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Eyes shut tight, pain-maddened, the terrorist kicked his legs, already covered with a thick layer of ants rapidly propagating up his thighs. He managed to free them, crawling back while slapping his face, his neck, struggling to wipe away the angered bugs crawling under his fatigues, down his back, across his chest, up his pants. He shouted in agony, only to give the ants another place to go, filling his mouth, biting his tongue, the ceiling of his mouth, reaching his throat. Dropping to his knees, coughing, Strokk made the mistake of opening his eyes, trembling from the blinding pain of dozens of insects stinging his eyeballs. His fingers brushed away the bugs as fast as others replaced them, in a vicious cycle that rapidly weakened him with the terrifying notion of being eaten alive, as he thrashed among the bones that had originally distracted him.

Through the harrowing pain quickly robbing him of his sanity, Antonio Strokk half watched, half heard two natives approaching him, one from each side, keeping a safe distance as he convulsed over the ant-littered ground, shoving bones aside by the large mound, unable to coordinate his body, quivering from the savage pain, from the sanity-stripping madness that made him wish for instant death. He wished for the torture of a thousand Afghan women, for a dozen castrations, for anything but this devouring pain flaying him, consuming him.

But the natives remained there, long after Strokk lost the ability to speak, his tongue swelling from hundreds of bites, filling his mouth, choking him. His left eye a bulging mass of ants and blood, Strokk managed to crawl back, to roll away, constantly slapping his face, ripping off his shirt, exposing a layer of ants feeding off his chest, shoving them away, feeling more ants crawling up his pants, onto his chest, tearing at his flesh.

Racked by inconceivable pain, feeling his entire body ablaze—but much worse because the insects would not consume him fast enough to bring death—the terrorist reached for his side arm, turning it on himself, beneath his chin, his thumb fumbling with the safety, struggling to flip it, unable to do so as the ants continued to feed, continued to strip him of his flesh one bite at a time, making him lose control of his bladder and his bowels.

Scourged, twitching, blind, trembling, he dropped his weapon, listening to it strike a rock, the sound mixing with the incessant clicking of insects crawling into his ears, shooting beams of raw pain straight into his brain. He wished for death, coveted it, begged for it to come, to take him away, for anything—absolutely anything—was better than the infernal reality of his situation.

7

Joao watched what was left of the terrorist, whose trembling limbs still conveyed life. The Mayan chief maintained a safe distance from the swarm of ants flowing out of the mound, glistening under the moonlight, resembling a river of molasses, rapidly enveloping its prey, claiming it, picking it apart, before returning to their mound with the nourishment needed for their young.

Joao nodded. Nothing, not even the lowest, most despicable kind of human beings, went to waste in the jungle.

Chapter Nineteen

010011

1

December 18, 1999

The new day brought along a new alliance, not just across cultures, but across time. As the crimson sun loomed over the canopy of trees to the east, the jungle stirred to life. Night creatures receded into the darkest corners of this tropical habitat, giving way to the morning shift, to the hooting monkeys hurdling across a hanging sea of branches, losing themselves in the lush vegetation, and suddenly reappearing again, leaping through space, snatching limbs with Olympic grace, doubling back, and disappearing again, their blaring howls adding to the jungle concerto of chiming birds.

Susan Garnett listened to the natural sounds echoing across the ancient Mayan site, the sacred temple of Kinich Ahau, according to Joao Peixoto, the remarkable Mayan chief who had delivered them from the terrorists.

Joao conferred with Cameron Slater at the edge of the cenote. Joao's men were busy replacing the gold and precious stones to their rightful places.

The computer scientist rubbed her eyes and yawned, breathing the cool and humid morning air. Sleep had not come for some time last night. Instead, she had spent hours comparing notes with the astrophysicists, now peacefully snoring in their joined sleeping bags next to their gear. Susan stood and stretched. Cameron looked in her direction and waved. She waved back, before he returned to his discussion with Joao. Susan had also contacted Reid soon after the terrorists had been eliminated. A new team of SEALs was on the way, expected to reach the site by early afternoon.

