Domain (59 page)

The joint strike fighters break from formation and launch a salvo of SLAMMER missiles. The weapons explode just above the islandlike mass, the multiple detonations momentarily revealing the presence of a neon blue force field.

The CNO swears aloud. “The goddam thing’s sealed within a protective field, just like its drones. Captain Ramirez—”

“Aye, sir.”

“Order the JSFs to clear the target area. Launch two Tomahawks. Let’s see how powerful this field really is.”

Dominique covers her ears as a thunderous boom shudders the warship.

The guidance systems of the two Tomahawk missiles have been dismantled to prevent the Guardian’s array from disrupting their trajectory. Launched at point-blank range, the warheads slam into their target, the double blast sending a fireball racing skyward, momentarily blinding the real-time camera images of the circling UAVs.

The pictures return. The vessel is still intact.

And then something happens.

Mechanical motion appears along the center region of the floating mass, followed by an intense green flash of light.

The beacon is coming from an opening in the alien hull casing, but it is not a hatch, as in the top of a submarine, nor is it a rip or tear. Shards of iridium appear to be peeling open in layers, then folding back, away from the vortex of energy.

From out of the emerald green luminescence appears—a being.

The hulking form pushes through headfirst.

The Navy cameras refocus, the images revealing the being’s face—that of an enormous alien viper. The mammoth skull, adorned in featherlike scales, is as large as a billboard. Two crimson eyes blaze like luminescent beacons, the reptilian pupils—vertical slits of amber, narrowing in the morning light. A set of bizarre jaws opens, individually stretching and extending two ungodly ebony fangs, each tooth easily five foot long, the rest of the distended mouth filled with rows of scalpel-sharp teeth.

A gargantuan reptilian gasp sends thick layers of oily, scalelike emerald green feathers bristling along the alien’s broad back.

Sharp spines along the creature’s belly grip the iridium surface as the alien rears up in the manner of an immense cobra--the beast gazing skyward for the briefest of moments, as if analyzing the atmosphere.

With lightning speed, it plunges headfirst into the sea, its monstrous girth disappearing beneath the waves.

The president and his Joint Chiefs stare dumbfounded at the monitors.

“Good God … was that thing real?” Chaney whispers.

A shaken communications specialist listens to an incoming message in his headphone. “Admiral, the
Scranton
reports the E.T. is moving through the thermocline, its last recorded speed … Jesus—ninety-two knots. Course is south by southeast. Sir, the life-form appears to be heading directly for the Yucatan Peninsula.”

Chichén Itza

An agitated crowd of more than two hundred thousand zealots has gathered in the parking lot of Chichén Itza, chanting and throwing stones at the heavily armed Mexican militia, as they attempt to force their way through the blocked main entrance of the ancient Mayan city.

Inside the park, four American M1-A2 Abrams tanks have taken up defensive positions along each side of the Kukulcan pyramid. In the surrounding jungle, two squadrons of heavily armed Green Berets lie in wait, hidden among the dense foliage.

Just west of the Kukulcan pyramid is the Great Ball Court of Chichén Itza, an immense complex erected in the shape of the letter “I,” enclosed on all sides by walls of limestone block.

The eastern wall of the ball court is composed of a three-story structure known as the Temple of the Jaguars, its columned entrance sculpted in the form of plumed serpents. The structure rising along the ball court’s northern border is called the Temple of the Bearded Man. The façade along both of these vertical walls features engravings of the great Kukulcan emerging from the jowls of a plumed serpent. Other scenes depicts Kukulcan, dressed in a tunic, lying dead, being engulfed by a two-headed serpent.

Mounted high along the faces of the eastern and western walls are donut-shaped stone rings, positioned vertically like sideways basketball hoops. Invented by the Olmec, the ceremonial ritual known as the Ball Game was meant to symbolize the epic battle between light and dark, good and evil. Two teams of seven warriors competed against each other, attempting to shoot a rubber ball through their vertical hoop, using only their elbows, hips, or knees. The rewards of the game were simple, the motivation pure: The winners were rewarded, the losers beheaded.

