Domain (13 page)

That’s weird—not a cloud in the sky. Maybe it was a jet
?

The sound grows louder. Several hundred tourists look at each other, uneasy. A woman screams.

Nakamura feels his body trembling. He looks down into the pit. Rings are spreading out across the once-tranquil surface.

Son of a bitch, it’s an earthquake
!

Grinning with excitement, Nakamura aims his camcorder down the mouth of the cenote. After surviving the big quake of 2005, it will take a lot more than a few tremors to upset this San Francisco native’s psyche.

The crowd moves back as the tremor increases. Many rush back down the
sacbe
toward the park exit. Others scream as the ground beneath their feet bounces like a trampoline.

Nakamura stops smiling.
What the hell
?

The water within the pit is swirling like an eddy.

And then, as abruptly as they had started, the tremors cease.

Hollywood Beach, Florida.

The synagogue is filled beyond capacity on this Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar.

Dominique is seated between her adopted parents, Edie and Iz Axler. Rabbi Steinberg is standing at his pulpit, listening to the angelic voice of his cantor as she sings a haunting prayer to his congregation.

Dominique is hungry, having fasted nearly twenty-four hours since the Day of Atonement began. She is also premenstrual. Perhaps that is why she seems so emotional, unable to focus. Perhaps that is why her thoughts keep drifting back to Michael Gabriel.

The rabbi begins reading again:

“On Rosh Hashanah, we reflect. On Yom Kippur we consider. Who shall live for the sake of others? Who, dying, shall leave a heritage of life? Who shall burn with the fires of greed? Who shall drown in the waters of despair? Whose hunger shall be for the good? Who shall thirst for justice and right? Who shall be plagued by fear of the world? Who shall strangle for lack of friends? Who shall rest at the end of the day? Who lie sleepless on a bed of pain?”

Her emotions stir as she imagines Mick lying in his cell.
Stop it
…

“Whose tongue shall be a thrusting sword? Whose words shall make for peace? Who shall go forth in the quest for truth? Who shall be locked in a prison of self?”

In her mind’s eye, she can see Mick pacing the yard as the equinox sun begins to set behind the concrete wall.

“…the angels, gripped by fear and trembling, declare in awe: This is the Day of Judgment! For even the hosts of heaven are judged, as all who dwell on earth stand arrayed before You.”

The emotional dam bursts, the hot tears streaking eyeliner down her face. Confused, she squeezes past Iz and hurries up the aisle and out of the temple.

Chapter 6

SEPTEMBER 25, 2012
WASHINGTON, DC.

E
nnis Chaney is weary. It has been two years since the Republican senator from Pennsylvania buried his mother, and he still misses her dearly. He misses visiting her in the nursing home where he used to bring her his specialty pork dish, and he misses her smile. He also misses his sister, who died eleven months after their mother, and his younger brother, whom cancer stole from him only last month.

He clenches his hands tightly, his youngest daughter rubbing his back. Four long days have passed since he received the call in the middle of the night. Four days since his best friend, Jim, died of a massive heart attack.

He sees the limo and security car pull up the driveway from the dining-room window and sighs.
No rest for the weary, no rest for the grieving
. He embraces his wife and his three daughters, hugs Jim’s widow once more, then leaves the house, escorted by the two bodyguards. He pinches a tear from his deeply set eyes, the dark pigment surrounding the sockets creating the shadow of a raccoon’s mask. Chaney’s eyes are mirrors to his soul. They reveal his passion as a man, his wisdom as a leader. Cross him, and the eyes become unblinking daggers.

Of late, Chaney’s eyes have grown red from too much crying.

Reluctantly, the senator climbs into the back of the awaiting limousine, the two bodyguards getting into the other vehicle.

Chaney hates limos; in fact, he hates anything that calls attention to himself or reeks of the kind of preferential treatment associated with executive privilege. He stares out the window and thinks about his life, wondering if he is about to make a big mistake.

Ennis Chaney was born sixty-seven years ago in the poorest black neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida. He was raised by his mother, who supported their family by cleaning white folks’ homes, and by his aunt, whom he often referred to as Mama. He has never known his real father, a man who left home a few months after he was born. When he was two, his mother remarried, his new stepfather moving the family to New Jersey. It was there that young Ennis would grow up. It was there that he would hone his skills as a leader.

The playing field was the one place where Chaney felt at home, the one place where color didn’t matter. Smaller than his peers, he nevertheless refused to be intimidated by anyone. After school, he would push himself through thousands of hours of drills, channeling his aggression to develop his athletic skills, learning discipline and self-control along the way. As a high-school senior, he would earn second-team, all-city honors at quarterback and first-team, all-state in basketball. Few defenders ever challenged the scrappy little point guard who would sooner break your ankle than allow you to steal the ball; but off the court, you couldn’t find a warmer, more affectionate young man.

His basketball career would end after he tore his patellar tendon during his junior year of college. Though more interested in pursuing a coaching career, he allowed his mother, a woman who had grown up during the days of Jim Crow, to convince him to toss his hat into the political ring. Having lived through enough of his own experiences with racism, Ennis knew politics was the primary arena where change needed to be made.

His stepfather had connections with the Republican Party in Philadelphia. A fierce Democrat, Chaney nevertheless believed he could effect more change as a Republican candidate. Applying the same work ethic, passion, and intensity that allowed him to excel on the playing field, Ennis quickly rose through the ranks of the blue-collar city’s politicians, never afraid to speak his mind, always looking to go out on a limb to help the underdog.

