by Steve Alten
While the exterior of the pyramid is a wondrous sight to behold, it is the interior of this mysterious structure that may conceal its true purpose.
The Great Pyramid contains several passageways leading to two barren rooms, innocuously named the King's Chamber and the Queen's Chamber. The true purpose of these rooms is still unknown. A concealed doorway along the northern face leads one down a narrow passage connecting to a corridor ascending straight into the heart of the pyramid. After a brief climb, one can either enter a claustrophobic, 130-foot-long horizontal tunnel leading to the Queen's Chamber, or continue ascending still farther by way of the Grand Gallery, an impressive vaultlike corridor that leads up to the King's Chamber.
The Queen's Chamber is a barren, 17-by-18-foot room, with a 20-foot-high gabled ceiling. Its only notable feature is a narrow ventilation shaft, the opening a mere eight-inch-by-nine-inch rectangle. This shaft, as well as the two found in the King's Chamber, had remained sealed until 1993, when the Egyptians, seeking to improve the pyramid's ventilation, hired the German engineer Rudolf Gantenbrink to use his miniature robot to excavate the blocked ventilation shafts. Images taken by the robot's miniature camera revealed the shafts were not blocked, but sealed from within by a sliding apparatus, a tiny door held in place with metal fittings. When unimpeded, the shaft would open directly to the sky.
Using a sophisticated clinometer, Gantenbrink was able to calculate the exact angles of projection to the night sky. At 39 degrees, 30 feet, the Queen's southern shaft had been directly targeted on the star Sirius. The King's shaft, at 45 degrees, on Al Nitak, the lowest star among the three situated on Orion's belt.
Astronomers soon thereafter discovered that the three pyramids of Giza had been painstakingly aligned to mirror the three belt stars of the constellation Orion as they appeared in 10,450 BC. (The legend of Osiris is also linked with Orion; his wife, Isis, with the star of Sirius.)
Was cosmic alignment the true purpose behind the excavation of the shafts, or were they designed to fulfill another function?
The Grand Gallery is an incredible engineering accomplishment unto itself. Less than seven feet wide at floor level, the walls of this corbeled shaft gradually narrow along either side as they rise to meet the 28-foot-high ceiling. Climbing at a 26-degree incline, the tight passageway runs upward more than 150 feet, an amazing architectural accomplishment considering that the Gallery's vaulted masonry supports the entire weight of the upper three-quarters of the pyramid.
At the summit of the Grand Gallery is a mysterious antechamber, its walls composed of red granite. Strange pairs of parallel grooves resembling tracks for an ancient set of partitions have been carved into the wall. From here, a small tunnel leads into the King's Chamber, the most impressive room in the pyramid. The chamber is a perfect rectangle, 17 feet, 2 inches wide, 34 feet, 4 inches long, its ceiling rising 19 feet, 1 inch off the floor. The entire chamber is composed of 100 blocks of red granite, each weighing in excess of 70 tons!
How could the ancient builders possibly have managed to lift these granite blocks into place, especially in such confined spaces?
Only one object is present within the King's Chamber, a solitary block of mud-colored granite, its interior sculpted out like a giant bathtub. Situated along the western wall, the piece is seven and a half feet long, its width and depth each measuring three and a half feet. The solid block of granite has been cut with unexplainable machinelike precision. Whatever technology was used to slice this object was superior to any tool possessed by modem man.
Though no mummy has ever been found, Egyptologists continue to identify this hollowed object to be a lidless sarcophagus.
I have a different theory.
The King's Chamber appears to function as an acoustical instrument, gathering and amplifying sounds. On several occasions, I have found myself alone in the room and used the opportunity actually to climb into the bathtub-shaped coffer. Upon lying down, I became overwhelmed by what felt like deep reverberations, as if I had climbed into the ear canal of a giant. I do not exaggerate when I state that my bones actually rattled from the overwhelming vibrations of sound and energy. Further discussions with electronic engineers reveal that the geometry of the apex of the Great Pyramid (at 377 ohms) makes it the perfect resonator, matching the impedance of free space.
