“I don't know either, but I do have one thought. Maybe a nuke.”
“A nuke? But they don't cause any seismic activity to speak of, certainly nothing that would spike in the middle of a huge quake.”
Loggins' voice became quiet. “Jon, I can't tell you why you're wrong, because it's classified. But imagine what might happen if you placed one in a known fault that was under pressure from thousands of feet of water above it.”
Rozick let out a breath. “I guess that might do it. But that's only a guess. Are you saying you've seen this, like in a test or something?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
Rozick chuckled. “Okay, okay, I hear you. You can't tell me or you might have to kill me. So the question is, are we looking at an earthquake or a nuclear explosion?”
“Jon, I think maybe you missed the point. We're not looking at one or the other here. We're looking at both.”
Six hours later: Gulf of Mexico
Atlantis.
Hitchcock could hardly believe he stood on its rocky shores, watching the morning sun rise out of the ocean. His entire life's work was nothing compared to this experience, one made all the more sweet by the fact that he should be dead.
He remembered the protos telling him and Balaga to leave. Balaga had complied, unwilling to do what it took to follow-up on the greatest discovery in modern history. After that, Hitchcock could recall nothing until waking up with his head on fire. He'd stumbled to his feet, felt the blood when he put his hand to his head, and remembered Merveen shooting at him.
Somehow, he'd made his way out of a tunnel that seemed to go on for miles. He'd seen no sign of the protos, and he'd debated going back in to find them. But he'd known where he could find them in a few days time, so he'd hopped in one of about half a dozen small boats tied up on the river a few hundred yards away from the tunnel exit.
The previous days seemed like a blur. Instead of taking the route back to Peru, he'd left by going downriver into Brazil. Explosions had shaken his boat and he'd looked back in horror at clouds of smoke rising from the area of the protos' caves. Anger had boiled in his chest at the destruction of the protos. No one could have survived such an assault.
He'd left Brazil with even more resolve to do what he could to share their legacy with the world. The Americans probably thought he was dead, but he still needed to be cautious. After flying into the city of Chetumal in southern Mexico, he'd searched for a helicopter to rent. He'd picked Chetumal because the city's protected location would spare it from the damage from what he'd known would be a huge tsunami. Unfortunately, the city did not boast a large number of helicopters, and he'd quickly turned to his backup plan.
He would steal one.
He'd found the perfect candidate, too, an ancient Sikorsky Pelican secured only by a chain-link fence with a padlock. The owner was undoubtedly a drug dealer who figured everyone in the area knew better than to mess with his bird. Hitchcock hadn't cared. Once he was in the air, he'd never return. For a moment, he'd worried about whether he could fly it, but had shaken off the thought. Thirty years ago, he could fly anything, and some things you didn't forget.
The theft and the flight had proved simple. Now he took in a deep breath and walked uphill away from the chopper. He didn't know how long he'd have before the U.S. Navy or someone else arrived, so he wanted to take advantage of the time.
The newly-risen island didn't look like much after several millennia under water. No buildings or monuments had survived. He saw a few blocks of stone with straight edges, carved by something other than nature. These objects were strewn randomly, as if by some giant hand.
Hitchcock had expected little else. Still, the experience took his breath away. For obvious reasons, the island contained no vegetation. The landscape was scattered with large pools, water trickling down to the ocean in steady streams. Already the marine flora and fauna burned in the rising sun. He tried to imagine what this place would look like in a year or two, but the task proved beyond him. Maybe someday, he'd see trees and roads and people gracing its surface. Not now.
Hitchcock saw several stone blocks a few hundred yards away, and something else. At first, he thought his eyes had betrayed him, but a second glance confirmed it. A source of light emanated from between the stones.
He jogged towards it, wondering what could possibly have survived the island rising again. The light became brighter, so bright he could hardly see anything. He felt a surge of energy and excitement pour through him. He knew what this was.
The crystal.
One of the crystals, he corrected himself. The legends about Atlantis included a crystal with almost magical properties, said to be the source of power for the whole civilization. Hitchcock had never believed that, but he suspected that as with all legends, a grain of truth lay behind the story. He couldn't imagine this tiny thing having so much power, but if there were more of them around? Maybe it was possible.
As he reached it, his feeling of energy strengthened. The crystal was maybe a foot long and small enough to wrap his hand around. He reached down to pick it up, half expecting to be electrocuted. All he felt was warmth and peace.
“That's ours.”
