Phobos

by Steve Alten

  “Dr. Beckmeyer, paint us the worst-case scenario.”

  “Simply put, an eruption of a major caldera like Yellowstone is a planet-changing event. The last one occurred around seventy thousand years ago at Lake Toba in Sumatra and nearly wiped out every air-breathing life form on Earth. Yellowstone’s caldera is far larger than Toba. Should the caldera blow, the explosion would instantly wipe out the surrounding population, with lava flowing over thousands of square miles. The Midwestern states would become ground zero, devastating our crops. As bad as all that sounds, the far worse problem is atmospheric debris, which will blanket Earth’s atmosphere and blot out the sun. We’re looking at a volcanic winter, with global temperatures plunging as much as a hundred degrees. Power grids will fail, populations isolated, the economy lurching to a standstill. Millions will perish during the first few weeks just from the cold. Roads will be impassable. Within a month or two, those who haven’t frozen to death will starve.”

  The vice president loosens his collar, struggling to breathe. “There must be something our scientists can do?”

  “We have teams working on it,” Beckmeyer replies. “So far, nothing looks promising.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Beckmeyer, I’ll see you in Washington.” The president disconnects the line. “I know many of you are shocked, and of course we’re all praying to avoid another seismic disturbance like we experienced back in September, but the truth is that our experts have been analyzing this threat with the same thoroughness as the Pentagon rehearses war game scenarios, and contingency plans are under way. Mr. Secretary?”

  Pierre Borgia turns to face the cabinet members seated on his left. “Yellowstone is an issue of survival. Survival means making difficult choices. It means accepting the harsh reality that, should Yellowstone erupt, then six billion people—save a handful of the prepared and protected—are going to die … painfully.”

  Using his laptop, Borgia uploads a series of graphs that are displayed on the surrounding plasma screens. “Our objective is to stockpile food, water, livestock, and seed vaults in the 106 subterranean emergency facilities located outside the ground-zero states. Early estimates suggest we can house upward of twenty-seven thousand people for five years, eleven thousand over a decade, five thousand for twenty years. These numbers reflect a five-to-three birth rate versus death rate per colony.”

  Chaney shakes his head. “What about the residents in the kill zone—are we going to warn them ahead of time so they can leave?”

  Borgia looks hard at the VP with his one good eye. “Alert the masses and panic will ensue. There will be anarchy, rendering the highways and rail systems useless. It may seem cruel, Mr. Chaney, but being incinerated is probably far more humane than starvation.”

  “Why don’t you try both and let us know?”

  President Maller slaps the tabletop with both palms. “Ennis, this isn’t political, it’s about the survival of our species.”

  “You mean, the survival of the elite. Anyone not a politician or billionaire gonna be invited into these underground shelters of yours? Five thousand worthless chiefs and no Indians. If that’s the gene pool that represents the future of this planet, then I’m glad I won’t be around to see it.”

  The vice president stands, heading for the door.

  “Was that your official resignation?” Borgia calls out. “Because we accept!”

  Chaney flips him the middle finger and leaves.

  President Maller catches up to him in the corridor. “Privacy room. Now, Mr. Chaney.”

  The vice president glares at his commander-in-chief, then follows him into one of the soundproof privacy booths.

  Maller fogs the windows. “What’s with you? Since when do you allow Borgia to bait you over a hypothetical catastrophe? You’re smarter than that.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of dealing with stupid people, Mark. See, the problem with stupid is it’s forever. You can’t change stupid. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “I need you to try harder.” The president looks him in the eye. “I have my own ticking time bomb to deal with. December first will be my last day in office.”

  Chaney’s eyes tear up. “How long have you known?”

  “About seven months.”

  “Yet you still ran?”

  “I ran so we’d get elected, so you’d be there to take the baton.”

  “Why me?”

