Domain (29 page)

“Most of it didn’t. The mass you’re looking at is only about a mile in diameter, about an eighth of its original size. Scientists have been debating for years whether the object that struck Earth was a comet or an asteroid. But what if it was neither?”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

Marvin stares at the rotating holographic image as if mesmerized. “What we’re looking at is a uniform structure, composed of iridium and God-knows-what other composite materials, resting over a mile beneath the seafloor. The outer casing is far too thick for our satellite sensors to penetrate—”

“Outer casing?” The raccoon eyes are bulging. “Are you saying this buried mass is a spaceship?”

“The remains of a spaceship, perhaps even a separate, internal pod, positioned within the vessel like a cork in a golf ball. Whatever it is, or was, it managed to survive while the rest of the craft disintegrated upon impact.”

Dodds holds up his palm. “Wait a moment, Dr. Teperman. Mr. Vice President, this is all just supposition.”

Chaney stares at Dodds. “Yes or no, Director Dodds—is this
thing
a spaceship?”

Dodds wipes the sweat from his brow. “At this point, we just don’t know—”

“This hole in the seafloor—does it lead into this vessel?”

“We don’t know.”

“God dammit, Dodds, what the hell
do
you people know?”

Dodds takes a breath. “For one thing, we know it’s imperative that we get our surface ships into the area before another nation stumbles upon this buried mass.”

“You’re dancing around the facts like a politician, Director Dodds, and you know that pisses me off. There’s something you aren’t telling me. What is it?”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, there is more, a lot more. I guess I’m still a bit stunned myself. Some of us, including me, now believe the deep-space radio signal we received was never meant for us. It—it may have been intended to trigger something within this alien structure.”

Chaney stares at Dodds, incredulous. “By trigger, you mean awaken?”

“No, sir. More like activate.”

“Activate? Explain.”

Debra Aldrich removes a six-page report from her file. “Sir, this is a copy of a SOSUS report sent to NOAA last month from a biologist in Florida. The report details unidentifiable sounds originating from beneath the seafloor within the Chicxulub impact crater. Unfortunately, the acting NOAA director was a little slow getting around to verifying the information, but we’ve now confirmed the high-pitched acoustics are originating from directly within this buried ovoid structure. There appears to be a high level of complex activity going on within this mass, most likely mechanical in nature.”

The NASA director nods. “As a follow-up, we had the Navy’s central receiving station in Dam Neck run a complete analysis of all high-decibel acoustics recorded within the Gulf area over the last six months. Although the sounds appear only as background static, data confirms the subterranean acoustics first began on September 23, at precisely the same time the deep-space radio signal first reached Earth.”

Chaney closes his eyes and massages his temples, feeling overwhelmed.

“There’s something else, Ennis.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Marvin. Do you think you could give me a minute to swallow before you … never mind, just go ahead.”

“Sorry, I know this is all a bit mind-boggling, eh?”

“Finish—”

“We completed our analysis of the black tide. Once the toxin comes in contact with organic tissue, it doesn’t just cause the cellular walls to decompose, it actually alters its basic chemical composition at the molecular level, leading to a total loss of cell-wall integrity. The stuff works like acid, and the result, as we’ve seen, is a total bleed out. But here’s what’s interesting—the substance isn’t a virus or even a living organism, but it does carry heavy traces of silicon and a bizarre DNA.”

“DNA? Christ, Marvin, what are you saying?”

“It’s just a theory—”

“No more games. What is it?”

“Zoological elimination. Fecal matter.”

“Fecal matter? You mean it’s shit?”

“Uh, yes, but more accurately, alien shit—very old alien shit. The sludge contains chemical traces of elements we believe originated from a living organism, a silicon-based life-form.”

Chaney sits back in his chair, mentally fried. “Dodds, turn that damn hologram off, will you, it’s giving me a headache. Marvin, are you saying that something could still be alive down there?”

“No, absolutely not, sir,” interrupts Dodds.

“I’m asking Dr. Teperman.”

