The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  Jacob’s communicator flashes on, interrupting them.

  It’s Dominique. ‘Jacob, dinner’s ready. I want you and your brother home now, please. And tell Dr. Mohr that his wife called, and he’d better get his rear end in gear.’

  Dave Mohr checks his watch. ‘Oops, abort, abort. I’ll see you boys tomorrow morning.’

  Immanuel watches the wiry scientist hurry toward the exit. ‘He seems to know an awful lot about this spaceship.’

  ‘He should,’ says Jacob. ‘After all, he once piloted it.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Jacob turns to face him, his piercing blue eyes suddenly dead serious. ‘The time loop, Manny. When the cataclysm strikes Earth, Dave Mohr will be one of the scientists selected for Mars Colony. Only he’ll never make it, his ship and several others caught within the gravitational forces of the wormhole.’

  ‘Dr. Mohr was on Xibalba?’

  ‘Yes. Fortunately, he and a few other members of the brotherhood managed to escape before the Abomination took over.’

  ‘Whoa, wait a minute … are you telling me Dr. Mohr was a … a Guardian?’

  ‘Was, and will be again, unless we return to Xibalba and succeed. He doesn’t remember it, but Dr. Mohr was once the great Mayan wise man, Kukulcán.’

  South Beach, Florida

  The setting sun has turned the Atlantic Ocean a deep magenta.

  Lauren remains hidden in the shadows of an alleyway another five minutes before crossing A-1-A to the row of private beach garages. She quickly locates the facility belonging to the Peacock family and enters the access code.

  The aluminum panel opens, revealing motorized water skis, lounge chairs, and a canary yellow three-wheeled dune buggy, its fiber-cast hull more boat than car.

  Lauren climbs inside the two-passenger open cockpit of the Amphibian. Powering up the engine, she guides the vehicle out of its garage, then bounds over the grass dunes and sand, straight into the ocean.

  Waves lift the buoyant vessel away from the silt. Wheels retract. A forward ski moves into place beneath the pointed bow, a rotary-driven propeller dropping beneath its stern.

  Lauren guns the engines. The wind howls in her ears as she races north, bouncing along the surface at fifty miles an hour, heading for Cape Canaveral.

  Hangar 13, Kennedy Space Center,

  Cape Canaveral, Florida

  Roasted turkey. Stuffing. Sweet potatoes. Freshly baked rolls.

  Immanuel is stuffed. He lays his head back against the violet cushion and belches.

  ‘That was nice.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma, but that was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. How long it take you to synthesize it?’

  She shoots him a harsh look. ‘I cooked it. That was real turkey, not that synthetic soy crap laced with flavoring and chemicals. If you want to get your dailies, take them the old-fashioned way.’

  Grand Master Chong enters, a look of concern on the old man’s face. ‘Jacob, come please. Your brother, too.’

  Dominique feels the blood rush from her face. ‘What is it?’

  The monk shakes his head. ‘We have guests.’

  Atlantic Ocean

  8:56 p.m.

  Lauren eases back on the Amphibian’s throttle and turns toward shore, allowing the two-man boat to settle in the swells.

  She stands in the open cockpit and stretches, her buttocks numb. She has been following the Florida coastline for three hours. Exhausted, cold, and sore, she has been questioning her own sanity for most of the trip.

  Glancing down at the control panel, she quickly verifies her position on the LED computer screen.

  The old Cape Canaveral lighthouse is a half mile north. Just ahead is the immense building she had seen from the NASA causeway only days earlier.

  Days? Seems more like years. Okay, if you’re really going to do this, then do it…

  She accelerates behind a cresting wave and rides it into the beach, activating the amphibious switch.

  As the jet ski rolls forward onto the sand, three tires rotate into position beneath the chassis, instantly converting the seacraft back into a landrover.

  Lauren parks the triwheeled dune buggy on dry sand, her eyes focused on the forty-foot-high perimeter fence which runs parallel to the shoreline.

  WARNING: ELECTRIFIED FENCE. NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT.

  She tosses a seashell fragment.

  Zapp!

  Okay, Einstein, now what?

  A flash of headlights causes her to duck. She watches as a white stretch limousine parks in front of the main entrance.

  Lauren sits back, rubbing her head, trying to fathom the sudden sensation of déjà vu.

  Grand Master Chong, Dominique, Jacob, and Immanuel stand before the two-way observation panel, watching the occupants in the next room.

  Seated at the head of a simulated oak conference table is President John Zwawa. On his left is Alyssa Popov, on his right, a Hispanic member of GOLDEN FLEECE.

  ‘Danny Diaz,’ Jacob mutters, ‘Dave Mohr’s right-hand man. Looks like the bastard sold us out.’

