Domain (51 page)

For eight years, Barbara Esmedina has fought a personal war with the Department of Defense, ever since the day Kim Jong Il’s government completed development on the Taepo Dong-2, a two-stage long-range missile capable of reaching the western part of the continental United States. Although highly respected by her superiors, she has been chided as being too smart for her own good and too beautiful to own such a nasty temperament—the latter, an irrepressible trait that has often hurt her own efforts to obtain funding. Despite extensive lobbying efforts five years earlier, the DoD had chosen to fund the Navy’s new CVN-78, a six-billion-dollar stealth aircraft carrier.

Barbara shakes her head at the memory in disgust.
Just what we needed, another goddam six-billion-dollar white elephant
.

“We’re ready here, Colonel.”

“About time. Retract the dome.”

A hydraulic whine from above as the immense concrete dome retracts, revealing a star-filled desert sky.

“Dome retracted, Colonel. Laser targeted. We’ve got a clear field.”

“Fire laser.”

In less than a blink of an eye, a brilliant crimson red beacon ignites, tracing a line into the heavens. Colonel Esmedina and a dozen technicians focus on a computer monitor that marks the enemy satellite’s position. The image flashes on and off, then abruptly disappears.

“First target destroyed, Colonel. Now acquiring second target.”

Esmedina suppresses a grin as the laser’s turret rotates into position. “That, Comrade Grozny, is what we call, in your face from outer space.”

Beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid,
Chichén Itza

Mick is floating.

Gazing down upon the two unconscious figures lying prone on the strange grating, he sees frozen masks of pained expressions, the frightened faces blue beneath the masks.

Recognizing the bodies, he feels no remorse or sorrow, only blessed comfort, mixed with a strange sense of curiosity. Turning, he sees the tunnel open before him, the bright light beckoning him inside. Without hesitation he enters, soaring like a bird without wings.

He senses the presence of the being and registers an immediate rush of love and warmth, something he has not experienced since his early childhood.

Mother
?

The light embraces him, enveloping him within its energy.

It’s not your time, Michael
…

A roar of thunder fills his ears as the light dissipates.

The rising bile expels the regulator from Mick’s mouth, sending him into convulsions. He sucks in a breath of air, then another, then tears the mask from his face and rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he stares at the bizarre arched ceiling overhead.

Mom
? “Dominique—”

Struggling to his knees, he crawls over to the girl, quickly removing her dive mask, the regulator already out of her mouth. Verifying a pulse, he positions her head back and opens her airway, then breathes into her mouth, inflating her lungs.

Come on
…

Water fills her mouth. Straddling her, he presses her abdomen with both hands, forcing the liquid out of her stomach.

He clears her mouth and begins again.

A dozen more breaths.

Dominique’s face flushes pink. She coughs, spitting up a mouthful of water, then opens her eyes.

Bering Strait,
Off the Coast of Alaska

1:43 A.M. (Alaska Time)

The seven Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptors, the most advanced aircraft fighter in the world, rocket across the dark Alaskan sky at supersonic speed. The semitailless stealth vessels, about the size of an F-15, are not only invisible to radar, but can cruise higher and faster than any jet.

Major Daniel Barbier flexes his muscles to stay awake within the dark cockpit. Eight long hours and five midair refuelings have passed since his team left Dobbins Air Force Base at Marietta, Georgia, and the formation leader can feel the fatigue in his bones. The Canadian-born pilot reaches into his breast pocket and removes the picture of his wife, daughter, and four-year-old twin boys, gives each a kiss for luck, then refocuses his attention on the colorfully lit console before him.

The F-22’s tactical display is a sensory management system designed to provide its pilot with the maximum amount of information without becoming overwhelming. Specific colors and symbols segregate the jet fighter’s three main sensors, allowing for quick recognition. The Raptor’s Northrop Grumman/ Raytheon APG-77 fighter radar is so powerful that it allows its pilot to acquire, identify, and destroy a target long before the enemy knows it is there. In addition to radar, the F-22 is equipped with two other sensors, both passive, nonemitting devices, which help preserve the aircraft’s stealth.

