Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Dan Williams checked the digital clock in the control centre. He knew this was no normal test, and the tall lanky commander of the 576th Flight Test Squadron could feel the tension in the room. The 5.15 a.m. test flight was shrouded in secrecy, not least because the missile track would take it over populated areas of the United States and Canada, across Alaska and out to the north of Siberia. Williams glanced at the tracking screen above the array of consoles and computer screens that monitored every aspect of the launch. All going well, a powerful burst of electromagnetic radiation from the base in Gakona would deflect the missile back into the Arctic Ocean, to the north of the Beaufort Sea. Williams turned to Captain Chavez, the young electronics whiz who’d been assigned as the missile-test launch director.
‘Pass to Gakona: ready for launch.’
Chavez acknowledged the command and Williams reached for the secure handset that would connect him to Looking Glass, the modified 707 Boeing E6-Mercury command and control aircraft cruising at 29 000 feet above the launch silo. Tonight, in addition to its crew of twenty-two, Looking Glass was carrying a two-star admiral as the Airborne Emergency Action Officer, or AEAO. Should an attack on the United States knock out nuclear ground-control stations in the Pentagon, Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, and Site ‘R’ on Raven Rock Mountain in Pennsylvania, the AEAO on the ‘doomsday plane’ would be in position to assume the role of mission control.
‘Looking Glass, this is launch director, over.’
‘Launch director, this is Looking Glass; loud and clear, over.’ The airborne launch colonel and captain were strapped into their seats at the command console, a suite of computer screens and control dials located behind the cockpit. It was just one of the many consoles in an E6-B cabin jammed with avionics that enabled the aircraft crew to monitor communications from super-high frequencies down to the very low frequencies critical for maintaining contact with nuclear-armed submarines. Each officer was entrusted with a separate key, both of which were required to execute a nuclear strike.
‘Looking Glass, activate launch command on my mark: five, four, three two, one, mark.’ The launch colonel and captain nodded to one another and turned their keys. A high-speed burst transmission activated the control computers on the ground.
‘Launch director, this is Looking Glass; transmission complete, over.’
Four ballistic gas actuators fired and the 110-tonne reinforced-concrete silo cover slid forward on its rails, revealing the gleaming missile below.
‘Roger, Looking Glass; we have ignition, out.’ The first of the three solid-stage motors erupted in a roar of flame and smoke, and the thirty-tonne missile rose majestically from its underground silo and up into the early-morning sky.
Four thousand kilometres further north, Curtis O’Connor’s old colleague, Tyler Jackson, was monitoring the control screens in the Gakona command centre, watching events unfold with a growing sense of foreboding.
‘One point five miles in altitude, one nautical mile down range, travelling at 900 miles per hour … all systems green.’ Captain Chavez’s voice sounded excited as he watched the live footage. The huge Thiokol TU-122 first-stage motor generated 200 000 pounds of thrust as it powered the missile towards the ionosphere above, leaving a long fiery exhaust trail.
‘Mach one … we’re now supersonic … first-stage engine operating normally … first stage jettisoned … second-stage engine ignition … fifty nautical miles altitude … all systems green.’
Heavy flakes of snow were falling outside the Gakona control centre, and the big diesels that powered the thirty transmitter shelters were at full capacity. Each shelter contained twelve transmitters, each in turn generating 10 000 watts of radio-frequency power. Every one of the 360 transmitters had been switched to the high-frequency dipole antennae, all of which were at the maximum end of the ten megahertz range. Tyler Jackson watched as Gakona’s mission controller vectored a staggering three billion watts of electromagnetic energy into the ionosphere and into the path of the massive missile, now travelling at over 16 000 kilometres per hour. Sixty nautical miles above Gakona, the sensitive ionospheric layer heated to 40 000 degrees Celsius, creating a boiling plasma plume of electrons. The powerful transmitter lifted thirty square kilometres of the earth’s protective shield into the path of the missile.
‘All stations, this is launch director. We’ve lost communications with the missile at this time … missile not responding … missile is now sixty degrees off course … computed bearing one two zero degrees.’
Tyler Jackson stifled a gasp. The one-tonne nose cone was headed for North Korea.
