Domain (39 page)

—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

S
ecretary 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?”

The one-eyed man closes the door behind her, then takes his place at the table across from Foletta. “I’m afraid so, Dr. Foletta. Ms. Vazquez has aided and abetted a dangerous felon.” He motions for her to sit. “You know who I am?”

“Pierre Borgia. I-I was told you were coming three days ago.”

“Yes, well, we had a little situation in Australia that took precedence.”

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“That depends entirely on you.”

“It’s not you we want, Dominique,” Foletta says, “it’s Mick. You know where he is, don’t you?”

“How would I know that? He escaped while I was still unconscious.”

“She’s a pretty one, isn’t she, Doctor?” Borgia’s glare causes sweat to break out along her upper lip. “It’s no wonder Mick took a fancy for you. Tell me, Ms. Vazquez, what motivated you to help him break out of the asylum?”

Foletta jumps in before she can answer. “She was confused, Mr. Secretary. You know how clever Gabriel can be. He used Dominique’s childhood trauma to coerce her into helping him escape.”

“That’s not entirely true,” she says, finding it difficult not to focus on Borgia’s permanent eye patch. “Mick knew something was in the Gulf. And he knew about that deep-space radio transmission—”

Foletta places a sweaty palm across her forearm. “Intern, you need to face reality. Mick Gabriel used you. He was planning his escape from the moment he met you.”

“No, I don’t believe that—”

“Maybe you just don’t want to believe it,” Borgia says. “The fact is, your father would still be alive today if Mick hadn’t coerced you into helping him.”

Dominique’s eyes cloud with tears.

Borgia removes a file from his brief, taking a moment to examine it. “Isadore Axler, a biologist residing in Sanibel Island. Certainly has a long list of credentials. He wasn’t your real father, was he?”

“He was the only father I ever knew.”

Borgia continues looking through the file. “Ah, here we are—Edith Axler. Did you know the two of us met? Fine woman.”

Dominique feels her skin crawl beneath the Navy-issue sweats. “You met Edie?”

“Just long enough to place her under arrest.”

The words send her springing to her feet. “Edie had no part in Mick’s escape! It was all me. I arranged everything—”

“I’m not interested in a confession, Ms. Vasquez. What I want is Michael Gabriel. If I can’t have him, I’ll simply lock you and your mother up for a very long time. Of course, in Edith’s case, that may not be too long a sentence. She’s getting up there in age, and her husband’s death has obviously taken its toll.”

Dominique’s heart races. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.”

“If you say so.” Borgia stands and heads tor the door.

“Wait, let me talk to her,” Foletta says. “Give us five minutes.”

Borgia looks at his watch. “Five minutes.” He exits the cabin.

Dominique lays her head on the table, her insides quivering, her tears pooling on the steel tabletop. “Why is all this happening?”

“Shh.” Foletta strokes her hair, his voice a soothing whisper. “Dominique, Borgia doesn’t want to lock you and your mother up. He’s just scared.”

She lifts her head. “Scared of what?”

“Of Mick. He knows Mick wants revenge, that he’ll stop at nothing to kill him.”

“Mick’s not like that—”

“You’re wrong. Borgia knows him a lot better than you or I. Their history goes back a long way. Did you know Borgia was engaged to Mick’s mother? Julius Gabriel stole the bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding ceremony. There’s a lot of bad blood between the families.”

“Mick doesn’t care about revenge. He’s more concerned about this Mayan doomsday thing.”

“Mick’s clever. He’s not going to tell you or anyone else about his true motive. My guess is that he’s hiding out in the Yucatan. His family had a lot of friends there who could help him. He’ll lie low for a while, then go after Borgia, probably during a public appearance. Think about it, Dominique, do you really believe the Secretary of State of the United States would travel all the way out here to see you if he wasn’t frightened? In a few years he’ll be running for president. The last thing he needs to worry about is some paranoid schizophrenic with a 160 IQ plotting his assassination.”

Dominique wipes her eyes.
Is it true
?
Did Mick really use his family’s apocalyptic research to set me up
? “Let’s say I believe you. What do you think I should do?”

Foletta’s eyes twinkle back at her. “Let me help you strike a deal with Borgia. Full immunity for you and your mother if you lead the authorities to Mick.”

