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  Secretary of Defense Dick Pryzstas leans back in his chair and brushes back his mop of white hair. Admiral Gordon, would you share the information you and I spoke about earlier?

  The lanky admiral strikes a key on his laptop. Our latest satellite surveillance indicates the Iranians have bolstered their military presence along the northern shores of the Persian Gulf. In addition to repositioning their Howitzers and mobile SAM sites, Iran recently purchased an additional forty-six Hudong-class patrol boats from China. Each of these vessels are equipped with C-802 antiship cruise missiles. The Iranians are also in the process of doubling their Chinese Silkworm missile sites along the coastline and, despite UN protests, have continued to fortify their surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missile batteries on Qeshm, Abu Musa, and the Sirri islands. In essence, Iran is preparing to effectuate a gauntlet at the narrowest section of the Strait of Hormuz, an area only fifty kilometers wide.

  The Iranians claim the military buildup is in preparation for Grozny's military exercise in December, Secretary of Defense Przystas states. Of course, should hostilities break out in the Middle East, the Iranian gauntlet would prevent our fleet from accessing the Persian Gulf.

  Not to add to the paranoia, but what about nukes? General Costolo pushes back from the table. The Israelis claim Grozny sold the Iranians sickle missiles with nuclear warheads when he helped negotiate the 2007 Middle East Peace Accord.

  Admiral Gordon turns to face Costolo. Iran has the strength and geography to carve out a new domain for itself in the Middle East. If war broke out, Russia would be in a position to consolidate the Middle East as a hegemony.

  Grozny certainly looks like he's preparing for nuclear war, Borgia states.

  Pierre, Russia's been preparing for nuclear war for the last sixty years, General Fecondo interrupts. Let's not forget that it was our own forging ahead to build a Missile Defense Shield that added to their own paranoia.

  There may be one other hidden variable to consider, General, the CIA director says. NSA intercepted a communication between Russian Prime Minister Makashov and the Chinese Defense Minister. The conversation concerned some kind of new high-tech weapon.

  What sort of weapon? Pryztas asks.

  Fusion was mentioned, nothing more.

  Sanibel Island, West Coast of Florida

  Dominique slows the black Pronto Spyder convertible, keeping the roadster just under fifty as she passes through the Sanibel Island bridge toll booth. Electronic sensors record her vehicle's license plate and VIN, the information instantly fed to the Department of Transportation, which adds the amount of the toll to her monthly transit bill. She keeps the car under fifty for the next mile, knowing she is still in range of the automated system's radar gun.

  Dominique maneuvers the Spyder across the bay bridge to Sanibel and Captiva Island, a residential and resort area nestled on a small island on the Gulf Coast of Florida. She drives north along the heavily shaded single-lane roadway, then winds her way west, passing several large hotels before entering a residential area.

  Edith and Isadore Axler live in a two-story cube-shaped beach home situated on a half acre corner lot facing the Gulf of Mexico. At first glance, the exterior redwood slats enclosing the home give it the look of an enormous party lantern, especially at night. This protective layer of scrim protects the structure from hurricanes, creating, in effect, a house within a house.

  The south wing of the Axler home has been renovated to accommodate a sophisticated acoustics lab, one of only three on the Gulf Coast interfaced with SOSUS, the United States Navy's Underwater Sound Surveillance System. The sixteen-billion-dollar network of undersea microphones, built by the federal government during the Cold War to spy on enemy submarines, is a global grid tied to Navy shore stations by some thirty thousand miles of undersea cables.

  As the military's need for SOSUS began to dwindle in the early 1990s, scientists, universities, and private businesses successfully petitioned the Navy for access to the acoustics network. For oceanographers, SOSUS became the Hubble Telescope of undersea exploration. Scientists could now hear the super-low-frequency vibrations made by ice floes cracking, seabeds quaking, and underwater volcanoes erupting, sounds normally lying far below the range of human hearing.

