet from his jacket pocket. “Hold on, it’s here somewhere. Let’s see, Chichén Itzá. Yes, the drone landed in something called the Great Mayan Ball Court. Dead center, to be exact.”
Mick feels a chill run down his spine. “Dead center? You’re certain?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“We need a chopper! Marvin, can you get us a chopper?”
“A chopper? What for?”
“I can’t explain it, I just need to get to Chichén Itzá— now!”
Sanibel Island, West Coast of Florida 5:12 a.m.
Edith Axler stands on the deserted coastline, staring at the gray horizon and the speedboat approaching quickly in the distance. Her nephew, Harvey, waves, then drives the boat right onto the beach.
“Any problems locating SOSUS?”
“No,” he says, carefully handing her what little remains of a large spool of fiber-optic cable. “The microphone was anchored just where you said it would be. But after all that black tide crap, it was a little spooky diving at night.”
He climbs out of the boat, following his aunt to the back door of the lab. Once inside, Edie powers up the SOSUS system while Harvey connects the fiber-optic cable to the mainframe.
“Will this allow us access to every microphone in the Gulf?” he asks.
“It’s an integrated system. As long as this cable holds, I don’t see why not. We won’t be online with the computer at Dan Neck, but we should be able to eavesdrop on that alien object buried off the Yucatán coast.”
Harvey smiles, finishing the connection. “Feels like we’re pirating free cable.”
Gulf of Mexico 6:41 a.m.
The squadron of joint strike fighters continues to circle in formation, their pilots edgy as they await the first rays of dawn. On the surface below, the John C. Stennis and her fleet have moved into position, forming a three-mile-wide perimeter around the glowing patch of sea.
Maneuvering in fifteen hundred feet of water, circling in darkness beneath the fleet is the Los Angeles-class attack sub, Scranton (SSN-756). In silent vigil, Captain Bo Dennis and his crew stand ready—their orders—pulverize anything that rises from the luminescent emerald hole.
Aboard the John C. Stennis, the deck of the aircraft carrier is electric with activity.
Tomahawk surface-to-air missile batteries in the bow and stern target the glowing patch of sea, their deadly payloads aimed skyward, preparing to launch at a moment’s notice. Three more Predator unmanned aerial vehicles launch to join a dozen others, all circling above the target zone.
The six thousand men and women aboard the floating city are a collective bundle of nerves. They have read the news and seen the riots on television. If the Apocalypse is really upon them, then it is they who stand upon its threshold. Confidence, wrought by thousands of hours of intensive training, has deserted them, a by-product of having barely averted a nuclear holocaust. Discipline keeps them at their battle stations, but it is fear and not adrenaline that fuels them now.
; Dominique Vazquez is filled with a different kind of fear. For the first time in her life, she has opened her heart to a man, allowing herself to feel vulnerable. Now, as she searches the massive warship, her heart is gripped in physical pain, her mind panicking as she realizes Mick has abandoned her, and that she may never see him again.
She enters a restricted area, pushing her way past an MP. As he grabs her from behind, she slams the startled guard backwards into the far wall with a vicious back-thrust kick. Another guard intercepts her as she attempts to enter the Combat Information Center. “Let me go—I need to see Chaney!”
“You can’t enter—the CIC is a restricted area.”
“I need to find Mick—ow, you’re breaking my arm!”
The watertight door opens, two officers exiting. She sees the president.
“President Chaney!”
Chaney looks up from the row of UAV monitors. “It’s all right. Let her in.”
Dominique turns to face the MP, then slams the heel of both palms hard into his chest. “Don’t ever touch me again.” She enters the darkened nerve center, now packed with heads of state.
“Dominique—”
“Where is he? You know where he is, now tell me! Where have you taken him?”
Chaney pulls her aside. “Gabriel left by chopper early this morning. He came to me. It was his request.”
“Where did he go?”
“He gave me a letter to give to you.” Chaney fishes the folded envelope from his breast pocket. Dominique tears it open.
My dearest Dom:
There is so much I wish I could tell you, so much I want to explain, but can’t. There are voices in my head, pulling me in different directions. I don’t know if the voices are real, or if my mind has finally snapped.
Guardian’s voice tells me that I am a Hunahpu. He says it was my genetic code that allowed us access to the starship. Perhaps it is these genetics that enable me to communicate with the entity beneath the Gulf.
One of the entity’s drones landed dead center of the Great Mayan Ball Court in Chichén Itzá. My father believed a strong relationship exists between the Great Ball Court and the dark rift of the Milky Way. Like the Kukulcán pyramid, this field has also been oriented to the night sky. By midnight tonight, the dark rift will have moved into alignment directly over the center point of this field. The nexus will be open. It’s opening even now, I can feel it.
It was a Mayan tradition to bury a stone marker at the center point of each ball court. My father was present when archaeologists removed the center stone from Chichén Itzá’s field. Before he died, Julius told me that he had stolen the real marker years ago, then reburied it. He kept this a secret from me until his last dying breath. Somehow, he knew I’d need the stone.
It can’t be just a coincidence that the drone landed where it did. Maybe the entity in the Gulf knows the marker is there and doesn’t want us to find it. All I do know is that the enemy vessel will rise to meet the winter solstice. When the entity within realizes its drones have not detonated, it will go after Guardian’s array, attempting to destroy it.
I cannot allow that to happen.
I’m sorry for running out on you like this. Last night was the greatest night of my life. I don’t want it to be our last.
I love you, I always will …
—Mick
She stares at the letter. “This … this isn’t fair. Does he expect me to just wait here?” Dominique chases after the president. “I need to get to Chichén Itzá—”
“Sir, something’s happening out there.” A crowd gathers around the UAV monitors.
