Phobos: Mayan Fear (29 page)

25

On September 10, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld
declared war. Not on foreign terrorists, “the adversary’s
closer to home. It’s the Pentagon bureaucracy.” [ … ]
Rumsfeld promised change but the next day—September
11—the world changed and in the rush to fund the war on
terrorism, the war on waste seems to have been forgotten.
“According to some estimates we cannot track $2.3 trillion
in transactions,” Rumsfeld admitted.

—VINCE GONZALES, CBS NEWS CORRESPONDENT

MIDDLESEX JAIL

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

NOVEMBER 21, 2001

B
uilt in 1971, the Middlesex Jail is a maximum-security facility occupying the upper floors of the same high-rise building that holds the Cambridge Superior Courthouse. Detainees housed in these cells are awaiting trial or sentencing.

The man being held in solitary has already been pronounced guilty by Justice James Thompson, a judge who owes his appointment on the bench to Republican Congressman Robert Borgia.

The deputy escorts the VIP with the heavy bandages over his right eye through a short corridor leading to the isolation cell. A folding chair and a bottled water are situated ten feet from the iron bars. The prisoner sits on the edge of his mattress, waiting.

“Thank you, deputy. Again, the video camera has been disabled?”

“Yes, sir, just as you requested. Press the buzzer by the door when you’re ready to leave.”

Pierre Borgia waits until his police escort has left before settling himself uncomfortably in the cheap metal folding chair. “Samuel Agler. No registered fingerprints, no birth certificate, no country of origin. According to Intel, prior to 1990 you didn’t exist. And please, let’s forgo that ‘third world orphan’ story your court-appointed attorney spewed to the judge. I want to know who you really are.”

The athletic man filling out the orange jumpsuit remains emotionless, his black eyes scanning the unbandaged half of his interrogator’s face. “That looks painful. Does it bother you much not having a right eye?”

Borgia’s mouth twitches into a forced smile. “Push my buttons all you want, my friend, but know this: I have your wife and I have your daughter.”

Samuel remains seated, his jaw muscles flexing as he grinds his teeth.

“A most amazing child. A most amazing wife. To think that Maria Rosen’s little sister was a Nordic … I mean, speaking of small worlds … or should I say, extraterrestrial worlds. I only wish Julius was still alive so I could tell him.”

“My wife is from Britain, she was raised in Spain. Whatever game you’re playing—”

“I assure you, this isn’t a game. My team is going to learn all we can from your wife and daughter while they’re still alive, then after we see how much torture they can endure we’ll carve up their remains and analyze their internal organs. You, however, won’t be so lucky. On my family’s suggestion, Judge Thompson has decided to send you to a mental asylum where you’ll spend the rest of your days in solitary confinement. Alone, you can think about all the nasty little things I’ll be doing to your family while the staff periodically amuses themselves with your wretched existence.”

Borgia stands to leave.

“You want to know who I am? You
know
who I am … Seven Macaw.”

Borgia freezes, his head cocked to one side. After a long moment he turns to speak, his one bloodshot eye blazing red, his voice a throaty rasp. “Chilam Balam?”

Sam stands, gripping the bars. “The prophet’s in my consciousness. He sees you hiding in that sickening bag of flesh. He smells your sulphurous essence. Only he won’t tell me who I am or why I’m here.”

The soul inhabiting Pierre Borgia’s vessel paces slowly before the cell. “You are here because I am here. With each incarnation it seems our paths must cross, as if our own unfinished business is what loops the cosmos. And yet with each intersection darkness trumps the light. Do you understand the inherent meaning behind these circumstances, prophet? It means the Creator desires the darkness to inhabit the physical realm. It means He no longer cares about His creation. His indifference fuels Satan’s resolve—before you die, you’ll bear witness to his glorious resurrection.”

Large Hadron Collider to Resume Operations at CERN

February 22, 2010

This month marks the resumption of operations at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC), the huge new experimental device operated by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Switzerland. The largest and costliest apparatus ever built to conduct physical research, the LHC was shut down for repairs for a year after an accident.

The LHC is to resume low-power operation early this week (February 22-24), and is scheduled to run at half-power sometime in March. CERN engineers decided last month at a meeting in Chamonix, France, to limit the collider to half power, about 3.5 trillion electron volts (TeV) for the next 18 to 24 months.

The LHC operated for less than a month last year, from November 23 to December 20, as part of the process of recovery from the accident that occurred September 19, 2008. A slightly misaligned magnet caused the LHC beam to vaporize six tons of liquid helium coolant, causing an explosion inside the detector.

