by Steve Alten
“Slow down. When’s Sam due to be released?”
“His evaluation’s coming up, but according to Mick, Borgia means to keep Sam incarcerated for the rest of his life. During his trial, Sam told Mick that Borgia had swapped out Julius’s heart medication before the lecture—that he purposely incited Julius so he’d become overly stressed. The judge refused to allow any of that evidence to be admissible. Mick said that what should have been a case of simple assault resulted in a never-ending sentence in a mental ward.”
“Mick said? Dominique, from everything you’ve told me about Mick, I wouldn’t be so quick to trust what he says either. Secretary Borgia is one of the most powerful people in the world. Why would he risk his entire future over an archaeologist? Forget Mr. Gabriel, forget all these ridiculous Doomsday prophecies and conspiracies, and just focus on completing your internship so you can finish school and get on with your life.”
Dominique squeezes Edith’s hand. “You’re right. Between Chicahua and Mick, and this crazy patient of mine, I’ve completely lost my internal compass. Come Monday, I’m going to ask Dr. Foletta to assign me to a different patient. After spending eleven years in solitary confinement, Samuel Agler’s haunted by demons Sigmund Freud couldn’t begin to address.”
“Don’t misunderstand, I’m not telling you to give up. Sometimes we cross paths with people in need of our assistance, only we don’t know how to help them. While their immediate problem may seem important, the root cause of most situations is the absence of the light from a person’s life.”
“By light, you mean God?”
Edith nods. “By helping others reconnect to God, we’re actually removing the darkness from our own lives while helping the other person to heal the root cause of their problem.”
“Sam’s convinced he’s been sent here to save the planet.”
“We all need to do our part. Between the carbon emissions and the oil spills, Earth’s becoming a toxic wasteland.”
“No, Ead, I mean he literally thinks he’s here to save the planet from the Mayan Doomsday—you know, December 21, 2012. He told me there’d be another prelude to the end sometime today.”
“Okay, so he’s a few cards short of a full deck, who cares?” She pauses. “Do you really enjoy working in an asylum? You know, you did get into law school. It’s not too late—”
Dominique hugs her—as Isadore Axler comes running out of the house, the aging biologist frantic. “Ead? Ead!”
“I’m over here. What in God’s name—”
“Seaquake … a big one! Campeche Shelf … southwest of the Alacran Reef.” He bends over, struggling to catch his breath. “The entire sea floor just collapsed … whoosh! SOSUS is tracking a series of tsunamis that are rippling across the Gulf.” He glances at Dom. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Did you alert the Coast Guard?”
“And FEMA. And the Sanibel sheriff’s office.” He looks up as sirens blast in the distance. “Whatever you want to save, grab it fast and get in the car before we hit a major traffic jam. The first wave will reach us in twenty-three minutes. I want to be across the causeway in five.”
CHICHEN ITZA
The ancient Mayan capital swelters beneath a cloud-covered sky, the lack of a serpent’s shadow dampening the spirits of 78,000 visitors, most of whom are gathered around the Kukulcan Pyramid.
Abandoning the esplanade, Michael Gabriel falls in line among a moving conveyor of tourists, all heading north through the jungle to see the sacred cenote. The watering hole and hundreds like it are the primary source of fresh water in the Yucatan, created 65 million years ago when a seven-mile-in-diameter asteroid struck the Earth, crushing the sea floor and fracturing the Gulf’s submerged limestone basin. When the Yucatan landmass eventually rose from the sea, these fractures became the freshwater sinkholes destined to nourish the future Mesoamerican Indians.
The clearing is up ahead, the sacred cenote an enormous round chalky-white limestone pit. Mick waits his turn behind a procession of perspiring tourists, the crowd gradually moving to a vantage along the edge of the sinkhole. After ten minutes the group ahead of him parts, allowing him to stand before the pit that, according to Chilam Balam and the Mayan Popol Vuh, served as the gateway to the underworld.