  A disheveled Dr. Mohr enters the conference room, followed by the most stunning woman Immanuel Gabriel has ever seen. She is young, about his age, but carries herself in a more worldly way. Mocha tan skin. High cheekbones, accentuated by long, wavy ebony hair, which rolls down her taut, muscular back to her flawless waistline. Her lips are full and luscious, her dark, wrap around sunglasses adding an air of mystique. She saunters around the room in her own little world, her bone-colored silk pajama-style outfit threatening to fall away.

  Manny watches her circle, his eyes wide. ‘Who is that?’

  Jacob stares at the woman as if seeing a ghost. ‘Trouble.’

  Dave Mohr’s voice emanates from speakers within their sound-proof office. ‘Mrs. Mabus, honestly, I’m not really sure what you’re after. After all, we’ve been attempting to reverse engineer the starship for more than a decade now, and—’

  ‘Please, Dr. Mohr, let’s not begin our tenure together with lies.’ Her voice, so soothing, yet not one to be trifled with. ‘Daniel?’

  Danny Diaz activates a recessed volumetric display, which rises to show the three-dimensional image of the Guardian’s starship rotating above the tabletop. ‘We’ve been able to access the Balam’s astrotopography program. We also located the source of the electromagnetic pulse weapon, which essentially prevented us from annihilating one another back in 2012.’

  Lilith glides around the room, then abruptly stops and stares at her own reflection in the two-way mirror, inches from Jacob and Manny.

  ‘Who is she, Jacob?’ Dominique whispers.

  Lilith suddenly smiles like an enchantress, then slowly lifts her silk top, exposing her tan, grapefruit-sized breasts at the two-way mirror.

  Immanuel grins.

  Jacob’s heart skips a beat.

  And then the woman removes her wraparound sunglasses and reveals the sociopathic intensity of her azure-blue eyes.

  Jacob grabs his twin by the arm and forcibly drags him from the room.

  ‘Jake, stop—’

  ‘No! You need to leave here, now!’

  ‘Jake, her eyes … was that—’

  ‘Yes. Now listen to me very carefully—’

  They race down a corridor to a door marked EQUIPMENT. Jacob keys a code into a pad, then opens the door—

  —revealing a stairwell that descends into darkness.

  ‘This will lead you outside to the beach. Give me two minutes, and I’ll cut power to the electrical fence. Your girlfriend’s outside.’

  ‘Lauren’s here? How do you know—’

  ‘Don’t talk, just listen. Head south. Stay out of the public eye. Find Frank Stansbury, he’s a friend of the family. Lives in Delray Beach, in the Western Estates.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Jacob embraces his twin. ‘Don’t ask—just run! Remember, Frank Stansbury. And stay out of the nexus, or the Hunahpu will sense you. Now go!’
>
  Immanuel hurries down the steps. Kicks open the rusted steel door and jogs out onto the beach, the wind gusting, the ocean spray blasting him in the face.

  Searchlights activate behind and to his left. He dives forward, rolling to the base of the electrical barrier.

  The searchlights’ motion detectors locate him. He tosses sand at the fence, which sizzles with static. Come on, Jake, shut it down!

  He takes a few breaths, looks around, then throws another fistful of sand.

  This time, the charge is gone.

  Leaping to his feet, he grabs hold of the fence, scaling the forty-foot-high steel barrier like a lizard. He leaps into the night, drops and lands on both feet—

  —as a familiar figure runs away from him, heading for the ocean.

  Lauren sprints down the beach, away from the sirens, away from the searchlights. The wind whistles in her ears as the world-class sprinter races for the Amphibian.

  ‘Lauren, wait!’

  Sam?

  Lauren stops running as her fiancé stumbles, barreling sideways into her.

  ‘Lauren?’ Sam stares at her in disbelief. ‘Oh, God, it is you!’

  She leaps into his arms, sobbing. ‘Sam, I’m in so much trouble—’

  ‘You and me both.’ Looking back over her shoulder, he spots the armed security guards. ‘Come on, we gotta move.’

  Hand in hand, they race down the beach.

  ‘No, this way!’ Lauren pulls him toward the water.

  He spots the Amphibian, then looks back, as one of the security guards activates his taser.

  No! Ignoring his brother’s warning, he slips into the nexus—

  —time slowing to an excruciating crawl.

  Behind him, pushing through clear gelatin-like fourth-dimensional waves, is the taser’s sizzling violet circle of energy. Expanding rapidly across the beachhead, the paralyzing loop of lightning reaches for them—

  —as Jacob grabs Lauren around her waist and leaps into the Amphibian’s cockpit.

  I can taste you, cousin. Why do you run? What is it you fear?

  Gunning the engine, he converts the jeep into a boat, then activates the craft’s autopilot, pressing the setting for Miami—

  —as the wave of energy slams into them from behind, zapping them into unconsciousness.