  “For all the reasons you just demonstrated in that meeting. Because you put the people first. Because you care about what’s really important. Now, it’s your show. You want to change stupid, you’ll have your chance. Clean house. Do what’s necessary.”

  “And the caldera?”

  “Pray it doesn’t happen. Warn the people if you feel it’s best. Most won’t leave anyway, but do it if you feel it’s the right thing. Meanwhile, quietly prep the facilities, just in case. Just remember, it’s a lot easier to object to who goes in than to actually select who gets saved.”

  SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND TREATMENT CENTER

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  “Out of the question.” Dr. Foletta continues moving down the corridor, Dominique giving chase. “The Mule’s been in solitary for a long time, suddenly forcing him outside, even for only an hour a day, would potentially be a danger to the other residents.”

  “I thought about that, sir. The yard’s clear from 2:15 to 3:15 every day.”

  “We’d have to post more guards, deviate from the inmate’s routine. Today’s my first day back from vacation, give me a week to settle in.”

  “With all due respect, sir, Samuel Agler’s been in solitary for eleven years. Maybe that goes over in Massachusetts, but it’ll never fly at this facility. Now you either allow me to arrange yard time for my patient, or you can explain to the board of regents why he’s the exception to the rule.”

  Foletta turns on her, his cherub face flushing red. “Who the hell do you think you are, Intern? I’ve been running asylums since before you were born.”

  “Then you know I speak the truth. One hour a day, that’s all I’m asking for.”

  “And if I agree?”

  “Then I’ll cosign his evaluation as you requested.”

  Foletta’s gray eyes scrutinize her, sweat beads dripping down the side of his face. “One hour. Nothing more. And you’ll sign his evaluation before lunch.”

  The yard at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a rectangular stretch of lawn surrounded on all four sides. The L-shape of the main building encloses the perimeter to the east and south, the north and western borders walled off by a twenty-foot stark white concrete barrier topped with coils of barbed wire.

  There are no doors in the yard. To exit the grass-covered atrium, one must ascend three flights of cement steps, which lead to an open mezzanine running the length of the southern side of the facility.

  Samuel Agler walks across the expanse of lawn, enjoying each blade of grass squeezed between his bare toes, luxuriating in every breath of fresh, unfiltered air. Tilting his head back, he allows the sun’s rays to beat down upon his face, causing his flesh to tingle and his blood vessels to vasodilate.

  Dominique watches him, feeling the eyes of every guard upon them. “How do you feel?”

  “Reborn.”

  Mick and I finally have everything ready, we’re getting you out tonight.

  How?

  I’ve been staying late, pretending to be studying for my certification. Paul Jones makes his last round at eight fifteen, then the night guy takes over—Luis Lopez. This is Lopez’s second job, and his wife just had a baby, so he usually dozes off by eleven in one of the pods. I’ll spike his coffee just to be sure.

  First-floor security is wired in to every video camera, how do we manage to bypass the system?

  Raymond works the night shift this week. I’m going to bait him into paying you a late-night visit. He’ll shock you before he attacks. Mick gave me a device that will interfere with the transponder receiver on your ankle cuff. Slip it inside your s
hoe before you leave the yard, then once you’re alone in your cell adhere it to the ankle bracelet so it covers the wireless antenna. Mick will be waiting outside for you in a white van.

  They stroll past the concrete wall, Sam’s eyes casually inspecting every crack and fissure. What about you? You’ll be a fugitive.

  When Raymond wakes up, I’ll be lying next to him, unconscious. You’ll erase the master tapes before you leave to protect my cover story. We’ll rendezvous when we can.

  You mean in Nazca?

  How did you know that?

  Mick took you there weeks ago. Whatever you saw—it made you afraid.

  Let’s stay focused on tonight. She checks her watch. Stop walking and put on your shoes, I need to give you the device.

  He stops and kneels in the grass, slipping on his shoes.

  From her pocket she removes a metal wafer the size of a stamp and casually drops it on the ground.

  Sam slips it inside his shoe.