During the experimental re-start, the two beams of the LHC were centered and stable. Each beam was operating at 900 gigaelectronvolts (GeV), or about 13% of the full energy. At these energies, the first confirmed collisions of the LHC were found.

—Bryan Dyne–wsws.org

Widespread Destruction from Japan Earthquake, Tsunamis

March 11, 2011

Japan was struck by the most powerful earthquake to hit the island nation in recorded history. The 9.0 magnitude temblor, which was centered near the east coast of Japan, killed hundreds of people and caused the formation of 30-foot walls of water that swept across rice fields, engulfed entire towns, dragged houses onto highways, and tossed cars and boats like toys. Some waves reached six miles (10 kilometers) inland in Miyagi Prefecture on Japan’s east coast.

The devastating earthquake and tsunami actually moved the island closer to the United States and shifted the planet’s axis. The quake caused a rift 15 miles below the sea floor that stretched 186 miles long and 93 miles wide. The areas closest to the epicenter of the quake jumped a full 13 feet closer to the United States, according to geophysicist Ross Stein at the United States Geological Survey. The 9.0 magnitude quake was caused when the Pacific tectonic plate dove under the North American plate, which shifted Eastern Japan towards North America by about 13 feet. The quake also shifted the earth’s axis by 6.5 inches, shortened the day by 1.6 microseconds, and sank Japan downward by about two feet. As Japan’s eastern coastline sunk, the tsunami’s waves rolled in.

Why did the quake shorten the day? The earth’s mass shifted towards the center, spurring the planet to spin a bit faster. Last year’s massive 8.8 magnitude earthquake in Chile also shortened the day, but by an even smaller fraction of a second. The 2004 Sumatra quake knocked a whopping 6.8 micro-seconds off the day.

Note:
The Shinmoedake volcano, located on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu, 950 miles from the earthquake’s epicenter, erupted on January 19. It spewed ash and rocks two days after the 9.0 event.

26

Eleven Years Later …

CHICHEN ITZA

YUCATAN PENINSULA

MARCH 21, 2012 (SPRING EQUINOX)

T
he pilgrims have been arriving steadily throughout the day, the parking lot filled with tour buses and rental cars, the gates of the state-owned park clogged with long lines. The entering masses follow a worn earthen path—a time portal that leads them a thousand years into the past.

In Mayan, Chichen Itza translates as “mouth of the well of the water wizard,” a reference to Kukulcan and the city’s sacred cenote. Surrounded by dense tropical jungle, the ancient capital’s layout remains virtually unchanged—an oasis of flat open expanses and limestone structures interconnected by earthen-paved roads called
sacbe.
Chichen Itza is divided into several subsections, and its main attraction is the Great North Platform, a massive public gathering place featuring the Temple of the Warriors, the Great Ball Court, and the most magnificent structure in the Yucatan—the Kukulcan Pyramid.

The crowd gathers around the Kukulcan’s northern balustrade, the first day of spring igniting a carnival atmosphere. Drums beat to traditional music as anticipation of the approaching vernal event builds. According to legend, twice each year when the day and night are equal, Kukulcan’s spirit returns to his worshipers, the great teacher’s arrival precipitated by the appearance of the shadow of a feathered serpent along the northern balustrade. As the sun rises in the sky, the snake’s seven segments elongate, until it gradually slithers down the steps and reconnects with its disembodied head at the bottom of the pyramid.

The crowd cheers the mid-afternoon sun as the first of the creature’s triangles darkens a section of the limestone facade—the shadow created by the architecture’s precise alignment to the natural rotation of the Earth and sun.

Twenty feet below ancient stone that has borne witness to the conception and demise of an entire nation lies a second temple. Smaller and older, it remains concealed within the Kukulcan like an infant inhabiting its mother’s womb. Follow an excavated tunnel along the northern side of the larger structure and one enters a claustrophobic access sealed in block, the limestone slick and sweating. A narrow claustrophobia-inducing flight of steps leads to a small chamber guarded by a stone
chacmool
—a gem-laced carving of a jaguar.

Seated alone before the idol beneath 100,000 tons of pyramid is Michael Gabriel. The thirty-seven-year-old son of the late Julius and Maria Gabriel suffers an existence of loneliness, anger, and angst. He is a man chained to and isolated by a mission, his only contact with other humans defined by the acquaintances reconnoitered on his annual migrations between Nazca and Chichen Itza.