As bizarre as it sounds, it is my theory that the Great Pyramid had been designed to function like some incredible, monolithic energy-channeling tuning fork, capable of resonating radio frequency-type currents, or perhaps some other as yet unknown energy fields.
More sobering facts: In addition to our own investigation of the Great Pyramid, Maria and I spent countless hours interviewing some of the top architects and engineers in the world. Upon calculating the tonnage, labor, and space requirements involved with building the structure, each of these professionals rendered the same startling conclusion-the Great Pyramid could not be duplicated-not even today.
Let me reiterate this: Even using our most sophisticated cranes, human beings of our own era could never have erected the Great Pyramid.
And yet, the Great Pyramid was constructed, some 13,000 years ago!
So then, who did build the Great Pyramid?
How does one seek answers to define the impossible? What is the impossible? Maria prescribed it as a faulty conclusion drawn by an uninformed observer, whose own limited experience lacks the information base to comprehend accurately something that is simply not within their own acceptable parameters of reality.
What my beloved was trying to express was this-mysteries remain mysteries until the observer opens their mind to new possibilities. Or, to put it more succinctly-in order to find a solution to what is perceived as the impossible, seek impossible solutions.
And we did.
Logic dictates that, if human bangs alone could not have built the Giza pyramids, then someone else had assisted them, in this case-another species-one obviously superior in intelligence.
This simple yet disturbing conclusion was not derived out of thin air, but from hard, empirical evidence.
The elongated skulls found in both Central and South America tell us the members of this mysterious species were humanoid in appearance. Various legends describe them as being tall Caucasian males, with ocean blue eyes, and flowing white beards and hair. Several of the most successful ancient cultures in history, including the Egyptian, Inca, Maya, and Aztec, had revered these beings as men of great wisdom and peace who had arrived to establish order from the chaos. All were great teachers, possessing an advanced knowledge of astronomy, mathematics, agriculture, medicine, and architecture that elevated our savage race to nations of ordered societies.
The physical evidence left to confirm their existence is undisputable.
This humanoid species also had a clear agenda-to preserve the future of humanity, their adopted children.
What a bizarre and frightening conclusion Maria and I had stumbled upon. Hen we were, two modem-day thinkers, doctoral graduates from Cambridge, presenting each other with theories that would have made Erich von Daniken proud. Yet we were not proud. In fact, our initial reaction was one of shame. We were not some Swiss hotelier turned author. We were scientists, renowned archaeologists. How could we possibly approach our colleagues with such preposterous notions of alien intervention? And yet, for the first time, my young bride and I felt as if our eyes had finally, truly opened. We could sense a master plan at work, yet still felt frustrated that we could not decipher its hidden meaning. Our humanoid elders had left us instructions in the Mayan codices, painstakingly duplicating the message upon the Nazca plateau, but the codices had been burned by the Spanish priests, and the message of Nazca still eluded us.
Maria and I felt frightened and alone, the Mayan calendar's prophecy of doom hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles.
I remember holding my wife, feeling like a lost child who, after learning about death, struggles to comprehend his parents' concept of heaven. The thought made me
realize that, for all our exploits and accomplishments, our specks, from an evolutionary standpoint, is really still in its infancy. Perhaps this is why we are so prone to violence, or why we remain such nourishing, emotional creatures, always wanting for love, always feeling alone. Like 30,000-year-old toddlers, we simply don't know any better. We're a planet of children, Earth-a massive orphanage, with no adult minds to guide us as to the ways of the universe. We've been forced to teach ourselves, learning the hard way as we go, Irving and dying like red blood cells circulating with reckless abandon throughout the body of humanity-so young, so inexperienced, and so naive. The dinosaurs had ruled the Earth for 200 million years, yet our first ancestors had only fallen from the trees less than two million years ago. In our incredible ignorance, we fancied ourselves superior.
The truth is, we are nothing but a species of children-curious, ignorant children.
