Thomas Greanias - The Atlantis Prophecy

His phone rang and he looked at the screen. It was a private number.

"Seavers," he answered.

"It's Yeats, you sick bastard. Your star-crossed plan failed. The Chinese aren't going to be spreading your germs after all."

The shock took a moment for Seavers to shake. How did he escape? Then a pit in his stomach formed. "How in hell did you get this number?"

The voice on the other end said: "I just ripped off the cell phone from your aerosol canister inside the elevator cab and returned the last call. By the way, I'm coming up for you right now."

Seavers shut the phone and frantically looked around the observation deck. He wasn't about to wait for the elevator doors to open and let Yeats take a shot at him. He was going to have to shoot first, and he knew he had less than a minute before the elevator reached the observation deck.

He ran past the gift shop a half-level below the observation deck and then bounded down the stone stairwell that lined the interior of the monument, several steps at a time. He had only made it to the 400-foot level before he saw the elevator coming up and positioned himself, bending down on one knee and aiming his Glock at the open air shaft.

The glass cab was coming up fast, its panel windows opaque. Seavers aimed carefully, his finger on the trigger as the glass began to clear.

But the elevator was empty.

Seavers's hands holding the gun wavered as he stared. Too late he saw Yeats hanging on to the bottom of the ascending cab with one arm, the other swinging up with a gun, firing.

The first bullet caught Seavers in the leg, spinning him back against the Masonic stone. He crouched in pain as he looked up and saw Yeats approaching the observation deck. He could hear shouts hundreds of feet below. Police would soon be swarming up the monument.

He fired twice at Yeats. A bullet bounced off the bottom of the elevator with a spark, and Yeats let go, falling into the darkness below. He heard a loud shout.

Seavers peered down and saw nothing. Then a bullet whizzed past his ear. Yeats had landed somewhere, hurt but alive and coming back up.

Seavers knew he had no choice now but to release the virus outside on the crowds below. And he wouldn't be walking out the front door of the monument now. He willed himself to stand and marched up the steps in the darkness, each footfall exploding in searing agony. He looked into the shattered cab at the top with caution and the empty observation deck. But he could hear footsteps coming up the stairwell.

"Game over, sport," he shouted. "You lose."

He unfastened the canister from the overhead compartment of the elevator. Thankfully, Yeats had only removed the remote detonator mechanism. The canister was still intact and full of the deadly virus.

If conditions were even remotely optimal outside, the virus could survive 24 hours after being sprayed like a small cloud into the air. Just one tiny droplet inhaled by one person on the Mall hundreds of feet below would start a time-delayed virulent chain reaction.

Seavers smashed the butt of his gun against one of the large reinforced observation windows, but the window wouldn't break. He would have to find some other means to release the virus outside.

He looked up at the ceiling above the observation deck and pulled a hidden latch to open a secret hatch door. A metal ladder like a fire escape telescoped down.

Seavers climbed up the ladder into the 55-foot-tall structure above the shaft called the "pyramidion," because of the way its four walls converged to form the point of the 555-foot-tall monument. It was packed with several banks of electrical machinery and classified surveillance equipment, but for the most part was as empty inside as a church steeple.

Slowly he began his ascent in the dark toward the capstone at the top of the pyramidion as he listened to the strains of the Capitol Fourth concert outside.

When Conrad reached the observation deck, it was empty. So was the elevator cab. Seavers had taken the canister with the virus. Conrad looked out the west window. A remote network television camera was stationed there, pointed out to capture the fireworks. From the east window he could hear the National Symphony Orchestra on the Mall reaching a crescendo.

He felt a stab of pain in the back, pushing him to the glass, blood smearing across it. The bullet passed right through his shoulder. Conrad heard two hollow clicks and looked up to see Seavers disappear through a hatch in the ceiling above the elevator shaft. He was out of ammo and had climbed up into the monument's pyramidion.

He's got the canister. The son of a bitch is going to release the virus.

Conrad knew the pyramidion was about 55 feet in height. So Seavers had another 40 feet to go to reach the capstone.

Forcing himself to stand up, Conrad put a hand to his shoulder, applying pressure on the gunshot wound. It felt like a heavy power drill, boring into him full blast. But he reached up, grabbed the ladder and pulled himself up with a gasp of pain.

"You've nothing to gain and everything to lose by stopping me," Seavers's voice called down from the dark. "Think about it. A new world order. No China. No religion…"

Conrad pointed his gun toward the sound of the voice. "You mean no Serena, you bastard."

Conrad paused. A thunderous boom outside from the cannons from the 1812 Overture sounded.

At that moment Seavers swung down from the dark feet first and struck Conrad in the shoulder full force, knocking the gun out of his hand. Conrad watched it clink against the wall and fall fifty feet to the floor of the observation deck.

Conrad was now clinging by his shot arm to a metal lightning rod that ran along the masonry wall, which was lined with tiny cracks.

He looked up at a square of starlight. Somehow Seavers had popped open the aluminum capstone at the top in order to release the aerosol form of the bird flu into the air. The square aperture framed the constellation Virgo, its alpha star Spica directly overhead, shimmering between bursts of fireworks and smoke.

The alignment, he thought. It's happening right now. Seavers is actually going to release his global plague at the exact moment the Washington Monument locks with Virgo.

Conrad climbed up the lightning rod toward Seavers, who was trying to raise the canister through the opening, but the base of the capstone was too small.

"Don't do it, Seavers!" Conrad shouted. "Think of all the people."

"This isn't a democracy, Yeats," Seavers shouted as he tried to force the aerosol canister through the aperture. "Your vote doesn't count. It never did. This is a republic. It was built to be run by elite overlords."

"Like the Alignment?" Conrad reached behind his back and pulled out the Masonic dagger that Seavers had lifted from old Herc before he killed him.

"Do you want to know why George Washington and the Founding Fathers wanted a representative government? Because they were the representatives!" Seavers shouted, finally forcing the canister through the aperture and lifting his finger to push the button. "They're the real Alignment. I'm the cure."

"Got a cure for this?" Conrad said and hurled the dagger across the air into Seavers's neck.

Seavers screamed and released his grip on the canister, which clanked down the pyramidion and disappeared into the darkness. Seavers himself began to lose his balance as he pulled the dagger from his neck and stared in fascination at the blade's Masonic markings coated with his own blood.

"Von Berg," he wheezed, gurgling up blood.

"What?" Conrad demanded. "Who?"

But Seavers's eyes rolled back into his head, his unconscious body wavering for a few seconds before it fell fifty feet to the observation deck below, killing him instantly.