Phobos: Mayan Fear (32 page)

Dominique jumps down, climbing in the backseat as a second wall of water appears on the horizon.

30

The countdown to “D-day” has started. Our group has been preparing for LHC data for many years now and we are all truly excited about the prospect of finally getting a glimpse of whatever surprises Nature has in store for us.

—DR. PEDRO TEIXEIRA-DIAS
LEADER OF THE ATLAS GROUP
AT ROYAL HOLLOWAY,
UNIVERSITY OF LONDON

SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND

TREATMENT CENTER

MIAMI, FLORIDA

NOVEMBER 6, 2012

I
t is 10:57 at night by the time Dominique enters her apartment, greeted by the scent of fresh apple pie on the stove and the uneven duet of snores coming from her bedroom. Careful not to wake her parents, she pulls the door closed and turns on the television, catching
The Daily Show
’s take on the presidential election.

As expected, the Maller-Chaney ticket has won, largely based on the way the administration handled the tragedy in the Gulf. Thanks to post-Katrina evacuation plans and the SOSUS early warning system, less than five hundred lives were lost. But the devastation to the Gulf Coast and its barrier islands was immense, and President Maller had wasted no time in placing his new vice president in charge of organizing the aid.

With threats to imprison any FEMA administrator or insurance representative responsible for creating red tape, Ennis Chaney had the homeless fed and sheltered before the end of day 1, families in trailers soon thereafter. Global satellite images taken before and after the disaster were used to settle insurance claims so as not to delay the clearing of debris. By mid-October all coastal roads had reopened, reconstruction under way.

Seismologists reported the seaquake had occurred beneath the Chicxulub impact crater, site of the asteroid collision 65 million years ago. The forces responsible for collapsing this long-fractured section of sea floor were still being investigated.

Dominique had wasted no time confronting Sam about the disaster. His response was to show her his hand-drawn wall map, the colored dots listing every major earthquake, tsunami, and volcanic eruption that had occurred since 2010, beginning with the magnitude 7.0 seismic event that had devastated Haiti on January 12, followed by the Icelandic volcano that erupted on April 15, three months later. For nearly an hour he attempted to explain his quantum equations, his calculations based on everything from the angle of the planet’s tilt on its axis to the gravitational pull generated by the massive black hole located at the center of the Milky Way—a force that caused the Earth and every object in the galaxy to travel through space at an incredible 135 miles per second, a cosmic merry-go-round charted by the Mayan calendar.

“I can’t tell you what caused these earthquakes and eruptions, Dominique, but using these mathematical equations I can tell you when the next event will occur.”

“And when would that be … wait, don’t tell me—December 21, 2012.”

“Yes, only the magnitude of the winter solstice event will be far greater than the last.”

“Okay, let’s say I buy into your Doomsday equation—how do we stop this from happening?”

“I don’t know. According to the Mayan Popol Vuh, only One Hunahpu can prevent the end of the fifth cycle.”

“Great. More Mayan mythology.” Moving to the wall behind his bed, she pointed to the drawing of the trident. “What is this supposed to be? Is this devil worship?”

“I don’t know what it is. The icon comes to me in my dreams, along with the faces of people I’m sure I’ve met but I just can’t seem to remember. Maybe Michael would know?”

“Forget about him. Your pal, Michael, is about as helpful as One Hunahpu. He left town before the fall equinox. I haven’t heard from him since.”

The annoying sound draws her from REM sleep. Her eyes search for the digital clock on the television’s cable box—3:22 a.m.

She sits up on the sofabed as she hears the soft knock on the door.

Dressed in a Florida State football jersey barely concealing her underpants, she makes her way to the apartment door and looks out the peephole. “Unbelievable.”

Dominique unbolts the lock and opens the door, staring at Michael Gabriel. “Where the hell have you been? Six weeks you’ve been gone … do you know I was almost killed?”

“Nice legs. But your breath stinks. Can I come in?”

She waves him in, checking her breath behind his back. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Three thirty. I didn’t want to wake your foster parents. Sorry I didn’t call, but your phones are being tapped.”

“Tapped? By who?”