The thirty-seven-year-old archaeologist stares at the cenote for what is easily the thousandth time. The pit drops sixty feet straight down to its stagnant olive-green water, its curved walls matted in thick vegetation.
A tremor causes his skin to tingle. The reverberation migrates into his bones. For a moment he assumes the rumbling is coming from the weight of the moving mass of people, the sensation similar to standing near a railroad track occupied by an approaching locomotive.
Then he notices the surface of the cenote is bubbling.
An earthquake? He looks around, confused yet excited.
Women scream. Men point.
Michael Gabriel looks down in time to see the percolating waters of the sacred cenote suddenly flush down the sinkhole as if it were a toilet.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The maître d’ switches on his smile as the fourth-most-powerful person in the United States enters the posh French restaurant. “Bon soir, Monsieur Borgia.”
“Bonsoir, Felipe. I believe I’m expected.”
“Oui, certainement. Follow me, please.” The maître d’ leads him past candlelit tables to a private room next to the bar. He knocks twice on the outer double doors, then turns to Borgia. “Your party is waiting inside.”
“Merci.” Borgia slips the twenty into the gloved palm as the door swings open from the inside.
“Pierre, come in.” Republican party cochairman Charlie Myers shakes Borgia’s hand and slaps him affectionately on the shoulder. “Late as usual. We’re already two rounds ahead of you. Bloody Mary, right?”
“Yes, fine.” The private meeting room is paneled in deep walnut like the rest of the restaurant. A half-dozen white clothed tables fill the soundproof room—all empty, save for one.
Joseph Randolph embraces his nephew with a one-armed hug, the other used to balance on his cane. “Lucky Pierre, or should I say Mr. Secretary of State. Washington must be good to you, looks like y’all put on a few pounds.”
Borgia blushes. “Maybe a few.”
“Join the club.” The heavyset man seated at the table stands, extending a thick palm. “Pete Mabus, Mabus Enterprises, out of Mobile, Alabama.”
Borgia recognizes the defense contractor’s name. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. Sit down and take a load off.”
Charlie Myers brings Borgia his drink. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the little boys’ room.”
Randolph waits until Myers has left the room. “Pierre, I saw your father last week up in Rehoboth. All of us are real upset ’bout you not getting the vice presidency. Maller’s doing a real disservice to the entire party.”
Borgia grimaces. “The president’s watching the polls. His campaign manager thinks Chaney gives him the support the party needs in the South.”
“Maller ain’t thinking down the road.” Mabus points a chubby finger. “What this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove like Chaney as second-in-command.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Unfortunately, I have no say in the matter.”
Randolph leans closer. “Don’t be so quick to assume this cake is fully baked. The senator has a lot of enemies who lurk in the shadows, the president as well. Should a tragedy happen after the November election, you’d be tapped to serve.”
“Jesus, Uncle Joe.” Borgia uses his linen napkin to wipe sweat beads from his upper lip.
Peter Mabus leans forward. “This upcoming Iranian-Russian-Chinese military exercise has pissed a lot of people off. Wholesale changes will have to be made in the joint chiefs and the Pentagon.”
“Pete’s right, son. You need to prepare now. A rising tide raises all boats. You’re the tide, Pierre.”
The vibration of
the cell phone in his pants pocket causes Borgia to jump. He verifies the White House code and clicks on the text message. “My God.”
SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA
The tsunami is twenty-seven feet high when it rolls in from the Gulf—a tide of frothy water that moves inland with the speed and power of a locomotive. The wave bludgeons everything in its path, flipping beach chairs and patio furniture, flooding pools and the first three stories of every home, hotel, and street on the island. By the time the force of nature crosses the island it has quieted into a relentless eight-foot swell, depositing its wares into Pine Island Sound and Tarpon Bay before slamming sideways into the section of tsunami taking dead aim at Fort Myers.