50
GUATEMALA CITY
The cell phone rang out inside the taxi on the wharf at Puerto Quetzal. Rodriguez pursed her lips, exasperated at Wiley’s insistence on organising the asset in Puerto Quetzal from Washington. She had been dialling the secure cell phone since 4 a.m. without success, and there was no word on either O’Connor or Weizman. Langley was an hour ahead of Guatemala City and Rodriguez knew it wouldn’t be long before Wiley would be on the secure line demanding answers. She dialled the number again. This time a sleepy voice answered.
‘¿Sí?’
‘¿Qué está pasando? What’s happening? Is there anything to report?’
‘¿Cómo?’
Rodriguez took a deep breath. ‘Tutankhamen. Nefertiti?’
‘Ah. Sí … They not come,’ the taxi driver replied in halting English.
Five minutes later, Rodriguez put down the phone, convinced that Fawlty Towers’ Manuel and Langley’s asset had a lot in common.
At CIA’s headquarters, Howard Wiley scanned the latest intelligence report from Cardinal Felici at the Vatican:
OPERATION MAYA
DDO EYES ONLY
Contact in San Pedro confirms Hernandez made a hasty departure from the presbytery where he lived. Point of interest is a quantity of scuba gear left behind. Will advise.
Felici
Scuba gear. Wiley pondered whether Lake Atitlán might be the repository for something of great interest. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Come.’
‘I thought you ought to know, sir. The media are carrying a story on this morning’s Minuteman test … CNC are about to cross live,’ Larry Davis announced.
‘What the fuck? That’s a top-secret firing!’ Wiley reached for the remote.
‘I’ve spoken briefly with Gakona. It seems there’s been a malfunction. Input into the computer may have been out by a decimal point, which they think has caused the missile to impact the wrong side of the ionospheric shield, sending it south-west instead of north-east – here it is now.’
A ‘breaking news’ pull-through was scrolling across the bottom of CNC’s coverage of the Australian Open golf tournament: MYSTERY OBJECT PLUNGES INTO SEA OF JAPAN, 300 METRES FROM CRUISE SHIP. RUSSIA ACCUSES THE UNITED STATES OF TARGETING NORTH KOREA.
‘This is Lee-Ann Ramirez; we interrupt this coverage of the Australian Open with breaking news. We cross to our Pentagon reporter, Sheldon Murkowski. Sheldon, I know it’s early in the morning in Washington, but is there any response yet from either the Pentagon or the White House to the accusations by the Kremlin that the US has fired a missile towards Korea?’
‘Lee-Ann, the Pentagon has not yet released a statement, but the mystery cone-shaped object, reportedly the size of a small car, was seen by dozens of tourists on board a Japanese cruise liner as it plunged into the ocean off the island of Hokkaido just before 6.30 p.m. local time.’
‘These are very serious allegations, Sheldon. Do we know what the Kremlin is basing them on?’
‘The Russian Defence Minister, Vladimir Andropov, was quite determined in his remarks. A Russian satellite-tracking station near Vladivostok followed the missile from the west coast of the United States at around 5.15 a.m., Californian time. Minister Andropov claims it was initially tracked across Alaska, but then it inexplicably altered course two minutes into t
he launch. We expect that either the Pentagon or the White House will hold a media conference shortly, Lee-Ann.’
‘That was Sheldon Murkowski, reporting from the Pentagon. And in other breaking news, a violent storm has blacked out communications over most of Japan and in parts of Korea and southern China. Authorities claim the storm arrived without warning and is the most violent in recorded history.’ The broadcast cut to live footage of Tokyo. The evening sky over the Japanese capital was a strange orange-purple. There were very few clouds, yet the city was being struck repeatedly with huge lightning strikes.
In scenes reminiscent of the September 11 strike on the World Trade Centre in New York, a jagged, forked silver-indigo flash exploded onto the Midtown tower, Tokyo’s tallest building, demolishing the Ritz-Carlton hotel and the rest of the top twenty storeys, which tumbled into the crowded CBD below. Almost immediately after, another immensely powerful flash struck the 750-year-old Great Buddha of Kamakura, splitting the eighty-four-tonne statue down the middle. Nearby, Yuigahama Beach was being peppered with strikes at temperatures approaching 30 000 degrees Celsius, which instantly melted the silica, fusing the sand into fulgurites – hollow glass tubes that penetrated metres into the beach. More powerful bolts struck the ancient heart of the city of Tokyo and more still had thundered into the area around Shinjuku, reducing to a pile of rubble the world’s busiest train station, used by four million commuters every day.