“The last time I struck a deal with you, you lied to me. You never had any intention of reevaluating Mick or getting him the treatment he needs. Why should I believe you now?”

“I didn’t lie!” He stands, barking the words. “I hadn’t been officially awarded the Tampa job, and anyone who says otherwise is a goddam liar!” He wipes the sweat from his forehead, then back through his mane of gray hair, his cherub face bright red. “Dominique, I’m here to help you. If you don’t want my help, then I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.”

“I want your help, Doctor, I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“The immunity would be arranged by Borgia, not me. What I’m offering is your old life back.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve already spoken with your advisor at FSU. I’m offering you an internship in the new Tampa facility, close to your mother’s home. Your job will be to head up Mick’s treatment team, with a permanent position and full benefits waiting for you after you graduate.”

The offer brings tears of relief. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I feel bad. I should have never assigned Mick to you in the first place. You’ll make a fine psychiatrist one day, but you weren’t ready for a patient as manipulative as Michael Gabriel. Your father’s death, the turmoil your family’s gone through—all of this is my fault. I knew better, but I took a chance. I saw in you a strong woman who would be the perfect addition to my staff, but I rushed your development. I’m sorry, Dominique. Give me the chance to make it up to you.”

He extends a thick palm.

Dominique stares at it for a long moment, then shakes the offered hand.

DECEMBER 6, 2012
WASHINGTON, D.C.

Vice President Ennis Chaney looks up from the report, acknowledging the president’s National Security staff as they file into the White House war room and take their places around the oval conference table. A half dozen military and science advisors follow, filling the extra folding chairs lining the perimeter of the room.

Ennis closes the document as the president enters, the secretary of state in his wake. Borgia bypasses his own chair to address Chaney. “You and I need to talk.”

“Mr. Secretary, if we can begin?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Borgia finds his place, giving Chaney a perturbed look.

President Mailer rubs his bloodshot eyes, then reads from a fax. “This afternoon, the United Nations Security Council will issue a statement, deploring the testing of pure-fusion weapons as being contrary to the de facto moratorium on the testing of nuclear weapons and to global nuclear nonproliferation and nuclear-disarmament efforts. Further, the Council is seeking immediate ratification of a new resolution designed to close the loophole on pure-fusion technology.”

Mailer holds up a report labeled UMBRA, a code word used to classify files beyond TOP SECRET. “I’ll assume everyone has reviewed this document. I’ve asked its author, Dr. Brae Roodhof, Director of the National Ignition Facility in Livermore, California, to join us this morning as I’m sure all of us have questions we want answered. Doctor?”

Dr. Roodhof is in his early fifties, a tall gray-haired man with a tan, weathered face and calming demeanor. “Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, I want to start by stating emphatically that it was not the United States who detonated this pure-fusion weapon.”

Ennis Chaney’s insides have been churning since he finished reading the UMBRA file. His eyes blaze as he stares down the nuclear physicist. “Doctor, I’m going to ask you something, but I want you to know that I’m directing my question to every person in this room.” The tone of the vice president’s voice stifles all peripheral movements. “What I want to know is why, Doctor. Why is the United States of America even engaged in this type of goddam suicidal research?”

Dr. Roodhof’s eyes dart around the table. “Sir, I … I’m only the project director. It’s not my place to determine US policy. It was the federal government who funded nuclear-weapons laboratories to research pure fusion back in the 1990s, and it was the military that applied the pressure for the bombs to be designed and built—”

“Let’s not reduce this issue to finger-pointing, Mr. Vice President,” interrupts General Fecondo. “The reality of the situation is that other foreign powers were pursuing the technology, which obligated us to follow suit. The LMJ, the Laser Megajoule complex in Bordeaux, France, has been conducting pure-fusion experiments since early 1998. The British and Japanese have been working on nonexplosive magnetic-fusion research for years. Any or all of these countries could have bridged the feasibility gap in order to create thermonuclear nonfission ignitions.”

Chaney turns to face the general. “Then why does the rest of the world, including scientists from our own country, seem to think that we’re responsible for the detonation in Australia?”

“Because everyone in the scientific community believed our research was farthest along,” Dr. Roodhof answers. “The IEER recently published a report stating that the United States was two years away from field-testing a pure-fusion device.”