by Alten-Steve
Chichén Itzá
An agitated crowd of more than two hundred thousand zealots has gathered in the parking lot of Chichén Itzá, chanting and throwing stones at the heavily armed Mexican militia, as they attempt to force their way through the blocked main entrance of the ancient Mayan city.
Inside the park, four American M1-A2 Abrams tanks have taken up defensive positions along each side of the Kukulcán pyramid. In the surrounding jungle, two squadrons of heavily armed Green Berets lie in wait, hidden among the dense foliage.
Just west of the Kukulcán pyramid is the Great Ball Court of Chichén Itzá, an immense complex erected in the shape of the letter “I,” enclosed on all sides by walls of limestone block.
The eastern wall of the ball court is composed of a three-story structure known as the Temple of the Jaguars, its columned entrance sculpted in the form of plumed serpents. The structure rising along the ball court’s northern border is called the Temple of the Bearded Man. The facade along both of these vertical walls features engravings of the great Kukulcán emerging from the jowls of a plumed serpent. Other scenes depict Kukulcán, dressed in a tunic, lying dead, being engulfed by a two-headed serpent.
Mounted high along the faces of the eastern and western walls are donut-shaped stone rings, positioned vertically like sideways basketball hoops. Invented by the Olmec, the ceremonial ritual known as the Ball Game was meant to symbolize the epic battle between light and dark, good and evil. Two teams of seven warriors competed against each other, attempting to shoot a rubber ball through their vertical hoop, using only their elbows, hips, or knees. The rewards of the game were simple, the motivation pure: the winners were rewarded, the losers beheaded.
Michael Gabriel is at the center of the 313-foot grass court, standing in the drone’s shadow, directing a three-man team of US army Rangers. With picks and shovels, the men dig in an eight-foot-deep hole, burrowing their way through the brittle geology to a point just beneath the alien object’s talons.
The strength of the drone’s force field is causing Mick’s hair to stand on end.
He looks up as a Jeep enters the south end of the ball court. Colonel E. J. Catchpole jumps out of the vehicle before it comes to a halt. “We just got word, Gabriel. The alien mass surfaced, just as you predicted.”
“Was the navy able to destroy it?”
“Negative. The vessel’s protected within the same force field as these damn drones. There’s more. An alien emerged—”
“An alien? What did it look like?” Mick’s heart is pounding like a bass drum.
“Don’t know. The pyramid’s array is causing communication problems. The only thing I could make out is that it’s huge, and the navy thinks it’s headed in our direction.” The colonel kneels by the hole. “Lieutenant, I want you and your men out of this hole.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel, you’re not giving up—”
“Sorry, Gabriel, but I need every man available to guard that array. What is it you’re looking for anyway?”
“I told you, it’s some kind of stone, a round marker, about the size of a football. It’s probably buried directly beneath the drone’s talons.”
The lieutenant climbs out from the hole, followed by two more Ranger commandos, each man covered in a white, powdery dust.
The lieutenant drinks from his canteen, then spits out the last mouthful. “Here’s the deal, Gabriel. We located the edge of some sort of metallic canister, but if my men try to remove it, the weight of this drone will collapse the tunnel. We left a flashlight and pick down there if you want to try, but I’d advise against it.”
The commandos climb into the Jeep.
“I suggest you hightail it out of here before the fireworks begin,” the colonel yells, as the vehicle accelerates to the west.
Mick watches the jeep leave, then descends down the rope ladder into the hole.
The Rangers have excavated a narrow horizontal shaft running beneath the drone. Collecting the pick in one hand, a flashlight in the other, Mick crawls through the burrow on his knees, the sounds from above quickly becoming muffled in his ears.
The tunnel dead-ends twelve feet in. Protruding through the rock above his head are the razor-sharp tips of the creature’s talons.
Embedded in the limestone ceiling between the two black claws—the lower half of a shiny metal canister, the same iridium container he and his father had found long ago, buried in the Nazca desert.
Mick gently chips around one exposed side of the container, loosening it with the other. Gravel falls on his back, fissures opening up along the ceiling. He continues tapping, feeling the object loosening, knowing at any second the ceiling will collapse, burying him under the weight of the geology and the alien drone.
Clouds of white dirt blind him as, with a final tug, he pulls the canister free, leaping backwards as a section of ceiling collapses in a blinding white curtain of dust and debris, the two-thousand-pound drone collapsing through the shaft.
Mick crawls back through the remains of the tunnel, dragging himself from the rubble, his body covered in white dust, his left hand, smeared in blood, still clutching the metal container.
He climbs up the ladder, spitting and coughing, then collapses on his back near the edge of the hole and inhales the fresh air. Feeling for his bottled water, he pours the warm liquid over his face, rinses out, then sits up and turns his attention to the canister.
For a long moment he just gazes at the object, gathering his strength, the scarlet icon of the Trident of Paracas—the Guardian’s insignia—staring back at him.
“Okay, Julius, let’s see what you’ve been hiding from me all these years.”
He prizes open the lid, removing the strange object within.
What is this?
It is a jade object, rounded and heavy, about the size of a human skull. Protruding from one side is the handle of an immense obsidian dagger. Mick attempts to remove the weapon, but it is wedged in too tightly.
