Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

A three-dimensional commercial for a local dermo-shield clinic displays in the shower.

The sound mutes.

ATTENTION. YOU HAVE AN INCOMING MESSAGE FROM YELLOWSTONE PARK.

‘I’ll take it in the bedroom.’ Lauren steps from the shower, drying herself with a preheated towel.

Lauren’s associate department head, Professor William Gabeheart, is on sabbatical, teaching an on-site correspondence course, Geology 434: The Effects of the Yellowstone Caldera on Geysers, Fumaroles, and Hot Springs. Lauren is Gabeheart’s graduate assistant and class coordinator.

While Yellowstone National Park is known for its magnificent geysers, mud pots, and boiling hot springs, to scientists it represents the home of the world’s largest and most dangerous caldera. Originating deep beneath the park’s mantle is a ‘hot spot,’ one of only a few dozens on the planet. Magma and tremendous heat rise from this volcanic location, impinging on the base of the North American plate while powering the park’s geysers, hot springs, and fumaroles.

Three of the most violent volcanic eruptions in Earth’s history have taken place at the Yellowstone hot spot, the first occurring 2.1 million years ago, the second 1.2 million years ago, the last 630,000 years ago. The eruptions have unleashed a combined six thousand cubic miles of debris, the ejection of lava causing the tops of the volcanoes to collapse, forming three massive calderas, or depressions. The calderas remain buried beneath extensive rhyolite lava flows resulting from smaller eruptions over the last 150,000 years.

Entering the bedroom, Lauren wraps a towel around her waist and slips a UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI sweatshirt over her head. ‘Okay, computer, put the call through.’

The monitor on her nightstand comes to life, revealing Bill Gabeheart, forty-two, his mop of brown hair tucked neatly beneath a HAVANA SHARKS baseball cap. The former Navy Intelligence officer’s hazel eyes glow blue in the porto-lab’s computer consoles.

‘Hey, Doc. You get the midterms I sent over?’

‘Never mind that. Are you behind a secured firewall?’

The question startles her. ‘Uh, no-’

‘Get on one.’

She leaves the bed, hurrying to her desk. ‘Computer, transfer call to PC.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

The computer boots. Lauren touches the keypad, activating her secured access code. ‘Go ahead, Professor.’

‘Last night I received data back from the three Trimble 5000Ssi receivers we deployed at our new GPS control stations.’

‘So? How bad’s the subsidence?’

‘According to the USGS, everything appears stable, but as my grandfather used to say, “Something ain’t kosher.” The readings we received look identical to data I collected three years ago. Between me and thee, I don’t trust the new USGS director.’

‘Alyssa Popov? I thought you liked her?’

‘Grinding her and trusting her are two different things, and I don’t have time for one of your feminist lectures. Things are happening behind the scenes here in Yellowstone. There are factors at play that we can’t see, covert deals being made between the White House and other factions outside the government. Late last night, Professor Danielak and I decided to take our own vertical motion readings, along with temperature readings of the hot springs at the preselected areas within the Yellowstone caldera.’

Lauren hears Sam enter her apartment. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘I want you to analyze the results. We’ll upload everything directly to your computer in the lab.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t worry, we’re encoding it and rerouting through a dozen other servers. Once you start receiving data, I want you to run a full analysis of variance, comparing subsidence with the results we took in the fall of 2030.’

‘Hey, Lauren, where are you?’ Sam bursts into the bedroom.

She cuts her fiance off with a harsh glare. ‘You’d better hurry with that data. Hurricane Kenneth was officially upgraded to a class-five storm two hours ago. Winds are expected to reach super-cane proportions by Tuesday evening. If the weather net doesn’t slow it down, we may have to evacuate the city as early as next weekend.’

‘Where’s the eye?’

Lauren presses CONTROL -6 on her keyboard. The screen splits, the right side showing a live satellite feed over the Atlantic Ocean. Using the mouse, she focuses on a swirling white vortex, the eye of the strengthening storm clearly defined.

‘Kenneth’s 361 miles due east of Antigua.’

‘Still pretty far out. Where’s the weather net?’

She types in another command. A series of crimson dots appears off Cuba. ‘En route to Havana’s port to refuel from the last cell.’

‘Which means they won’t be in place until Wednesday. You’re right, that’s calling it close.’

Sam lies by Lauren’s feet. Playfully, he reaches his hand beneath her towel.

She pushes him away with a calloused foot.

‘Any other cells developing in the Atlantic?’

She scans the screen. ‘Nothing.’

‘Analyze that data. I’ll be in touch when I can. And Lauren, mention this to no one.’

‘Understood.’

‘Gabeheart out.’

‘Wait-what about my grant? The committee meeting’s on Monday.’

‘You know you have my full support, now more than ever. We could sure use your brain down here.’

Sam makes an obscene gesture with his tongue.

‘Good luck on Monday. Gabeheart out.’

Saturday Night

The Mabus Plaza Hotel and Casino is an L-shaped monstrosity of tinted black glass and bloodred neon lighting, occupying five full beach blocks along scenic Ocean Drive. The top six floors of the thirty-three-floor dwelling are all lavish apartment suites leased year-round to film stars, politicians, bankers, and foreign dignitaries. For those who can afford the five million-dollar price tag, there is a seven-year waiting list for availability. For those who can’t, reservations for hotel rooms on levels seven through twenty-seven must be made eighteen months in advance and require a nonrefundable five-thousand-dollar deposit. Still out of your league? You can always rent a room by the hour. Two hundred one-bedroom studios are located on floors four through six and are available twenty-four hours a day for clients of the Mabus Bordello, a state-licensed brothel that occupies most of level five. Businessmen specials run 11:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. daily. ‘Blue-ball Mondays are 10 percent off, Two is for Tuesdays (menage a trois), Wednesday’s are ‘hump-days,’ with ‘Fantasy Thursdays’ rounding out the weekdays (Friday through Sunday reserved for platinum-condom members only).

The first three floors of the Mabus Complex are dedicated strictly to gambling. Levels One and Two are where the general public goes to lose its money. Level Three is more private, strictly reserved for the high rollers and VIPs-by invitation only.

None of the bright lights and sparkles of the old Las Vegas-style casino can be found in this ‘Hideaway of the Rich and Decadent.’ Light is out, darkness in. The walls and floors of Level Three are decorated in crimson silks and ebony velvets, the ceiling in smoky mirrors. Half of the two hundred craps and blackjack tables are set up as islands inside giant hot tubs. High-priced ‘pink ladies of the evening’ wearing high-heeled pumps (and little else) sell drinks, drugs, and ultimately themselves, for each of these carnation-dyed beauties can be ‘rented’ by the hour or trick (whatever ‘cums’ first). Baccarat players at hundred-thousand-dollar-minimum tables often receive sexual favors while they gamble, their naked genitals pleasured beneath the tables’ overhanging satin aprons.