  For marine biologists like Isadore Axler, SOSUS provided a new way of studying the planet's most intelligent ocean-dwelling life-forms: the cetaceans. With the assistance of the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation, the Axler home had become a SOSUS acoustics station, focusing specifically on the cetacean inhabitants of the Gulf of Mexico. Using SOSUS, the Axlers could now record and analyze voiceprints of whales, identify species, count populations, even track single subjects across the northern hemisphere.

  Dominique turns left down the cul-de-sac, then right into the last driveway, comforted by the familiar sound of pebbles crunching beneath the weight of her roadster.

  Edith Axler greets her as the convertible top snaps shut into place. Edie is an astute, gray-haired woman in her early seventies, with brown eyes that exude a teacher's wisdom and a warm smile that projects a mother's love.

  Hi, doll. How was your drive?

  Fine. Dominique hugs her adoptive mother, squeezing her tight.

  Something's wrong? Edith pulls back, noticing the tears. What is it?

  Nothing. I'm just glad to be home.

  Don't play me for senile. It's that patient of yours, isn't it? What's his name-Mick?

  Dominique nods. My former patient.

  Come on, we'll talk before Iz comes out. Edith leads her by the hand to the Gulf-access canal located on the south side of the property. Docked along the concrete seawall are two boats, the smaller of the two a thirty-five-foot fishing boat belonging to the Axlers.

  They sit together, hand in hand, on a wooden park bench facing the water.

  Dominique stares at a gray-and-white pelican basking on one of the wooden pilings. I remember when I was young-whenever I had a bad day, you always used to sit with me out here.

  Edie nods. This has always been my favorite spot.

  You used to say, 'How bad can things be, if you can still enjoy such a beautiful view.' She points to the rustic-looking forty-eight-foot trawler docked behind the Axler's fishing boat. Whose boat is that?

  It belongs to the Sanibel Treasure Hunters Club. You remember Rex and Dory Simpson. Iz rents the space out to them. See that canvas, there's a two-man minisub secured to the decking beneath it. Iz will take you out for a spin in it tomorrow if you'd like.

  In a minisub? That'd be fun.

  Edie squeezes her daughter's hand. Tell me about Mick. Why are you so upset?

  Dominique wipes away a tear. Ever since fat-fucking Foletta switched my assignment, he's kept Mick on heavy doses of Thorazine. God, Ead, it's so cruel, I can't-I can't even bear to look at him anymore. He's so doped up-he just sits there, strapped in a wheelchair like some drooling vegetable. Foletta pushes him out to the yard every afternoon and just leaves him sitting in the arts and crafts area, like Mick's some kind of hopeless geriatric patient.

  Dom, I know you care a great deal about Mick, but you have to remember, you're only one person. You can't expect to save the world.

  What? What did you say?

  I just meant that as a psychiatrist, you can't expect to help every institutionalized resident you come in contact with. You've worked with Mick for a month. Like it or not, this is out of your hands. You have to know when to walk away.

  You know me better than that. I can't just walk away, not when someone's being abused.

  Edie squeezes her daughter's hand again. They remain silent, watching the pelican flap its wings as it maintains its precarious balance on the piling.

  Not when someone is being abused. Hearing her own words, Edie thinks back to the first time she met the frightened little girl from Guatemala. She had been working part-time as a school nurse and counselor. The ten-year-old had been brought to her, complaining of stomach cramps. Edith had held the little girl's hand
until the pain had subsided. This small act of motherly love would forever bind Dominique to the woman, whose own heart broke as she learned about the sexual abuse being inflicted upon the child by her older cousins. Edie had filed a report and arranged for foster care. She and Iz had adopted Dominique six months later.

  Okay, doll, tell me what we can do to help Mick.

  There's only one solution. We need to get him out of there.

  By out, I assume you mean to another asylum.

  No, I mean out, as in permanently out.

  A jailbreak?

  Well, yes. Mick may be a bit confused, but he's not insane. He doesn't belong in a mental institution.

  Are you certain, because you don't sound too sure yourself. Didn't you tell me that Mick is convinced the world is coming to an end?

  Not the world, humanity, and yes, he does believe that. He's just a little paranoid, but who wouldn't be after spending eleven years in solitary.

  Edie watches Dominique fidget. There's something else you're not telling me.