The Nephilim, the fatten ones had been our elders. They had been here long ago, had taken Homo sapien women as their wives, providing our specks with their DNA. They had taught us what they felt we could grasp, and had left us clear markers as to their presence. They had also tried to warn us of a calamity to come, but like most children, we had turned a deaf ear, refusing to heed our parents' warning.
We're still infants, I remember telling Maria. We're fragile, naive infants, thinking we know everything, obliviously rocking in our cradle while the serpent crawls in through the open nursery window to slaughter us.
Maria agreed. You realize, of course, that the scientific community will scorn us.
Then we mustn't tell them, at least not yet, I said. Humanity's prophecy may be written in stone, but the future is still ours to determine. The Nephilim would not have gone to all this trouble to warn us of 4 Ahau, 3 Kankin without also leaving behind some weapon, some means of saving ourselves from annihilation. We must find the means to our salvation-then, and only then, will the rest of the world listen with an open mind.
Maria hugged me, agreeing with my logic. We won't find the answers here, Julius. You were right all along. While the Great Pyramid is part of the prophecy's puzzle, the temple appearing on the Nazca plateau is in Mesoamerica.
-Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,
Ref. Catalogue 1975-77 pages 12-72
Photo journal Floppy Disk 4: File name: GIZA, Blueprint 17
Chapter 18
DECEMBER 1, 2012
NULLARBOR PLAIN. AUSTRALIA
5:0 8 A.M.
The Nullarbor plain, the largest flat expanse of land on the planet, is a desolate region of limestone that stretches out over ninety-five thousand square miles along Australia's barren southern Pacific coastline. It is an uninhabitable area, devoid of vegetation and wildlife.
But for part-time naturalist Saxon Lennon and his girlfriend, Renee, the Nullarbor Plain has always provided the perfect escape. No people, no noise, no project managers yelling-just the soothing sounds of the surf crashing against the sheer limestone cliffs one hundred feet below their campsite.
The sonic reverberation causes Saxon to stir from his sleeping bag. He opens his eyes, pushing back the tent flaps to gaze at a canopy of stars.
Renee slips her arm around his waist, playfully fondling his genitals. You're up early, luv.
Stop for a second-did you hear something whiz by?
Like what?
Dunno-
The tremendous thud causes the earth beneath their tent to shake, sending Saxon scurrying out of his girlfriend's grasp.
Come on!
The young couple hurries from the tent half-naked, slipping on their hiking boots without bothering to lace them. They hop in their Jeep and head east, Saxon being sure to keep the vehicle a safe distance from the edge of the coastal cliffs running parallel on their right.
The dark horizon has turned gray by the time they arrive.
Goddam, Sax, what the bloody hell is it?
I-I dunno.
The object is enormous, as tall as a two-story house, with reptilian wings that expand a good sixty feet from tip to tip. The creature is black as night, perched on a pair of three-pronged talons that seem to grip the barren limestone surface. An enormous, reflective, fan-shaped tail remains motionless, several feet above the ground, while a series of tentacles jut out from the abdomen. The faceless, horn-shaped head seems to be pointed at the heavens. The statuesque being appears lifeless, save for the luminescent amber-gold glow of a disk-shaped organ located on one side of its torso.
Could be one of them remote aerial vehicles the Air Force is always flying about?
Maybe we ought to call someone?
You go ahead. I'm going to take some photos. Saxon aims his camera, snapping several shots while his girlfriend tries the car phone.
Phone's dead, nothing but static. You sure you paid the bill?
Positive. Here, take a photo with me in the picture, you know, so I can show how big this thing is.
Not too close, okay, luv.
Saxon hands Renee the camera, then moves to within fifteen feet of the being. I don't think this thing's even alive. It's just perched here, like a char-broiled condor.
A golden hue appears on the horizon. Perfect timing. Wait for the sun, it'll make for a better photo.
The first rays of dawn peek out over the Pacific, the solar light kissing the surface of the creature's reflective tail.
Saxon jumps back as the tail rises with an hydraulic hiss.
Son of a bitch, the thing's activating.