The first of these is the Lockheed-Sanders ALR-94 electronic warfare (EW) system, a sensor that scans the battlefield, searching for enemy signals. When an enemy is detected, the EW immediately determines the target’s bearing and range, then programs the Raptor’s AMRAAM missiles to intercept. A second passive system, called
datalink
, gathers information from airborne AWACS, providing the F-22 pilot with superior navigation and target-identification data.

Despite the aircraft’s superior technology, Barbier’s stomach is tightening in fear. Somewhere up ahead is a squadron of Russian stealth fighters, believed to be carrying nuclear weapons. While the Raptor’s airframe minimizes radar cross section based on its angular design, its Russian counterpart produces a plasma cloud, which envelopes the plane, decreasing the reflected radar signals. Locating the enemy will not be easy.

“Woodsman to Snow White, come in Snow White.”

Barbier adjusts his headpiece to speak with Elmendorf Air Force Base. “Go ahead, Woodsman.”

“The Wicked Witch (NORAD) has detected the dwarfs. Downloading coordinates now.”

“Roger that.” Barbier watches as his central tactical display lights up like a Christmas tree. A secure, intraflight datalink simultaneously provides each of the seven Raptor pilots with the identical display even as the system analyzes and coordinates a shoot list.

Seven blue circles mark the F-22s in formation. Nine red triangles are approaching from the northwest, flying in formation, low to the water.

Barbier touches a bar on his throttle. Each bandit is instantly assigned a white circle with a number, the designations appearing on both the main tactical and attack displays of each Raptor.

Situated within the belly of Barbier’s F-22 are two ventral weapon bays and two side bays. The ventral bays each contain four HAVE DASH II advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles (AMRAAMs), a ramjet-powered, Mach-6 weapon capable of punching through six feet of concrete over a distance of a hundred nautical miles. Each side bay holds one GM-Hughes AIM-9X Sidewinder, a seeker missile capable of locking on to targets a full ninety degrees off the fighter’s boresight.

The word SHOOT simultaneously appears on Barbier’s attack screen and helmet-mounted heads-up display. The pilot fingers the pickle button, watching his tactical display as the F-22 crosses from the outermost ring into the middle ring of attack. At this range, the Raptor’s weapons can engage the enemy while the bandits remain too far away to return fire.

Barbier whispers, “Have a good swim, motherfuckers.”

With forty gees of pressure, the pneumatic-hydraulic launchers beneath each of the F-22s eject a salvo of missiles from their weapons bays. The missiles go autonomous within seconds, closing on their targets at a hypersonic velocity of sixty-five hundred feet per second.

The F-22’s bank sharply, descending to a lower altitude.

The Russian squadron leader’s heart leaps into his throat as his missile warning system lights up, the onboard alarm echoing in his ears. Perspiration breaks out beneath his flight suit as he hastily launches his decoys and breaks from formation, unable to fathom where the attack could be coming from. He glances at his radar, then cringes in terror as his wingman’s jet incinerates into a blazing fireball.

The alert becomes a deafening death toll. Staring at his radar in absolute terror, the pilot struggles to grasp the concept that the hunter has somehow become the hunted.

A second later, the AMRAAM missile violates his fuselage, vaporizing his existence into eternity.

Beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid,
Chichén Itza

Barefoot, Mick and Dominique walk hand in hand through the alien vessel, the upper portions of their neoprene diving suits hanging unzipped around their waists.

The tunnel-like corridor is warm though quite dark, the only light coming from a luminescent blue glow somewhere ahead. The floor, walls, and thirty-foot-high arched ceiling of the passage are barren and smooth, composed of a highly polished, translucent black polymer.

Mick pauses to press his face against the dark, glasslike wall, attempting to peer inside. “I think something is behind these walls, but the glass is so tinted, I can’t see a damn thing.” He turns to Dominique, who gives him a terrified look. “You okay?”

“Okay?” She grins nervously, her lower lip quivering. “No, I don’t think I’ve been okay since I met you.” She smiles, then starts to cry. “I guess … I guess the good news is you’re not crazy. Does that mean we’re all going to die?”