  One last detail—we need to get into a fight. I’m going to ask you to leave. Walk the other way. That will alert the guards. I’ll stop them from Tasering you and insist that I handle the situation. When I approach I want you to backhand me across the face. Hard.

  I can’t do that.

  Yes you can. Think about Laura and Sophie. This is your only shot at saving them.

  Dominique checks her watch again. “Quit stalling, Sam. It’s time to return to your cell.”

  Sam hesitates, then walks the other way.

  Anthony Foletta watches the yard from his third-floor office, his eyes focused on Samuel Agler, his mind on the voice on the other end of his cell phone. “ … he’ll be in to replace your regular night-shift guy, who will have car trouble. Pull the master fuse on the seventh-floor security cameras at ten fifteen and leave it out for twenty minutes. That’s all the time he needs to take care of our friend.”

  “What about the autopsy?”

  “The autopsy will indicate Agler died of heart failure.”

  “Understood … Jesus!” Foletta jumps out of his chair as he witnesses his intern backhanded in the face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your boy just flipped out in the yard. I better get out there before he ends up in the infirmary!” Foletta hangs up, charging out of his office.

  A thousand miles to the north, Pierre Borgia hangs up the receiver inside one of the Situation Room’s acrylic privacy booths, the secretary of state smiling to himself.

  32

  The magnet failure last week at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) means that the accelerator will not be up and running again until early spring 2009, say officials at CERN.

  The LHC has lost up to a tonne of liquid helium after some of its superconducting magnets inadvertently heated up. [ … ] The collider is designed to accelerate the subatomic particles known as protons to energies of seven trillion electron volts, far surpassing any other accelerator on Earth, and smash them together in search of new particles, forces and dimensions. To keep the project on schedule, the team running the accelerator near Geneva have decided to skip a planned test run at an intermediate energy level and re-start the LHC in 2009 at the full beam energy of 7 TeV.

  —PHYSICSWORLD.COM

  SEPTEMBER 24, 2008

  SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND TREATMENT CENTER

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  8:23 P.M.

  Paul Jones finishes his rounds, returning to his security station to collect his lunch pail and car keys. He finds Dominique sprawled out on the vinyl couch, studying.

  “Either you’ve suddenly become studious, or you and Lopez have something going.”

  “Please. He’s married with a new kid. I’m just cramming for my written exams, and it’s a lot more quiet here than at my place with my parents.”

  “How much longer are they staying with you?”

  “At least another month.”

  “How’s your face?”

  “Still swollen. Guess I learned never to let my guard down.”

  “You should have shocked him the moment he walked away from you. Don’t hesitate. Second chances are rare with these hardcore crazies.”

  “Understood. Good night.” She waits until Jones leaves, then makes a fresh pot of coffee, adding a dozen sedatives to the brew.

  An hour passes, still no Luis. Anxious, she takes the elevator down to the first floor, unbuttoning the top three buttons of her blouse.

  Raymond has his feet propped up on his desk, the security guard engrossed in a college football game on a palm-size TV. “Going home, Sunshine?”

  “Not yet. What happened to Luis Lopez?”

  “Called in with car trouble. The agency has a sub on the way. Why? You hot for that little Mexican dude?”

  “Actually, I prefer barrel-chested redheads.”

  Raymond turns to her, flashing a yellowed grin. “About time you came around.” He approaches, his eyes glued to her cleavage. “You have no idea how many times I thought about this.”

  She backs up as he’s suddenly pressed against her, his thick calloused fingers caressing her buttocks. “Ray, slow down. Can we just talk a second? Ray … look at my face, did you even notice my swollen cheek? Do you know who did this to me? It was my patient, the guy I risked my internship trying to help out. He hit me so hard I saw stars.”

  “Don’t worry. When I finish with him he’ll be in a body cast.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “After we’re through.”

  “Ray, stop. Ray, someone’s coming!”