Marvin smiles. “No, Mr. Vice President, I’m not implying anything of the sort. As I said, the fecal matter, if it is fecal matter, is very old. Even if an alien life-form did manage to survive the crash, it’s certainly been dead for longer than our own species has inhabited the Earth. And a silicon-based life form like this probably couldn’t exist in an oxygen environment.”

“Then explain to me what the hell’s going on.”

“Okay, as incredible as it sounds, an alien vessel, obviously light-years ahead of our own technology, crash-landed on Earth sixty-five million years ago. This impact was a tremendous event in human history, eh, in that the cataclysm, by wiping out the dinosaurs, led to the eventual evolution of our own species. Whatever life-form was inside this vessel probably sent a distress signal to its homeworld, which we believe is located somewhere within the constellation of Orion. This would be standard operating procedure—our own astronauts would do the same thing if they found themselves marooned on Alpha Centauri or some other distant world light-years away. Of course, the distances involved make a rescue mission out of the question. Once our Extraterrestrial NASA Control counterparts in Orion received the deep-space distress call, their only course of action would be to attempt to reactivate the alien computers on board their space craft and collect whatever data they could.”

Dr. Aldrich nods in agreement. “The black sludge was probably released automatically when the signal reactivated some kind of alien life-support system.”

The NASA director can barely contain his excitement. “Forget about building a transmitter on the moon. If Marvin’s correct, we could access this ship and potentially communicate directly with the alien intelligence using their own equipment.”

“You’re assuming this alien homeworld still exists,” Marvin says. “The deep-space signal would have been transmitted millions of years ago. For all we know, the planet’s sun could have gone supernova—”

“Yes, yes, of course you’re right about that. My point is that we have an incredible opportunity to access advanced technologies which may have survived within this vessel. The potential wealth of knowledge down there could accelerate our civilization well into the next millennium.”

The vice president can feel his hands shaking. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just the people in this room and a handful of NASA officials.”

“What about that SOSUS biologist, the one in Florida?”

“The biologist is dead,” Aldrich states. “The Mexican Coast Guard fished his body from the Gulf earlier this week, covered in the sludge.”

Chaney swears under his breath. “All right, obviously I need to brief the president about this right away. Meanwhile, I want all public access to SOSUS shut down immediately. Information is to be kept on a need-to-know basis only. From now on, this operation remains covert, understood?”

“What about satellite photos?” Aldrich asks. “The mass may just represent a tiny pinprick in the Gulf, but it’s still a bright pinprick. Eventually a GOES or SPOT satellite is going to run across the object. Once we send a Navy ship or even a science vessel into the area, we’ll tip our hand to the rest of the world.”

The NASA director nods in agreement. “Sir, Debra’s right. However, I think I know a way we can keep this operation covert while still allowing our scientists unlimited access to whatever’s down there.”

Washington, D.C. / Miami, Florida.

Anthony Foletta locks the door to his office before sitting down at his desk to receive the long-distance communication.

Pierre Borgia’s image appears on the telemonitor. “Do you have an update, Director?”

Foletta keeps his voice low. “No, sir, but the police are keeping a close surveillance on the girl. I’m certain he’ll eventually contact her—”

“Eventually? Listen, Foletta, you make it absolutely clear that Gabriel’s dangerous, do you understand? Instruct the police to shoot to kill. I want him dead, or you can kiss that Tampa directorship good-bye.”

“Gabriel hasn’t murdered anyone. We both know the police won’t kill him—”

“Then hire someone who will.”

Foletta looks down at his lap as if allowing the Secretary of State’s words to sink in. In reality, he has been anticipating this directive ever since his resident first escaped. “I might know of someone who could handle it, but to do the job right will be expensive.”

“How much?”

“Thirty. Plus expenses.”

Borgia sneers. “You’re a lousy poker player, Foletta. I’ll send twenty, not a dime more. You’ll have it within the hour.”

The telemonitor flashes its dial tone.

Foletta switches off the system, then verifies that the conversation had been recorded. For a long moment, he contemplates his next move. Then he removes his cellular phone from his desk drawer and dials Raymond’s pager.

