Domain

by Steve Alten

  Barbara registers a dip in her stomach as the Dassault touches down. The jet taxis across the runway to an awaiting Sikorsky S-70B-2 Seahawk.

  A tall gentleman wearing a black, neoprene body suit greets them on the tarmac. He approaches Barbara, extending his hand. Madam Ambassador, Karl Brandt, Australian Geological Survey Organization, how'd you do? Excuse the outfit, but the lead suits we'll be wearing can become quite confining. I gather these gentlemen are from the IEER?

  Taber and Martinez introduce themselves.

  Very good. Look, I don't mean to rush you, but Nullarbor's still a good two hours away, at least what's left of it, and I don't want to lose the light.

  Where are the other members of the Security Council's delegation?

  Already waiting in the chopper.

  Gulf of Mexico

  Mick kneels by the steel door of the eight-by-ten-foot cell, fighting to stay awake as he probes the keyhole with the metal wire. God dammit! He slumps back against the wall, staring at the end of the broken paper clip, now jammed in the lock.

  This is no good-I can't stay focused. I've got to sleep, gotta get some rest. He closes his eyes, then opens them. No! Stay awake-work the lock. Borgia will be here soon and-

  Mick?

  The voice startles him.

  Mick Gabriel, are you in there?

  Teperman?

  A key jiggles the lock and the door swings open.

  Marvin enters, leaving the door ajar. There you are. I've had one tough time finding you, eh, this boat is huge. He hands Mick the leather-bound journal. Interesting reading. Then again, you're father's always been quite imaginative.

  Mick eyes the door.

  Did you know that I met your father? It was in Cambridge, back in the late sixties. I was a third-year undergraduate. Julius was guest speaker in a lecture series entitled, 'Mysteries of Ancient Man.' I thought he was quite brilliant; in fact, it was his speech that pushed me toward a career in exobiology.

  Marvin notices Mick eyeing the door. He turns and sees the paper clip protruding from the lock. You won't get very far that way.

  Dr. Teperman, I've got to get out of here.

  I know. Here, take this. Marvin reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. There's a little more than six hundred dollars there, some of it Canadian. It's not a lot, but it should get you where you need to go.

  You're freeing me?

  Not me, I'm just the messenger. Your father was a big influence, but I wasn't that fond of him.

  I don't understand?

  Your escape has been arranged by someone who despises Secretary Borgia about as much as you do.

  Chaney? Then, you're not releasing me because you believe my story?

  Marvin smiles, patting him affectionately on the cheek. You're a nice kid, Mick, but like your old man, you're just a little meshuga. Now listen carefully. Turn left and follow this access corridor as far as you can go. You'll reach a stairwell that will lead you up three flights to the main deck. There's a hangar located in the stern. Inside, lying on the floor, are the bodies of the victims who died aboard the oil rig. Grab yourself an empty body bag, climb in, and wait. Within thirty minutes, an EVAC chopper is due to arrive to transport the dead to the airport in Merida. After that, you're on your own.

  Thanks-wait, what about Dominique?

  Your girlfriend's doing better, but she's in no condition to travel. Do you want me to get her a message?

  Please. Tell her that I'm going to see this thing through.

  Where will you go?

  You really want to know that?

  Probably not. Better get going, eh, before they lock us both up.

  Southern Australia

  Ambassador Becker stares out her window, listening intently to the conversation taking place in the back of the helicopter between the delegates from the Russian Federation, China, and France. Spencer Botchin, the representative from the United Kingdom, leans over to whisper into her ear. Had to be the French. I just pray they weren't foolish enough to sell it to the Iranians.

  She nods in agreement, whispering, They wouldn't have tested the weapon without support from Russia and the Chinese.

  It is late in the afternoon by the time the chopper arrives over southern Australia. Barbara Becker stares out her window, the sight below literally causing her skin to tingle.

  The landscape is an enormous charred pit, a sizzling depression running as far and as wide as the eye can see.

  Karl Brandt slides in next to her. Three days ago, the elevation of the geography you're looking at was 133 feet above sea level. Now, in most places, it barely reaches higher than five feet.

  How the hell could something have vaporized so much rock?

