The Mayan Resurrection

34

Friday Morning

Captain Robert Wilkins, Operational Commander of the Weather Net-Atlantic Force, stares at the real-time satellite image of Super-Cane Kenneth being projected on the control room’s large monitor. The Category-6 storm has become an absolute freak of nature, its clearly defined eye sixty nautical miles northeast of Eleuthera Island, its swirling vortex already engulfing the Bahamas, punishing the hastily abandoned islands with winds in excess of 195 miles an hour.

Wilkins is as frustrated as he is worried. The delivery of the MPK gas mix to the Port of Miami was not only late, it was light, with barely enough of the pressurized cryogenic nitrogen to fill half the fleet’s converted vertical silos. Category-6 super-canes mandate a minimum of eight fully loaded vessels. Wilkins has barely six, and Kenneth is no ordinary superstorm.

Executive Officer David Sutera approaches, handing him a printout. ‘Skipper, we just received this latest GMT.’

SUPER -CANE KENNETH 1100 GMT FRIDAY 11/25/33

LOCATION: 26.1 N 75.8 W

MAX. WIND: 197 MPH

GUSTING: 208 MPH

MOVING: WAT 16 MPH

PRESSURE: 941 MB

PREDICTED U.S. LANDFALL: SATURDAY 11/26/33 09:20 HRS

DESTINATION: MIAMI

‘Christ, it’s picked up speed.’

‘A mandatory evacuation order was just issued. Key West north to West Palm Beach.’

‘Conn, sonar, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us about, make your course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Aye, sir, coming about. Making my course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Bring us to periscope depth.’

‘Aye, sir, coming up to periscope depth. Steady at sixty feet.’

Sutera presses his face to the periscope and takes a quick 360-degree scan of the surface. ‘Confirm, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Sonar, Captain, is the fleet in position?’

‘Conn, sonar, still waiting on the Wyoming and Kentucky. ETA four minutes. All other ships have come about and are standing by.’

Wilkins reverses his cap and looks through the periscope.

Sunshine reflects off an ominous olive green sea, its rolling waves peaking at thirty feet.

An oasis of calm within a vortex of hell…

The captain rotates to the west and focuses on the advancing eye wall. It is as if he is looking out from inside the heart of a tornado. A dark purple wall of clouds-swirling, twisting, igniting every few seconds in bursts of lightning-the storm is a living, raging beast.

‘Conn, sonar, all ships now in position.’

Wilkins pulls himself away from the periscope and readjusts his cap. ‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, put us on the ceiling. Increase speed to sixteen knots.’

‘Aye, sir, surfacing ship. Increasing my speed to sixteen knots.’

‘Conn, sonar, give me two pings down the fleet’s bearings.’

‘Aye, sir, two pings.’

Two thunderous gongs echo across the sea, alerting the other Trident subs, which have fanned out along the eastern eye wall.

‘Weather Net Officer, this is the captain. Begin ejecting MPK gas.’

‘Aye, sir. Ejecting MPK gas.’

Located amidships, standing in pairs like steel redwood trees, are the sub’s twenty-four vertical missile silos, each rising more than three stories. Originally designed to launch sixty-five-ton Trident D-5 II nuclear ballistic missiles, the tubes have been refitted to hold compatibly sized canisters of pressurized cryogenic nitrogen gas mix.

Weather Net Officer Matt Winegar activates the digital clock on his control board, then presses EJECT -1 and EJECT -2.

Exterior hatches pop open along the top of the submarine. Seconds later, a clear stream of gas is forcibly expelled through venturi tubes. As the MPK gas mixes with the low-pressure, high-humidity atmosphere, it expands and crystallizes, forming a thick fog, which is quickly suctioned toward the approaching wall of the cyclone.

Immense waves lift and drop the sub, sending several off-duty sailors scampering to the head.

WNO Winegar tries his best to ignore the building queasiness in his gut as he watches his clock. Each MPK tank release must be timed to feed the storm, too much gas at once, and the storm will choke.

At four minutes a green light flashes, alerting Winegar to release the next two batches of compound.

The storm continues east as it feeds, its western eye sucking the chemical up into its vortex, dispersing it within its cumulus fury.

High overhead, flying back and forth through the supercane’s clouds like steel falcons are ESMA’s Unmanned Cyclone Aerial Labs. These four-foot-long winged darts, known affectionately as UNCLE, traverse the walls of the eye, gathering precious data.

The officers and crew of the Pennsylvania hold on and watch as UNCLE’s data appears on screen.

SUPER -CANE KENNETH: SUSTAINED WINDS: 193 MPH

The hurricane’s winds continue dropping. 182mph… 181mph… 179mph

…

‘Conn, Weather Net Officer. All silos flushed, skipper.’

‘Officer of the Deck, take us down. Make your depth one hundred feet.’

‘Aye, sir, taking us down. Making my depth one hundred feet.’

Captain Wilkins stares at UNCLE’s numbers, silently rooting for them to descend faster. From experience he knows the MPK gas must decrease sustained winds below 140 mph for the storm’s feedback cycle to be significantly disrupted.

168mph… 167mph… 166mph… 167mph…

The crew groans.