Dominique’s roadster, the Jeep Grand Cherokee transporting the Axlers, and thousands of other vehicles fleeing the Gulf Coast inch forward along McGregor Boulevard in bumper-to-bumper traffic all eyes focused on the mound of water racing across San Carlos Bay.
Isadore Axler climbs halfway out his window, waving at his adopted daughter in the tiny vehicle behind him. “Get in our car! Quickly!”
Dominique tries opening her car door, only to find herself jammed in against the passenger side of the Lexus in the lane next to her.
The tsunami strikes the beach a hundred yards away, pile-driving sand fifty feet into the air as it charges up manicured lawns and asphalt.
Flipping open the roadster’s convertible top, Dominique climbs over the windshield and onto the hood of her car before leaping onto the Cherokee’s roof. She manages to grab onto the luggage rack, her body dangling across the rear window—as a river of fish-scented sea bashes sideways into the clogged lanes of vehicles. The unstoppable rush of water rises beneath her roadster, flipping it onto the Lexus with a devastating crunch of glass, the tide sweeping small and mid-size vehicles across the four-lane highway.
The Cherokee rocks but never budges, its two occupants watching in horror as their daughter is submerged by the mud-brown wave. A full minute passes before daylight reappears—Dominique gone.
Edith bursts out in tears.
“Stay here.” Isadore exits the Jeep in a knee-deep current, gazing dumbfounded at the pile of cars tossed like beer cans into a flooded canal.
“That was too close.”
Iz looks up, overjoyed to find Dominique splayed out on the roof of the Cherokee.
“Did you see what that damn wave did to my car?”
“That damn wave was only the first in a series of damn waves. Get inside, kiddo, we need to move!”
Dominique jumps down, climbing in the backseat as a second wall of water appears on the horizon.
30
The countdown to “D-day” has started. Our group has been preparing for LHC data for many years now and we are all truly excited about the prospect of finally getting a glimpse of whatever surprises Nature has in store for us.
—DR. PEDRO TEIXEIRA-DIAS
LEADER OF THE ATLAS GROUP
AT ROYAL HOLLOWAY,
UNIVERSITY OF LONDON
SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND
TREATMENT CENTER
MIAMI, FLORIDA
NOVEMBER 6, 2012
It is 10:57 at night by the time Dominique enters her apartment, greeted by the scent of fresh apple pie on the stove and the uneven duet of snores coming from her bedroom. Careful not to wake her parents, she pulls the door closed and turns on the television, catching The Daily Show’s take on the presidential election.
As expected, the Maller-Chaney ticket has won, largely based on the way the administration handled the tragedy in the Gulf. Thanks to post-Katrina evacuation plans and the SOSUS early warning system, less than five hundred lives were lost. But the devastation to the Gulf Coast and its barrier islands was immense, and President Maller had wasted no time in placing his new vice president in charge of organizing the aid.
With threats to imprison any FEMA administrator or insurance representative responsible for creating red tape, Ennis Chaney had the homeless fed and sheltered before the end of day 1, families in trailers soon thereafter. Global satellite images taken before and after the disaster were used to settle insurance claims so as not to delay the clearing of debris. By mid-October all coastal roads had reopened, reconstruction under way.
Seismologists reported the seaquake had occurred beneath the Chicxulub impact crater, site of the asteroid collision 65 million years ago. The forces responsible for collapsing this long-fractured section of sea floor were still being investigated.
Dominique had wasted no time confronting Sam about the disaster. His response was to show her his hand-drawn wall map, the colored dots listing every major earthquake, tsunami, and volcanic eruption that had occurred since 2010, beginning with the magnitude 7.0 seismic event that had devastated Haiti on January 12, followed by the Icelandic volcano that erupted on April 15, three months later. For nearly an hour he attempted to explain his quantum equations, his calculations based on everything from the angle of the planet’s tilt on its axis to the gravitational pull generated by the massive black hole located at the center of the Milky Way—a force that caused the Earth and every object in the galaxy to travel through space at an incredible 135 miles per second, a cosmic merry-go-round charted by the Mayan calendar.