Reaching her gear a dozen feet away from the sleeping bags, Susan powered up her laptop and began to make changes to the electromagnetic search range, which she had tuned from 900 MHz to 1 GHz in increments of 10 MHz. According to the E-mail exchange she'd had with Reid last night, following the short-lived skirmish, Susan had learned that the binary map search resulted in no better matches than the night before last. Last night, however, the Japanese-Americans had provided her with great insight to fine-tune her frequency range. Their search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI) at Cerro Tolo had been focused on the frequency emitted by hydrogen atoms, 1.420 GHz, following the accepted theory among the SETI community that since hydrogen was the most abundant element in the universe, other intelligent worlds would likely choose this frequency to communicate.

“And they were probably right,” she mumbled, pulling up the C+ + script commanding the search routine she had written a few nights ago.

“Talking to yourself?”

Susan turned around. Ishiguro Nakamura stood behind her, arms crossed, hair sticking up, his slanted gaze on her laptop's color screen.

She smiled. “Morning.”

“Hello,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Jackie still sleeping?”

He nodded, blinking rapidly to clear his sight. “She's had quite an exciting past few days. It's best to let her rest. But then again, so have you. How's that shoulder?”

“Better,” she said. Both Ishiguro and Cameron had used some of the SEALs' first-aid equipment to disinfect the superficial wound and dress it last night. “Thanks.”

“You're very welcome.”

She turned back to her screen, fingers tapping the dark keyboard. “Hopefully this change will help clean up the binary dump,” she said, adjusting the frequency range of her sensors to just two 100-KHz bands below the 1.420 GHz center frequency, and two above it.

“Who do you think is out there?” he asked, eyes shifting skyward.

“Whoever they are, there's certainly a relation to the ancient Mayan beliefs. The origin of the signal you intercepted matches the Hunab Ku, the so-called Galactic Core, which also matches the celestial origin of this global virus,” Susan replied, modifying the decibel scale to avoid missing any high-amplitude peaks. Her current scale went up to twenty decibels. She cranked it up to thirty dB while also increasing the resolution, which she could now do because of the much narrower frequency search, similar to increasing the volume of the radio after tuning it to a single radio station.

“This Hunab Ku, however, appears to be a planet—at least based on the way it moves around HR4390A. That would tend to suggest an advanced civilization.”

Just then Cameron joined them. “Hey, gang.” He sat to the right of Susan. “Sleep well?”

Ishiguro nodded.

“Like a baby,” Susan replied, tilting her head toward the archaeologist. “A very happy baby,” she whispered.

“Anytime,” he replied, kissing the side of her face.

Susan and Cameron had joined their sleeping bags and held each other all night. Although no sex had resulted, Susan had enjoyed his nearness as he'd hugged her from behind, comforting her in a way that she had missed since her husband passed away.

“Learn anything new from Joao?” Ishiguro asked.

Cameron frowned. “Bad news is that Joao doesn't know how to enter the temple. He says that knowledge resided solely with the elders, the shamans, until the time came to pass it on to the new priests. Unfortunately our terrorist friends killed two of them, and the third is unconscious from a head wound.” He touched his purple patch for effect. “So nobody can tell us for now. This is especially bad because according to Joao, the shamans were getting ready for what they called the moment of total synchronization, thirteen
kin,
or days, away. I think they would have helped us tremendously in solving this puzzle because that date coincides with—”

“Zero one zero one zero zero,” said Susan.

“Right.”

“Does he even have a clue where they went prior to entering? Was it by the terrace? A secret tunnel?” asked Susan.

“That's the good news. Remember the numbers in the mosaics?”

“How can I forget?”

“Well, according to Joao, at certain ceremonies, the three priests would go up the steps by themselves. Joao and his warriors always remained outside, unable to see what it is that the priests did to go in.”

“
That's
the good news?”