The voice shattered his calm and made him whirl in surprise. He saw half a dozen men standing a few feet away, arms crossed. Hitchcock extended his hand, offering the crystal to the newcomers. As he did so, he revised his opinion about them.
These weren't men. Not exactly. That fact became certain as he stared into the endless depths of jet black eyes.
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Excerpt from New World Orders
Prologue
The planet was smoking. The seas formed a witch's cauldron of black froth. Orange and purple haze dominated the sky, fiery reminders of the tight bond between beauty and death. The planet's surface, unencumbered by the rhythms of life, was not so much desolate as unforgiving. Rock and ash covered the land, spread wide between jagged peaks and crumbling hills. No hint of breeze disturbed the embers, yet the air was anything but still. An observer might have seen constant movement, but could not have identified its source.
Observers, however, had disappeared a long time ago. The once-great cities either lay under water or had succumbed to the forces of combustion. No man-made structure over three feet tall survived, and two hundred degree temperatures prevented existence in the outside environment. The underground shelters had avoided the worst extremes, but transformed into tombs as gas seeped through cracks in their heat-weakened walls.
Veronica Trent took in the scene from the safety of an orbiting space vehicle. She shivered as her mind conjured up images of the world slowly burning. A reduced ozone layer and increased CO2 levels caused the polar ice caps to melt and the seas to rise. A nuclear exchange increased the rate of decay. Earthquakes, hurricanes and volcanic activity added to the death toll, already massive with the loss of the coastal cities. Rising temperatures dried up supplies of fresh water throughout the world, and most people who didn't die of disease died of thirst.
Now, the planet burned all the time. The diminished oxygen levels could not sustain the flaming infernos that had blanketed the land at first, and much of it resembled a smoldering campfire. This explained the illusion of movement. The mountains seemed to rise from a pool of blackness, beautiful in their own way. Stark desolation was the apparent legacy of mankind.
The images shook her, and Veronica could feel her mind detaching from the reality of what had happened. Thank God she and the others had seen this coming and taken action before they, too, became part of a barbecue. Countless innocent lives now existed only as piles of ash. Eventually she lost the struggle to remain objective, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.
FROM THE HEADLINES: Springfield News Times 10/16/1
973
OPEC Cuts Oil Supply
The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) announced today that it would reduce the supply of oil exported to western countries, particularly the U.S. and Holland. The action is being taken as a response to the Yom Kippur war in Israel. OPEC consists of a number of Middle Eastern oil producing countries, including Saudi Arabia and Iran, and controls 36% of the world's oil production. Prices of oil on the commodities markets more than doubled in the first hour of trading after the news was announced.
The effects of this action on the price of U.S. oil remains to be seen. A senior state department official, speaking on condition of anonymity, dismissed the suggestion that this would have a major impact on the United States. “While the price of gasoline may rise a few cents from its current level of thirty cents per gallon, it is ridiculous to believe that anything more than that will happen. Quite frankly, OPEC doesn't have either the political or economic ability to sustain this embargo for more than a matter of weeks. By next year, we will have forgotten about this.”
Springfield News Times 04/28/1975:
Are we due for another Ice Age?
There are ominous signs that the Earth's weather patterns have begun to change dramatically and that these changes may portend a drastic decline in food production, with serious political implications for just about every nation on Earth. Three separate studies over the past five years have suggested that the earth is getting colder. A drop in temperature combined with increased snow cover has many scientists worried about the world's ability to produce enough food in the future.
Climatologists are pessimistic that political leaders will take any positive action to compensate for the climatic change, or even to counter its effects. They concede that some of the more spectacular possible solutions, such as melting the Arctic ice cap by covering it with black soot or diverting sub-arctic rivers, might create problems far greater than those they solve. But they worry that the longer the planners delay, the more difficult they will find it to cope with climate change once the results become grim reality.
CHAPTER ONE
July 7th, 1981: New York
“Expose yourself here.” Jack answered the phone with his trademark greeting.
Or don't, he thought. His indifference stemmed from thirteen years as an editor at the Daily Exposure, a tabloid journal unencumbered by concern for the truth. He heard uneasy breathing on the other end, followed by a weak voice. “Mr. Crowley?”
“This is Jack Crowley, who is this?”
The words had barely left his lips before he heard a click and a dial tone. He scowled and replaced the phone. Another few seconds of his life wasted.