He takes her hand. “Don’t be scared. This vessel belongs to Kukulcan, or whatever the humanoid called itself.”

“How do we get out of here?”

“This ship must be buried directly beneath the Kukulcan pyramid. There’s probably some kind of hidden passage that leads up into the temple. We’ll find a way out, but first we need to figure out how to prevent the doomsday prophecy from coming true.”

He leads her to the end of the corridor, which opens to a massive, onion-shaped chamber. Rounded walls radiate a faint electric blue light source. At the very center of the cathedral-like, domed ceiling is a five-foot-wide passage, which rises straight up like a chimney, the orifice disappearing into darkness high above their heads.

Positioned directly beneath the opening is an enormous bathtub-shaped object.

It is a polished rectangle of brown granite—seven and a half feet long, three and a half feet wide, and three and a half feet deep. As they move closer, a dim crimson glow appears on the side of the granite tub, growing brighter as they come nearer.

Mick’s eyes widen as he stares at the rows of luminescent red hieroglyphs. “It’s a message, written in ancient Quiche Mayan.”

“Can you translate it?”

“I think so.” Mick feels his insides quivering with adrenaline. “This first section identifies the author, a being whose name translates into the Mayan equivalent of the word
guardian
.”

“Just read it,” she whispers.

“I am Guardian, last of the Nephilim. Not of this world, yet we are one. The ancestors of man were … our children.” He stops reading.

“What? Go on—”

“We … your seed.”

“I don’t understand. Who were the Nephilim?”

“The Bible refers to them as giants. The Book of Genesis briefly mentions the Nephilim as being fallen angels, men of superior intelligence. The Dead Sea Scrolls insinuate the Nephilim may have bred with human women before the time of the Great Flood, a period that equates with the melting of the last ice age.”

“Wait, are you saying these aliens crossbred with humans? That’s sick.”

“I’m not saying anything, but it makes perfect sense if you think about it. You’ve heard of evolution’s missing link, right? Maybe it was the synthesis of an advanced race of humanoid DNA that caused
Homo sapiens
to leapfrog up the evolutionary ladder.”

Dominique shakes her head, bewildered. “I can’t handle all this—just keep reading.”

Mick refocuses on the message. “Nephilim leaders weaned your species into societies, guiding the labors of your salvation, opening your minds so that you could see. Two worlds, one species, bound over space and time by a common enemy—an enemy that devours the souls of our ancestors. An enemy whose presence will soon eliminate your own species from this world.”

“Whoa, wait—what enemy? That thing in the Gulf? What’s he mean by devouring our souls? Is he saying we’re all going to die?”

“Let me finish, there’s one last passage.” Mick wipes the beads of perspiration from his eyes as he refocuses on the incandescent, bloodred text.

“I am Kukulcan, teacher of Man. I am Guardian, last of the Nephilim. Close to death, my soul is prepared to make the journey into the spiritual world. The message is transcribed, all things readied for One Hunahpu’s arrival. Two worlds, one people, one destiny. Only One Hunahpu can seal the cosmic portal before the enemy arrives. Only One Hunahpu can make the journey to
Xibalba
and save the souls of our ancestors.”

Mick stops reading.

“Okay, Mick, what’s all that supposed to mean? I thought this One Hunahpu was the guy in the creation myth who got his head cut off. How the hell’s he supposed to help us? And what’s Guardian mean by the cosmic portal must be sealed? Mick? Hey, are you all right? You look pale.”

He slumps to the floor, leaning back against the granite tub.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Just give me a second.”

She sits down next to him and massages the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. You okay?”

He nods, taking in slow, deep breaths.

“Was that the end of the message?”

He nods again.

“What’s wrong? Tell me—”

“According to the
Popol Vuh
, One Hunahpu died long ago.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know. I think we’re in big trouble.”

North American Aerospace Defense Command, NORAD
Colorado

11:01 P.M.

Commander in Chief (CINCNORAD) General Andre Moreau walks slowly past rows of high-tech radar stations, communication consoles, and video display screens. None of his controllers look up as he passes, each man and woman completely focused on their stations, their overwrought nerves fueled by a mixture of caffeine and adrenaline.