  34

  25 NOVEMBER 2033: USS PENNSYLVANIA, ATLANTIC OCEAN, 297 NAUTICAL MILES EAST OF MIAMI

  Friday Morning

  Captain Robert Wilkins, Operational Commander of the Weather Net-Atlantic Force, stares at the real-time satellite image of Super-Cane Kenneth being projected on the control room’s large monitor. The Category-6 storm has become an absolute freak of nature, its clearly defined eye sixty nautical miles northeast of Eleuthera Island, its swirling vortex already engulfing the Bahamas, punishing the hastily abandoned islands with winds in excess of 195 miles an hour.

  Wilkins is as frustrated as he is worried. The delivery of the MPK gas mix to the Port of Miami was not only late, it was light, with barely enough of the pressurized cryogenic nitrogen to fill half the fleet’s converted vertical silos. Category-6 super-canes mandate a minimum of eight fully loaded vessels. Wilkins has barely six, and Kenneth is no ordinary superstorm.

  Executive Officer David Sutera approaches, handing him a printout. ‘Skipper, we just received this latest GMT.’

  SUPER-CANE KENNETH

  1100 GMT FRIDAY

  11/25/33

  LOCATION:

  26.1 N 75.8 W

  MAX. WIND:

  197 MPH

  GUSTING:

  208 MPH

  MOVING:

  W AT 16 MPH

  PRESSURE:

  941 MB

  PREDICTED U.S. LANDFALL:

  SATURDAY 11/26/33

  09:20 HRS

  DESTINATION: MIAMI

  ‘Christ, it’s picked up speed.’

  ‘A mandatory evacuation order was just issued. Key West north to West Palm Beach.’

  ‘Conn, sonar, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

  ‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us about, make your course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

  ‘Aye, sir, coming about. Making my course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

  ‘Bring us to periscope depth.’

  ‘Aye, sir, coming up to periscope depth. Steady at sixty feet.’

  Sutera presses his face to the periscope and takes a quick 360-degree scan of the surface. ‘Confirm, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

  ‘Sonar, Captain, is the fleet in position?’

  ‘Conn, sonar, still waiting on the Wyoming and Kentucky. ETA four minutes. All other ships have come about and are standing by.’

  Wilkins reverses his cap and looks through the periscope.

  Sunshine reflects off an ominous olive green sea, its rolling waves peaking at thirty feet.

  An oasis of calm within a vortex of hell …

  The captain rotates to the west and focuses on the advancing eye wall. It is as if he is looking out from inside the heart of a tornado. A dark purple wall of clouds—swirling, twisting, igniting every few seconds in bursts of lightning—the storm is a living, raging beast.

  ‘Conn, sonar, all ships now in position.’

  Wilkins pulls himself away from the periscope and readjusts his cap. ‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, put us on the ceiling. Increase speed to sixteen knots.’

  ‘Aye, sir, surfacing ship. Increasing my speed to sixteen knots.’

  ‘Conn, sonar, give me two pings down the fleet’s bearings.’

  ‘Aye, sir, two pings.’

  Two thunderous gongs echo across the sea, alerting the other Trident subs, which have fanned out along the eastern eye wall.

  ‘Weather Net Officer, this is the captain. Begin ejecting MPK gas.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Ejecting MPK gas.’

  Located amidships, standing in pairs like steel redwood trees, are the sub’s twenty-four vertical missile silos, each rising more than three stories. Originally designed to launch sixty-five-ton Trident D-5 II nuclear ballistic missiles, the tubes have been refitted to hold compatibly sized canisters of pressurized cryogenic nitrogen gas mix.

  Weather Net Officer Matt Winegar activates the digital clock on his control board, then presses EJECT-1 and EJECT-2.

  Exterior hatches pop open along the top of the submarine. Seconds later, a clear stream of gas is forcibly expelled through venturi tubes. As the MPK gas mixes with the low-pressure, high-humidity atmosphere, it expands and crystallizes, forming a thick fog, which is quickly suctioned toward the approaching wall of the cyclone.

  Immense waves lift and drop the sub, sending several off-duty sailors scampering to the head.

  WNO Winegar tries his best to ignore the building queasiness in his gut as he watches his clock. Each MPK tank release must be timed to feed the storm, too much gas at once, and the storm will choke.

  At four minutes a green light flashes, alerting Winegar to release the next two batches of compound.

  The storm continues east as it feeds, its western eye sucking the chemical up into its vortex, dispersing it within its cumulus fury.

  High overhead, flying back and forth through the supercane’s clouds like steel falcons are ESMA’s Unmanned Cyclone Aerial Labs. These four-foot-long winged darts, known affectionately as UNCLE, traverse the walls of the eye, gathering precious data.

  The officers and crew of the Pennsylvania hold on and watch as UNCLE’s data appears on screen.

  SUPER-CANE KENNETH: SUSTAINED WINDS: 193 MPH

  The hurricane’s winds continue dropping. 182mph … 181mph … 179mph …

  ‘Conn, Weather Net Officer. All silos flushed, skipper.’

  ‘Officer of the Deck, take us down. Make your depth one hundred feet.’

  ‘Aye, sir, taking us down. Making my depth one hundred feet.’