Excised from his routine are the once-frequent trips to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where his appeals regarding the sentencing and imprisonment of his yet-to-be-born biological son, Samuel Agler, have been stonewalled for years. The only spark of daylight—a recent disclosure that the antiquated mental asylum was closing and that all patients would be relocated to facilities located throughout the country.

Samuel Agler has been transferred to the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center in Miami, Florida.

One way or another, Michael Gabriel intends to get him out … and the clock is ticking.

With the arrival of the 2012 vernal equinox, the Doomsday Event is now a mere nine months away. Despite exhaustive field work, Mick is no closer to resolving the Mayan mystery than his parents had been. It was as if his son’s mysterious appearance had reshuffled the deck on forty years of research. Compounding the problem was the government’s refusal to discuss the disappearance of his Aunt Laura and his niece, Sophia, and the more he inquired, the closer he came to being “disappeared” himself.

That translated to a Majestic-12 threat, which meant Laura and Sophia were being held somewhere in Area 51, assuming they were still alive.

The muffled acoustics of the crowd’s cheers cause him to look up at the jaguar figure. Chilam Balam had known all the pieces of the Doomsday puzzle. Samuel Agler was convinced he was an incarnation of the Jaguar Prophet. After Sam’s eleven years in solitary confinement, Mick prays there is a lucid stream left to mine in his son’s consciousness.

He glances at his watch. The charter plane from Merida landed twenty minutes ago, the passenger having arrived from her foster parents’ home in Tampa, Florida.

Mick makes his way down the slippery limestone steps, then out the excavated tunnel’s sealed door into daylight.

Beginning at the two serpent heads located at the base of the Kukulcan Pyramid, the
sacbe
runs north through the dense jungle for nearly a mile before ending at the sacred cenote. The elevated earthen walkway is lined with Mayan men and women selling their wares, the “authentic” pottery and blankets, statues and obsidian daggers all supplied by the same Mexican manufacturer.

The feisty Mayan woman is in her sixties, her turquoise-blue eyes accentuated by her high cheekbones. She is seated in a canvas folding chair, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, shaking her head at an American couple bartering over a figure of a Mayan warrior shooting an arrow into the air.

Mick waits until they leave before approaching the old woman, dropping a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills onto her lap.

Chicahua Aurelia glances up at the tall, dark American, his eyes concealed behind sunglasses. “What do you wish to buy?”

“A conversation. With your niece.”

“My niece?”

“Dominique Vazquez. She arrived on the commuter flight from Merida. I need to speak with her about something important.”

“My
niece
speaks her own mind. She does not need an old woman to barter her conversations.”

“She refuses to speak with me. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What is it you need to discuss?”

“Dominique was recently awarded an internship to work in a mental asylum in Florida. My connections inform me she was selected for a particular patient. The patient is a relative of mine … an older half brother. I need to get word to him … to communicate with him.”

“Why not simply arrange a visit?”

“He’s been denied all visitation rights. Eleven years ago he attacked a very powerful man … a dark soul. As my brother suffers, humanity suffers.”

“How so?”

“My older brother possesses knowledge that could prevent the calendar’s prophecy—”

“You again? I don’t believe it.” The thirty-one-year-old Guatemalan beauty with the high cheekbones and waist-length, jet-black hair approaches Mick like an angry tiger. Before he can expel a word, she drives her right leg into a vicious front thrust kick, the martial-arts expert’s sandaled foot striking the archaeologist in his sternum, launching him backward into the jungle thicket.

“Dominique!”

“Chicahua, this man’s been stalking me for three weeks.” Dominique grabs an obsidian dagger from the old woman’s display table.

Mick quickly springs to his feet, taking refuge behind an Acai tree. “I’m not stalking you! I just need to talk—”

Wielding the blade like an expert, she slices the air in tight figure eights, carving up an entanglement of leaves.

“Dominique, put that knife away. Now!”

She hesitates, then backs away, tossing the blade back on the table.

The old woman turns to Mick. “What is your name?”

“Michael Gabriel. I’m an archaeologist, not a stalker.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Enough.” Chicahua waves for him to come closer. “Give me your hand.”

Mick allows the old woman to examine his right palm. Chicahua closes her eyes, her fingers palpating his life line and pulse.

Her eyes reopen. For a long uncomfortable moment she simply stares into Mick’s black irises, then, tearing a piece of paper from her receipt book, she scrawls something in pen.

The old woman hands him the information, returning his money. “This is my address in Pisté. You will join us tonight for dinner. Arrive at eight o’clock.”

