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  The one-eyed man closes the door behind her, then takes his place at the table across from Foletta. I'm afraid so, Dr. Foletta. Ms. Vazquez has aided and abetted a dangerous felon. He motions for her to sit. You know who I am?

  Pierre Borgia. I-I was told you were coming three days ago.

  Yes, well, we had a little situation in Australia that took precedence.

  Are you here to arrest me?

  That depends entirely on you.

  It's not you we want, Dominique, Foletta says, it's Mick. You know where he is, don't you?

  How would I know that? He escaped while I was still unconscious.

  She's a pretty one, isn't she, Doctor? Borgia's glare causes sweat to break out along her upper lip. It's no wonder Mick took a fancy for you. Tell me, Ms. Vazquez, what motivated you to help him break out of the asylum?

  Foletta jumps in before she can answer. She was confused, Mr. Secretary. You know how clever Gabriel can be. He used Dominique's childhood trauma to coerce her into helping him escape.

  That's not entirely true, she says, finding it difficult not to focus on Borgia's permanent eye patch. Mick knew something was in the Gulf. And he knew about that deep-space radio transmission-

  Foletta places a sweaty palm across her forearm. Intern, you need to face reality. Mick Gabriel used you. He was planning his escape from the moment he met you.

  No, I don't believe that-

  Maybe you just don't want to believe it, Borgia says. The fact is, your father would still be alive today if Mick hadn't coerced you into helping him.

  Dominique's eyes cloud with tears.

  Borgia removes a file from his brief, taking a moment to examine it. Isadore Axler, a biologist residing in Sanibel Island. Certainly has a long list of credentials. He wasn't your real father, was he?

  He was the only father I ever knew.

  Borgia continues looking through the file. Ah, here we are-Edith Axler. Did you know the two of us met? Fine woman.

  Dominique feels her skin crawl beneath the Navy-issue sweats. You met Edie?

  Just long enough to place her under arrest.

  The words send her springing to her feet. Edie had no part in Mick's escape! It was all me. I arranged everything-

  I'm not interested in a confession, Ms. Vasquez. What I want is Michael Gabriel. If I can't have him, I'll simply lock you and your mother up for a very long time. Of course, in Edith's case, that may not be too long a sentence. She's getting up there in age, and her husband's death has obviously taken its toll.

  Dominique's heart races. I told you, I don't know where he is.

  If you say so. Borgia stands and heads tor the door.

  Wait, let me talk to her, Foletta says. Give us five minutes.

  Borgia looks at his watch. Five minutes. He exits the cabin.

  Dominique lays her head on the table, her insides quivering, her tears pooling on the steel tabletop. Why is all this happening?

  Shh. Foletta strokes her hair, his voice a soothing whisper. Dominique, Borgia doesn't want to lock you and your mother up. He's just scared.

  She lifts her head. Scared of what?

  Of Mick. He knows Mick wants revenge, that he'll stop at nothing to kill him.

  Mick's not like that-

  You're wrong. Borgia knows him a lot better than you or I. Their history goes back a long way. Did you know Borgia was engaged to Mick's mother? Julius Gabriel stole the bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding ceremony. There's a lot of bad blood between the families.

  Mick doesn't care about revenge. He's more concerned about this Mayan doomsday thing.

  Mick's clever. He's not going to tell you or anyone else about his true motive. My guess is that he's hiding out in the Yucatan. His family had a lot of friends there who could help him. He'll lie low for a while, then go after Borgia, probably during a public appearance. Think about it, Dominique, do you really believe the Secretary of State of the United States would travel all the way out here to see you if he wasn't frightened? In a few years he'll be running for president. The last thing he needs to worry about is some paranoid schizophrenic with a 160 IQ plotting his assassination.

  Dominique wipes her eyes. Is it true? Did Mick really use his family's apocalyptic research to set me up? Let's say I believe you. What do you think I should do?

  Foletta's eyes twinkle back at her. Let me help you strike a deal with Borgia. Full immunity for you and your mother if you lead the authorities to Mick.