‘Already there is speculation that the events off Hokkaido and the violent storms above Tokyo may somehow be connected. We’ll bring you updates on this unfolding drama as they come to hand. This is Lee-Ann Ramirez, returning you to Australia.’
Wiley got up and walked over to the large map of the world mounted on the far wall of his office. ‘The impact area’s around the Mariana Trench?’
‘A little to the north,’ Davis confirmed.
‘Fuck ’em. Just deny it. They won’t find anything out there, and the media will lose interest.’
‘Well, that will be up to the Pentagon, and perhaps the White House, sir.’
‘Neither of whom would know shit from clay. Get on to their press secretaries and tell them it’s only a suggestion, but remind them who’s making it. In the meantime I want a team of divers up at Lake Atitlán,’ Wiley said, handing Davis a hard copy of Felici’s report. ‘Hernandez was a qualified high-altitude diver, and I’ve got a hunch he didn’t buy all that gear to go fishing. Any word on Tutankhamen or Nefertiti?’
Davis shook his head. ‘The asset’s got the ship in sight, but no one’s disembarked.’
‘For fuck’s sake! Get Rodriguez on the secure video. I want some answers.’
51
GUATEMALAN HIGHLANDS
O’Connor surveyed the busy bus terminal at Escuintla, a rural city of 70 000 people on the border of the Guatemalan highlands and the Pacific Plain. He followed Aleta aboard a chicken bus even more brightly coloured and crowded than the one from Puerta de Hierro. A half-hour later, the bus clawed its way up the narrow winding road that led into the mountains towards Panajachel. O’Connor shook his head as the driver pulled out to overtake another bus belching black smoke, the roof festooned with pots, pans, bicycles, and wicker baskets. Together they approached a blind corner and still the driver persisted, drawing level with the other bus. Suddenly a mini-van appeared around the corner. The bus driver leant on the air horns and the mini-van swerved into the foliage overhanging the road, missing the side of the bus by centimetres. A group of young boys on the bench seat at the back of the bus cheered.
‘Do you have to apply for a licence in this country, or does it come on the back of the cereal packets?’
Aleta smiled. ‘You get used to it. There are T-shirts in Panajachel with ‘I Survived’ on the front and a photo of a chicken bus on the back. I’ll get you one.’
‘We’ve got to get there first,’ O’Connor replied, leaning towards Aleta as a man with a piglet under one arm made his way past them to the front of the bus.
It was midafternoon by the time they arrived at the Panajachel terminal. Aleta and O’Connor shouldered their backpacks and made their way down the cobblestoned main street. Bright-red tuc tucs buzzed up and down, looking for fares. Woven mats and rugs juxtaposed with brightly coloured dresses and pants hung from poles beneath the corrugated-iron awnings above the stores. Power cables and phone lines were festooned around poles in spaghetti-like bundles strung above the street. Wonderful aromas of spices and freshly ground coffee beans filled the air. O’Connor maintained a constant watch on the crowd as they walked down Avenida Santander towards the shore of Lake Atitlán, past vendors sitting underneath their yellow and red umbrellas, with their offerings of mangoes and candied nuts. Aleta smiled at a little boy with big brown eyes. The boy hung on to his mother’s skirt and shyly returned the smile as his mother hoisted a huge basket of bananas onto her head.
They reached a paved-stone path that led down to the jetties, and as they rounded a large tree Lake Atitlán came into view. Across the lake to the south stood Volcán Tolimán with Volcán Atitlán behind it, each soaring over 10 000 feet. Clouds streamed off both peaks, giving the impression they might erupt at any moment. Further to the west, the third of Lake Atitlán’s volcanoes, Volcán San Pedro, towered over the little town that had given the powerful mountain its name.
‘¿Cuánto a San Marcos?’ O’Connor asked the old boatman.
‘Ochenta quetzales … for you. For the beautiful lady, sesenta quetzales.’