Dominique grabs Chaney’s arm. “Take me to him. You owe me that.”
“Dominique, he specifically said no. He made me promise—”
“He needs me. He needs my help—”
“Mr President, we’re recording a seismic event,” a technician reports, “7.5 on the Richter scale and still rising—”
Chaney places a hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “Listen to me. One way or another, we’re going to destroy whatever’s in that vessel, do you understand? Mick’s going to be fine.”
“Sir, the Scranton is hailing us.”
Aboard the USS Scranton
Commander Bo Dennis raises his voice above the thunderous rumble of the undersea earthquake. “Admiral, the entire seafloor’s breaking up. Electromagnetic interference is increasing—”
A sonar technician presses the headphones to his ears. “Skipper, something’s rising from that hole, something huge!”
An immense blast of antigravity pulses outward from beneath the remains of the iridium object, the invisible wave repelling the mass away from its 65-million-year-old resting place, punching it upward through a mile of fragmented limestone. Like a monstrous cannonball, the titanic mass of iridium, more than a mile in diameter, ascends straight up through a billion tons of debris, the decimated seafloor crumbling within the vacuum of the rising colossus’s wake. The mammoth upheaval decimates the surrounding seafloor, sending seismic ripples racing across the entire semienclosed basin of the Gulf of Mexico, as the Campeche shelf and surrounding seafloor suffer the equivalent of a 9.2 magnitude earthquake.
The expulsion of the alien vessel gives birth to a series of deadly tsunamis, the killer waves racing away from the epicenter toward the pristine beaches of the Gulf like a ring of death.
“Skipper, the alien object has now cleared the seafloor—”
“Firing solutions plotted, sir, she’s too big to miss.” Commander Dennis holds on as the sub rolls hard to port. “Helm, keep us clear of the debris field. Chief, firing point procedures, make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
“Aye, sir. Tubes one and two ready.”
“Match sonar bearings. Shoot tubes one and two.”
“Aye, sir. Shooting tubes one and two. Torpedoes away.”
“Ten seconds to impact. Seven … six … five …”
The two projectiles plow through the turbulent sea toward the rising mass. Fifty feet before impact, the warheads strike an invisible force field and detonate.
Aboard the John C. Stennis
“Admiral, the Scranton reports direct hits, but no damage. The object appears to be shielded within a force field, and it’s still rising.”
All eyes stare at the row of UAV monitors. Hovering two hundred feet above the sea, the Predator’s cameras reveal a ring of bubbles forming along the surface.
“Here she comes!”
The ovoid mass violates the surface like a dome-shaped iceberg, its girth sinking, then bobbing until it finds its equilibrium atop the churning sea. UAV close-ups of the scorched iridium surface reveal a network of jagged metallic escarpments and crater-size indentations.
Sensors transmit computer-enhanced images of the alien vessel’s design. Dominique stares at the three-dimensional holographic image. Twenty-three tubular appendages dangle below the remains of the vessel, giving her the impression of an enormous mechanical man-of-war.
“Contact our air wings,” the admiral commands. “Open fire.”
The joint strike fighters break from formation and launch a salvo of SLAMMER missiles. The weapons explode just above the island-like mass, the multiple detonations momentarily revealing the presence of a neon blue force field.
The CNO swears aloud. “The goddam thing’s sealed within a protective field, just like its drones. Captain Ramirez—”
“Aye, sir.”
“Order the JSFs to clear the target area. Launch two Tomahawks. Let’s see how powerful this field really is.”
Dominique covers her ears as a thunderous boom shudders the warship.
The guidance systems of the two Tomahawk missiles have been dismantled to prevent the Guardian’s array from disrupting their trajectory. Launched at point-blank range, the warheads slam into their target, the double blast sending a fireball racing skyward, momentarily blinding the real-time camera images of the circling UAVs.
The pictures return. The vessel is s
till intact.
And then something happens.
Mechanical motion appears along the center region of the floating mass, followed by an intense green flash of light.
The beacon is coming from an opening in the alien hull casing, but it is not a hatch, as in the top of a submarine, nor is it a rip or tear. Shards of iridium appear to be peeling open in layers, then folding back, away from the vortex of energy.
From out of the emerald green luminescence appears— a being.
The hulking form pushes through head-first.
The navy cameras refocus, the images revealing the being’s face—that of an enormous alien viper. The mammoth skull, adorned in featherlike scales, is as large as a billboard. Two crimson eyes blaze like luminescent beacons, the reptilian pupils—vertical slits of amber, narrowing in the morning light. A set of bizarre jaws opens, individually stretching and extending two ungodly ebony fangs, each tooth easily five foot long, the rest of the distended mouth filled with rows of scalpel-sharp teeth.
A gargantuan reptilian gasp sends thick layers of oily, scale-like emerald green feathers bristling along the alien’s broad back.
Sharp spines along the creature’s belly grip the iridium surface as the alien rears up in the manner of an immense cobra—the beast gazing skyward for the briefest of moments, as if analyzing the atmosphere.
With lightning speed, it plunges head-first into the sea, its monstrous girth disappearing beneath the waves.
The president and his Joint Chiefs stare dumbfounded at the monitors.
“Good God … was that thing real?” Chaney whispers.
A shaken communications specialist listens to an incoming message in his headphone. “Admiral, the Scranton reports the ET is moving through the thermocline, its last recorded speed … Jesus—ninety-two knots. Course is south by southeast. Sir, the life form appears to be heading directly for the Yucatán Peninsula.”