Domain (48 page)

As her head breaks the surface, she rips the mask from her face, gagging and choking.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“You didn’t say anything about any goddam snakes! I hate snakes—”

“Were you bitten?”

“No, but I’m through. This isn’t diving, it’s more like swimming in liquid shit.” She unties the rope, her hands still shaking.

“Dom—”

“No, Mick, I’ve had it. My nerves are shot, and this water’s making my skin itch. Go on without me. Go find your secret passage, or whatever the hell you’re looking for. I’ll meet you up top.”

Mick gives her a worried look, then submerges.

“Hey, Ocelo! Toss down the rope.” Looking up, she waits impatiently for the elders to appear along the edge of the pit.

Nothing.

“Hey, are you guys listening? I said toss down the goddam rope!”

“Evening, Sunshine.” A chill shoots down her spine as Raymond moves into view, the luminescent red dot of his hunting rifle’s laser rangefinder appearing at the base of her throat.

White House,
Washington, DC

President Mailer feels as if someone has punched him in the stomach. He looks up from the DoD report at General Fecondo and Admiral Gordon, his pounding pulse causing his temples to throb. He is so weak that his body no longer has the strength to support himself upright in his chair.

Pierre Borgia bursts into the Oval Office, his red-rimmed eye blazing with hatred. “We just received an updated report. Twenty-one thousand dead in Sakha. Two million perished in Kunming. An entire city was wiped out in Turkmenistan. The press is already gathering downstairs.”

“The Russians and Chinese have wasted no time mobilizing their forces,” General Fecondo says. “The official response is that this is all part of their scheduled war games, but the numbers are far greater than what had been planned.”

The Chief of Naval Operations reads from his laptop. “Our latest satellite reconnaissance is tracking eighty-three nuclear subs, including all of the new Russian Borey-class. Each of these vessels carries eighteen SS-N-20 SLBMs. Add to that list another dozen Chinese ballistic-missile submarines and—”

“It’s not just submarines,” interrupts the general. “Both nations have placed their strategic forces into states of readiness.
Darkstar
reconnaissance is tracking the missile cruiser
Peter the Great
, which left its dock twenty minutes after the last detonation. We’re looking at a combined land and sea arsenal with a first-strike capability exceeding two thousand nuclear warheads.”

“Christ.” Mailer takes a deep breath, fighting the tightness in his chest. “Pierre, how much longer until the Security Council conference call?”

“Ten minutes, but the Secretary-General says that Grozny is addressing Parliament and refuses to participate if we’re on the line.” Borgia’s face is covered in perspiration. “Sir, we really need to move this operation to Mount Weather.”

Mailer ignores him. He turns to face a video-comm link labeled STRATCOM. “General Doroshow, how will our new Missile Defense Shield affect a first-strike of this magnitude?”

The pale face of US Air Force General Eric Doroshow, commander in chief of Strategic Air Command, appears on the monitor. “Sir, the shield is capable of taking out a few dozen missiles at their apex, but nothing in our defense arsenal is designed to cope with an all-out assault. Most of the Russian ICBMs and SLBMs have been programmed to cruise at low altitudes. The technology to eliminate that threat just wasn’t feasible—”

Mailer shakes his head in disgust. “Twenty goddam billion dollars—and for what?”

Pierre Borgia looks to General Fecondo, who nods. “Mr. President, there may be another option. If we’re certain Grozny will strike first, then there are definite benefits to beating him to the punch. Our latest Single Integrated Operational Plan, SIOP-112, indicates that a preemptive strike of eighteen hundred warheads would effectively disarm ninety-one percent of all Russian and Chinese land-based ICBM sites and—”

“No! I will not go down in history as the American president who initiated World War III.”

“The preemptive strike would be justifiable,” General Doroshow explains.

“I can’t justify killing two billion human beings, General. We’ll stick to the diplomatic and defensive objectives we’ve outlined.” The president sits on the edge of his desk, rubbing his temples. “Where’s the vice president?”

“Last I heard, sir, he was en route to the
Boone
.”