  Dominique turns to face her. This will sound crazy, but there seems to be truth in many of Mick's delusions. His whole doomsday theory is based on some three-thousand-year-old Mayan prophecy. I'm in the process of reading his father's journal, and some of the findings are mind-boggling. Mick practically predicted the arrival of that deep-space radio signal on the fall equinox. Ead, when I lived in Guatemala, my grandmother used to tell me stories about my maternal ancestors. The things she said were pretty frightening.

  Edie smiles. You're starting to scare me.

  Oh, I know it's just superstitious nonsense, but I feel like I owe it to Mick to at least check some of these things out. It might help alleviate some of his fears.

  What things?

  Mick is convinced that whatever's going to destroy humanity is hidden in the Gulf of Mexico. Dominique reaches into her jeans pocket and removes several folded pages, handing them to Edie.

  Edie glances at the printout. The Chicxulub impact crater? How's a depression buried a mile beneath the seafloor going to kill humanity?

  I don't know. Neither did Mick. But I was hoping-

  -you were hoping that Iz could check it out using SOSUS. Dominique smiles. It would make me feel a lot better. Edie gives her daughter a hug. Come on. Iz is in the lab.

  Professor Isadore Axler sits at the SOSUS station, headphones on, eyes closed. His face, speckled with liver spots, is serene as he listens to the haunting cetacean echoes.

  Dominique taps him on the shoulder.

  Iz opens his eyes, his thinning gray goatee spreading into a tight smile as he removes the headphones from his ears. Humpbacks.

  Is that how you say hello? Humpbacks.

  Iz stands and gives her a hug. You look tired, kiddo.

  I'm fine.

  Edie steps forward. Iz, Dominique has a favor to ask.

  What, another one?

  When did I ask the last one?

  When you were sixteen. You asked to borrow the car. Most traumatic night of my life. Iz pats her cheek. Speak.

  She hands him the information on the Chicxulub crater. I need you to use SOSUS and tell me if you hear anything down there.

  And what am I supposed to be listening for?

  I don't know. Anything unusual, I guess.

  Iz gives her his famous stop wasting my time, stare, his tangled gray eyebrows knitting together.

  Iz, stop staring at her and just do it, Edie commands.

  The elderly biologist returns to his chair, muttering, Anything unusual, huh. Maybe we'll hear a whale farting. He types the coordinates into the computer, repositioning the headphones.

  Dominique hugs him from behind, kissing his cheek.

  All right, all right, enough with the bribes. Listen, kiddo, I don't know what you're looking to accomplish, but this crater's spread out over a vast area. What I'll do is estimate the center point, which looks to be somewhere near the Campeche shelf, just southwest of the Alacan Reef. I'll program the computer to begin a low-frequency search. We'll start at one to fifty hertz and gradually increase the cycles. Problem is, you're focusing in on an area that's loaded with oil and gas fields. The Gulf basin is all limestone and sandstone, containing porous geological traps. Oil and gas are constantly leaking out from fissures along the seafloor, and SOSUS is going to register every one of these leaks.

  So what do you suggest?

  I suggest we eat lunch. Iz finishes programming the computer. The system will automatically home in on any acoustical disturbances in the area.

  How long do you think it'll take SOSUS to find something? The remark earns Dominique another stare.

  What am I, God? Hours, days, weeks, maybe never. What difference does it make? In the end, all we'll probably have is a bunch of worthless background noise.

  Washington, DC

  The maitre d' switches on his smile as the fourth-most-powerful person in the United States enters the posh French restaurant. Bon soir, Monsieur Borgia.

  Bon soir, Felipe. I believe I'm expected.

  Oui, certainement. Follow me, please. The maitre d' leads him past candlelit tables to a private room next to the bar. He knocks twice on the outer double doors, then turns to Borgia. Your party is waiting inside.

  Merci. Borgia slips the twenty into the gloved palm as the door swings open from the inside.

  Pierre, come in. Republican Party cochairman Charlie Myers shakes Borgia's hand and slaps him affectionately on the shoulder. Late as usual. We're already two rounds ahead of you. Bloody Mary, right?