“Thank you.” He nods to Dominique, then leaves.

The dark-haired beauty shakes her head. “Why?”

Chicahua Aurelia kisses her daughter’s hand. “When I reconnected with you three years ago, you asked me the same question. You may not like the answer, nor will you understand it, but the reason I sent you away, only to reunite twenty years later, is so your journey would cross paths with that man.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as always.

Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.

Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. “Go on in. He’s waiting.”

Mark Maller’s gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The former intercollegiate basketball player’s physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.

Borgia tells him he looks like he’s lost weight.

Maller grimaces. “It’s called stress. It’s over between Heidi and me. Fortunately, she’s agreed to keep everything quiet until after the November election.”

“Sorry to hear that. I would have guessed Viktor Grozny.”

“Yes, well, the Russian president has certainly contributed to my bleeding ulcer. Selling the Iranians those SS-27 mobile ICBMs was a deft move entering next week’s G-20 summit.”

“Sir, you can’t shut down HAARP. There’s only innuendo, no proof—”

“Pierre, I didn’t call you in to discuss covert missile shields. Joe’s decided to step down as vice president. Don’t ask. Call it personal reasons. I’ve already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It’s between you and Ennis Chaney.”

Borgia’s heart skips a beat. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

“No. I wanted to brief you first.”

“Senator Chaney is divisive to the party. He publicly challenges our presence in Afghanistan, he’s been outspoken against Big Oil—”

“As have most Americans.”

“Sir, we both know Chaney can’t hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence—”

“Not as much as you think. Look, if it were strictly up to me, your name would be on the ticket, but the election’s going to be tight. Chaney would give us a much needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision’s going to be made for at least another two weeks. But I need to know, are there any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with? Something the media will run with?”

“I’m clean.”

“What about the incident back in 2001?”

“I was the victim, Mark. I lost an eye, for God’s sake.”

“You know how things will get spun. I’m only asking because my sources tell me your assailant is due for his annual medical evaluation, only this time he’s in an institution that actually will evaluate his mental state. In other words, I wouldn’t want him appearing on talk shows or attack ads come November.”

“Mr. President, trust me—the lunatic who did this to me will never see the light of day.”

PISTÉ, YUCATAN

Pisté is a small Yucatec town located a mile from Chichen Itza on Mexico’s Route 180, its brightly painted stucco stores shelved with Mayan memorabilia. Beyond a block of shops sandwiched around a local inn lies a sleepy residential area, its indigenous populace entrenched in a simple life that rarely exceeds the city limits.

Day has stretched into dusk by the time Michael Gabriel maneuvers his motor scooter off the main drag through dirt streets inhabited by brown-skinned natives, barefoot children, and stray dogs. Locating the address, Mick parks his ride close to the sitting porch of the one-story stucco dwelling and knocks on the screen. The interior door is open, releasing the scent of homemade cornbread.

Dominique greets him, wearing a one-piece ivory-colored frock and an attitude of indifference.

“For you.” He hands her the bouquet of wildflowers.

“Whose garden did you steal these from?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Though my chest is bruised from your last greeting. Where’d you learn to kick like that?”

“You’re the one doing the snooping, you tell me.”

“I’m guessing cheerleader camp?”

He’s rewarded with a quick flash of a smile that accentuates her cheekbones, lightening his heart. “You can come in, Mr. Gabriel, just keep in mind I know six different ways to kill a man.”

“Hopefully cooking’s not one of them.” He follows her past a small sitting room to a kitchen where Chicahua is portioning food onto three colorful serving dishes.

“Come in, Mr. Gabriel. Doesn’t my niece look beautiful this evening?”

“She does.”

The old woman motions for him to sit at the dining room table. “I made some inquiries about you since our last meeting. Your father was Julius Gabriel, your mother was Maria Rosen. You spent many winters of your childhood living in this area while your parents continued their research. Your family has many allies among my people. What you don’t have, Mr. Gabriel, is an older brother.”

Mick’s eyes water as beads of perspiration trickle down his armpit. “He’s more of a half brother, I told you. Julius apparently sowed his wild oats before meeting my mother. Kind of embarrassing.”

“Your mother’s ancestry hails from South America?”

“Peru. But only on her maternal side.”

“Dominique’s maternal lineage traces back to the Itza. My great-grandmother claimed our family tree was rooted by Kukulcan himself.”

“That’s … impressive.”

“I noticed you staring at my eyes earlier in the park. The shade is unusual, yes?”

“Mayan blue.”