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  Mick offers no resistance as the redhead struts forward, getting up in his face.

  Resident, you were asked to vacate this room. Is that a problem?

  Mick sees Dr. Foletta enter the room out of the corner of his eye. He glances at the guard's identification badge and offers the redhead a smile. You know, Raymond, all the muscles in the world won't get you laid if your breath reeks of garlic-

  Foletta approaches. Raymond, don't-

  The uppercut strikes Mick squarely on the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. He falls forward, doubled up in pain, his body still supported on either side by the two guards.

  God dammit, Raymond, I said to wait-

  Sorry, sir, I thought you-

  Mick regains his feet and, in one motion, arches his back, raising his knees to his chest before kicking outward, the heels of his tennis shoes smashing hard into the redhead's face, shattering the man's nose and upper lip in a spray of blood.

  Raymond drops to the floor in a heap.

  Foletta bends over the semiconscious guard, staring at the man's face. That was uncalled-for, Mick.

  An eye for an eye, eh, Doctor.

  Two more orderlies enter, brandishing stun guns. Foletta shakes his head. Escort Mr. Gabriel to his room, then get a physician down here to take care of this idiot.

  It is late by the time Dominique pulls the black Pronto Spyder into the facility's parking lot. She enters the lobby, then swipes her magnetic identification card to pass through the first-floor security checkpoint.

  Won't work, Sunshine.

  The voice is weak and a bit muffled. Raymond, is that you? Dominique can barely see the big redhead through the security gate.

  Use the facial scan.

  She enters her code, then presses her face to the rubber housing, the infrared beam scanning her features.

  The security door unlocks.

  Raymond is leaning back in his chair. A heavy gauze bandage is wrapped around his head, covering his nose. Both eyes are black.

  Jesus, Ray, what the hell happened to you?

  Your goddam patient flipped out in the computer room and kicked me in the face. Motherfucker broke my nose and loosened two teeth.

  Mick did this? Why?

  Who the fuck knows? Guy's a fucking psycho. Look at me, Dominique. How am I supposed to compete in the Mr. Florida contest looking like this? I swear to God, I'm gonna get that son of a bitch if it's the last thing I do-

  No you won't. You're not going to do a thing to him. And if anything should happen, I won't hesitate to bring criminal charges against you.

  Raymond leans forward menacingly. Is that the way it's gonna be between us? First you blow me off, then you're gonna have me arrested?

  Hey, I didn't blow you off, I got tied up in a meeting with Foletta. You're the one who got himself switched to the night shift. As for Michael Gabriel, he's my patient, and I'll be damned if-

  Not anymore. Foletta received a call this afternoon from your advisor. Looks like your patient load around here is about to change.

  Damn you, Owen, do you always have to be so goddam efficient. Is Foletta still here?

  At this hour? You gotta be kidding.

  Ray, listen to me, I know you're mad at Mick, but I'll. . . I'll make you a deal. Stay away from him and-and I'll help you prepare for your bodybuilding contest. I'll even apply makeup to those raccoon eyes of yours so you won't scare the judges.

  Raymond folds his arms across his inflated chest. Not good enough. You still owe me a night out. He flashes a yellowed smile. Not just a quick Italian dinner, either. I want to have some fun, you know, do a little dancin', a little romancin'-

  One date, that's it, and I'm not interested in any romance.

  Give me a chance, Sunshine. I tend to grow on people.

  So does fungus. One date, and you stay away from Gabriel.

  Agreed.

  She passes through the security checkpoint and enters the elevator.

  Raymond watches her leave, lust in his eyes as he focuses on the contours of her glutei maximi.

  There is only one guard on duty on the seventh floor, and his attention is focused on the National League Championship Series.

  Hi, Marvis. Who's winning?

  Marvis Jones looks up from the television. Cubs are up by two going into the bottom of the eighth. What are you doing here so late?

  I came by to see my patient.

  Marvis looks worried. I don't know, Dom. It's kind of late- A roar from the crowd forces him back to the screen. Shit, the Phillies just tied it.

  Come on, Marvis.