  The last time I struck a deal with you, you lied to me. You never had any intention of reevaluating Mick or getting him the treatment he needs. Why should I believe you now?

  I didn't lie! He stands, barking the words. I hadn't been officially awarded the Tampa job, and anyone who says otherwise is a goddam liar! He wipes the sweat from his forehead, then back through his mane of gray hair, his cherub face bright red. Dominique, I'm here to help you. If you don't want my help, then I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.

  I want your help, Doctor, I just don't know if I can trust you.

  The immunity would be arranged by Borgia, not me. What I'm offering is your old life back.

  What are you saying?

  I've already spoken with your advisor at FSU. I'm offering you an internship in the new Tampa facility, close to your mother's home. Your job will be to head up Mick's treatment team, with a permanent position and full benefits waiting for you after you graduate.

  The offer brings tears of relief. Why are you doing this?

  Because I feel bad. I should have never assigned Mick to you in the first place. You'll make a fine psychiatrist one day, but you weren't ready for a patient as manipulative as Michael Gabriel. Your father's death, the turmoil your family's gone through-all of this is my fault. I knew better, but I took a chance. I saw in you a strong woman who would be the perfect addition to my staff, but I rushed your development. I'm sorry, Dominique. Give me the chance to make it up to you.

  He extends a thick palm.

  Dominique stares at it for a long moment, then shakes the offered hand.

  DECEMBER 6, 2012

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Vice President Ennis Chaney looks up from the report, acknowledging the president's National Security staff as they file into the White House war room and take their places around the oval conference table. A half dozen military and science advisors follow, filling the extra folding chairs lining the perimeter of the room.

  Ennis closes the document as the president enters, the secretary of state in his wake. Borgia bypasses his own chair to address Chaney. You and I need to talk.

  Mr. Secretary, if we can begin?

  Yes, Mr. President. Borgia finds his place, giving Chaney a perturbed look.

  President Mailer rubs his bloodshot eyes, then reads from a fax. This afternoon, the United Nations Security Council will issue a statement, deploring the testing of pure-fusion weapons as being contrary to the de facto moratorium on the testing of nuclear weapons and to global nuclear nonproliferation and nuclear-disarmament efforts. Further, the Council is seeking immediate ratification of a new resolution designed to close the loophole on pure-fusion technology.

  Mailer holds up a report labeled UMBRA, a code word used to classify files beyond TOP SECRET. I'll assume everyone has reviewed this document. I've asked its author, Dr. Brae Roodhof, Director of the National Ignition Facility in Livermore, California, to join us this morning as I'm sure all of us have questions we want answered. Doctor?

  Dr. Roodhof is in his early fifties, a tall gray-haired man with a tan, weathered face and calming demeanor. Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, I want to start by stating emphatically that it was not the United States who detonated this pure-fusion weapon.

  Ennis Chaney's insides have been churning since he finished reading the UMBRA file. His eyes blaze as he stares down the nuclear physicist. Doctor, I'm going to ask you something, but I want you to know that I'm directing my question to every person in this room. The tone of the vice presid
ent's voice stifles all peripheral movements. What I want to know is why, Doctor. Why is the United States of America even engaged in this type of goddam suicidal research?

  Dr. Roodhof's eyes dart around the table. Sir, I... I'm only the project director. It's not my place to determine US policy. It was the federal government who funded nuclear-weapons laboratories to research pure fusion back in the 1990s, and it was the military that applied the pressure for the bombs to be designed and built-

  Let's not reduce this issue to finger-pointing, Mr. Vice President, interrupts General Fecondo. The reality of the situation is that other foreign powers were pursuing the technology, which obligated us to follow suit. The LMJ, the Laser Megajoule complex in Bordeaux, France, has been conducting pure-fusion experiments since early 1998. The British and Japanese have been working on nonexplosive magnetic-fusion research for years. Any or all of these countries could have bridged the feasibility gap in order to create thermonuclear nonfission ignitions.