Michael Gabriel is at the center of the 313-foot grass court, standing in the drone’s shadow, directing a three-man team of US Army Rangers. With picks and shovels, the men dig in an eight-foot-deep hole, burrowing their way through the brittle geology to a point just beneath the alien object’s talons.

The strength of the drone’s force field is causing Mick’s hair to stand on end.

He looks up as a Jeep enters the south end of the ball court. Colonel E. J. Catchpole jumps out of the vehicle before it comes to a halt. “We just got word, Gabriel. The alien mass surfaced, just as you predicted.”

“Was the Navy able to destroy it?”

“Negative. The vessel’s protected within the same force field as these damn drones. There’s more. An alien emerged—”

“An alien? What did it look like?” Mick’s heart is pounding like a bass drum.

“Don’t know. The pyramid’s array is causing communication problems. The only thing I could make out is that it’s huge, and the Navy thinks it’s headed in our direction.” The colonel kneels by the hole. “Lieutenant, I want you and your men out of this hole.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Colonel, you’re not giving up—”

“Sorry, Gabriel, but I need every man available to guard that array. What is it you’re looking for anyway?”

“I told you, it’s some kind of stone, a round marker, about the size of a football. It’s probably buried directly beneath the drone’s talons.”

The lieutenant climbs out from the hole, followed by two more Ranger commandos, each man covered in a white, powdery dust.

The lieutenant drinks from his canteen, then spits out the last mouthful. “Here’s the deal, Gabriel. We located the edge of some sort of metallic canister, but if my men try to remove it, the weight of this drone will collapse the tunnel. We left a flashlight and pick down there if you want to try, but I’d advise against it.”

The commandos climb into the Jeep.

“I suggest you hightail it out of here before the fireworks begin,” the colonel yells, as the vehicle accelerates to the west.

Mick watches the Jeep leave, then descends down the rope ladder into the hole.

The Rangers have excavated a narrow horizontal shaft running beneath the drone. Collecting the pick in one hand, a flashlight in the other, Mick crawls through the burrow on his knees, the sounds from above quickly becoming muffled in his ears.

The tunnel dead-ends twelve feet in. Protruding through the rock above his head are the razor-sharp tips of the creature’s talons.

Embedded in the limestone ceiling between the two black claws—the lower half of a shiny metal canister, the same iridium container he and his father had found long ago, buried in the Nazca desert.

Mick gently chips around one exposed side of the container, loosening it with the other. Gravel falls on his back, fissures opening up along the ceiling. He continues tapping, feeling the object loosening, knowing at any second the ceiling will collapse, burying him under the weight of the geology and the alien drone.

Clumps of white dirt blind him as, with a final tug, he pulls the canister free, leaping backwards as—

—a section of ceiling collapses in a blinding white curtain of dust and debris, the two-thousand-pound drone collapsing through the shaft.

Mick crawls back through the remains of the tunnel, dragging himself from the rubble, his body covered in white dust, his left hand, smeared in blood, still clutching the metal container.

He climbs up the ladder, spitting and coughing, then collapses on his back near the edge of the hole and inhales the fresh air. Feeling for his bottled water, he pours the warm liquid over his face, rinses out, then sits up and turns his attention to the canister.

For a long moment he just gazes at the object, gathering his strength, the scarlet icon of the Trident of Paracas—the Guardian’s insignia—staring back at him.

“Okay, Julius, let’s see what you’ve been hiding from me all these years.”

He pries opens the lid, removing the strange object within.

What is this
?

It is a jade object, rounded and heavy, about the size of a human skull. Protruding from one side is the handle of an immense obsidian dagger. Mick attempts to remove the weapon, but it is wedged in too tightly.

Inscribed along the other side of the object are two images. The first, an epic battle depicting a bearded Caucasian and a giant plumed serpent, the man holding a small object, keeping the beast at bay. The second image is that of a Mayan warrior.

Mick stares at the warrior’s face, goose bumps tightening across his chalk-covered skin.

My God … it’s me
.

Sanibel Island, West Coast of Florida.

The SOSUS alarm awakens Edith Axler with a start. Lifting her head from the table, she reaches over to the computer terminal for her headphones, then places them over her ears and listens.