“Maybe we ought to send a chopper out there and fly him to a FEMA site,” states General Fecondo.

“No.” Borgia answers, a bit too quickly. “No, the vice president never participated in a dry run—”

“He’s still a member of the Executive Branch.”

“Doesn’t matter. Chaney was never officially added to the survivors’ list. Mount Weather only has so much room—”

“Enough!” the President yells.

Dick Pryzstas enters. “Sorry I’m late, the beltway’s a zoo. Have you seen what’s going on out there?” He turns on CNN.

The images show terrified Americans, frantically stuffing their belongings into overloaded cars. A microphone is thrust into the face of a father of three. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. Russia says we’re detonating these bombs, the president says we’re not. I don’t know who to believe, but I don’t trust Mailer or Grozny. We’re leaving the city tonight—”

A close-up of protesters outside the White House, carrying signs with messages of the Apocalypse. VICTOR GROZNY IS THE ANTICHRIST. REPENT NOW! THE RAPTURE IS UPON US!

Scenes of looting in a Bethesda shopping mall. Aerial shots of the interstate, the cars lined bumper to bumper. A truck flipping over as it attempts to bypass traffic by driving down a steep shoulder. Family members in the back of a pickup, toting guns.

“Mr. President, the Security Council call is ready. VC-2.”

Mailer moves to the far wall where five secured video-communicators are mounted. The second unit from the left powers on, the screen split into twenty squares, the images of the heads of government of the members of the United Nations Security Council appearing in each block. The Russian space is blank.

“Mr. Secretary-General, Council members, I want to emphasize again that the United States is not responsible for these pure-fusion detonations. However, we now have reason to believe that Iran may be targeting Israel in an attempt to draw our country into a direct conflict with Russia. Let me reiterate again that we want to avoid war at all costs. So there are no misunderstandings, we have ordered our fleet to leave the Gulf of Oman. Please inform President Grozny that the United States will not launch any missiles at the Russian Federation or her allies, but we will not shirk our responsibilities in defending the State of Israel.”

“The Council will convey your message. God help you, Mr. President.”

“God help us all, Mr. Secretary-General.”

Mailer turns to Borgia. “Where’s my family?”

“Already en route to Mount Weather.”

“All right, we’re moving out. General Fecondo?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Take us to DEFCON-1.”

Chichén Itza

Mick descends headfirst along the southern face of the cenote, feeling his way along the entanglement of vegetation for anything out of the ordinary. At thirty feet, the angle of the wall suddenly changes, slicing inward at forty-five degrees.

He continues moving deeper through the Mayan well, the darkness closing in tighter around his diminishing beam of light. At ninety feet he pauses to equalize, the pressure in his ears becomes painful.

One hundred and five feet
…

The southern face levels out, returning to its sheer vertical drop. Mick continues descending through the pitch-black shaft, knowing full well he is not physically equipped to dive much deeper.

And then he sees it—a speck of light glowing like a crimson EXIT sign in a darkened theater.

He kicks harder, then levels out, his pulse throbbing in his neck as he stares incredulously at the immense ten-foot-high-by-twenty-foot-wide portal, the beacon from his flashlight reflecting
off
the smooth, shimmering white metallic surface.

Engraved at the center of the barrier is a luminescent red, three-pronged candelabra. Mick moans into his regulator, instantly recognizing the ancient marker.

It is the Trident of Paracas.

Bluemont, Virginia

The helicopter transport carrying the first lady, her three young sons, and the three senior congressmen soars west over the town of Bluemont and Virginia Route 601. In the distance, the pilot can see the lights from a dozen buildings located within the fenced-in compound.

This is Mount Weather, a top-secret military base located forty-six miles outside Washington, DC. The facility, managed by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) is the operational headquarters linked to a network of more than one hundred underground Federal Relocation Centers housing America’s covert “Continuity of Government” program.