Sax-look-its eye's starting to blink.
Saxon stares at the amber disk, which is flashing off and on faster and faster, its color darkening to a crimson hue.
Come on- He grabs Renee's wrist and runs back to the Jeep. Slamming the vehicle into gear, he accelerates north across the wide-open expanse of flatland.
The orb deepens to bloodred, then stops blinking. A spark ignites along the outstretched wings, bursting into a brilliant, white-hot, silvery flame.
With a blinding flash, the creature detonates, unleashing an unfathomable amount of combustible energy that expands outward across the entire Nullarbor plateau at the speed of sound. Shock waves from the nuclear explosion seep through the porous limestone rock.
Vaporizing everything in its path.
Saxon registers the searing-hot, sixteen thousand-degree blast wave a nanosecond before his body, his girlfriend, the Jeep, and the terrain evaporate into a sizzling, toxic gas which is swept upward into the atmosphere in a hellish vacuum of microcosmic dust and flame.
Gulf of Mexico
The Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided-missile frigate USS Boone (FFG-28) floats silently on an ominous lead gray sea beneath a threatening, afternoon sky. Surrounding the warship, scattered along the surface over a two-mile radius are all that remains of the semisubmersible oil rig, Scylla. A dozen motorized rubber rafts maneuver carefully through the debris field as emotionally drained sailors pull the bloated remains of the dead from the water.
Ensign Zak Wishnov seals another body bag as Sublieutenant Bill Blackmon weaves the motorboat slowly through the flotsam.
Zak, there's another one, starboard bow.
God, I hate this. Wishnov leans out over the bow and hooks the corpse with a reach-pole. Oh, geez, this one's missing an arm.
Shark?
No, it's been severed cleanly. You know, now that you mention it, I haven't seen one shark since we've been out here.
Neither have I.
Makes no sense. There's blood everywhere, and these are shark-infested waters. Zak rolls the mangled corpse into the boat, shoving it quickly into a body bag. It's that thing down there, isn't it, Lieutenant? The source of that green glow. That's why the sharks are staying away.
The lieutenant nods. The sharks know something we don't. The sooner the skipper takes us out of here, the better.
Captain Edmund O. Loos III stands motionless on his bridge, his hazel eyes staring out at the foreboding horizon, his lower jaw clenched in anger. The thirt
eenth officer to command the Boone and her crew of 42 officers and 550 enlisted men is seething inside, has been ever since he received the orders from his CO to divert his warship away from his Persian Gulf-bound battle group and report to the Gulf of Mexico.
A goddam salvage operation in the middle of what could turn out to be the biggest conflict we've had in twenty years. We'll be the laughingstock of the whole fucking Navy.
Commander Curtis Broad, the ship's Executive Officer and second-in-command, approaches. Excuse me, skipper. One of the LAMPS has located a submersible, floating 1.7 kilometers due west. Two survivors on board. One claims to know what destroyed the Scylla.
Have him brought to the briefing room. What's the VP's ETA?
Thirty-five minutes.
A bolt of lightning flashes silently in the distance, followed seconds later by the growl of thunder.
Recall all boats, Commander. I'll be in the briefing room. Inform me when the vice president arrives.
Aye, sir.
The Kaman SH-2G Seasprite antisubmarine helicopter, also known as the Light Airborne Multi-Purpose System, or LAMPS, bounces twice before coming to rest on the missile cruiser's helopad.
Mick Gabriel grabs one end of Dominique's stretcher, a crewman the other. As the chopper's bay door slides open, they are joined by the ship's physician and his medical team.
The medical officer leans over the unconscious Hispanic beauty. He verifies that she is breathing, checks her pulse, then flashes a light in her eyes. This one has a bad concussion, possible internal injuries. We need to get her to sick bay.
A corpsman pushes Mick aside, relieving him of the stretcher. He is too weak to protest.
The physician looks him over. Son, you look like you've been through hell. Any injuries, other than the cuts and bruises?
I don't think so.
When's the last time you slept?
