The Mayan Apocalypse (24 page)

Morgan had descended two steps when an electronic chiming caught his attention. He turned in time to see Quetzal pick up a thick phone. Morgan recognized it as a satellite phone.

Quetzal recognized the voice immediately. “This is an awkward time.” He started to use the man's name, but the pilot and Morgan were still in earshot. He walked down the jet's aisle, his back to the pilot. He turned in time to see the pilot motion to the cockpit and then slipped into the control area, closing the door behind, giving his boss the privacy he wanted.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Quetzal, but I thought you'd want to know.”

“Know what, Dr. Alexander?”

“We have new numbers on the Hammer of God. There is good news.”

Quetzal doubted the news would be good. “Tell me and do it quick. I've got people turning into popsicles.”

“Really? Where are you?”

“It doesn't matter, Dr. Alexander.” The man was stalling. “What have you found?”

“Our early calculations about the asteroid were less than accurate. I mean, they were as accurate as they could have been at the time.”

Quetzal closed his eyes. “It's going to miss us?”

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“Most likely, it will slip by unnoticed, having come no closer than 150,000 miles. Still inside the moon's orbit, but far enough away to present no danger.”

“I see. Who knows about this?”

“Just the inner circle of scientists assigned to this. Only my superiors here know. I can't speak for NASA or the Japanese space agency.”

“When did you reach this decision?” Quetzal worked to keep his tone even.

“Earlier today.”

“Keep a lid on it.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

“Keep a lid on the information.”

“How?” Quetzal could hear the tension in the man's voice. “I don't have that kind of influence. Besides, it will be a relief to the world.”

“Don't be an idiot. The world doesn't know. And how do you think people are going to respond when they learn that their countries kept a potentially life-ending disaster secret? There'll be riots in the streets, and your picture will be on the protest signs.”

“That might be an overstatement.”

“Use your head, Dr. Alexander. The only reason you're calm about this is that you were in on the discovery and deception.”

“I didn't deceive anyone.”

“You withheld information.”

The man stammered. “We let the proper people know. After that, it was out of my hands.”

“Which makes you a coconspirator with them. Look, keeping it secret made sense. It still makes sense. I kept it secret. I didn't want to cause a panic any more than you did. I'm trying to save lives here—trying to assure that humanity has a future.”

“What do you want from me? I've done everything you've asked— everything within my power to do. You were the first one I called when the asteroid was discovered and its preliminary track determined. What do you want me to do? Push the planet into its path?”

Quetzal tightened his jaw so hard that his teeth ached. The asteroid had brought in more money than he could have hoped for. Sure, the meteor in Arizona had helped, El Popo near Mexico City had drawn the attention of the fence-sitters, as did a half-dozen other disasters, but the Hammer of God was a godsend. Even those who had only moderately bought into the story had taken to that bit of
information like trout to cheese. The one thing he wanted to avoid was a few dozen billionaires with banks of lawyers asking for their money back.

Quetzal inhaled deeply and forced his shoulders to relax. “Look, Dr. Alexander, I know it sounds like I'm blaming you, but I'm not. I've been traveling nonstop for months and am well beyond tired. I just don't want my people to get the wrong idea. The end is coming December 21, 2012. If not by asteroid, then by something else.”

“We still have a deal, right?”

“Yes, Alexander, we still have a deal. On December 20, I'll transfer two million euros to your private account.”

“It's three million euros, Mr. Quetzal, and considering things, I would like it a week earlier.”

“You don't trust me?”

“No. I need a safety net. I don't want you disappearing on me. In fact, you'd better make it December 10. That gives me time to call all the people you don't want me to call if you don't deliver.”

If the astronomer were standing in front of him, he would slowly crush the man's trachea. “Agreed. Say, how is that grandchild of yours? You call her Bluebird, right? I hope she's been able to get the medical care she needs.”

“Watch yourself, Quetzal.”

“I always do. She lives in Trachoma, doesn't she?”

Dr. Alexander switched off the phone and stared at the photo of his four-year-old granddaughter, snuggled beneath white hospital sheets. Her smile was weak but present. She held the teddy bear he had sent. Next to her sat her mother. Even in the photo, he could see the moisture in her eyes.

Kidney transplants were difficult to find for children so young.

Morgan stood a short distance away from the aircraft stairs and watched Quetzal pace the empty aircraft. Even through the small windows, he could see the man was upset.

“This way, Mr. Morgan.” Balfour appeared at his side. The parka he wore hung on his thin frame like a parachute. “You'll be warmer in the car.”

M
organ climbed into the backseat of the UAZ Patriot and reached for the safety belt. Before he could snap it in place, Balfour slipped into the front seat.

“Good evening.” The Russian driver spoke English through an accent that made Morgan wonder how many marbles the man had in his mouth.

“
Privyet
,” Morgan said.

The Russian turned and smiled.

“You speak Russian? I'm impressed.” Sonya anchored the other end of the rear seat.

Between them was the very bald, very abrasive, and very brilliant Edward P. Rickman, president and CEO of E.P.R. Cellular, the newest cellular phone company. He was known to leave more debris in his wake than a category-five hurricane.

“I'm fluent in at least ten words.”

The crack made Rickman laugh. “That's more than me.”

Balfour turned to face the three in the back. “All of our hosts speak English. In Europe and Asia, almost everyone is bilingual or trilingual. What's it say about our country that so few can speak more than one language?”

“That we're focused.” Rickman didn't miss a beat.

Morgan saw the smile on the driver's face disappear. The one on Balfour's face remained but looked painted on.

Morgan didn't want to look at Rickman. He turned his gaze out
the side window but saw only his reflection. He hadn't noticed when he entered, but the windows were opaque.

“I see you've noticed,” Rickman said. “It appears that we're not meant to take in the sights.”

“It's so dark outside,” Sonya said, “we wouldn't be able to see much anyway.”

Balfour's smile brightened. “We're still in secrecy mode. The windows are to keep people from looking in, not to keep you from looking out.”

Rickman snorted. “We were just outside in full view of whoever wants to take a gander.”

“The airport is secured, and security swept it before we landed—”

“Then why the windows?” Rickman looked satisfied, as if he were the only kid in class who had seen the teacher's error. Morgan wished the driver would turn off the overhead light so he wouldn't have to see Rickman's face.

“Ease up, pal.” Morgan said. “Let the man answer.”

“What?” Rickman turned in his seat and leaned toward Morgan, invading his personal space. “Who do you think you are?”

Slowly, Morgan turned his head until his nose was just an inch from the bald man. “I'll tell you who I'm not, Eddie. I'm not one of your timid, browbeaten toddies. You might get away with intimidating your employees, but all you achieve with me is to make me seriously angry.”

“Now children, no need to try and impress me.” Sonya's voice was almost musical. “Try to remember that there's a lady present.”

Rickman swiveled her direction and was about to speak, but she cut him off. “Careful, Mr. Rickman. The snide remark rattling around in your empty head is liable to get you slapped so hard your mother will scream.”

The driver erupted with laughter. “Ha! I love Americans.”

Balfour maintained an even keel, and Morgan admired him for it. The man had to be as weary as he was, if not more. “As I was about to say, the airport is secured as is our destination. However, we will
be passing through several small towns. Three identical cars might attract some attention. We don't want people taking photos. We promised to keep your identity concealed.”

“What about Chuckles here?” Rickman pointed at the driver.

“He knows how to keep a secret, and we're paying him enough to make sure he does.”

“No worries,” the driver said, and started the car.

A moment later, they pulled into the darkness.

The road was smooth. For some reason, Morgan had expected a serpentine, pothole-plagued dirt path, as if they were traveling in the deep wilderness. He could see enough through the windshield to know that the road was narrow and paved in a new coat of macadam. Forward was the only view available, and the empty road soon bored Morgan. Even the towns they passed through were dark and the streets empty.

The trip had taken its toll. Rickman slumped in his place and rested his head on the seat. Sonya leaned against the door, her hand serving as a pillow. She blamed the wine she consumed on the flight as the cause for sleepiness, but Morgan guessed that the stress of pending disaster and the long trip had drained her. It had certainly drained him.

Occasionally, he would glance over his shoulder and see the headlights of the other cars in the convoy. No one seemed to be in a hurry. In the front seat, Balfour sat erect, his eyes boring into the night.

Morgan had traveled abroad many times but never under these conditions. He was having trouble believing that he was at Kamchatka—having just landed at a former military field—and was now allowing himself to be chauffeured to an unknown destination. He knew something of his destination, but details were kept under wraps. He had come to trust Quetzal and Balfour, but each time he thought of that, a sense of disquiet swept through him. He comforted himself with the thought that scores of other people, each as successful and bright as he, had found the men and their organization trustworthy.

Something caught his eye. A light appeared in front of them. At first, Morgan thought they were driving head-on into an oncoming train. The driver continued forward and the light grew. Still, it seemed unusual.

“What's that?”

Morgan glanced at Sonya, who had awakened. He heard her smack her lips. Post-drinking aftertaste. Morgan remembered what that was like.

“A light.” Rickman had come to.

“Ya think?” Apparently Sonya wasn't one of those people who woke up chipper. “Looks weird.”

Balfour shifted to face them. “It's our destination. You're seeing a light in the entrance tunnel. The Russians placed it well back so it wouldn't draw attention from above.”

“You mean God?” Rickman said.

“US bombers,” Balfour explained. “Remember, Cold War and all that.”

“I knew that.”

Morgan chose to keep quiet.

The driver slowed, and Morgan leaned forward, looking around Balfour's head. “A bomb shelter.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Morgan. We promised you much more than that. This is no bomb shelter, but it was designed to withstand a direct hit.”

“So it is a bomb shelter.” Rickman squinted at the light.

“It's a COG, Mr. Rickman, a ‘continuation of government' facility. Just like the US has Mount Washington and several other places where government leaders can wait out an attack, so the Russians have theirs. This is just one such facility and was designed to harbor military leaders in the eastern part of the USSR—when there was a USSR. There are others, including one near Moscow. Those aren't available. The Russian government doesn't trust your government very much.”

“The feeling's mutual,” Rickman said.

“Then why have they let us use this one?” the driver asked.

“Money,” Morgan said. “It's one reason we've been pouring millions into this.”

“Well said, Mr. Morgan. You're exactly right. The end of the Cold War, the fall of the Communist government, and the economic upheaval of the last few years have put the Russians in a financial hole. I don't need to tell business leaders like you about the problems Greece, Italy, France, and our own country have endured when the global economy went belly-up.”

“Cost me a fortune in stocks.” Rickman shook his head. “That's money I'll never see again.”

“You're not alone in that,” Sonya said. “When money gets tight, computer sales go in the toilet.”

Rickman nudged Morgan. “As I recall, only oil barons made money in those early years.”

“Yup. My mattress is stuffed with hundred dollar bills.” He let the sarcasm slip in. “We did okay. I lost a lot in the market as well, but oil held its value. I didn't miss any meals.”

The car pulled into a concrete tunnel that reminded him of a large pipe. The headlights cast enough sidelight for him to see the heavy foliage that concealed the entrance.

The feel of the drive changed, and Morgan assumed they had pulled from the asphalt road.

Balfour pointed to his left. “The road continues around the mountain. Seen from the air, it would look like any other roads weaving through the area.” A short distance into the tunnel, the car stopped.

“You'll want to see this.” Balfour opened his door, and Morgan did the same.

The first thing Morgan noticed was the size of the tunnel, something he had trouble gauging from the vehicle. He estimated the tunnel to be a hundred or more feet across. It was a half tube, which meant the ceiling was at least five stories over his head. A set of track ran down the middle of the floor. He assumed it had been used to move supplies and equipment deeper into the facility. Everything looked cleaner than it should.

The two other cars in the caravan pulled into line, and the others started to exit. Quetzal drove the third vehicle. Those in the car were laughing as they stepped onto the hard, bare floor. Apparently, he had been entertaining them.

He walked to the front of the first car, breezing past Morgan. His baritone voice echoed off the rigid walls. “Welcome, friends. Welcome to your salvation.”

At first, no one spoke, then Rickman—who apparently couldn't leave any silence unmolested—said, “This? This is it? This is what I forked over millions of dollars for? A big, concrete sewer pipe?”

For a moment, Quetzal's smile faltered, then brightened. “Of course not, Mr. Rickman. If I were trying to swindle you, I wouldn't have traveled all this distance to lock myself away with the people I conned. This is just the entrance. Watch.”

He stepped up to a metal switchbox about the size of a deck of playing cards and pulled away the cover. Inside was a keypad and five small glass plates. “Anyone want to guess the code?”

No one spoke. A few seconds later, Morgan said, “One-two-two-one-two-zero-one-two.”

Quetzal let loose a laugh. “Right, Mr. Morgan.” He entered the code.

Rickman looked at him. “How did you know that?”

“Think about it.”

Sonya huffed. “December 21, 2012.”

“Ah. Of course.” Rickman seemed embarrassed. Maybe he was human after all.

The moment Quetzal hit the last button, the tiny glass panes began to glow. He placed the fingers of his right hand on the sensors, one finger per pane. A moment later, a massive metal door emerged from the floor at the front threshold and continued upward until it had sealed the party inside.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Quetzal pointed at where they had entered. “That blast door can withstand attack by bombs, missiles, and anything else you can imagine. Now watch.” He turned, and the back
wall of the tunnel began to move, descending into the floor just as the entrance door had risen. It took two minutes for the opening to clear.

“Now, my friends, prepare to be amazed.” Quetzal marched toward the opening.

They crossed the threshold into which the second blast door had descended. A narrow metal sill piece covered the gap in the floor. Morgan stepped over it. The room on the other side was two to three times as wide and twice as tall as the entry tunnel. Like the entrance, the foyer was made of concrete. On the walls hung plaster reliefs, depictions of Mayan iconography and life. The art was stunning but still seemed out of place for the environment. Track lighting was mounted to the wall above the three-dimensional cast, flattering light on the surfaces. A dozen life-size figures stood on two-foot-high pedestals, each wearing Mayan ceremonial dress. Morgan could have sworn the lifelike eyes were following them.

“Wow,” Sonya said. “Who's your decorator?”

“Do you like it?” Quetzal seemed pleased.

“It's stunning,” she said.

Rickman grunted. “I hope our money went to better use.”

Quetzal faced the man, his face expressionless. “The art came from my pocket, Mr. Rickman…not yours. If you're unhappy with the way I'm running things, I can have one of the drivers take you back to the airport, and you can wait for us there. If you want to back out, now is the time to say so. Once we move on, there will be no turning around.”

“No need.” Rickman took a step back. “I'm just a little tired—a little grumpy. It's all very lovely. Carry on.”

Morgan saw Sonya grinning.

Quetzal stepped up to Rickman. For a moment, Morgan expected their host to slam a fist in the man's face. Instead, he smiled broadly. “You're going to love the next part.” He slipped an arm around the executive's shoulders. “This way, my friends.”

Quetzal took the lead again and mimicked a museum docent. “And we're walking, walking, walking.”

Several of the group chuckled.

Ten steps in, the blast door behind them began to rise, and the grinding of machinery rolled through the space. Morgan saw Bal-four standing by a control panel on the wall by the door. It gave Morgan the creeps.