Sanibel Island, Florida

The white Lincoln pulls into the gravel driveway. Thirty-one-year-old Karen Simpson, a deeply tanned, peroxide blonde wearing a bright aqua dress, steps out from the driver’s seat and ceremoniously walks around to the passenger door to assist her mother, Dory, from the vehicle.

A half block down the road, a plainclothes police officer watches from a surveillance van as the two grieving women, arm in arm, slowly make their way around to the back of the Axler home to where
shivah
, the Jewish gathering of the bereaved, is taking place.

Tables of food have been set up for family and friends of the deceased. Three dozen guests mill about, talking, eating, telling stories—doing whatever they can to comfort each other.

Dominique and Edie sit alone together on a cushioned bench facing the Gulf, watching the sun as it begins to set along the horizon.

A half mile offshore, a fisherman aboard the fifty-two-foot
Hatteras
struggles to net his catch.

Edie nods. “Looks like they finally caught something.”

“That’s all they’ll catch.”

“Doll, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

“And you’re sure you know how to operate that minisub?”

“Yes, Iz showed me—” Her eyes tear up at the memory. “I’m sure.”

“Sue thinks you should take her gun.”

“I didn’t go to all of the trouble of helping Mick escape just to shoot him.”

“She doesn’t think you should be so trusting.”

“Sue’s always been paranoid.”

“And what if she’s right? What if Mick really is a psycho? He could become violent and rape you. After all, he’s been locked up for eleven years and—”

“He won’t.”

“At least take my stun gun. It’s small; in fact it looks just like a cigarette lighter. It’ll fit right in the palm of your hand.”

“Fine, I’ll take it, but I won’t need it.”

Edie turns to see Dory Simpson approach, her daughter Karen heading for the house.

Dominique stands and gives the woman a hug. “Would you like something to drink?”

Dory sits down next to Edie. “Yes, a diet soda would be nice. Unfortunately, we can’t stay long.”

Aboard the
Hatteras
, Detective Sheldon Saints watches Dominique head toward the house through high-powered binoculars set upon a tripod inside the boat’s main cabin.

Another detective, dressed in jean shorts and a Tampa Bay Buccaneers tee shirt and baseball cap enters the cabin to join him. “Hey, Ted just caught a fish.”

“It’s about fucking time. We’ve only been sitting out here for eight goddam hours. Hand me the night glasses, it’s getting too dark to see.”

Saints fixes the ITT Night Mariner-260 binoculars to the tripod and peers through, adjusting the optic which turns the fading light to shades of green, allowing him to see. Five minutes later, he observes the beautiful female suspect with the long, black hair emerge from the house, carrying a can of soda in each hand. She approaches the bench, offering a soda to each woman, then sits down between them.

Twenty more minutes pass. Now the detective sees the tan blonde in the aqua dress emerge from the house to join the three women. She hugs the Axler woman, then helps her mother up from the bench, leading her around front.

Saints watches for a moment, then returns his focus to the bench, where the older woman and the dark-haired beauty remain, hand in hand.

Dory Simpson climbs into the front seat of the Lincoln as the girl starts the car. The blonde backs the car down the gravel driveway, then heads southwest toward the island’s main road.

Dominique reaches beneath the wig to scratch her itching scalp. “I always wanted to be a blonde.”

“Leave it on until we leave the dock.” Dory hands her the small stun gun, which is the size of a butane lighter. “Edie said to keep this on you at all times. I promised her I’d make you do it. Now, are you sure you feel comfortable operating the minisub?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Because I can come with you guys.”

“No, I feel better knowing you and Karen are here to look after Edie for me.”

It is late by the time they arrive at the private dock in Captiva. Dominique hugs the older woman good-bye, then walks across the wooden deck to the awaiting twenty-four-foot Grady-White motorboat.

Sue Reuben directs her to untie the stern line. Seconds later, they are racing across the Gulf.

Dominique removes the wig before it blows off, then pulls back the gray tarpaulin.

Mick is lying on his back, his right wrist handcuffed to the bottom of the passenger seat. He smiles up at her, then cringes as the bow bounces along the two-to-three-foot seas, smashing the back of his head painfully against the fiberglass deck.