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  I don't know. Two days? My friend, will she be all right?

  Should be. What's your name?

  Mick.

  Come with me, Mick. We'll dress those wounds, get some grub in you, then clean you up a bit. You need to get some rest-

  Negative, interrupts the lieutenant. Captain wants him in the briefing room in fifteen minutes.

  It is raining by the time Ennis Chaney's chopper touches down on the aft deck of the Boone. The vice president leans over and nudges the sleeping man to his right. Wake up, Marvin, we're here. How you can sleep through all this rickety-rack is beyond me.

  Marvin Teperman flashes a tight grin as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. The traveling wears me out.

  An ensign slides open the bay door, salutes, then leads the two men into the superstructure. Sir, Captain Loos is waiting for you in his briefing room-

  Not yet. First, I want to see the bodies.

  Right now, sir?

  Right now.

  The ensign leads him inside a large hangar. Lying in rows along the concrete floor are body bags.

  Chaney moves slowly from bag to bag, pausing at each to read the identification tag. Oh, Lord ... The vice president kneels next to a bag and pulls back the zipper, his hands shaking. He stares at the pale, lifeless face of Brian Dodds. With a fatherly touch, he reaches out and smooths back the auburn hair from the forehead, the emotion welling in his eyes.

  How did this happen? Chaney's voice is a whispered rasp.

  Uncertain, sir. The one man who may know is in the captain's briefing room, waiting to speak with you.

  Chaney reseals the bag and struggles to his feet. Take us there.

  Mick shoves the last bite of turkey-and-cheese sandwich into his mouth, draining it with a swig of ginger ale.

  Feeling better?

  He nods to the captain. Although exhausted, the food, hot shower, and change of clothing have improved his spirits.

  Now, you say your name is Michael Rosen, and you're a marine biologist working out of a facility in Tampa, is that correct?

  Yes, sir. You can call me Mick.

  And you discovered the object below us-how?

  SOSUS. It's an underwater sound observation-

  I'm familiar with SOSUS, thank you. Now, your companion-

  A knock interrupts the question. Mick looks up to see Vice President Ennis Chaney enter, followed by a shorter, older gentleman with a pencil-thin mustache and warm smile.

  Welcome aboard, sir. I'm sorry you couldn't visit us under more auspicious circumstances.

  Captain, this is Dr. Marvin Teperman, an exobiologist on loan to us from Canada. And who is this gentleman?

  Mick extends his hand. Dr. Michael Rosen.

  Dr. Rosen claims to have entered the object below us in his minisub.

  Chaney sits down at the conference table. Update us.

  Captain Loos refers to his notes. Dr. Rosen has described a layout that resembles something out of Dante's Inferno. He says the emerald glow is being emitted from a powerful energy field, originating from within this subterranean chamber.

  Chaney stares at Mick through intense, raccoon eyes. What happened to the Scylla?

  The oil rig, Loos clarifies. It was a sensory observational post positioned above the hole.

  The energy field created a powerful vortex. The whirlpool must have destroyed the rig.

  Loos's eyes grow wide. He strikes the switch of an intercom. Bridge.

  Aye, sir, Commander Richards here-

  Release sensor buoys, Commander, then move the ship one kilometer due east of our present position.

  One kilometer due east, aye sir.

  Double-time that order, Commander.

  Understood, sir.

  Mick looks from Captain Loos to the vice president. Moving your ship's not good enough, Captain. We're in terrible danger. There's a life-form down there-

  A life-form! Marvin practically leaps across the table. Something's still alive down there? How can that be? What did it look like?

  I don't know.

  Didn't you see it?

  It remained concealed within an enormous pod.

  Then how do you know it was alive? Did it move?

  It communicated with me-telepathically. It has the ability to access our thoughts, even our most subconscious memories.

  Teperman is on his feet, unable to contain his excitement. This is incredible. What thoughts did it communicate?

  Mick hesitates. It accessed a memory of my deceased father. It-it wasn't a very good memory.

  Chaney leans forward. You said we're in terrible danger. Why? Is this life-form a threat to us?

  It's more than a threat. Unless we destroy the being and its vessel, every man, woman, and child on this planet will be dead by 4 Ahau. . . uh, by December 21.

  Marvin stops smiling. Chaney and the captain look at each other, then back at Mick, who can almost feel the tension behind the vice president's eyes as they bear down on him.

  How do you know this? Did the being communicate the threat?

  Did you see a weapon of some kind? the captain asks.

  I'm not sure. Something was released. I don't know what it was. It looked like an enormous, deformed bat, only it didn't flap its wings, it just sort of rose out of this pool of liquid silver energy-

  Was it alive? Marvin asks.

  I don't know. It seemed more mechanical than organic-sort of like a drone. The energy field churned, the whirlpool formed, then the ceiling of the chamber was partially vented to the sea, and the thing just rose straight up and out of the funnel.

  Straight up through the funnel? Chaney shakes his head in disbelief. This is some pretty wild stuff, Dr. Rosen.

  I realize that, but I assure you, it's all true.

  Captain, have you examined this man's submersible?

  Yes, sir. The electronics are totaled, and the hull's badly battered.

  How did you access the alien craft? Marvin asks.

  Mick looks at the exobiologist. That's the first time you referred to it as an alien craft. It's the remains of the object that struck Earth sixty-five million years ago, isn't it, Doctor?

  Marvin's eyebrows raise in surprise.

  And the deep-space radio signal-it must have activated the vessel's life-support system.

  Teperman looks impressed. How do you know all this?

  Is this true? Captain Loos asks, incredulous.

  It's very possible, Captain, although, based on what Dr. Rosen has just told us, it seems more likely that the alien's life-support system never completely shut down. This pod Dr. Rosen refers to must have continued to function, keeping the being alive in some kind of protective stasis.

  Until the deep-space signal activated it, Mick finishes.

  Chaney eyeballs him suspiciously. How is it that you know so much about this alien being?

  A loud knock, and Commander Broad enters. Sorry to interrupt, skipper, but I need to see you in private.

  Captain Loos follows him out.

  Dr. Rosen, you say this being will destroy humanity on December 21? How do you know that?

  Like I said, Dr. Teperman, it communicated with me. Its intentions may not have been verbal, but they were quite clear.

  It conveyed the twenty-first to you?

  No. Mick readies for the captain's notes. He glances over them, nonchalantly removing the paper clip from the stack. I've spent a lifetime studying the Mayan prophecies, as well as a half dozen ancient sites located around the globe which link this malevolent presence to the end of the world. The twenty-first is the date referenced in the Mayan calendar, the date humanity will perish from the face of the Earth. Before you scoff, you should know that the calendar is a precise instrument of astronomy-

  Chaney rubs his eyes, losing patience. You don't sound like a biologist to me, Doctor, and this Mayan prophecy of yours doesn't amuse me in the least. A lot of people died on board that rig, and I want to know what killed them.

  I told you. Mick slips the
paper clip into his waistband.

  And how were you able to access the alien craft?

  There are twenty-three burrows situated in a perfect circle in the seafloor about a mile from the central hole. My companion and I directed our minisub down one of these burrows. We became caught in an enormous turbine, which sucked our submersible into-

  A turbine! Teperman's eyebrows raise again. Incredible. What's the turbine's function?

  I suspect ventilation. The minisub jammed the rotary blades during its intake phase. When the rotors reversed to drain the chamber, we were flushed back out to sea.

  Captain Loos reenters the briefing room, a smug look on his face. We have a situation, Vice President Chaney, one that may explain a lot. It seems Dr. Rosen isn't quite who he says he is. His real name is Michael Gabriel, and he escaped last week from a mental facility in Miami.

  Chaney and Marvin give Mick a cynical look.

  Mick looks the VP squarely in the eye. I'm not mentally deranged. I lied about my identity because the police are after me, but I'm not insane.

  Captain Loos reads from a fax. Says here you've been incarcerated for the last eleven years after an incident involving Pierre Borgia.

  Chaney's eyes grow wide. Secretary of State Borgia?

  Borgia verbally assaulted my father, humiliating him in front of an assembly of his peers. I lost control. Borgia manipulated the justice system. Instead of serving time for simple assault, he had me committed to an institution.

  Captain Loos hands Chaney the fax. Mick's father was Julius Gabriel.

  Marvin looks surprised. Julius Gabriel, the archaeologist?

  The captains sneers. More like the quack that tried to convince the scientific community that humanity was on the brink of destruction. I remember reading about it. His death made the cover of Time.

  Chaney looks up from reading the fax. Like father, like son.

  Maybe he was right, Marvin mumbles.

  The captain's face turns red. Julius Gabriel was a lunatic, Dr. Teperman, and, in my opinion, the acorn hasn't fallen far from the tree. This man has wasted enough of our time.

  Mick stands, his temper flaring. Everything I just told you is true-

  Why don't you drop the charade, Gabriel. We found your father's journal in the minisub. The entire purpose of your story is to convince us-and the rest of the world-that your father's ridiculous theories were true.

  The captain opens the door.

  Two armed security guards enter.

  Mr. Vice President, unless you have some further use for this man, I've been instructed to throw him in the brig.

  Instructed by whom?

  Secretary Borgia, sir. He's en route, as we speak.

  Sydney, Australia

  The Dassault supersonic jet cruises over the South Pacific at twelve hundred miles per hour, its sleek design barely registering a ripple of turbulence. Although there are eight passenger seats within the three-engine, 104-foot double-delta winged plane, only three are occupied.

  Ambassador to Australia Barbara Becker stretches as she awakens. She checks her watch as the jet begins its descent over Australia. Los Angeles to Sydney in under seven and a half hours, not bad. She stands, then moves across the aisle to her right to join the two scientists from the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research.

  Steven Taber, a large man who reminds Barbara of Senator Jesse Ventura, is leaning against the window, snoring, while his colleague, Dr. Marty Martinez, types furiously on a laptop computer.

  Excuse me, Doctor, but we're going to be landing soon, and there's still a few more questions I wanted to ask you.

  Just a moment, please. Martinez continues typing.

  Becker sits down next to him. Maybe we should wake your friend-

  I'm up. Taber lets out a bear-size yawn.

  Martinez turns off the computer. Ask your questions, Madam Ambassador.

  As you know, the Australian government is in an absolute uproar. They're claiming more than sixty-seven thousand square miles of geography was vaporized in the explosion. That's an ungodly amount of terrain simply to vanish into thin air. Based on your preliminary assessment of satellite photos, would you say this accident was caused by a natural phenomenon, like Mount St. Helens, or are we looking at a man-made explosion?

  Martinez shrugs. I'd rather not say, at least not until we complete our tests.

  I understand. But-

  Ambassador, Mr. Taber and I are here on behalf of the United Nations Security Council, not the United States. I understand that you're in the middle of a political maelstrom, but I'd rather not speculate-

  Lighten up, Marty. Taber leans forward. I'll answer your question, Madam Ambassador. First, you can forget about anything like a natural disaster. This was no earthquake or volcano. In my opinion, we're looking at a test explosion of new type of thermonuclear device, the likes of which, if you'll excuse the expression, frighten the absolute shit out of me.

  Martinez shakes his head. Steven, you cannot say this for certain-

  Come on, Marty, let's cut the crap. You and I both suspect the same thing. It's all gonna come out in the wash anyway.

  What's going to come out? Speak to me, gentlemen. What is it you suspect?

  Martinez slams the top of his computer shut. Nothing that project scientists at IEER haven't been protesting for the last decade, Ambassador. Fusion weapons, pure-fusion weapons.

  I'm sorry, I'm not a scientist. What do you mean by pure fusion?