  Steve Taber pauses from assisting Dr. Martinez into the lead body suit. Judging by the crater we're looking at, I'd say the device had to have been a subsurface explosion of incredible magnitude.

  Brandt slips into his radiation suit and zippers the hood. The tanks on these suits will provide us with thirty minutes of air.

  Dr. Martinez struggles to give him a thumbs-up in the heavy gloves. Taber hands his associate the Geiger counter. Marty, are you sure you don't want me down there with you?

  I can handle it.

  The copilot joins them, assisting Brandt and Martinez into the two harnesses linked by cable to twin hydraulic winches. Gentlemen, there's a two-way receiver in your headpieces. You'll be able to communicate with us and each other. We need you to release your harnesses once you touch down. He slides open the cargo-bay door, yelling over the deafening sound of the rotors. Okay, fellas, out you go.

  All five ambassadors gather round to watch. Martinez feels his heart leap into his throat as he stumbles out the door and dangles 155 feet above the ground. He closes his eyes, feeling himself spin as he drops.

  You okay, Doctor?

  Yes, Mr. Brandt. He opens his eyes and checks the Geiger counter. No radiation so far. Lots of heat.

  Don't worry, the suits should protect us.

  Should? Martinez looks down. Steamy whiffs of white smoke are rising up at him, fogging his faceplate. Another ten feet-

  Wait! Stop-stop! Martinez tucks his knees to his chest, struggling to keep away from the molten surface beneath him. Raise us higher-higher!

  They stop descending, the two men dangling only inches above the boiling, 650-degree milky white geology.

  Raise us twenty feet, Brandt yells.

  The winch lifts them higher.

  What's the problem? Barbara's voice tears into their eardrums.

  The surface is boiling, it's a cauldron of melted rock and seawater, Martinez says in a nervous, high-pitched voice. We'll do our tests right here. It'll only take a minute.

  Taber's deep voice causes him to jump. Any radiation?

  Martinez checks his sensors. No. Wait a second, I'm detecting argon-41.

  Brandt looks over. That's not a plutonium by-product.

  No, it's a short-lived activation product of pure fusion. Whatever vaporized this landscape must have been some kind of hybrid pure-fusion weapon. Martinez hooks the Geiger counter to his belt, then analyzes the gases rising from below. Wow. Carbon dioxide levels are off the scale.

  That's understandable, Brandt says. This entire plain was composed of limestone, which, as I'm sure you know, is nature's storehouse for carbon dioxide. When the geology vaporized, it released a toxic cloud of CO2. We're actually quite fortunate, the southerly winds blew it away from our cities and out to sea.

  I'm also detecting high levels of hydrochloric acid.

  Really? That is bizarre.

  Yes, Mr. Brandt, this whole thing's bizarre, and quite frightening. Take us up; I've seen all I need to see.

  Merida Airport Mexico

  The transport helicopter lands with a bone-jarring jolt.

  Mick opens his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to rouse his body from sleep. He lifts his head from the unzipped body bag and looks around.

  Sixty-four plastic Arm
y green body bags holding the remains of the Scylla crew line the interior. Mick hears the bay doors rattle. He lies back, zipping his bag.

  The door opens. Mick recognizes the pilot's voice. I'll be in the hangar. Tell your men to be very careful, comprende, amigo?

  A flurry of Spanish. Men begin moving body bags. Mick remains perfectly still.

  Several minutes pass. He hears a truck's engine start, then fade in the distance.

  He unzips the bag, then peers through the open cargo door, spotting the tram heading for an open hangar.

  Mick climbs out of the bag, jumps down from the EVAC chopper, and jogs toward the main terminal.

  JOURNAL OF

  JULIUS GABRIEL

  It was in the fall of 1977 that Maria and I returned to Mesoamerica, my wife now six months pregnant Desperate for funds, we decided to submit the body of our work to Cambridge and Harvard, careful to omit any information pertaining to the presence of an alien race of humans. Impressed with our research, the powers that be awarded each of us a research grant to continue our work.

  After purchasing a used mobile trailer home, we set off to explore the Mayan ruins, hoping to identify the Mesoamerican pyramid the artist of Nazca had drawn upon the desert pampa, as well as a means of saving humanity from the prophesied destruction to come.

  Despite the morbidity of our mission, our years spent in Mexico were happy ones. Our favorite moment-the birth of our son, Michael, born at sunrise on Christmas morning, in the waiting room of a tiny medical clinic in Merida.

  I must admit that I was quite concerned about raising a child under such harsh conditions, worried that Michael's isolation from other children his own age might impede the boy's social development. At one point, I even suggested to my wife that we send him to a private boarding school when he turned five. Maria would hear nothing of it. In the end, I acceded to her wishes, realizing that she needed the child's companionship as much as he needed hers.

  Maria was more than Michael's mother, she was his mentor, guide, and best friend-and he, her prize pupil. Even at an early age, it was easy to see that the boy possessed his mother's keen mind, to go along with those dark, ebony eyes and their disarming focus.

  For seven years, our family searched the dense jungles of present-day Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador. While other fathers taught their sons how to play baseball, I taught my son how to excavate artifacts. While other students learned a foreign language, Michael learned how to translate Mayan hieroglyphics. Together, the three of us climbed the temples of Uxmal, Palenque, and Tikal, explored the fortifications of Labna, Churihuhu, and Kewik, and marveled at the castle in Tulum. We investigated the Zapotec capital of Monte Alban, and the religious centers in Kaminaljuyu, and Copan. We crawled through tombs and scuba dived into subterranean caves. We unearthed ancient platforms and interviewed Mayan elders. And in the end, we narrowed the identity of the Nazca pyramid drawing down to one of two ancient sites, both of which we believed were puces of the Mayan calendar's doomsday puzzle.

  The first site was Teotihuacan, a magnificent Toltec city situated on a 6,600-foot-high plateau in the Mexican highlands, located some 30 miles northeast of present-day Mexico City. Believed to have been founded during the time of Christ, Teotihuacan was the first great metropolis of the Western Hemisphere, and was believed to be one of the largest.

  Like the structures in Giza, the origins of Teotihuacan remain a mystery. We have no clue as to which culture designed the city, how the feat was accomplished, or even the language spoken by its original occupants. As is the case with the Sphinx and the Giza pyramids, the date of Teotihuacan's construction is still widely debated. Even the name of the complex and its pyramids come to us from the Toltec civilization, which moved in centuries after the city was abandoned.

  It has been estimated that the labor involved in building the structures of Teotihuacan would have taken an army of 20,000 men more than 40 years to complete. Yet it is not the mystery of how this city was constructed that first caught our attention, but its design and the obvious similarities to the site plan in Giza.

  As mentioned earlier, there are three principal pyramids in Giza, laid out in reference to the stars of Orion's belt, with the Nik intended as a reflection of the dark rift of the Milky Way. Teotihuacan also features three pyramids, situated in a surprisingly similar staggered formation, although the orientation differs by nearly 180 degrees. Connecting one end of the city to the other is the Avenue of the Dead, the major access route through the complex. The avenue, like the River Nik in Giza, was intended to represent the dark rift of the Milky Way.

  To the ancient Mesoamerican Indians, the dark rift was known as Xibalba Be,

  the Black Road that leads to Xibalba, the Underworld, New excavations in Teotihuacan have discovered large channels heated beneath this roadway, which we now know were designed to gather rainwater. This would indicate that the Avenue of the Dead may not have been a roadway at all, but a magnificent cosmic reflecting pool.

  The similarities between Giza and Teotihuacan do not stop there. The largest of the Mesoamerican city's three temples is called the Pyramid of the Sun, a precise, four-sided structure whose base, at 742.5 feet, is only twelve and a half feet shorter than its Egyptian counterpart, the Great Pyramid of Giza. This makes the Sun pyramid the largest man-made structure in the Western hemisphere, the Great Pyramid the largest in the east. Interesting enough, the Sun pyramid points west, the Great Pyramid east, a fact that caused Maria to think of these two immense structures as giant planetary bookends.

  Precise measurements of both the Great Pyramid and Pyramid of the Sun clearly indicate the ancient architects at both sites possessed a firm grasp of advanced mathematics, geometry, and the value of pi. The perimeter of the Pyramid of the Sun equals its height multiplied by 2pi, the great pyramid twice its height at 4pi.

  One clue as to who designed Teotihuacan may be found in the smallest of the three structures, the pyramid of Quetzalcoatl. The temple is located in an enormous squared enclosure, called the Ciudadela (Citadel), a plaza large enough to accommodate 100,000 people. The most elaborately adorned structure in all of Teotihuacan, the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl contains a myriad of sculptures and three-dimensional facades that feature one distinct character-a menacing plumed serpent.

  To the Toltecs and Aztecs, the plumed serpent symbolized the great Caucasian wise man, Quetzalcoatl.

  Once more, the presence of a mysterious bearded teacher seemed to be directing our journey into the past.

  Upon abandoning Teotihuacan, the Toltecs and their leader had migrated east, settling in the Mayan city of Chichen Itza. It was here that the two cultures would again meld into one, creating the most magnificent and perplexing structure in all the ancient world-the Kukulcan pyramid.

  I didn't know it at the time, but it would be in Chichen Itza that we would come face-to-face with a discovery that would not only change my family's destiny, but condemn us to remain on our journey forever

  -Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,

  Ref. Catalogue 1977-81 pages 12-349

  Photo Journal Floppy Disk 5. File name: MESO, Air Balloon Photo 176

  Chapter 19

  DECEMBER 4, 2012

  ABOARD THE USS BOONE

  GULF OF MEXICO

  Secretary of State Pierre Borgia steps down from the helicopter, to be greeted by Captain Edmund Loos. Morning, Mr. Secretary. How was your flight?

  Lousy. Has the psychiatric director from Miami arrived yet?

  About twenty minutes ago. He's waiting for you in my briefing room.

  What's the latest on Gabriel?

  We're still not certain how he was able to escape from the brig. The lock shows some signs of tampering, but nothing significant. Our best guess is that someone freed him.

  Was it the girl?

  No, sir. She suffered a concussion and was in sick bay, unconscious. We're still conducting a full investigation.

  And how did he manage
to get off this ship?

  Probably hitched a ride on an EVAC. They were coming and going all day.

  Borgia gives the captain a cold stare. I hope you don't run your ship like you guard your prisoners, Captain.

  Loos returns the look. I'm not running a baby-sitting service, Mr. Secretary. I seriously doubt one of my men would risk a future in prison to free your nutcase.

  Who else could have released him?

  I don't know. We have teams of scientists on board, new ones arriving every day. Could have been one of them, or even someone from the vice president's party.

  Borgia's eyebrows raise.

  As I said, we're still conducting a full investigation. We've also alerted the Mexican police about Gabriel's escape.

  They'll never find him. Gabriel has too many friends in the Yucatan. What about the girl? What does she know about the alien object?

  She claims the only thing she can remember is her minisub being sucked down a tunnel. One of our geologists has her convinced that her vessel was caught in the currents of a lava tube, created by a dormant, subterranean volcano that's becoming active again. Loos smiles. He explained the glow as being caused by a subterranean lava field that can be seen as it flows past the pit in the seafloor. Even showed her a few doctored infrared satellite shots of the whirlpool, claiming the vortex was caused by the collapse of subterranean pockets beneath the seafloor. She believes this is what sunk her father's boat, killing him and his two friends.

  Where is she now?

  Sick bay.

  Give me a few minutes to speak with the psychiatric director alone, then bring the girl in. While we're speaking with her, have this sewn into the lining of her clothes. He hands Loos a tiny device the size of a watch battery.

  A tracking device?

  A gift from the NSA. Oh, and Captain, when you bring the girl to see me, have her in handcuffs.

  Two armed sailors lead a shackled and unnerved Dominique Vazquez through several tight corridors, then up three flights to a cabin labeled CAPTAIN'S BRIEFING ROOM. One of the guards knocks, then opens the door and leads her inside. Dominique enters the small conference room. Oh, God- Anthony Foletta looks up from the conference table and smiles. Intern Vazquez, come in. The gravelly voice has a fatherly tone. Mr. Secretary, are the handcuffs really necessary?