Domain (21 page)

Like Kukulcan among the Maya and Quetzalcoatl to the Aztecs, Viracocha is the most revered figure in Inca history. Were the Viracochas of 400 BC his ancestors? Could he be a distant relative of Kukulcan? If so, does his presence in ancient South America have anything to do with the Mayan calendar and its forecast of doom?

Seeking answers, we abandoned the Nazca desert and headed for the Andes Mountains, intent on exploring two ancient sites believed to have been created by the Inca deity. The first of these was the fortress of Sacsayhuaman, a monstrous structure erected just north of Cuzco. Like the royal tomb, the walls of this mind-boggling citadel are composed of giant irregularly shaped granite boulders which have miraculously been fitted so perfectly together that I could not wedge the edge of my pocketknife between the stones.

It strains the imagination to think how the Andean Indians were able to transport stones weighing 100 tons or more over ten miles of mountainous terrain from their distant quarry, then fit them perfectly into place along the fortification. (One 28-foot-high monster weighs in excess of 700,000 pounds.) Archaeologists, still struggling to explain away this unfathomable feat, have attempted to duplicate a small fraction of Viracocha’s legacy by transporting one medium-sized boulder from a distant quarry using advanced engineering principles and a small army of volunteers. To this day, every undertaking has failed miserably.

We know the fortress of Sacsayhuaman was erected to protect its inhabitants from hostile forces. The true purpose behind the design of Viracocha’s other structure, the ancient Andean city of Tiahuanaco, still remains a mystery.

Situated 12,500 feet above the Pacific in the Andean Mountains of Bolivia, the ruins of Tiahuanaco rest on the ancient shoreline of Lake Titicaca, the highest body of navigable water in the world. After examining the impossible engineering feats at Sacsayhuaman, I would have sworn that nothing henceforth would surprise me. Despite this, the site of Tiahuanaco was simply overwhelming. The ground plan of this ancient city consists of three limestone temples and four other structures, all set on a series of raised platforms and sunken rectangles. As in Sacsayhuaman, the majority of construction consists of impossibly large boulders fitted together perfectly.

But there is clearly more to Tiahuanaco than meets the eye. A hidden agenda is present here—an agenda that may relate to the very salvation of our species.

Dominating the city is the remains of the Akapana, a step pyramid whose four directionally oriented sides each measure 690 feet. The purpose of Akapana, alas, must remain a mystery as the invading Spanish used the structure as a quarry, robbing the temple of 90 percent of its facing.

The most wondrous structure in Tiahuanaco is the Gate of the Sun, a single, massive block of stone weighing 100 tons. This mammoth work of art stands in the northwest corner of the complex like some prehistoric Arc de Triomphe. Somehow, its creator managed to transport this enormous block of stone from a quarry miles away, carve out a perfect portal of a door using God knows what kind of tool, then vertically align the piece into place.

Giant pillars proliferate in the city. At the center of a sunken, rectangular open-air pit stands a seven-foot-tall red rock carving of Viracocha himself. The elongated skull is present, as well as the prominent forehead, thin straight nose, and the beard-covered jawline. The arms and hands are folded. A final feature worth mentioning: Rising along either side of the wise man’s robe are two serpents, similar to those depicted throughout Mesoamerica.

The most controversial structure of Tiahuanaco is the Kalasasaya, a sunken temple located in the center of the city, surrounded by huge walls. Twelve-foot-high stone blocks have been erected within its confines. Although Pierre concluded that the Kalasasaya had to have been a fortress, Maria believed otherwise, recognizing the alignment of the erect, monolithic blocks as being similar to those found at Stonehenge.

As usual, Maria turned out to be correct. The Kalasasaya is not a fortress but a celestial observatory, perhaps the oldest in the world.

So what does all this mean?

Five years out of Cambridge, my fellow archaeologists and I had found overwhelming evidence indicating a superior race of Caucasians had influenced the development of both the Mesoamerican and South American Indians. These bearded men, possessing genetically deformed skulls, had somehow designed and overseen the construction of magnificent monuments, the purpose of which still baffled us.

Maria was convinced that the design of the Kalasasaya observatory was too close to that of Stonehenge to be a mere coincidence. She believed that it was imperative that we continue following the trail of this Caucasian race and their ancient wisdom east to see when it would lead.

Pierre Borgia was not happy about this. Two years at Nazca had been more than enough to satiate his appetite for archaeology, and he was being pressured by his well-to-do family to return to the States to pursue a political career. The problem was that he loved Maria, in fact, the two of them had planned to wed in the spring.

As much as she cared for Pierre, Maria was not ready to give up her quest to resolve the Mayan prophecy, insisting that we continue to follow the bearded ones’ ancient trail to Stonehenge.

The thought of returning to England was all the enticement we needed, and so I booked us passage and we flew on to the next leg of our journey, one I knew was destined to break up our little triumvirate forever.

—Excerpt from the journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,

Ref. Catalogue 1972-75 pages 6-412

Photo Journal Floppy Disk 2: File name: NAZCA, Photo 109.

Chapter 10

OCTOBER 26, 2012
SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA

SUNDAY, 5:20 A.M.

D
oll, wake up!” Dominique opens her eyes, yawning. “What’s wrong?”

“Iz wants you down in the lab. SOSUS located something.”

Adrenaline pumping, she kicks off the blanket and follows Edie down the back staircase to the acoustics lab.

Iz is seated at his SOSUS terminal, headphones on, his back to her. Dominique notices the sound system is recording data.

He swings around in his chair to face her. She sees he is dressed only in a bathrobe and slippers. Tufts of his thinning charcoal gray hair stand wildly on end around the headphones. The serious expression on his face stifles her laugh.