  Marvis checks the time. Tell you what. I'll lock you in with him for fifteen minutes, as long as you leave when the nurse comes by to give him his medication.

  Deal.

  The security guard escorts her to room 714, then hands her the transmitter pen linked to his beeper. Better take this. He was violent earlier.

  No, I'll be okay.

  Take the pen, Dominique, or you don't go in.

  She knows better than to argue with Marvis, who is as thorough as he is kind. She pockets the device.

  Marvis activates the intercom. Resident, you have a visitor. I'll allow her to enter once I see you fully clothed and seated on the edge of your bed. Marvis peeks through the spyhole. Okay, he's ready. In you go. Marvis opens the door, then locks it behind her.

  The lights in the room have been dimmed. She sees a dark figure sitting up on the bed. Mick, it's Dom. Are you all right?

  Mick is leaning back against the wall. Dominique sees his face as she approaches, the left cheekbone badly bruised, the eye swollen shut.

  Her heart races. Oh, God, what did they do to you? She grabs a hand towel, soaks it in cold water, then presses it to his face.

  Ow.

  Sorry. Here, keep this on your eye. What happened?

  According to the official report, I slipped in the shower. He looks at her, his half smile causing pain. I missed you. How was FSU?

  Not good. My advisor doesn't think I'm handling my responsibilities in a professional manner.

  He thinks you're emotionally distracted by me, is that it?

  She, and yes. As of tomorrow, I'll be assigned to a new resident. I'm sorry, Mick.

  He squeezes her hand, then places it over his heart. If it matters, he whispers, you're the only one who's ever been able to reach me.

  She swallows the lump in her throat. Don't fall apart again. What happened while I was gone? I saw what you did to Raymond.

  He took the first shot.

  I heard you wouldn't leave the computer room.

  I needed to access the Internet. He releases her hand and removes several sheets of crumpled printouts from his pocket. A major piece of the doomsday puzzle hit me today. It's so unbelievable that I had to verify the facts before I could accept it.

  She takes the pages from him and begins reading.

  THE CHICXULUB CRATER

  In 1980, Nobel prize-winning physicist Luis Alvarez proposed that an extraterrestrial impact 65 million years ago was the cause of a mass extinction that ultimately ended the reign of the dinosaurs, forever changing the evolutionary pattern of life on Earth. This bold theory resulted from Alvarez's discovery of a centimeter-thick clay layer of sediment deposited across the planet's surface at the time of the asteroid cataclysm, between the Cretaceous (K) and Tertiary (T) geologic time periods. This K/T boundary clay was found to contain high concentrations of iridium, an extremely rare metal thought to exist deep within the Earth's core. Iridium is the only metal capable of surviving temperatures in excess of 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit and is practically insoluble, even to the strongest acids. The fact that high concentrations of iridium have been found in meteorites led Alvarez to propose his theory that the KIT sediment was the remains of a settled dust cloud created by the impact of a large (7-mile-wide) asteroid that struck Earth 65 million years ago. All Alvarez needed to prove his theory was to find the impact site.

  In 1978, a helicopter pil
ot and geophysicist named Glenn Pennfield had been flying over the Gulf of Mexico completing aerial surveys designed to measure faint variations in the Earth's magnetic field, telltale signs indicating the presence of oil. Passing over an area of water just off the northwestern Yucatan Peninsula, Pennfield had detected a symmetrical ring of highly magnetic material one hundred miles across, buried one mile below the seafloor. Analysis of this immense donut-shaped configuration later confirmed that the area, covering both land and sea, was a crater-the impact site of a giant asteroid.

  Named for the Yucatan town located between Progreso and Merida, the Chicxulub crater is the largest impact basin to form on our planet over the last billion years. The approximate center of the site is underwater, 21.4 degrees north latitude by 89.6 degrees west longitude, buried beneath 1,000 to 3,000 feet of limestone.

  The crater is vast, 110 to 180 miles in diameter, spread out over the northwestern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula and the Gulf of Mexico. Surrounding the land-based section of the crater is a circular ring of sinkholes. These freshwater sources, called cenotes by the Mexican locals, are believed to have been formed in the Yucatan geography as a result of the extensive fracturing the limestone basin suffered during the asteroid's impact.