Although the eighty-five-acre compound is heavily guarded, the real secret of Mount Weather is located below ground. Deep within the granite mountain is an underground city, equipped with private apartments and dormitories, cafeterias and hospitals, a water-purification and sewage plant, a power plant, a mass-transit system, a television communication system, and even an underground pond. While no member of Congress has ever willingly claimed knowledge of the facility, many senior House representatives are in fact tenured members of this subterranean capital’s “government-in-waiting.” Nine federal departments have been replicated within the facility, as well as five federal agencies. Secretly appointed cabinet-level officials serve indefinite terms, without the consent of Congress and far from the public eye. Although not as large as the Russian complex in Yamantou Mountain, the crisis-management facility serves the same purpose—to survive and govern what’s left of the United States following an all-out nuclear assault.

Air Force Captain Mark Davis has been flying dry runs to and from the Mount Weather facility for twelve years. Although the National Emergency Airborne Command Post pilot and father of four earns a good living, he has never been happy with the fact that he and his family have been excluded from the “list.”

Davis sees the facility’s lights appear in the distance. He grits his teeth.

More than 240 military personnel work within the facility. Are their lives more important than his? And what about the sixty-five members of the “Executive Elite”? If a nuclear war did break out, blame could easily be directed at many of these military “experts.” Why should these bastards survive and not his family?

In the end, it had been easy for the Russian agent to coerce the disgruntled captain. Money was the key to surviving a nuclear war. Davis has used most of the funds to construct his own bunker in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the rest having been converted to gold and gems. If nuclear war ever did break out, he felt confident his family would survive. If not, then the kids’ college funds were now more secure than ever.

Davis hovers the chopper above the helopad and touches down. Two MPs in a tram approach. He salutes. “Seven passengers and their gear. All of the bags have been checked.” Without waiting for a reply, Davis opens the cargo door and helps the first lady out.

The MPs direct the passengers to the tram while the pilot unloads their bags. The nondescript brown suede suitcase is the third to go. Davis twists the handle clockwise as the Russian agent had instructed, then turns it back slowly.

The mechanism activates.

The pilot places the suitcase carefully in the cart, then hustles to load the remaining bags.

Chichén Itza, Yucatan Peninsula

Mick forces himself to slow his ascent, barely able to contain his excitement. He pauses at twenty feet to expel nitrogen, his thoughts racing wildly in his head.

How do I get inside
?
There must be some kind of hidden mechanism designed to trigger the door. He checks his air gauge again. Fifteen minutes. Grab a fresh tank, then hurry back down
.

Mick continues his ascent, surprised to find Dominique’s legs dangling below the surface. He glides upward along her body, then pops his head out of the water. “Dom, what are you—” Her frightened expression causes him to look up.

Fifty feet above the surface of the sinkhole sits the redhead, the Miami asylum’s head of security smiling down at him from the edge of the pit. The red laser dot jumps from Dominique’s neckline to Mick’s.

“There’s my bitch. How dare you keep my woman waiting so long.”

Mick moves closer to Dominique, groping underwater for the end of her BCD hose. “Let her go, asshole. Let her go and I won’t put up a fight. You can bring me back to the States in chains. You’ll be a real hero—”

“Not this time, motherfucker. Foletta’s decided on a new approach to your therapy. It’s called death.”

Mick locates the BCD hose and quickly deflates the air from Dominique’s vest. “What’s Foletta paying you?” He positions himself in front of her, the laser dot appearing on his wet suit. “There’s money in my truck, hidden beneath the seat. You can have it all. There must be a good ten thousand in gold coins there.”

Raymond looks up from the gunsight. “You’re lying—”

Mick grabs Dominique and lunges sideways, dragging her underwater. She thrashes about, fighting him as she inhales a mouthful of muck.

A stream of bullets shoots past them as Mick shoves his regulator into her mouth and pulls her deeper. Dominique gags, exhales water, then manages to draw a breath. She shoves her flooded mask over her face and quickly clears it, then locates her own regulator.

Mick purges, then sucks in a lungful of air. He grabs Dominique’s hand and descends blindly as a bullet glances off his air tank.

Dominique’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. Hovering in fifty feet of water, she flicks on her flashlight, nearly dropping it, as Mick replaces his face mask and clears it. She stares at him, terrified, unsure of what will happen next.