  Chaney turns to face the general. Then why does the rest of the world, including scientists from our own country, seem to think that we're responsible for the detonation in Australia?

  Because everyone in the scientific community believed our research was farthest along, Dr. Roodhof answers. The IEER recently published a report stating that the United States was two years away from field-testing a pure-fusion device.

  Were they right?

  Ennis-

  No, I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I want to know.

  Mr. Vice President, this is not the time-

  Chaney ignores Mailer, his eyes boring into Roodhof's. How close are we, Doctor?

  Roodhof looks away. Fourteen months.

  The room erupts into a dozen side conversations. Borgia smiles to himself as the president's expression turns to anger. That's it, Chaney, keep rocking the boat.

  Ennis Chaney sits hack wearily in his chair. He is no longer fighting the windmills, he is fighting global madness.

  President Mailer bangs his palm against the tabletop, restoring order. That's enough! Mr. Chaney, this is neither the time nor place to engage in a free-for-all debate over the policies of this presidency or those of my predecessors. The reality of the situation is that another government has detonated one of these weapons. I want to know who it was and whether the timing of the explosion has anything to do with Iran's military buildup along the Strait of Hormuz.

  CIA Director Patrick Hurley is the first to respond. Sir, it could be the Russians. The magnetized target fusion studies conducted at Los Alamos were joint US-Russian experiments.

  Dr. Roodhof shakes his head. No, I disagree. The Russians backed off when their economy collapsed. It had to be the French.

  General Mike Costolo, Commandant of the Marine Corps, raises a thick palm. Dr. Roodhof, from what I've read, these pure-fusion weapons contain very little radiation, is that correct?

  Yes, sir.

  What's your point, General? Dick Przystas asks.

  Costolo turns to face the secretary of defense. One of the reasons the DoD pushed for the development of these weapons in the first place was that we knew Russia and China were supplying Iran with nuclear weapons. If a nuclear war were to break out in the Persian Gulf, pure fusion would not only give its owner a tactical advantage, but the lack of radiation would allow the flow of oil to go on, unimpeded. In my opinion, it doesn't matter whether it was the French or Russians who achieved the technology first; the only thing that matters is whether the Iranians possess the weapon. If so, then the threat alone changes the balance of power in the Middle East. Should Iran detonate one of these weapons in the Persian Gulf, then Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, Egypt, and other moderate Arab regimes would be forced to turn away from Western support.

  Borgia nods in agreement. The Saudis are still hedging about allowing us access to our prepositioned supplies. They've lost confidence in our ability to keep the Strait of Hormuz open.

  Where are the carriers? the president asks Jeffrey Gordon.

  In preparation for Asia's upcoming nuclear detention exercise, we've ordered the Harry S Truman and her fleet to the Red Sea. The Ronald Reagan battle group should arrive in the Gulf of Oman in three days. The William J. Clinton will remain on patrol in the Indian Ocean. We're sending a message to Iran, plain and simple, that we have no intention of allowing the Strait of Hormuz to be closed.

  For the record, Mr. President, Chaney states, the French ambassador is vehemently denying any responsibility for this explosion.

  What did you expect? Borgia responds. Look beyond the denials. Iran still owes France billions of dollars, yet the French continue to support the Iranians, as do Russia and China. Let me also point out that Australia is one of the nations that has continued to give Iran subsidized interest rates, which they've used to build up their nuclear, chemical, and biological arsenal. Do you really think it's just a coincidence that the weapon happened to be tested in the Nullarbor region?

  Don't be so quick to point the finger at the Aussies, Sam Blumner interjects. If you remember, it was the United States's massive credits to Iraq in the late 1980s that led to Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait.

  I agree with Sam, the president says. I've spoken at length with Australia's PM. The Liberal and Labor Parties are showing a united front, declaring the incident to be an act of war. I doubt very much they would have condoned such a test.