  Yes, fine. The private meeting room is paneled in deep walnut like the rest of the restaurant. A half dozen white-clothed tables fill the soundproof room. Seated at the center table are two men. The older, white-haired gentleman is Joseph H. Randolph, Sr., a Texas billionaire who has been a surrogate father and friend to Borgia for more than twenty years. Borgia does not recognize the heavyset man seated across from him.

  Randolph stands to embrace him. Lucky Pierre, good to see you, son. Let's have a look at you. You put on a few pounds?

  Borgia blushes. Maybe a few.

  Join the club. The heavyset man stands, extending a thick hand. Pete Mabus, Mabus Tech Industries.

  Borgia recognizes the defense contractor's name. Nice to meet you.

  Pleasure's all mine. Sit down and take a load off.

  Charlie Myers brings Borgia his drink. Gentlemen, you'll excuse me, I need to use the little boys' room.

  Randolph waits until Myers has left the room. Pierre, I saw your folks last week up in Rehobeth. All of us are real upset 'bout you not getting the vice presidential nomination. Mailer's doing a real disservice to the entire party.

  Borgia nods. The president's concerned about getting re-elected. The polls tell him Chaney will give him the support the party needs in the South.

  Mailer ain't thinking down the road. Mabus points a chubby finger. What this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove like Chaney as second-in-command.

  I couldn't agree more, but I have no say in the matter.

  Randolph leans closer. Maybe not now, son, but in four years you'll have a big say. I've already spoken to some of the powers that be, and there's a general consensus that you'll represent the party in 2016.

  Borgia holds back a smile. Joe, that's great to hear, but four years is still a long time away.

  Mabus shakes his head. You need to prepare now, son. Let me give you a for instance. My boy Lucien's a fucking genius. I ain't shittin' you, kid's only three, and he already knows how to surf the Internet. I'm raisin' him to take over Mabus Tech by the time he's sixteen. We play our political cards right, and he'll be a goddam trillionaire by the time he's your age. Point I'm trying to make is that all of us gotta be ready long before opportunity knocks, and for you, it's already knocking. Take this upcoming Russian-Chinese military exercise. A lot of registered voters are pissed off-making it just the sort of squabble that can make or break a presidential candidate.

  P
ete's right, Pierre. The way the public perceives your command presence during the next few months could help determine the outcome of the next election. They need to see a take-charge kinda guy, a hawk who's not about to let the goddam Russkies or sand niggers dictate the way we run our country. Hell, we haven't had a strong presence in the White House since Bush left office.

  Mabus is close enough now for Borgia to smell what the man had for lunch. Pierre, this conflict gives us a great opportunity to show the public your strength of character.

  Borgia leans back. Understood.

  Good, good. Now, there's one last item on our agenda, something we feel needs to be cleaned up.

  Mabus picks at a hangnail. Sort of a skeleton in your closet.

  Randolph nods as he lights a cigarette. It's this Gabriel character, Pierre, the one you had committed after your accident. Once we announce your nomination, the press is gonna start digging. Won't be long before they find out about what you did to manipulate things in Massachusetts. Could be real messy.

  Borgia's face turns red. See this eye, Mr. Mabus. That crazy motherfucker did this to me. Now you want me to release him?

  Pay attention, son. Pete didn't say nothing about you letting him go. Just tie off the goddam loose end before the campaign starts. Hell, all of us worth a shit got skeletons in the closet. All we want you to do is take 'em out and bury 'em-Mr. President.

  Borgia takes a calming breath, then nods. I understand what you're saying, gentlemen, and I appreciate your support. I think I know what has to be done.

  Mabus offers his handshake. And we appreciate you, Mr. Secretary. We also know that when the time comes, you won't forget who your friends are.

  Borgia shakes Mabus's sweaty palm. Tell me honestly, gentlemen, my family's political presence aside-when I was chosen, how heavily did it weigh that Senator Chaney just happens to be black?

  Randolph flashes a knowing smile. Well, son, let's just say they don't call it the White House for nothing.

  JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL