Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

The Lincoln Memorial is constructed of thirty-six columns-the number of states in the Union at the time of Lincoln’s death in 1865. Situated within the massive enclosure is sculptor Daniel Chester French’s giant stone-carving honoring the sixteenth president of the United States.

Ennis Chaney, the forty-sixth president of the United States, listens to Rabbi Steinberg’s opening invocation as he looks out upon a vast sea of bodies gathered around the Memorial and the park’s long rectangular reflecting pool. Network hover-cams dot the gray winter sky, each suspended in its preapproved flight pattern. Security cams dart in and about, scanning the crowd, who have already been searched for weapons. Congressmen and visiting dignitaries are seated along the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Several dab at their eyes, though few are actually crying.

Seated on one side of the former president is President Marion Rallo. Jacob Gabriel is on Chaney’s left side, the white-haired teen wearing a black suit and tie and dark, tinted, wraparound shades.

Concealed in an opaque envelope in the teen’s left hand is a photo of former secretary of state Pierre Borgia.

The crowd bows their heads as Rabbi Steinberg completes the invocation with a prayer.

At the east end of the park, Pierre Robert Borgia, dressed in a black SWAT team uniform, enters the Washington Monument. He flashes his false identification badge to the two armed guards, then allows them to scan his new false eye and fake retinal implant.

‘You’re clear to go on up, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Concealed within Borgia’s backpack is the Barrett M101-A. 50-caliber Browning sniper rifle and bipod. Waving to the guards, he takes the elevator up to the observation deck, which is to remain closed until after the ceremony.

*

Ennis Chaney follows President Rallo at the podium. A harsh winter’s wind causes him to shiver, despite the heavy lining of his dress coat and undergarments. He touches his right ear, repositioning the dime-sized communication device.

‘Distinguished guests, members of Congress, my fellow Americans, my fellow citizens of the world: It’s not easy to have faith. It’s not easy in this, the twenty-first century, nor was it easy in the first century, when our ancient ancestors looked up at the stars and wondered, “Where do we come from? What is this life all about?”’

Chaney’s eyes are dancing now, moving to the rhythm of his words.

‘We need faith. Faith that is not predicated on fantasy. And yet we, as educated and sophisticated caring souls, must rely on faith to get us through times of confusion, times of pain and suffering…’

Borgia exits the elevator and steps out onto the observation level. He passes the bronze replica of George Washington and heads for the west windows facing the Lincoln Memorial.

Removes the glass cutter. Adheres it to the thick pane using the twin suction cups. Sets the automated device for an eight-inch circular cut.

As the device slices the glass, Borgia assembles the high-powered rifle, attaching it to its bipod.

Chaney looks from the right TelePromPter to the left. ‘Many years ago, another African-American stood on these same steps and addressed his people. He spoke of freedom and equality. He spoke of rising up from the dark and desolate valley of segregation into the sunlit path of racial justice. He shared with us his dreams. He shared with us his faith.

‘My godson, Immanuel, was a gentle soul. Like his father, Immanuel believed in humanity, but worried about our survival. On his last birthday, he shared with me a passage his brother, Jacob, had transcribed from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The passage described something called the War of the Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness. Manny explained that the Sons of Darkness are the mass murderers of the innocent and all who support them. They are the zealots, who distort faith’s teachings as an excuse to commit mayhem. They are the greedy, who force society down paths that retard the future of mankind, solely so they can remain in power. “The war is on,” my godson told me, “and humanity must triumph, or our light shall be extinguished.”’

Behind the former president, Jacob Gabriel closes his eyes, focusing inward, as his mind searches the psychic realm for the signal line he seeks.

Borgia adjusts the bipod’s height so that the barrel of the rifle protrudes out the hole in the window. He loads a high-velocity. 50-caliber exploding round, then peers down the infrared scope with his only functioning eye.

It takes him a full thirty seconds to lock the target in.

Gun scope…

The reflecting pool… viewed from above.

The podium… he’s not targeting me, he’s after Chaney!

Jacob’s eyes snap open as he speaks into the microphone cuff links. ‘Washington Monument-observation deck!’

There are 147 members of the Secret Service patrolling the area, all tuned in to Jacob’s radio frequency, but it is Dominique Vazquez-Gabriel, disguised as a security guard, who is first to react.

Aware of the TelePromPter, Borgia activates the infrared laser, invisible to the naked eye, and brings the glowing orb to the center of Ennis Chaney’s chest. He slips his right index finger around the trigger. Collects his breath.

Pulls the trigger.

‘Martin Luther King said the ultimate measure of a man is where he stands during times of challenge and controversy. As we stand here, united in our sorrow, our survival is being tested. History is asking more of us than tears, it is asking us to rise to the challenge of our own mortality. As intelligent beings, created in God’s image, it is our obligation to reach out to the stars and experience the heavens before we die, so that we may realize our true place on this Earth-’

Adrenaline pumping, Jacob commands his mind to enter the nexus.

The area suddenly brightens as everything slows around him. Chaney’s rasping voice crawls to a dull echo.

Jacob cannot see the bullet, but he can see the gelatinous ripples as it pushes through waves of energy, angling down from the distant white tower.

He jumps to his feet, his Hunahpu mind dissecting time and distance Jacob!

Jacob’s heart skips a beat. He sees her standing in the twentieth row, an azure-eyed vixen whose fluid movements, as she approaches, separate her from the rest of the crowd.

Lilith… please – not now!

You deserted me!

Gelatinous ripples widen as the bullet appears.

I came here for you, Jacob. I’m offering you a last chance.

Ignoring her tantalizing presence, Jacob leaps A bucket of crimson explodes from Jacob Gabriel’s black suit as he and former President Ennis Chaney tumble sideways off the dais.

Pierre Borgia smiles, then turns suddenly at the elevator bell signal. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles to load another. 50-caliber exploding round into the chamber.

Dominique steps out of the elevator.

‘You?’ Borgia slips the bullet into place, his finger at the trigger. ‘I should have killed you and your wacko patient when I had the chance!’

‘You tried. Now it’s my turn.’

Borgia raises the rifle barrel – as Dominique’s flexes her right biceps, commanding the microwave pain-cannon to fire.

The blast of searing heat separates assassin from gun, sending Pierre Borgia writhing on the ground, his nerve endings sizzling.

Desperate cries rend the crisp November air.

Waves of onlookers at the west end of the park drop for cover. Secret Service agents sweep President Rallo into an awaiting vehicle. Congressmen and guests disperse, some for their limos, others for the interior of the Lincoln memorial, where Secret Service agents huddle around the bloodstained body of Jacob Gabriel.

Rabbi Richard Steinberg grips the white-haired youth’s lifeless hand and prays as a dozen news hovercams jostle for airspace overhead.