O’Connor grinned. ‘¿Cómo se llama usted?’
‘Fidel,’ the old mariner replied.
‘Okay, Fidel, let’s go.’ O’Connor stowed the backpacks containing the priceless cargo under the cabin awning and steadied the gunwale for Aleta. The boatman went astern, spun the ten-seater runabout on a quetzale and headed out between two rickety wooden piles.
The high-pitched hum of the Evinrude, and the occasional thwack thwack of the bow hitting the water interrupted the silent splendour of the great lake.
‘Penny, or I should say quetzale, for your thoughts? Does this bring back painful memories?’ O’Connor asked gently.
‘I try to concentrate on the good times. It will be enough if we can find the third figurine and get to Tikal before the winter solstice. My father would have done the same.’
‘Which gives us less than three days … ’
Forty minutes later, they rounded the last little promontory and the boatman eased the throttle.
‘That’s José on the jetty!’ Aleta said, pointing excitedly.
‘The shaman? How did he know we were coming?’ O’Connor was instantly alert.
‘Maybe it’s just coincidence?’
Arana waved and Fidel threw him the mooring rope.
‘Muchas gracias.’ O’Connor thanked the old mariner and slipped him 200 quetzales. Fidel fumbled in his pocket for change.
O’Connor shook his head. ‘No, para usted. For you.’
‘Gracias, gracias!’
‘Mi placer.’
‘Bienvenido a San Marcos!’ José kissed Aleta on both cheeks. ‘And you must be Curtis. Welcome.’ José adopted a Western gesture and shook O’Connor firmly by the hand. He turned to Fidel, and told him to wait.
‘Come, your rooms are waiting for you.’
‘Separate … what a pity,’ O’Connor said softly. Aleta dug him in the ribs.
Not very far across the lake in the larger town of San Pedro, two ex-navy SEALs, skilled in high-altitude diving and now employed by the CIA as mercenaries, checked into the Mikaso Hotel on the shores of Lake Atitlán.
Arana’s wife, Sayra, set dinner outside in the garden. The house was perched on a rise, a short distance from the lake’s shore. Sayra had prepared a topado: a rich stew of lake crabs and fish, coriander, tomatoes, coconut milk and plantains, a cousin of the banana. After dinner, Sayra retired, leaving Arana alone with O’Connor and Aleta.
‘It’s now the eighteenth of December, José. The solstice is less th
an three days away.’
Arana smiled enigmatically. ‘You have come to the right place, Aleta. As I said to you in Vienna, this is a sacred mission of profound importance. But I must remind you again that the figurine and the codex are fiercely protected, the former by Mother Nature herself, the latter by the ingenuity of my forefathers. More than one fortune seeker has paid the ultimate price. The ancients ensured that the codex would only be found by someone possessing the inner spiritual balance to understand it correctly. That person may be you, Aleta, but we will only know that if you are ultimately successful.’ Arana turned to O’Connor. ‘The Vatican now has a man in San Pedro, the Mayanist scholar, Monsignor Jennings. He’s been appointed to the Catholic church there, and he’s taken over the presbytery that used to be occupied by Father Hernandez.’
‘Aleta and I were speculating that Father Hernandez might actually be Karl von Heißen, the German SS officer who escaped through the ratlines set up by the Vatican and the CIA at the end of World War Two.’
‘And you would be correct. Von Heißen was aided by il Signor Felici, a gentleman to His Holiness Pope Pius XII, and father of Cardinal Salvatore Felici. Unfortunately for Cardinal Felici, von Heißen kept very detailed diaries.’
‘Aha. It’s all falling into place,’ O’Connor thought out loud. ‘If Cardinal Felici’s past, in this case his father’s involvement with Nazi criminals, ever surfaced, Felici’s career and his chances of becoming the next pontiff would be finished.’
‘Although that’s not the only reason the Vatican is very worried about this part of the world. The Maya Codex threatens the uniqueness of the message of Christ,’ Aleta said.
‘Upon which the Vatican depends for its very existence. I should have a look at Monsignor Jennings’ living arrangements. Is there any way I can get across to San Pedro at this time of night?’ O’Connor asked.
THE MAYA CODEX Page 30