Wilkins grits his teeth. Wasn’t enough… not nearly enough. He lets out a frustrated breath. ‘Conn, radio. Contact ESMA headquarters. Alert them the weather net has failed to cap the storm.’

South Beach, Florida

Friday Afternoon

The surf laps gently along a deserted stretch of beach. The sun beats down upon a coconut tree, a gust of tropical air causing one of its fruit to fall. Sandpipers dip, then soar away, racing inland.

Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes.

He is strapped within the bucket seat of the Amphibian, which has beached itself on shore. Releasing the shoulder harness, he turns around to face Lauren, who is strapped in the seat behind him. ‘Lauren? Lauren, wake up.’

She opens her eyes, spitting a strand of hair from her mouth. ‘Oww, my head… what happened?’

‘We got zapped by a taser. I managed to activate the autopilot before it hit us. Looks like we made it to Miami.’

He climbs slowly out of the cockpit, then helps her from her seat.

She hugs him, laying her head wearily against his chest. ‘Why were you at NASA?’

‘God, don’t ask. It was sort of, I don’t know… call it a family obligation. I’ll tell you about it later. What were you doing there?’

She pulls herself from his embrace. ‘I’m in real trouble. Someone killed Professor Gabeheart, and now they’re after me!’

‘Whoa, slow down. Who’s after you?’

‘Government thugs. Something’s happening in Yellowstone. We have to go public-’

ATTENTION.

They look up, startled.

It is a PAWS (Public Aerial Warning System), a flying vehicle operated by the Earth Systems Management Agency to assist in evacuating populated areas prior to storms.

THIS AREA HAS BEEN CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE ESMA. EVACUATE THE AREA AND REPORT TO A STORM SHELTER IMMEDIATELY OR FACE PROSECUTION.

‘Super-Cane Kenneth-I completely forgot.’

‘Come on.’ Sam climbs back in the Amphibian and tries the power switch.

Nothing.

‘ Fubitchshitting piece of junk.’

DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE?

‘No, no, we’re waiting to re-charge.’ Lauren activates the battery re-charger, then drags him out of the boat. The two hurry off the beach.

PAWS keeps pace, hovering twenty feet above.

She whispers frantically in his ear. ‘They’re watching both of our apartments.’

‘Who’s watching?’

‘Them! The guys who killed Gabeheart.’ She digs her nails into his arm. ‘One of them came for me in the lab. I hid under the computer decking. I heard him say they were watching my dorm. If they find me, I’m dead.’

They exit the beach, crossing Collins Avenue. South Beach is deserted. There is no traffic, not a single car or street vendor present.

‘Kind of spooky.’

‘Sam!’

‘Okay, okay-’ He looks around, then pulls her beneath a floating walkway. ‘All right, start from the beginning.’

Lauren tells him everything, showing him her scarred hand.

When she is through, he leans back against a lamp post, rubbing his brow. ‘Jesus, Lauren, how’d you get yourself into this mess?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And you really think these people have connections within our government?’

‘Yes! Weren’t you paying attention?’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘Sam, that PAWS drone will alert the cops. We have to get out of here.’

He recalls Jacob’s last words. ‘I think I know somewhere we can go.’

Hangar 13

Friday Evening

The parking lot of Hangar 13 is filled beyond capacity.

HOPE employees are arriving by car and bus, board members by private helojet. An invading army of technicians and scientists, engineers and associates-all waiting their turn to view the alien starship berthed in the main hangar bay.

Inside the complex, away from the action, four people emerge from their hiding place beneath the Japanese A-frame.

The two bodyguards, Salt and Pepper, stand vigil at the front porch. Each is wearing an aluminum foil EMP suit, designed to shield their nervous systems from the effects of taser fire. Dominique is inside Jacob’s home, anxiously waiting for her son to finish working at his computer.

Mitchell Kurtz scans the atrium using his smart-glasses. ‘Here we go. Northern entrance. I see four guards, all carrying stun guns.’

‘They’re yours,’ says Pep. ‘I’ll get Dom and the kid.’

Jacob finishes uploading information from his computer terminal. ‘Computer, complete upload to mainframe, then erase all records… Password: Gabriel Alpha-Zulu-Delta-4 Ahau, 8 Cumku.’

UPLOAD COMPLETED. ALL RECORDS HAVE BEEN ERASED.

‘Jacob?’

‘Mother, listen to me carefully. Go with Salt and Pepper, they’ll get you out of here. Pick up Eve Mohr, then meet me at the rendezvous point.’

‘What about Manny?’

‘He’ll be all right.’ He forces a smile, then hugs her tightly. ‘Remember, do exactly what we talked about, and I’ll see you soon.’

Pepper yanks open one of the shoji panels, the powerful bodyguard literally tearing it from its frame. ‘We gotta go-now!’ He grabs Dominique by the arm, half-carrying her through the fragmented doorway.

She looks over her shoulder.

Jacob is gone.

Mitchell Kurtz glances up casually as four heavily armed Mabus security guards make their way across the bridge. ‘Evening, fellas.’

‘Don’t move. Don’t even blink.’