Inscribed along the other side of the object are two images. The first, an epic battle depicting a bearded Caucasian and a giant plumed serpent, the man holding a small object, keeping the beast at bay. The second image is that of a Mayan warrior.
Mick stares at the warrior’s face, goose bumps tightening across his chalk-covered skin.
My God … it’s me.
Sanibel Island, West Coast of Florida
The SOSUS alarm awakens Edith Axler with a start. Lifting her head from the table, she reaches over to the computer terminal for her headphones, then places them over her ears and listens.
Her nephew, Harvey, enters the lab in time to see the expression on his aunt’s face drop. “What is it?”
She tosses him the headphones, then hurriedly boots the seismograph.
Harvey listens as ink begins scribbling across the graph paper. “What is that—?”
“Massive earthquake below the Campeche shelf,” she rasps, her heart racing. “Must have occurred less than an hour ago. That rumbling sound you hear is a series of very powerful tsunamis shoaling up along the West Florida shelf—”
“Shoaling?”
“Bunching together as they slow up, driving the energy vertical. These waves are going to be massive by the time they hit the shore. They’ll submerge every island on the coast.”
“How soon?”
“I’m guessing fifteen to twenty minutes tops. I’ll call the coastguard and the mayor, you alert the police, then get the car. We need to get out of here.”
Gulf of Mexico
The Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk soars fifty feet above the whitecaps, the other four naval choppers following close behind. High above, two squadrons of joint strike fighters train their sensors on the fast-moving ripple of water a half mile ahead.
Dominique gazes out of her window, staring at the monstrous ripples in the sea. In the distance, the Yucatán coastline peeks out behind an early-morning fog.
Below, propagating along the seafloor at speeds exceeding
that of a jetliner is the first in a series of tsunamis. The killer wall of water slows as it hits the shallows, refraction and shoaling redirecting its awesome fury upward, the swell cresting directly beneath the airship. General Fecondo taps the co-pilot. “Why haven’t the JSFs continued firing?”
The co-pilot looks back. “They report the target’s too deep, moving way too fast. No signature, nothing to lock on to. Don’t worry, General, the ET’s about to run out of sea. Our birds’ll splatter it the moment it hits the beach.”
President Chaney turns to face Dominique, his dark complexion looking pasty and gray. “You doing okay back there?”
“I’ll be better when I—” She stops talking, staring down at the water, feeling her sense of equilibrium faltering as the sea appears to be rising straight up beneath them. “Hey—look out! Take us higher!”
“Shit—” The pilot yanks hard on the joystick as the monstrous wave pushes upward against the chopper’s undercarriage, lifting the airship as if it were a surfboard.
Dominique grips the seat in front of her as the Sikorsky lurches sideways. For a surreal moment, the helicopter teeters atop the mountainous swell, and then the 87-foot wave releases them and plummets, punishing the beachhead below with a thunderous slap.
The chopper levels out, hovering high above the submerged landscape, its passengers and crew catching a collective breath as the killer wave races inland, devastating everything in its path.
A deafening roar as the joint strike fighters circle overhead.
“General, our air wing reports they’ve lost all visual contact with the ET”
“Is it in the wave?”
“No, sir.”
“Then where the hell is it?” Chaney yells. “Something that size can’t just disappear.”
“Must still be in the sea,” the general says. “Have the choppers double back to the last reported site. Send the jets up and down the coastline. We need to cut that alien off before it moves inland.”
Ten long minutes pass.
From her vantage, Dominique watches the tsunami’s tidal surge retreat back to the sea, the churning river of water dragging uprooted palm trees, debris, and livestock with it. “Mr President, we’re wasting time—”
Chaney turns around to face her. “The ET’s still out there somewhere.”
“And what if it’s not? What if it’s on its way to Chichén Itzá like Mick said?”
General Fecondo turns. “We’ve got thirty choppers circling the Yucatán coastline. The moment that thing shows its face—”
“Wait! Mick said the geology of the peninsula’s like a giant sponge. There’s a whole labyrinth of subterranean caves that connect to the sea. The alien’s not hiding, it’s traveling underground!”
Sanibel Island
Edie pounds on the door of her friend’s home. “Suz, open up!”
Sue Reuben opens the front door, still half asleep. “Ead, what’s—?”
Edith grabs her by the wrist and drags her to the car.
“Edie, for God’s sake, I’m in my pajamas—”
“Just get in. There’s a tsunami coming!” Harvey guns the engine as the two elderly women climb in, accelerating the car wildly through residential areas, then back toward the main road.
“A tsunami? How big? What about the rest of the island?”
“Coastguard choppers are hitting the beach areas and streets. Radio and television announcements have been broadcasting for ten minutes. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”
“I don’t sleep with my hearing aid.”
Harvey slams on the brakes as they approach the four-way intersection leading to the causeway. The only bridge off Sanibel Island is bumper-to-bumper with traffic.
“Looks like word is out,” Harvey says, yelling above the din of blaring horns.
Edie checks her watch. “This is no good. We have to get out.”