“I checked the system last night before I went to bed. The only unusual thing SOSUS had located was what we call a ‘dead zone,’ an area devoid of marine life. This in itself isn’t that unusual. The Gulf experiences annual dead zones every summer when plankton blooms created by fertilizer runoff deprive the water of oxygen. But those dead zones usually occur off the coast of Texas and Louisiana, and never in water this deep. Anyway, I reprogrammed SOSUS to concentrate on this area and left the system on search mode all night. The alarm went off about fifteen minutes ago.” Iz removes the headphones and hands them to her. “Listen to this.”

She hears static, like the
zapping
sound a fluorescent tube makes before it shorts out. “Sounds like white noise.”

“That’s what I said. Keep listening.” Iz changes the setting to a higher frequency.

The white noise disappears. Now Dominique hears an incessant, metallic
thumping
sound. “Wow. It sounds like hydraulics.”

Iz nods. “Ask your mother, I said the same thing. In fact, I thought SOSUS had picked up a submarine resting on the bottom. Then I rechecked the location.” Iz hands her a computer printout. “The acoustics aren’t coming from the seafloor, they’re coming from
below
the seafloor. Four thousand, six hundred and eighty feet below the seafloor, to be exact.”

Dominique’s heart is thumping like a kettledrum. “But how’s that possible—”

“You tell me! What am I listening to, Dominique? Is this a joke, because if it is—”

“Iz, stop talking nonsense.” Edie places a reassuring arm around Dominique’s waist. “Dom had no idea what you’d find. The information was given to her by, well, by a friend.”

“Who’s this friend? I want to meet him.”

Dominique rubs the sleep from her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Why not? Ead, what’s going on here?”

Dominique glances at Edie, who nods. “He’s—he’s a former patient of mine.”

Iz looks from Dominique to his wife, then back to Dominique. “Your friend’s a mental patient?
Oy vey
—”

“Iz, what difference does it make? Something’s out there, right? We need to investigate—”

“Slow down, kiddo. I can’t just contact the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and tell them that I located hydraulic sounds originating a mile below the Campeche shelf. The first thing they’re going to want to know is
how
I discovered the acoustics in the first place. What am I supposed to tell them—that some looney-tune gave my daughter the coordinates from his cell in Miami.”

“Would it make a difference if Stephen Hawking gave you the coordinates?”

“Yes, actually it would, it would make a huge difference.” Iz rubs his forehead. “The old bull in a china shop routine doesn’t work anymore, Dominique, at least not when it comes to SOSUS. About three years ago, I used the system to detect vibrations originating from beneath the Gulf floor that sounded exactly like a sea quake.” Iz shakes his head at the memory. “You tell her, Edie.”

Edie smiles. “Your father thought we were minutes away from getting hit by a major tsunami. He panicked and ordered the Coast Guard to evacuate all the beaches.”

“Turns out I had the system set too high. What I thought were sea quakes was actually the phone company dredging cable sixty miles offshore. I felt like a goddam moron. I called in a lot of favors to get our station hooked up to SOSUS. I can’t afford another screwup like the last one.”

“So you’re not going to investigate?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. What I’ll do is start a bible and continue to record and monitor the area closely, but I’m not going to contact any federal agency until I’m absolutely certain that this discovery of yours warrants it.”

Miami, Florida

10:17 P.M.

Mick Gabriel is sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking silently. His black eyes are vacant, his lips slightly parted. A thin string of saliva drools from his unshaven chin.

Tony Barnes enters Mick’s room. The male orderly has just returned from a three-week suspension. “Trick or treat, vegetable. Time for your nightly shot.” He lifts Mick’s limp right arm from his lap and inspects the series of purple contusions appearing along the anterior forearm.

“Ah, fuck it.” The orderly jabs the needle into the arm, injecting the Thorazine into an already butchered vein.

Mick’s eyes roll upward as his body falls forward, collapsing in a heap at the orderly’s feet.

The orderly prods Mick’s head with the toe of his sneaker. He glances over his shoulder to verify they are alone, then licks Mick’s ear.

Barnes hears Marvis making his rounds. “Pleasant dreams, girlfriend.” He hurries out.

The door double-clicks shut. The lights in the pod dim.

Mick’s eyes open.

He staggers to the sink and washes his face and ear with cold water. Cursing under his breath, he presses a thumb to the bleeding, bruised vein. Then, feeling the haze closing in around him, he slumps painfully to his knees and takes up a push-up position.

For the next two hours, Mick forces his body through an agonizing ritual of calisthenics. Push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, running in place—anything to keep his metabolism racing, anything to burn off the tranquilizer before it can overwhelm his central nervous system.

Of the three, the morning shots were always the worst. Foletta would administer the dose himself, monitoring his patient as he cooed softly in Mick’s ear, taunting him. Once the drug took effect, he’d place Mick in a wheelchair and push him around from pod to pod on his morning rounds, sending a warning to the other residents that dissidence of any kind would not be tolerated.

The nightly exercises after the third shot of the day were a worthwhile struggle. By increasing his metabolism, Mick found he was able to burn off the effects of the drug faster, gradually giving him a toehold on sanity. By the fourth morning, he had regained enough of his mental equilibrium to focus on a plan.

From that moment forward he had acted the part of a mindless bag of bones. The seventh-floor orderlies would arrive each morning to find him lying on the floor of his cell in a deep stupor, totally incoherent. This angered the attendants, who were now forced to feed their incapacitated patient, and, to their utter disgust, even change his soiled clothing. After a week of this routine, Foletta was forced to cut Mick’s dosage from three times a day to just an afternoon and an evening injection.