“The only people who tap phones, Dominique. You made Borgia’s shit list the day you began working with Sam. You’re now what they call a person of interest.”

“No more games, Mick. I’m not helping you another minute until I know who Sam really is.”

“That’s why I’m here. Pack a bag, we’ll be gone two days.”

“Two days? I can’t leave for two days.”

“You’re off tomorrow and Thursday, what’s the problem?”

“The problem—” She lowers her voice. “The problem is, I don’t trust you.”

“Do you trust Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me, because what I do now I do for the two of you.”

The commuter airport is located thirty minutes away in Boca Raton. The private jet—a Hawker 900XP—sits on the tarmac, fueled, its pilot awaiting his two passengers.

Mick pays the taxi driver, leading Dominique toward the security gate.

“A private jet? How the hell did you arrange a private jet? You have a rich uncle I don’t know about?”

“I called in a favor from a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Ennis Chaney.”

Dominique stops walking. “The vice president of the United States is lending you his private jet?”

“This is Ennis Chaney, not Dick Cheney. The current VP has no interest in private jets. He simply arranged transportation for us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“My father spent the last ten years of his life working for a black ops military program. One day he hacked into his director’s computer and found a secret Pentagon budget that had diverted about $2 trillion from the US treasury. My father sent the file to Senator Chaney. He sort of owes us.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“No worries, someplace close.”

The burst of brilliant sun bleeds red through Dominique’s closed eyelids, causing her to roll over. She nearly falls off the sofa as the cabin tilts beneath her, the jet dipping its starboard wing as it circles to land.

Minutes later they are standing on empty tarmac, the sunrise obscured behind a mountain range.

Dominique rubs her eyes, exhausted. “Where are we? Arizona?”

“Try Nazca, Peru.” He starts walking toward an aluminum hangar, Dominique hustling to keep up.

“Peru? Are you shitting me? You told me we were going someplace close.”

“Peru is close. Certainly closer than Australia.”

“Why the hell are we in Nazca?”

“I’m going to show you.”

They enter the hangar. Inside, an American in his sixties, dressed in Navy overalls, is working on the engine of a World War II naval fighter. The mechanic acknowledges Mick with a quick glance, his greasy hands occupied by a crescent wrench.

“BT-13 Valiant. The Navy retired them after the war. With a bit of work, I think I can get this old girl back in the air. This her?”

“Lew Jack, Dominique Vazquez. Lew’s ex-Navy, a former pilot. According to my father, he was also a decent shortstop way back when they were in high school.”

“Second baseman, and quit buttering me up. So you’re Dominique Vazquez? Nice to see Mick interested in women again, especially a looker like you. Of course, the last Mexican beauty yanked his pecker so hard I’m surprised he has any teeth left.”

Mick shoots Lew a look. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, it was. Dominique, are you a US citizen?”

“Yes. Why? Was this former pecker yanker of Mick’s an illegal alien?”

“All right, enough.”

Lew grins. “She’s got some kick in her. I like that.”

“You have no idea.”

“Your ride’s out back ready to go; there’s sandwiches and water in the cooler.” He glances at Dominique, pointing to a rusted steel door next to a ransacked office. “Bathroom. I suggest you use it, it’s a long ride. I ran out of toilet paper, but there’s some paper towels.”

“Thanks anyway, but I peed in the twenty-million-dollar jet.”

“Feisty, I like that in a woman. If Mick disappoints you, make sure you come back here, I’ll take you for a ride in my Piper.”

Dominique chases Mick across the hangar and out the back door. Anchored out back is Julius Gabriel’s hot air balloon, ready to launch.

Dominique backs away. “This is your ride?”

“It’s perfectly safe.”

“Are you kidding? There’s more patches on this thing than my foster mother’s quilt.”

Mick swings one leg over the basket. “Trust me.”

“Forget it. And the whole trust thing—it’s getting old. Now call a cab or something, it’s hot out here.”

“Dominique, we’re crossing the Nazca plateau, the place with all the cool lines and animals. You can’t drive on the desert, and it’s too hot and way too far to walk.”

“And I’m afraid of heights. Seriously. I get real panicky.”