  General Fecondo rubs both palms across his tan, receding hairline. Mr. President, the fact that these pure-fusion weapons exist changes nothing. Testing a weapon and using it in battle are two different things. No nation is going to challenge the United States to a nuclear showdown.

  Costolo looks at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Tell me, General, if we had a cruise missile that could wipe out every SAM site along the Iranian coast, would you use it?

  Dick Przystas raises his eyebrows.

  A tempting thought, isn't it? I wonder if the Iranians will be any less tempted to wipe out the Ronald Reagan and her fleet?

  I'll tell you what I think, the lanky Chief of Naval Operations says. I interpret this action as a sort of warning shot across our bow. The Russians are letting us know they possess pure-fusion weapons, hoping their little demonstration we'll persuade us to cancel the Missile Defense Shield.

  Which is something we cannot do, Przystas states. The number of rogue states with access to nuclear and biological weapons has doubled in the last five years-

  While we continue to spend more money on nuclear-weapons technology, Chaney interrupts, sending a clear message to the rest of the world that the United States is more interested in maintaining a first-strike nuclear posture than continuing arms reductions. The world's heading straight down the path of nuclear confrontation. They know it, and we know it, but we're all too damn busy pointing fingers at one another to change course. We're all acting like a bunch of shitheads, and before we know what's happened, we're all gonna be stepping right in it.

  Borgia is wailing for Ennis Chaney in the corridor when the meeting adjourns. I need a minute.

  Speak.

  I spoke with the captain of the Boone.

  So?

  Tell me, Chaney, why would the vice president of the United States aid and abet an escaped felon?

  I don't know what you're talking about-

  This sort of thing could ruin a politician's career.

  The raccoon eyes bore into Borgia. You want to accuse me of something-do it. In fact, how about you and I put everything in the wash and we'll see who comes out clean.

  Borgia flashes a nervous grin. Take it easy, Ennis. No one's calling for a grand jury. All I want is Gabriel back where he belongs, under the care of a psychiatric ward.

  Chaney pushes past the secretary of state, choking back a laugh. Tell you what, Pierre, I'll keep an eye out for him.

  DECEMBER 7, 2012

  GULF OF MEXICO

  4:27 A.M.

  The incessant ringing rouses Edmund Loos from his sleep. He fumbles for the receive
r, then clears his throat. Captain here. Speak.

  Sorry to wake you, sir. We've detected activity along the seafloor.

  On my way.

  The sea has begun churning by the time the captain enters the Combat Information Center. Report, Commander.

  The executive officer points to a light table where a real-time, cube-shaped holographic three-dimensional image of the sea and seafloor is being projected in midair. Positioned along the bottom of the ghostlike image, buried within the slate-shaded limestone topography is the ovoid alien object, color-coded luminescent orange. An emerald green circle of energy blazes atop the ovoid's dorsal surface, causing a shaft of light to rise up through a vertical burrow leading to the seafloor. The image of the Boone can be seen floating along the surface.

  As the captain and his executive officer watch in amazement, the green beacon appears to widen as an eddy forms. Within seconds, the swirling torrent of water tightens into a powerful underwater funnel, stretching from the hole along the seafloor clear up to the surface. Christ, it's like watching a tornado form, Loos whispers. It's just as Gabriel said.

  Pardon me, sir?

  Nothing. Commander, keep us clear of the maelstrom. Have communications patch me through to NORAD, then launch our LAMPS. If anything emerges from that whirlpool, I want to know about it.

  Aye, sir.

  Lieutenant First-Class Johnathan Evans dashes across the aft deck, helmet in hand, his copilot and crew already on board the LAMPS antisub helicopter. Huffing and puffing, he climbs into the Seasprite's cockpit, then fastens himself in.

  Evans glances over at his copilot as he struggles to catch his breath. Damn cigarettes are killing me.

  Want some coffee?

  Bless you, my son. Evans takes the Styrofoam cup. Three minutes ago I'm lying in my bunk, dreaming of Michelle, the next thing I know, the XO's yelling at me, asking me why I'm not airborne yet.