  Dominique looks up, slightly irritated I don't get it. What's the big clue?

  The Piri Re'is map, the one I located on the Nazca plateau. I found it sealed in an iridium canister. The map was marking the site of the Chicxulub crater. Chichen Itza is located right along the outer rim of the impact ring. If you draw a line from the Kukulcan pyramid to the center point of the impact crater, the angle measures 23.5 degrees-the precise angle of the Earth's axis of rotation, a tilt responsible for providing us with the seasons of the year.

  Here we go again. Okay, so what does all this mean?

  What does it mean? Mick winces as he jumps to his feet. It means the Kukulcan pyramid was deliberately and precisely positioned on the Yucatan Peninsula in relationship to the Chicxulub crater. There's no mistaking this, Dominique. There's no other ancient structure close to the impact site, and the angle of measurement is too precise to be happenstance.

  But how would the ancient Mayans have known about an asteroid impact 65 million years ago? Look how long it took modern man to figure it out.

  I don't know. Maybe they had the same technology the Piri Re'is map-maker used when he drew Antarctica's topography, even though it was covered by sheets of ice.

  So what's your theory-that humanity will be destroyed by an asteroid on December 21?

  Mick kneels on the floor by her feet, his swollen face in agony. The threat to humanity isn't an asteroid. The likelihood of another asteroid impacting the same location is too astronomical even to consider. Besides, the Mayan prophesy points to the dark rift, not a celestial projectile.

  He lays his aching head on her knee. Dominique smooths back his long brown hair, greasy with sweat and oil.

  Maybe you should get some rest?

  I can't, my mind won't let me rest. He stands, pressing the compress to his swollen eye. Something's always bothered me about the location of the Kukulcan pyramid. Unlike its counterparts in Egypt, Cambodia, and Teotihuacan, the structure always seemed displaced-like an exquisite thumb, geographically situated without rhyme or reason, while its sister fingers are dispersed at almost equal intervals across the face of the Earth. Now I mink I understand.

  Understand what?

  Good and evil, Dominique, good and evil. Somewhere within the Kukulcan pyramid lies good-the key to our salvation. Somewhere within the Chicxulub crater lies a malevolent force, growing stronger as the solstice approaches.

  How do you know-never mind, I forgot, you can feel it. Sorry.

  Dom, I need your help. You have to get me out of here.

  I tried-

  Forget appeals, there's no time. I need out now!

  He's losing control.

  Mick grabs her wrist. Help me escape. I have to get to Chichen Itza-

  Let me go! She reaches for the pen with her free hand.

  No-wait, don't call the guard-

  Then back off, you're scaring me.

  I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He releases his grip. Just hear me out, okay? I don't know how humanity is going to perish, but I think I know the purpose behind that deep-space radio transmission.

  Go on.

  The signal was an alarm clock, traveling down the Black Road, a celestial corridor that's aligning itself to whatever's buried in the Gulf.

  Foletta was right. His delusions are getting worse. Mick, take it easy. There's nothing down there-

  You're wrong! I can feel it, just like I can feel the Black Road to Xibalba opening wider. The pathway's becoming more pronounced-

  He's rambling. . .

  I can feel it spreading, I don't know how, but I can, I swear it! And there's something else-

  She sees tears of frustration leak from his eyes, or is it genuine fear?

  I can sense a presence looming on the other side of the Black Road. And it can sense me!

  The nurse enters, followed by three imposing orderlies.

  Good evening, Mr. Gabriel. It's time for your medication.

  Mick spots the syringe. That's not zyprexa!

  Two orderlies grab his arms, the third tackling him by the legs.

  Dominique watches helplessly as he struggles. Nurse, what's going on here?

  Mr. Gabriel is to receive three shots of Thorazine a day.

  Three?