“On foot?” Sue shakes her head. “Ead, the tollbooth’s more than a mile away. I’m wearing slippers—”
Edith opens the door, dragging her friend from the backseat. Harvey takes his aunt’s free hand and leads the two through the line of cars toward the other side of the bridge.
For the next several minutes the trio rushes in and out of traffic, hurrying across the bridge to the distant toll-booth.
Edie looks up as several teenagers zoom by on motorized roller blades, shielding her eyes against the glare coming off the bay waters that loop around Sanibel Island to the Gulf of Mexico.
Maneuvering slowly down the coastline is a red-and-black oil tanker.
Beyond the tanker, three miles offshore, an unfathomable wall of water is rising straight out of the sea.
Sue Reuben turns, staring in disbelief at the wave. “Oh my God, is that thing real?”
Car horns blast, desperate passengers fleeing their vehicles as the monster wave crests into a 125-foot swell.
The tsunami sweeps up the oil tanker in its rising curl, then breaks atop the enormous steel vessel, pummeling it against the seafloor. The thunderous impact causes the bridge to reverberate as the killer wave crashes upon the Sanibel coastline, the roaring swell pounding everything into oblivion.
Edie drags her nephew and friend toward the deserted tollbooth. Harvey yanks open the door and pulls them inside as the tsunami flattens Sanibel and Captiva Island, its tremendous tidal surge blasting across the bay.
Harvey slides the door closed as Edie pulls Sue down onto the floor.
The tsunami races across the causeway, submerging the tollbooth.
The concrete-and-steel structure groans. Seawater pours in from all sides, filling the four-foot rectangle of Plexiglas. Edie, Harvey, and Sue stand in the torrent, enveloped in cold water and darkness as the water level continues rising, the tsunami’s roar like a freight train, its power shaking the tollbooth loose from its foundation.
The pocket of air fills. Edie squeezes her eyes shut, waiting to die. Her last thought is of Iz, wondering if she’ll see him.
Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears.
And then the roar passes, the sunlight returning.
Harvey kicks open the door.
The three survivors stumble out, gagging and coughing, holding each other against a knee-deep river of water, which continues rushing inland.
Edie grabs hold of Sue, supporting her against the torrent. “Everyone okay?”
Sue nods. “Should we go back?”
“No, tsunamis come in multiple sets. We need to run.”
Locking arms, they wade and stumble down the submerged highway as the tidal surge slows, then suddenly reverses directions, threatening to sweep them into the bay. Grabbing on to a traffic pole, they hold on and pray, fighting to stay alive against the churning river of debris.
Chichén Itzá
Cradling the jade object in his hands, Mick stares at the image of the warrior as if looking in a mirror.
A breeze—then a fluttering sound—coming from within the iridium canister.
Mick reaches inside, surprised to find a piece of faded cardboard. His hand shakes as he reads the familiar handwriting.
Michael:
Should destiny take you this far, then right now, you are as stunned as your mother and I were when the object in your hand was first unearthed back in 1981. You were just an innocent child of three, and I, well, for a while I was actually foolish enough to believe the warrior’s image to be of me. Then your mother pointed out the darkness of the eyes, and we both instinctively knew that, somehow, the image was meant to be you.
Now you know the real reason why mother and I refused to give up our quest—the reason you were denied a normal childhood back in the States. A greater destiny awaits you, Michael, and we felt it our duty as your parents to prepare you as best we could.
After two decades of research, I still have no real understanding as to the function of this jade device. I suspect it may be a weapon of some sort, left to us by Kukulcán himself, though I can find no power source to speak of that m
ight identify its purpose. I have surmised the obsidian blade lodged within its grasp to be an ancient ceremonial knife, more than a thousand years old, perhaps one that may have once been used to cut out the hearts of sacrificial victims.
I can only hope that you’ll figure the rest out by the time the winter solstice of 2012 arrives.
I pray God helps you on your quest, whatever it may be, and pray also that, one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive this wretched soul for all he has done.
Your loving father,
—J. G.
Mick stares at the letter, rereading it over and over, his mind fighting to grasp what he knows in his heart to be true.
It’s me. I’m the One.
He stands, drops the letter and canister back in the hole, then, clutching the jade object, runs out of the deserted ball court to the western steps of the Kukulcán pyramid.
The sweat is pouring from him by the time he reaches the summit. Wiping the perspiration and remnants of dust from his brow, he staggers into the northern corridor to where the Guardian’s hydraulic trapdoor is concealed.
“Guardian, let me in! Guardian—”
He stamps on the stone floor, calling out again and again.
Nothing happens.
Sacred Cenote
At six feet, seven inches and three hundred pounds, Lt Colonel Mike “Ming-Ding” Slayer is the tallest Green Beret ever to wear the commando uniform. The raspy-voiced Chinese-Irish-American is a former professional football player and medical wonder, having had nearly every body part repaired, replaced, or recycled. Ming-Ding has a reputation for punching things with the intent to hurt when he cannot think of the word he wants to use, or when his shoulder or knee goes out.
Using his sleeve, the commando wipes the sweat from his upper lip before the mosquitoes can get to it. Three fucking hours, picking our underwear from our asses in this godforsaken Mexican jungle.