“I can’t tell you what caused these earthquakes and eruptions, Dominique, but using these mathematical equations I can tell you when the next event will occur.”
“And when would that be … wait, don’t tell me—December 21, 2012.”
“Yes, only the magnitude of the winter solstice event will be far greater than the last.”
“Okay, let’s say I buy into your Doomsday equation—how do we stop this from happening?”
“I don’t know. According to the Mayan Popol Vuh, only One Hunahpu can prevent the end of the fifth cycle.”
“Great. More Mayan mythology.” Moving to the wall behind his bed, she pointed to the drawing of the trident. “What is this supposed to be? Is this devil worship?”
“I don’t know what it is. The icon comes to me in my dreams, along with the faces of people I’m sure I’ve met but I just can’t seem to remember. Maybe Michael would know?”
“Forget about him. Your pal, Michael, is about as helpful as One Hunahpu. He left town before the fall equinox. I haven’t heard from him since.”
The annoying sound draws her from REM sleep. Her eyes search for the digital clock on the television’s cable box—3:22 a.m.
She sits up on the sofabed as she hears the soft knock on the door.
Dressed in a Florida State football jersey barely concealing her underpants, she makes her way to the apartment door and looks out the peephole. “Unbelievable.”
Dominique unbolts the lock and opens the door, staring at Michael Gabriel. “Where the hell have you been? Six weeks you’ve been gone … do you know I was almost killed?”
“Nice legs. But your breath stinks. Can I come in?”
She waves him in, checking her breath behind his back. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Three thirty. I didn’t want to wake your foster parents. Sorry I didn’t call, but your phones are being tapped.”
“Tapped? By who?”
“The only people who tap phones, Dominique. You made Borgia’s shit list the day you began working with Sam. You’re now what they call a person of interest.”
“No more games, Mick. I’m not helping you another minute until I know who Sam really is.”
“That’s why I’m here. Pack a bag, we’ll be gone two days.”
“Two days? I can’t leave for two days.”
“You’re off tomorrow and Thursday, what’s the problem?”
“The problem—” She lowers her voice. “The problem is, I don’t trust you.”
“Do you trust Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me, because what I do now I do for the two of you.”
The commuter airport is located thirty minutes away in Boca Raton. The private jet—a Hawker 900
XP—sits on the tarmac, fueled, its pilot awaiting his two passengers.
Mick pays the taxi driver, leading Dominique toward the security gate.
“A private jet? How the hell did you arrange a private jet? You have a rich uncle I don’t know about?”
“I called in a favor from a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Ennis Chaney.”
Dominique stops walking. “The vice president of the United States is lending you his private jet?”
“This is Ennis Chaney, not Dick Cheney. The current VP has no interest in private jets. He simply arranged transportation for us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“My father spent the last ten years of his life working for a black ops military program. One day he hacked into his director’s computer and found a secret Pentagon budget that had diverted about $2 trillion from the US treasury. My father sent the file to Senator Chaney. He sort of owes us.”
“And where exactly are we going?”
“No worries, someplace close.”
The burst of brilliant sun bleeds red through Dominique’s closed eyelids, causing her to roll over. She nearly falls off the sofa as the cabin tilts beneath her, the jet dipping its starboard wing as it circles to land.
Minutes later they are standing on empty tarmac, the sunrise obscured behind a mountain range.
Dominique rubs her eyes, exhausted. “Where are we? Arizona?”
“Try Nazca, Peru.” He starts walking toward an aluminum hangar, Dominique hustling to keep up.
“Peru? Are you shitting me? You told me we were going someplace close.”
“Peru is close. Certainly closer than Australia.”
“Why the hell are we in Nazca?”
“I’m going to show you.”
They enter the hangar. Inside, an American in his sixties, dressed in Navy overalls, is working on the engine of a World War II naval fighter. The mechanic acknowledges Mick with a quick glance, his greasy hands occupied by a crescent wrench.