  The man is in his late thirties, his shaved head and dark eyes hidden beneath a New York Mets baseball cap. The security uniform remains taut over a wiry muscular frame. “The agency sent me. Open up.”

  Raymond looks him over. “Got any ID?”

  The man holds up a security card, his mannerisms far too professional for this line of work. Dominique shudders. A hired assassin?

  “You’re on the seventh floor.” Raymond buzzes him through, then hands him a transponder and magnetic passkey on a chain. “I assume you know how to use this?”

  “No problem, big fella.”

  Raymond scowls. He waits until the man steps onto the elevator before returning his attention to Dominique. “Now, where were we?”

  Samuel Agler hears the elevator ring. He listens intently for the guard’s footsteps, but there is no noise.

  The CIA assassin slides in stocking feet down the hall, moving silently toward cell 714. His orders are to subdue the target, then inject him with the drug. Pausing outside the pod, he checks his watch: 9:58 p.m.

  Too soon. Slowing his breathing, he examines the transponder, waiting …

  Anthony Foletta dons rubber gloves as he keys into the third-floor electrical closet. He quickly locates the rectangular metal fuse box labeled “Level 7” and opens it. Aided by a flashlight, he scans the rows of three-inch fuses until he finds the one corresponding to “Vid Cam.” Using a flathead screwdriver, he pries the fuse free from its slot, then returns to his office to wait.

  Raymond is all over her, tearing at her clothing, his bulk too large and close to fend off—just like her cousin so many years ago.

  Dominique’s heart pounds in her chest, the anxiety making it impossible to breathe. The more she pushes his groping hands away, the more incensed he becomes, driving her panic to a frenzy. She tries to scream, but his garlic-laced tongue muffles her words. She bites down, tasting blood as her mind screams:

  Sam! Help!

  The cell door opens. The assassin aims the transponder.

  Sam flops onto his back on the floor, his mouth frothing with the mixture of water and toothpaste, his mind focused on the turn of events. New guard. He wants me subdued.

  The guard moves in quickly, the hypodermic needle concealed in his right hand.

  Wham! Sam’s heel catches him in the chest, the powerful kick crushing his sternum while causing the bundle of nerves in his solar plexus to spasm. He writhes on the ground by the open
door, wheezing air.

  Sam contemplates taking the guard’s uniform when he hears the desperate cry from the void:

  Sam! Help!

  “Uhh!” He looks down in disbelief, the spent hypodermic needle protruding from his calf muscle, the guard lying on his side, grinning.

  “Trick or treat.”

  Sam kicks the smile off his face before stumbling backward, the cell spinning in his head, his heart pounding, his mind tracking the icelike presence in his vein as the foreign substance circulates methodically through his bloodstream—

  —slowing to a crawl as Sam slips inside a strangely familiar corridor of existence, the air gelid, his movements propelling him out of the cell and into the awaiting elevator.

  Steroids have shortened Raymond’s fuse, turning lust into an act of aggression. He spits out blood, then balls his fist and punches Dominique in the face, breaking her nose.

  She goes limp beneath him.

  The elevator rings, causing him to look up. The doors open.

  Turquoise-blue eyes race toward him behind a blur of white, striking him with the force of a tank. His rib cage crushes his internal organs and squeezes his heart muscle so hard his aorta bursts a second before his spine shatters against the cinder-block wall.

  Dominique awakens to flesh so hot it scalds. She is moving impossibly fast through the reception area on a gurney, only somehow it is not a gurney. Before she can fathom who is carrying her she is outside, looking up at a blurred night sky.

  The heavens are replaced with the back of a van. Mick’s voice echoes in her brain, the sound shaping into words—escorted by the explosive pain in her face.

  “ … he’s been drugged. Dom, I need you to drive the van. Dominique!”

  “Okay!” She climbs behind the wheel and accelerates away from the asylum, using her sleeve to wipe blood and tears from her swollen face.