Her nephew, Harvey, enters the lab in time to see the expression on his aunt’s face drop. “What is it?”

She tosses him the headphones, then hurriedly boots the seismograph.

Harvey listens as ink begins scribbling across the graph paper. “What is that—”

“Massive earthquake below the Campeche shelf,” she rasps, her heart racing. “Must have occurred less than an hour ago. That rumbling sound you hear is a series of very powerful tsunamis shoaling up along the West Florida shelf—”

“Shoaling?”

“Bunching together as they slow up, driving the energy vertical. These waves are going to be massive by the time they hit the shore. They’ll submerge every island on the coast.”

“How soon?”

“I’m guessing fifteen to twenty minutes tops. I’ll call the Coast Guard and the mayor, you alert the police, then get the car. We need to get out of here.”

Gulf of Mexico

The Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk soars fifty feet above the whitecaps, the other four naval choppers following close behind. High above, two squadrons of joint strike fighters train their sensors on the fast-moving ripple of water a half mile ahead.

Dominique gazes out her window, staring at the monstrous ripples in the sea. In the distance, the Yucatan coastline peeks out behind an early-morning fog.

Below, propagating along the seafloor at speeds exceeding that of a jetliner is the first in a series of tsunamis. The killer wall of water slows as it hits the shallows, refraction and shoaling redirecting its awesome fury upward, the swell cresting directly beneath the airship. General Fecondo taps the copilot. “Why haven’t the JSFs continued firing?”

The copilot looks back. “They report the target’s too deep, moving way too fast. No signature, nothing to lock on to. Don’t worry, General, the E.T.’s about to run out of sea. Our birds’ll splatter it the moment it hits the beach.”

President Chaney turns to face Dominique, his dark complexion looking pasty and gray. “You doing okay back there?”

“I’ll be better when I—” She stops talking, staring down at the water, feeling her sense of equilibrium faltering as the sea appears to be rising straight up beneath them. “Hey—look out! Take us higher!”

“Shit—” The pilot yanks hard on the joystick as the monstrous wave pushes upward against the chopper’s undercarriage, lifting the airship as if it were a surfboard.

Dominique grips the seat in front of her as the Sikorsky lurches sideways. For a surreal moment, the helicopter teeters atop the mountainous swell, and then the eighty-seven-foot wave releases them and plummets, punishing the beachhead below with a thunderous slap.

The chopper levels out, hovering high above the submerged landscape, its passengers and crew catching a collective breath as the killer wave races inland, devastating everything in its path.

A deafening roar as the joint strike fighters circle overhead.

“General, our air wing reports they’ve lost all visual contact with the E.T.”

“Is it in the wave?”

“No, sir.”

“Then where the hell is it?” Chaney yells. “Something that size just can’t disappear.”

“Must still be in the sea,” the general says. “Have the choppers double back to the last reported site. Send the jets up and down the coastline. We need to cut that alien off before it moves inland.”

Ten long minutes pass.

From her vantage, Dominique watches the tsunami’s tidal surge retreat back to the sea, the churning river of water dragging uprooted palm trees, debris, and livestock with it. “Mr. President, we’re wasting time—”

Chaney turns around to face her. “The E.T.’s still out there somewhere.”

“And what if it’s not? What if it’s on its way to Chichén Itza like Mick said?”

General Fecondo turns. “We’ve got thirty choppers circling the Yucatan coastline. The moment that thing shows its face—”

“Wait! Mick said the geology of the peninsula’s like a giant sponge. There’s a whole labyrinth of subterranean caves that connect to the sea. The alien’s not hiding, it’s traveling underground!”

Sanibel Island

Edie pounds on the door of her friend’s home. “Sue, open up!”

Sue Reuben opens the front door, still half-asleep. “Edie, what’s—”

Edith grabs her by the wrist and drags her to the car.

“Edie, for God’s sake, I’m in my pajamas—”

“Just get in. There’s a tsunami coming!” Harvey guns the engine as the two elderly women climb in, accelerating the car wildly through residential areas, then back toward the main road.

“A tsunami? How big? What about the rest of the island?”

“Coast Guard choppers are hitting the beach areas and streets. Radio and television announcements have been broadcasting for ten minutes. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”