“You were fine on the jet.”

“That was a jet. This is more like a bad carnival ride.”

“Fine. Stay here with Lew. Maybe he’ll show you his tattoo.”

“Wait!”

The balloon soars effortlessly over the pampa, the late morning sun baking the desert’s flat round stones to its yellow geology.

Dominique remains seated in the basket, her limbs trembling.

“We’re about to pass over the Nazca whale. Come on, Dom, take a look, it’s not so bad.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Mick pulls her up by her elbows, dragging her onto her feet.

She punches him hard on his deltoid, nearly dislocating his shoulder. “Don’t manhandle me. Ever.”

“Sorry.” Mick rubs his throbbing arm. “I just wanted you to see the drawings. At least take a look.”

She steals a quick glance below, her eyes widening. “Wow. Is that a fish? Who made it? And those lines. I’ve seen photos before, but they’re so perfect. How old are they?”

“The more sophisticated images are several thousand years old. They trace back to Viracocha, an ancient wise man who taught the Inca astronomy and agriculture. Viracocha preceded Kukulcan and Quetzalcoatl. It’s his blood that runs through my maternal ancestors’ veins.”

“Why are the drawings here? What’s their purpose?”

“There are many theories, but my father believed they were part of an ancient message intended for extraterrestrials.”

“Extraterrestrials? Like in little green men?”

“Gray, actually.”

She shakes her head. “You know, every time I begin to feel comfortable around you, you have to go and ruin it by saying something stupid.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you knew everything there was to know about human existence and the cosmos.”

“Here I thought you were this amazingly intelligent guy, not someone who believed in aliens. Oh wait, Lew said something about your last girlfriend being an alien.”

“Cute. Very cute. For the record, my last girlfriend worked for Pierre Borgia. She was paid to occupy me—occupy being defined as sex, love, and a fake wedding ceremony, all so I wouldn’t be around to help my father. As for your opinions about man’s existence, like most blissfully ignorant people your knee-jerk reaction is based on fear—an emotion that retards all rational thought and prevents any new knowledge from seeping into your brain.”

“Hey, I’m not some wetback who just snuck over the border to pick strawberries. I’m six months away from earning my doctorate!”

“And we’re six weeks away from being annihilated. But hey, you know better, so just keep relaxing in that warm bath, Mr. Frog, while the heat simmers your flesh into soup.”

“Whatever the hell that means.” She turns away in anger, questioning for the hundredth time why she has allowed herself to be manipulated by this man.
Forget about him, forget about Sam and your crazy biological mother. The moment you get home, call your advisor and request a transfer to another facility. Who cares if you graduate late. I need to get away from all of these Doomsday wackos.

After several minutes of mutual silence she realizes they are descending to land.

The mountain blemishes the flat desert plateau like a mole on flesh, its Y-shaped ravine dividing the smooth mass of rock into three sections. Carved into the southern face is the ten-story image of the Nazca astronaut.

Mick lands the balloon at the entrance to the widest ravine. Within minutes he has deflated the bright orange and blue envelope so that it cannot be seen from above.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You wanted to know who Sam is—I’m about to show you.” He leads her into the ravine, a shadowed avenue of desert slicing between rock walls.

The object is as large as her freshman dormitory—a red and white winged aircraft concealed from above by camouflage netting. An enormous pair of afterburners in the tail section leads to the rest of the hull and an insignia.

“Project H.O.P.E.? What is this? An old airplane? Are you saying Sam’s a pilot?”

“The ship is old, only it’s not an airplane, it’s a space plane. Its technology is far more advanced than any space shuttle that was in NASA’s fleet.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, it’s a paradox, a statement of fact that conflicts with the universe as we know it. Project H.O.P.E. built this ship. Project H.O.P.E. doesn’t exist. Samuel Agler piloted this ship. Samuel Agler doesn’t exist.”

“Of course he exists. We may not know where he comes from, but—”

“I know where he comes from. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

He leads her up a narrow set of steps built into the open starboard hatch, the two of them entering the dark confines of the vessel’s main cabin. They work their way forward to the command center cockpit.