Jack decided to call it a night. For the third evening in a row, he'd worked through any chance of seeing daylight, and the flickering Manhattan street lights proved a poor substitute during the fifteen block walk to his apartment. The crowded sidewalks never failed to remind him of his college days, when he and his friends rarely abandoned the Boston club scene before two in the morning. The Daily Exposure had allowed him to pay off his college loans, but he'd never intended to make a career of late nights at the office.
Entering his building, Jack pressed the Up button and ran his hands through dark curls. He sighed as he stepped in the elevator, imagining the dark apartment and empty refrigerator. He made a conscious effort to banish the negative thoughts as the elevator arrived at his floor. At thirty-five, he enjoyed good health, a solid salary, and even occasional relationships with women, who invariably compared his brown eyes to those of a puppy dog. Thus fortified, Jack opened the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and came face to face with a man he didn't recognize.
Sometimes, the shock of a situation is so great that you do not react at all. This was not one of those times. Jack lunged at the stranger, his surprise at the intrusion turning to anger in an instant. The only sound in his dark apartment was the muffled thump of his head burying itself in the cushions of the sofa as the intruder ducked out of the way. Jack heard the man's voice wavering with fear.
“Don't hurt me, Mr. Crowley, I can explain!”
Jack launched himself again, but the man managed to dart away, and Jack crashed into the wall. He dropped to his knees and looked up to see the unexpected guest shrinking into a corner. The man was thin, only about five foot six, and about as threatening as a sleeping child. Jack saw no obvious sign of any weapon.
“What the fuck are you doing breaking into my house! Who are you?”
He stood up and and advanced towards the man, adrenaline still ruling his brain.
“Wait, I can explain everything.” The man shielded his head with his forearms as Jack approached.
“My name is Ronald Levine and I work for NASA. I have some information you might be interested in. Your paper might be interested in.”
Still wary, Jack stopped and took several deep breaths. This was a new experience, having a source break into the house, but he decided to listen at least a little bit more.
“OK, Ronald, I'll give you thirty seconds before I pick up the phone and call the cops.”
Half an hour later, two men watched from their gray Ford as Levine exited the building. One of them scrutinized Levine through a Swarovski Nightvision device. Compact and light, the instrument was commercially available and quite effective, while avoiding the uncomfortable questions that could arise when discovered with more esoteric goggles. The other packed away a highly sophisticated directional microphone, capable of zeroing in on a conversation two hundred feet away in a room full of people. This device was most definitely not available to the general public.
“It looks like they were right about this one. We better call it in right away.”
The more senior of the two men shook his head. “I'd hold off until we get somewhere where we can make it secure. I have a feeling that even more than usual, we were never here.”
The car drove off slowly, following Levine through the late night Manhattan streets.
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Read more from
Edward G. Talbot…
Edward G. Talbot is the collaboration of two authors, Ed Parrot and Jason Derrig. We have several other works available:
James Robb Thrillers:
Alive from New York
Alive from America
Alive and Worldwide
Simon Gray Thrillers:
The Mayan Legacy
The Mayan Agenda (coming soon)
Standalone Thrillers:
New World Orders
Novellas
Callsign: Rook - Book 1 (with Jeremy Robinson)
Liberty (with David Wood)
Justice (with David Wood)
Brainwash (with David Wood)
Short Stories/Collections
A Funny Pair of Shorts (3 humorous stories)
A Horrifying Pair of Shorts (3 horror stories)
Femoral Depravity
Full Moon Over Camelot
Thank-you!
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Acknowledgements
The authors would like to thank our beta readers, who once again provided invaluable feedback that made the book far better. We will certainly forget someone in the following list, and for that, we apologize: Dale, Nancy, Erin, Linda, Johnnie, and two Scotts: Roche and Fraser.
We'd also like to thank Kiki, for helping us with some details on a big city E.R. We took a few liberties, but anything we got right is down to you.
Thanks to Ed's grandmother and sister for once again being willing to read the book and give us i
nput.
Big thanks once again to our cover artist, Jason Andrews. Jason, this is your best one yet.
We'll also thank our wives, who for reasons known only to them, continue to support us and our writing.
Finally, thanks go to Ed's parents. Each of you spent well into a double-digit number of hours on major editing, and the book simply would never have seen the light of day without your efforts. For a writer to have parents both willing and able to do this is truly a blessing.
The Mayan Legacy
Cover by Jason Andrews
Copyright © 2011,2017 by Edward G. Talbot
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Mayan Legacy (A Simon Gray Thriller Book 1) Page 32