Cameron squeezed her hand. “You're as impatient as you are beautiful.”

Susan wasn't sure if she should thank him or punch him. Instead, she said, “Well?”

“One time Joao said that the sun was at such an angle that he was able to see the shadows of the priests as they gathered by the slab next to the matrix of numbers in the terrace. They were pressing their hands against them.”

“
Pressing
them?” asked Ishiguro.

Cameron nodded.

“Like … a combination for a vault,” Susan said, her eyes shifting to the limestone structure.

“Exactly,” replied the archaeologist. “There is a sequence of numbers that will somehow either unlock or move the slab out of the way.”

“What if we can't figure out the combination?” she asked, remembering her frustrating attempts to find a pattern that made sense.

“Maybe the SEALs can blast their way in when they get here later today,” offered Ishiguro.

Cameron shook his head emphatically. “Can't do that, not only because it would further despoil this place, which has already been desecrated enough, but it would also put us at odds with the local Maya. As you have seen, you don't want these guys as your enemies.”

Susan nodded. “I've also got Reid's word that after we finish our work here we would leave them alone. Everyone who knows about this place is either here or has been killed.”

“My government knows about it,” offered Ishiguro.

“That's also covered,” said Susan. “The White House should have already contacted your superiors to keep a lid on the whole thing.”

Ishiguro grinned. “That shouldn't be too difficult. My government is quite good at keeping lids on things.”

“What about the terrorists? There's a chance that they contacted their headquarters to inform them where they were going,” asked Susan.

“We'll have to figure a way to deal with that,” said Cameron. “Don't forget that Joao and his men are quite capable of taking care of themselves. If someone arrives uninvited and starts grabbing for the gold, they will be toast in seconds. Anyway, there's a couple more reasons why we don't want to just blast our way in. First because it would alter the investigative sequence of this mysterious event. So far we have been given clues, which we must use wisely to figure out the meaning of this celestial contact. We have to solve the puzzle, not brute force our way through it.”

Susan and Ishiguro nodded.

“Besides,” the archaeologist added, looking solemn, “there is also a catch with trying to dial in the combination.”

“What's that?”

He shook his head. “I'm not sure. Joao mentioned to me that a couple of young men, who were slotted to be trained by the high priests, decided to go up the steps once and try to get inside the temple. Joao was nearby at the time and heard the scraping sound of rock against rock, mixed with the screams of the young men. By the time he reached the temple, there was no signs of the pair. That observation adds clarity to the large mural on the east side of the terrace, where some men are being swallowed by the earth, near the shamans. That pictograph was a warning: you get only one chance to dial.”

Susan swallowed.

“Which means,” Cameron continued,
“I
only get one chance to dial since I'm the only qualified person to attempt this.”

“You can't do this,” Susan said immediately, grabbing his forearm. “We hardly know anything about this puzzle, much less a combination of numbers that's either going to grant you access … or
kill
you.”

“I'm sure we can come up with something.”

She made a face. “With
something?
What? I've spent a long time messing with those numbers on my system and have nothing to offer to you.”

“Do you remember anything else from the other night?”

Susan shifted her gaze to the large stone edifice, beyond the swirling haze, under the shade of opulent ceibas, remembering her dreamlike encounter with the high priests who resembled the descriptions given by Ishiguro and Jackie. Closing her eyes, she visualized their elongated heads, their peculiar tattoos, their body piercing, again, all matching the elders seen by the Japanese-American couple at the Mayan village, further reinforcing the reality of her experience. She struggled to remember the surreal interior of the temple, the wall carvings, the murals of so many Mayan scenes, of plumed serpents and werejaguars. She repeated everything she remembered to Cameron and Ishiguro, who listened intently as she kept her eyes closed, focusing on remembering every last shred of detail, including the numbers carved on the mosaics, the numbers that Cameron now believed held the key to unlocking the ancient door to the interior of the temple. When she finished, Cameron was staring at the temple, Ishiguro at his hands.