Despising laziness and lack of self-control among his peers, he became a breath of fresh air and something of a folk hero in Philadelphia. Deputy Mayor Chaney soon became Mayor Chaney. Years later, he would run for senator from Pennsylvania and win in a rout.

Now, less than two months from the November 2012 election, the president of the United States had come calling, urging him to join the ticket as his running mate. Ennis Chaney—the dirt-poor kid from Jacksonville, Florida—a veritable heartbeat away from the most powerful office in the world.

He stares out the window as the limo turns onto the Capital Beltway. Death frightens Ennis Chaney. There is no hiding from it and no reasoning with it. It provides no answers, only questions and confusion, tears and eulogies—far too many eulogies. How can one sum up a loved one’s life in twenty minutes? How can anyone expect him to translate a lifetime of caring into mere words?

Vice president
. Chaney shakes his head, allowing his mind to wrestle with his future.

It is not
his
future that concerns him as much as the burden his candidacy would place on his wife and family. Becoming a senator was one thing, accepting the Republican nomination as the first African-American vice president was an entirely different matter. The last and only Black who held a legitimate chance of being elected to the White House was Colin Powell, and the general had eventually backed off, citing family concerns. If Mailer won reelection, Chaney would be the favorite to run in 2016. Like Powell, he knew his popularity crossed political and racial lines, but there was always a small segment of the population that, like death, couldn’t be reasoned with.

And he had already put his family through so much.

Chaney also knows Pierre Borgia is hot for the ticket, and wonders how far the Secretary of State will go to get what he wants. Borgia is everything Chaney is not; brash, self-serving, politically motivated, egotistical, a bachelor, a military hawk—and white.

Chaney’s thoughts return to his best friend and his family. He weeps openly, not caring one bit if the driver happens to notice.

Ennis Chaney wears his emotions on his sleeve, something he learned long ago from his mother. Inner strength and the tenacity to lead are no good unless one also allows himself to feel, and Chaney feels everything. Pierre Borgia feels nothing. Raised among the rich, the Secretary of State looks at life with blinders on, never pausing to consider what the other side may be feeling. This last fact weighs heavily upon the senator. The world is becoming a more complicated and dangerous place every day. Nuclear paranoia in Asia is rising. Borgia is the last person he wants to see running the country during a crisis situation.

“You all right back there, Senator?”

“Hell, no. What the hell kind of dumb-ass question is that?” Chaney’s voice is a deep rasp, unless he’s yelling, something he does quite often.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Shut up and drive the damn car.”

The driver smiles. Dean Disangro has been working for Senator Chaney for sixteen years and loves the man like a father.

“Deano, what the hell is so goddam important NASA’d want me at Goddard on a Sunday?”

“No idea. You’re the senator, I’m just a lowly paid employee—”

“Shut up. You know more about what’s going on than most of the dummies in Congress.”

“You’re NASA’s liaison, Senator. Obviously, something important’s happened for them to have the balls to summon you over the weekend.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. You have a news monitor up there?”

The driver passes him the clipboard-sized device, already set to the
Washington Post
. Chaney glances at the headlines concerning preparations for nuclear deterrent exercises in Asia.
Grozny scheduled the event the week before Christmas. That was clever. No doubt hoping to dampen the holiday spirit
.

Chaney tosses the monitor aside. “How’s your wife? She’s due soon, isn’t she?”

“Two weeks.”

“Wonderful.” Chaney smiles, pinching another tear from his bloodshot eyes.

Goddard Space Flight Center
Greenbelt, Maryland

Senator Chaney feels the anxious eyes of NASA, SETI, Arecibo, and God only knows who else upon him. He finishes scanning the twenty-page brief, then clears his throat, quieting the conference room. “Are you absolutely certain the radio signal originated from deep space?”

“Yes, Senator.” Brian Dodds, NASA’s executive director, looks almost apologetic.

“But you haven’t been able to pinpoint the precise origin of the signal?”

“No, sir, not yet. We’re pretty certain the source is located within Orion’s arm, our own spiral arm of the galaxy. The signal passed through the Orion Nebula, a source of massive interference, making it difficult to determine exactly how far the signal may have traveled. Assuming it did come from a planet within the Orion belt, we’re looking at a minimum distance of fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred light-years from Earth.”

“And this signal lasted for three hours?”

“Three hours and twenty-two minutes, to be precise, Senator,” Kenny Wong blurts out, standing at attention.

Chaney motions for him to sit. “And there have been no other signals, Mr. Dodds?”

“No, sir, but we’ll continue to monitor the frequency and direction of the signal around the clock.”

“All right, assuming the signal was real, what are the implications here?”

“Well, sir, the most obvious and exciting implication is that we now have evidence that we’re not alone, that at least one more intelligent life-form does exist somewhere within our galaxy. Our next step is to determine if specific patterns or algorithms are hidden within the signal itself.”

“You think the signal may contain some sort of communication?”

“We think it’s very possible. Senator, this wasn’t just some random signal transmitted across the galaxy. This beam was purposely directed at our solar system. There’s another intelligence out there that knows we exist. By directing their beacon at Earth, they were letting us know they exist, too.”

“Sort of a neighborly, ‘how do you do,’ is that it?”

The NASA director smiles. “Yes, sir.”

“And when will your people finish their analysis?”

“Difficult to say. If an alien algorithm does exist, I’m confident our computers and team of mathematicians and cryptic code breakers will find it. Still, it could take months, years—or maybe never. How does one go about thinking like an extraterrestrial? This is exciting, but it’s all very new to us.”