Domain (52 page)

Moreau registers a tightness in his gut as he stares at the monitor flashing DEFCON-1. The Defense Readiness Condition is a military posture ranging from the day-to-day peacetime preparedness of DEFCON-5 all the way up to DEFCON-1, a condition equating to a nuclear assault and response.

Moreau closes his eyes. Having served in the Air Force and NORAD for thirty-two years, the general has seen more than his share of excitement. He recalls those six frightening minutes back in November of 1979 when a state of DEFCON-1 had been initiated on his watch. Unbeknownst to NORAD, a false alarm had been generated by a computer exercise tape, convincing his operators that the Soviets had launched a large number of ICBMs at the United States. During the tense moments that followed, emergency preparations for a nuclear retaliatory strike had been engaged, the Air Force planes actually in the air before NORAD’s PAVE PAWS early-warning radar had detected the human error.

The general opens his eyes again. While a dozen more close calls had followed over the years, none had matched the anxiety of ‘79.

None until now.

The QUICK ALERT shatters the general’s thoughts. For a surreal moment, he feels as if he is falling off a cliff as every video display in the Cheyenne Mountain facility flashes the nightmarish message.

QUICK ALERT! QUICK ALERT! MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILE LAUNCHES DETECTED

QUICK ALERT! QUICK ALERT! MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILE LAUNCHES DETECTED

Dear God
… “Get me a systems report!”

A dozen technicians with phones to both ears frantically contact bases around the world as the computerized female voice continues announcing, “QUICK ALERT.”

The general waits impatiently as an operations voice loop linking the seven functioning centers of NORAD is engaged.

“General, system report valid!”

“General, DSP satellites have identified and confirmed four threat fans. Coming on-screen now, sir.”

INCOMING MISSILE ALERT:

Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles: 2.754

Submarine Launched Ballistic Missiles: 86

Four Threat Fans Identified:

Targets:

Alaska (17)

Hawaii (23)

Continental United States (2,800)

ARCTIC TRAJECTORY 17 ICBMS

TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 18 min. 08 seconds [Elmendorf Air Force Base]

PACIFIC TRAJECTORY 23 ICBMS

TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 28 min. 47 seconds [Pearl Harbor]

PACIFIC NORTHWEST TRAJECTORY 1,167 ICBMs 35 SLBMs

TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 29 min. 13 seconds [Seattle]

ATLANTIC TRAJECTORY 1.547 ICBMs 50 SLBMs

TIME TO FIRST IMPACT: 29 min. 17 seconds [WASHINGTON DC]

The general stares at the monitor for a heart-stopping moment, then snatches the hot line to the Raven Rock and United States Strategic Command.

Raven Rock Underground Command Center
Maryland

2:04 A.M.

President Mark Mailer, sleeves rolled up, is sweating profusely, despite the heavy air-conditioning. Situated along one wall of his soundproof office is a series of video-communicators linking the Command Center directly to STRATCOM command. Mailer looks away from the image of General Doroshow as he finishes reciting his nuclear launch codes to the commander, yielding his screen to his secretary of defense.

The president moves out from behind his desk and collapses onto the leather sofa, staring at the overhead monitor, watching helplessly as the computer graphic ticks down the final, historical minutes of the United States of America.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. God, please let me wake up in bed next to my wife
…

Mailer presses the intercom for the ninth time in the last six minutes. “Borgia?”

“Sir, I’m still trying. Grozny’s aides swear they’ve put the call through, but the president refuses to speak with you.”

“Keep trying.”

An ashen-faced Dick Pryzstas turns away from the video monitor. “Well, sir, our birds are in the air. Maybe that will bring Grozny to the phone.”

“How soon?”

“Our SLBMs will hit Moscow and Beijing two minutes after the coalition missiles strike.”

“You mean, two minutes after every major city on the east and west coasts of the United States is wiped
off
the face of the map.” Mailer leans forward, his upper body trembling. “All our preparation, all our treaties, all our technology … what the fuck happened? Where did we go wrong?”

“Mark,
we
didn’t push the button,
they
did.”

“Chaney was right, this is madness!” Mailer stands, his ulcer on fire. “God dammit, Borgia, where the fuck is Grozny?”