Kurtz smiles. In a millisecond, his thought energy is processed through the neural shunt connected to his biceps, igniting the taser strapped to his forearm.

The four guards drop like a house of cards.

Jacob is in the central garden of his home, seated in a lotus position. Registering the change in temperature, he opens his eyes.

Lilith is staring at him from the open shoji door. ‘Jacob?’

Jacob stares at her as if observing an approaching cobra, her smile electrifying his groin.

‘I always suspected you were still alive… always sensing the shadow of your presence.’ Her eyes flash violet. ‘You abandoned me!’

‘I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? Is that all you have to say? You were my only friend, the only one who loved me. All of those promises… they were all lies.’

‘I did love you, Lilith, I still do.’

‘Bastard.’ She circles him, brushing her fingertips lightly across his chest and neck, their lips inches apart, the glow of their azure eyes reflecting off one another’s cheeks.

She moves closer, allowing her hip to brush against his groin.

‘I make you afraid. Why are you so afraid of me, Jacob?’

Lilith’s scent is in his nostrils, pounding in his blood. ‘I’m… I’m afraid of my feelings.’

‘Liar. You’re afraid of what I’ll become. But like you, I’m simply a product of my environment. Which means you helped create me, just as I’ve created you.’

She grins. Leans in. Pauses. Licks his lips.

A tidal wave of insanity overwhelms him as his mouth crashes against hers and their limbs entwine in the embrace-two victims of society, two polar extremes, two lonely souls sharing this one promised moment of passion.

Lilith pants in his ear as her fingers scramble to undo the belt buckle of his pants – while Jacob’s hand slides beneath her silky bottoms, groping her moist pubic region, all the while his conscience screaming at him, No, Jacob stop, Jacob stop… stop… stop… STOP!

He yanks his hand free, pushing her away. ‘I can’t… I can’t do this!’

Lilith’s azure eyes are full of lust, her lips red where the kiss has bruised them. ‘We were meant to be together.’

‘No… too dangerous.’

‘I want you, Jacob.’ She slips off her top, exposing her breasts. ‘I want you inside of me, and I won’t take no for an answer.’

And suddenly she is upon him, raping him from within the nexus. Jacob’s mind leaps inside the void to join her, Lilith’s nude torso thrusting up and down upon his naked pelvis, the intensity of the moment magnified a hundredfold within the supernatural corridor.

And in his single moment of weakness, he explodes inside her, planting his Hunahpu seed deep in her ovulating womb.

Exhausted and spent, their minds tumble out of the nexus, Lilith collapsing upon his chest. ‘You’re my soul mate, you always will be.’

Jacob Gabriel wraps his arms around her and weeps.

Salt and Pepper escort Dominique through the open vault door and down the main corridor.

‘Hold it!’ The two MTI security guards at the end of the hall raise their weapons. ‘No one leaves the facility without Mrs. Mabus’s permission. Stop or we’ll fire.’

The three continue running toward them.

The lead guard fires – the electrical burst immediately absorbed by their suits.

‘Fubishit-’

Ryan Beck is first to reach them. Grabbing each guard by the back of the neck, he slams their heads against the steel door, knocking them out.

Delray Beach, Florida

The estate home at the end of the cul-de-sac is similar to the other mansions in this very private, gated West Delray community. Like other homes, it overlooks a lake on three acres of land. It has a tennis court, a basketball court, and a pool, but seldom are they used-except when the grandkids come to visit. In fact, the only amenities its owner uses these days are the satellite dishes, and, of course, the live-in private security personnel.

Ominous clouds have blanketed the sky by the time the canary yellow Amphibian skids to a halt in front of the automated guardhouse located at the main entrance of the community.

Immanuel Gabriel climbs out. Presses the ID pad.

REMAIN BY YOUR VEHICLE, SIR. STATE YOUR BUSINESS.

‘Samuel Agler to see Frank Stansbury.’

STAND BY.

Heavy raindrops plop against the multicolored pavers. Come on…

PLEASE WAIT. MR. STANSBURY’S SECURITY VEHICLE WILL ESCORT YOU TO THE HOME MOMENTARILY. HAVE A NICE DAY.

Droplets have turned into a downpour by the time the security vehicle pulls up to the outer gate. An armed guard climbs out of the back seat, signaling for Immanuel and Lauren to get inside.

As the door closes and they drive into the complex, a tow truck arrives to haul the Amphibian away.

Inside the car, the driver says nothing. Immanuel notices Lauren’s hand is trembling. He squeezes it.

The vehicle enters the gated driveway of an estate, stopping beneath an enormous porte cochere, its rooftop shielding them from the rain.

The driver turns to face them. ‘Out you go. Mr. Stansbury is waiting for you inside.’

They exit the vehicle. Manny knocks on the imposing double oak door.

The door opens, releasing an aroma of glazed ham and stuffing.

The African-American is stooped over. The eyes are sunken, twitching behind old-fashioned spectacles. What’s left of the man’s hair has grayed.

The owlish smile is genuine, the voice a familiar rasp.

‘Hello, Manny. Been expectin’ you.’

Ennis Chaney, former president of the United States pulls his shocked godson in, out of the weather.