  I'm not surprised you haven't heard of the term, Taber says. For some reason, this particular subject has always managed to avoid public scrutiny. There are three types of nuclear devices, the atomic bomb, the hydrogen or H-bomb, and the pure-fusion bomb. The atomic bomb uses fission, which is the process of splitting a heavy atomic nucleus into two or more fragments. Essentially, the A-bomb is a sphere filled with electronically timed explosives. Within the sphere is a grapefruit-size ball of plutonium, at the core of which is a device that releases a spray of neutrons. When the explosives detonate, the plutonium is crushed into a molten mass. Atoms are split into fragments, exciting a chain reaction which, in turn, releases mega amounts of energy. If I'm going too fast for you, just stop me.

  Go on.

  In a hydrogen bomb, uranium-235 absorbs a neutron. Fission occurs when the neutron breaks apart to produce two smaller nuclei, several neutrons, and lots of energy. This, in turn, produces the temperature and density necessary for the fusion of deuterium and tritium, which are two isotopes of hydrogen-

  Whoa, slow down, you've lost me.

  Martinez turns to face the ambassador. The intricacies are not important. What you need to know is that fusion is different than fission. Fusion is a reaction that occurs when two atoms of hydrogen combine together, or fuse, to form an atom of helium. This process, the same process that powers the sun, releases much greater quantities of energy than fission, causing an even larger explosion.

  Taber nods. The key factor that ultimately determines the strength of a thermonuclear weapon is how the explosion is triggered. A pure-fusion bomb is much different than an atomic bomb or hydrogen bomb in that it doesn't require a fission trigger to cause fusion. This means that plutonium or enriched uranium is not required in the design. The good news here is that no plutonium means little to no radioactive fallout. The bad news is that the explosive power of a relatively small, pure-fusion device would be much greater than even our most modern hydrogen bomb.

  How much greater?

  I'll give you an example, Martinez says. The atomic bomb we dropped on Hiroshima generated an amount of energy equivalent to 15 kilotons or 15,000 tons of TNT. Temperatures at the explosion center reached 7,000 degrees, with a wind velocity estimated at 980 miles per hour. Most of the people within a half mile radius died.

  That was a 15-kiloton explosion. Our modern version of the H-bomb carries the equivalent of 20 to 50 megatons, or 50 million tons of TNT, the equivalent of two to three thousand Hiroshima-size bombs. A pure-fusion bomb
carries an even greater damage volume. It would only take a small 2-kiloton pure-fusion bomb to equal the same impact created by a 30-megaton H-bomb. That's one ton of pure-fusion TNT to equal fifteen million tons of TNT generated by a hydrogen bomb. If you want to wipe out 67,000 square miles of geography, pure fusion is the way to go.

  My God. . . Despite the heavy air-conditioning, Barbara feels herself sweating. And you think it's possible that a foreign power was able to develop such a device?

  Martinez and Taber look at each other.

  What? Speak!

  Taber pinches the bridge of his nose. The feasibility of developing a pure-fusion device hasn't officially been proven, Madam Ambassador, but the United States and France have been tinkering with it for more than a decade now.

  Dr. Martinez looks her square in the eye. As I said, none of this should be that shocking. IEER scientists have been protesting the morality and legality of this work for years. All of this is in direct violation of the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty.

  Hold it a second, Marty, Taber says. We both know the CTBT doesn't mention pure fusion.

  Why the hell not? the ambassador asks.

  It's a legal loophole that hasn't been addressed, mostly because no nation has ever formally announced its intention of building a pure-fusion weapon.

  Do you think the French would have sold the technology to the Australians?

  We're not politicians, Ambassador Becker, Taber states. And anyway, who's to say it was the French? Could have been the Russians or even the good ol' U. S. of A., for all we know.

  Martinez nods. The United States has had the inside track. Field-testing this weapon in Australia keeps everybody guessing.

  Barbara shakes her head. Christ, I'm walking into a goddam hornets' nest. All five of the Security Council's permanent members are sending delegates. Everyone's going to be pointing fingers at one another.

  Martinez lays his head back and closes his eyes. You haven't really grasped the significance in all this, have you, Madam Ambassador? Pure fusion is the doomsday bomb. No country, including the United States, should have ever been permitted to conduct pure-fusion experiments of any kind in the first place. It doesn't matter which country developed it first, the weapon can destroy us all.