General Joseph Fecondo joins them, his tanned complexion now a sickly olive. “The commanders in chiefs report all sorties are airborne. You’ll excuse me, Mr. President. I’m going to remain in the command center. My oldest boy is stationed at Elmendorf. They’re … they said they’d bring him to the video-comm.”

A female staff member pushes past Fecondo and hands a telefax to the president. “Sir, the British and French have agreed not to launch any of their missiles.”

Dick Przystas’s eyes widen. “The French! Maybe they’re more ambitious than we think. They secretly develop pure fusion, detonate the devices in Russia and China, then take over what’s left of the world after the big three annihilate one another.”

Borgia looks up at Mailer. “It’s possible.”

“Sons of bitches!” Mailer kicks his desk.

Another aide enters. “Mr. President, the vice president’s on VC-4. He says it’s urgent.”

Mailer powers on the video monitor. “Speak quickly, Ennis.”

“Mr. President, the three fusion detonations—we can prove they originated within the alien vessel.”

“Christ, Ennis, I don’t have time for this—”

The image of Captain Loos appears on the communicator. “Mr. President, it’s true. We’re downloading footage taken earlier from one of our Predators.”

The picture changes, revealing an image of a swirling, emerald green vortex. All personnel within the command center stop and stare as the three dark objects rise out from the whirlpool’s funnel.

“Good God,” Mailer whispers in amazement. “It’s true.”

Borgia shouts out from his communication’s station. “Sir, VC-8, 9, and 10. I’ve got Grozny and General Xiliang, and the UN Secretary-General!”

President Mailer looks at his secretary of defense. “They’ll never believe it. Christ, I don’t believe it.”

“Then make them believe it. Two billion people are going to die in less than seventeen minutes, and you and those two bastards are the only people on earth who can stop it.”

Beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid,
Chichén Itza

Mick examines the sides of the massive granite tub, dark now, save for a single row of scarlet dots and dashes.

“What are they?” Dominique asks.

“Numbers. Mayan numbers, from zero to ten.”

“Maybe it’s a combination lock of some sort. Are there any numerical codes carved into the ruins?”

Mick’s eyes light up. “Better still, there’s a numerical code built into the design of the Great Pyramid, Angkor Wat, and the city of Teotihuacan. The precession code—4320.”

Mick touches the four-dotted symbol.

The Mayan number four changes from incandescent red to a deep electric blue.

In succession, he touches the Mayan numbers three and two, then the eye-shaped symbol equating to zero. Each icon changes to a radiant, luminescent blue.

And then the interior of the tub ignites in a brilliant azure blue glow, and an object appears, situated within the confines of the tub.

The light darkens, allowing them to peer inside the open container.

Dominique stifles a scream.

Staring back up at them, covered in a tattered white tunic, is an enormous humanoid, an old man possessing the facial features of a centenarian. The exposed flesh is ghostly white, the long white hair and beard as fine as silk. The head, perfectly preserved, is elongated, the body nearly seven feet long. The open eyes, transfixed in death, radiate an unworldly ocean blue gaze.

Before their eyes, the humanoid begins disintegrating. The pale skin singes brown, then gray, then decays to a fine, powdery dust. Dehydrated vital organs collapse inward beneath a powerful skeletal frame. The exposed bones char black, then decompose, the entire skeleton vaporizing into a shadow of ash.

Mick stares at the ash-covered white cloth, all that remains within the granite tub.

“God-damn, that was freaky,” Dominique whispers. “Was that One Hunahpu?”

“No, I-I think that was Kukulcan, I mean Guardian.” Mick leans forward, examining the interior of the open granite box.

“His skull—it was huge.”

“Elongated.” Mick climbs inside the tub.

“Mick, are you crazy? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not okay. What if that glow reappears?”

“I expect it to.”

“God dammit, Mick, don’t do this, you’re freaking me out—” She grabs his arm, trying to drag him from the tub.

“Dom, stop.” He removes her hand from his wrist, then kisses it. “I’ll be okay—”

“You don’t know that—”

“Dom, One Hunahpu’s dead. If Guardian left us some means of saving ourselves, then I have to find it.”

“Okay, so we’ll look around this ship. Radiating yourself within that coffin isn’t going to resolve anything.”

“It’s not radiation. I know it sounds bizarre, but I think it’s a portal.”

“A portal? A portal to what?”

“I don’t know, but I have to find out. I love you—”

“Mick, get the fuck out of there now!”

He lies back. As his head touches bottom, a neon blue light ignites from within, enveloping him in energy. Before Dominique can protest, an unseen magnetic force field jolts her backwards, away from the tomb.

She lands hard on her back. Regaining her feet, she looks inside the granite tub, shielding her eyes from the blazing, warm glow.

Mick’s body has disappeared within the light.

Raven Rock Underground Command Center
Maryland

2:19 A.M
.

President Mailer and his senior military advisors, fists clenched, stare at the image of Viktor Grozny, the pale Russian president wearing a black sweater, a large Victorian cross dangling from his neck.

On the screen to the left is General Xiliang, the older man looking quite pale. The UN Secretary-General is on the right.

“General, President Grozny, please hear me out,” Mailer pleads. “The United States is not responsible for these fusion detonations. None of our nations are! Let us prove it to you before we destroy half the world!”

“Show us,” the Secretary-General says.

Viktor Grozny remains impassive.

Mailer turns to Pryzstas. “Do it. Download the image.”

The secretary of defense transmits the
Boone
’s video.

On the other side of the command center, General Joseph Fecondo struggles to maintain his composure as he prays with his son, Adam, and the two base commanders at Elmendorf and Eielson Air Force Bases in Alaska.

The TIME TO IMPACT: ALASKA clock superimposed on each video-comm ticks down to the final five seconds.

Adam Przystas and the two Air Force colonels salute their commanding officer.

General Fecondo returns the salute, tears streaming down his face as the images of his son and the two COs disappear in a flash of brilliant white light.

Mailer watches the main screens as the Russian and Chinese leaders’ faces replace the video of the alien maelstrom.

“What nonsense is this?” General Xiliang shouts, his face contorted in anger.

President Mailer wipes the sweat from his eyes. “Our scientists discovered the alien vessel in the Gulf of Mexico two months ago. We’ve downloaded the precise coordinates. Use your infrared spy satellites to verify. Please understand, we only learned minutes ago that it was these objects rising from the remains of this alien vessel that have been causing the fusion detonations.”

A flurry of Chinese. “You expect us to accept this Hollywood special effect?”

“General, use your satellites! Verify the existence of the vessel—”

Grozny shakes his head in disgust. “Of course we believe you, Mr. President. This is why twenty-five hundred of your nuclear missiles are racing toward our cities while we speak.”

“Viktor, we didn’t know, I swear it! Listen to me—we still have eight minutes to stop this insanity—”

The UN leader is sweating profusely. “Gentlemen, you have less than ten minutes. Destroy your missiles—now!”

“Go ahead, Mr. President,” Grozny rasps. “Demonstrate your sincerity to the Russian and Chinese people by destroying your own missiles first.”

“No!” Fecondo bounds across the room. “Don’t believe that murdering son of a bitch—”

Mailer turns, his eyes blazing. “You’re relieved, General—”

“Don’t do it! Don’t you—”

“Get him out of here!”

A bewildered MP pulls the overwrought general from the room.

Mailer turns back to the monitor, the screen indicating 9 minutes, 33 seconds to impact. “Less than an hour ago, a thermonuclear device was detonated in one of our underground command centers. Three hundred people died, including my wife and”—Mailer’s voice cracks—“and my sons. To end this madness, Grozny, the first move will be mine. I’m giving the orders to stand down our bombers, but we must deactivate our ICBMs together.”

Grozny shakes his head, smiling grimly. “Do you take us for fools? Your pure-fusion weapons have murdered two million of our people, yet you expect us to believe that it wasn’t you, that it was what—an alien?”

The UN leader stares at Mailer. “The United States must make the first move toward peace.”

Mailer turns to his secretary of defense. “Secretary Przystas, order all bombers to return to base. Instruct all submarines and missile command centers to begin autodestruct sequence ALPHA-OMEGA-THREE. Destroy all airborne ICBMs and SLBMs at five minutes to impact.”

The president turns back to Grozny and General Xiliang. “The United States has taken the first step to ending this madness. The next move must be yours. Stand down. Destroy your missiles now. Give your people a chance to live.”