  Foletta wants to turn me into a vegetable! Dom, don't let him- Mick is thrashing wildly on the bed, the orderlies struggling to keep him down. ''Don't let them do it. Dominique, please-

  Nurse, I happen to be Mr. Gabriel's psychiatrist, and I-

  Not anymore. Dr. Foletta's taken over. You can speak to him about it in the morning. The nurse swabs alcohol on Mick's arm. Hold him steady-

  We're trying. Just stick him-

  Mick raises his head, the blood vessels protruding from his neck. Dom, you have to do something! The Chicxulub crater-the clock's ticking-the clock's-

  Dominique sees the dark eyes roll up, his head flopping back against the pillow.

  There, that's better, the nurse coos, retracting the syringe. You can go now, Intern Vazquez. Mr. Gabriel won't be needing your services anymore.

  Chapter 9

  OCTOBER 21, 2012

  PENTAGON

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  Pierre Borgia enters the briefing room and takes his seat at the oval conference table between Secretary of Defense Dick Przystas and US Army Chief of Staff General James Adams. Seated directly across from him is CIA Director Patrick Hurley, Air Force Chief of Staff, General Arne Cohen, and Chief of Naval Operations Jeffrey Gordon. The six-foot-six-inch Chief of Naval Operations acknowledges Borgia with a quick nod.

  General Big Mike Costolo, Commandant of the Marine Corps, follows Borgia in, taking his place to Gordon's right.

  At the head of the table is General Joseph Fecondo. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and veteran of the Vietnam and Persian Gulf Wars wipes the palm of a manicured hand across his tan, receding hairline and gazes at Borgia and Costolo with a look of annoyance. Well, now that we're all finally here, I guess we can begin. Director Hurley?

  Patrick Hurley takes his place at the podium. Trim and fit, the fifty-two-year-old former all-american shooting guard from Notre Dame looks like he still plays competitive basketball.

  Hurley activates a control switch at the podium. The lights dim, and a black-and-white satellite photo appears on the large screen to the CIA director's right.

  Borgia recognizes the quality of the image. The digitalized photo comes from the C-8236 high-resolution thermal-imaging camera, mounted aboard the Air Force's top-secret aircraft, Darkstar. The stealth Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) is a flat, clam-shaped vessel with enormous wings. Darkstar operates at altitudes of 65,000 feet and can transmit close-up images in all weather conditions, day or night.

  A computerized s
quare appears in red. Hurley positions it, then enhances the image within. Details of a small school and children's playground enlarge and focus. Adjacent to the school is a well-enclosed concrete parking lot.

  The CIA director clears his throat. The series of photos you're about to see were taken above an area just northeast of Pyongyang along North Korea's western coast. On the surface, the site appears to be nothing more than a children's elementary school. But buried 1.3 kilometers beneath this parking lot is Kim Jong Il's underground nuclear-weapons facility, the same facility the North Koreans used when they first began test-firing two-stage medium-range missiles back in 1998. We suspect the site may also house the new TAEPO-DONG II missile, an ICBM with a range of twenty-two hundred miles, capable of carrying multiple nuclear warheads.

  Hurley clicks to the next photo. Darkstar's been monitoring the facility for the last two weeks. The photos I'm going to show you were taken yesterday evening, between the hours of eleven o'clock and 1:00 A.M., Seoul. Hurley magnifies the image to reveal the figures of two men exiting a black Mercedes-Benz.

  The gentleman on the right is Iranian President Ali Shamkhani. The gentleman on the left is China's new Communist Party Leader and former military commander, General Li Xiliang. As Pierre will tell you, the general's hard-line Communist all the way.

  Hurley clicks through several more photos, stopping at a man dressed in a long, black, leather coat, who seems to be staring up at the heavens as if he knows his picture is being taken.

  Christ, Borgia whispers, it's Viktor Grozny.

  Almost looks like he's staring at our camera, General Cohen adds.

  The roll call's not quite over. The CIA director changes the image. And our host for the evening-

  Borgia's heart races faster. Kim Jong Il.

  Hurley turns the lights back up and takes his place at the conference table. Viktor Grozny's nuclear deterrent summit was held weeks ago. So why would the leaders of four nations representing thirty eight percent of the nuclear weapons on this planet choose to meet in secrecy at this particular site?