Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Immanuel hurries down the steps. Kicks open the rusted steel door and jogs out onto the beach, the wind gusting, the ocean spray blasting him in the face.

Searchlights activate behind and to his left. He dives forward, rolling to the base of the electrical barrier.

The searchlights’ motion detectors locate him. He tosses sand at the fence, which sizzles with static. Come on, Jake, shut it down!

He takes a few breaths, looks around, then throws another fistful of sand.

This time, the charge is gone.

Leaping to his feet, he grabs hold of the fence, scaling the forty-foot-high steel barrier like a lizard. He leaps into the night, drops and lands on both feet – as a familiar figure runs away from him, heading for the ocean.

Lauren sprints down the beach, away from the sirens, away from the searchlights. The wind whistles in her ears as the world-class sprinter races for the Amphibian.

‘Lauren, wait!’

Sam?

Lauren stops running as her fiance stumbles, barreling sideways into her.

‘Lauren?’ Sam stares at her in disbelief. ‘Oh, God, it is you!’

She leaps into his arms, sobbing. ‘Sam, I’m in so much trouble-’

‘You and me both.’ Looking back over her shoulder, he spots the armed security guards. ‘Come on, we gotta move.’

Hand in hand, they race down the beach.

‘No, this way!’ Lauren pulls him toward the water.

He spots the Amphibian, then looks back, as one of the security guards activates his taser.

No! Ignoring his brother’s warning, he slips into the nexus – time slowing to an excruciating crawl.

Behind him, pushing through clear gelatin-like fourth-dimensional waves, is the taser’s sizzling violet circle of energy. Expanding rapidly across the beachhead, the paralyzing loop of lightning reaches for them – as Jacob grabs Lauren around her waist and leaps into the Amphibian’s cockpit.

I can taste you, cousin. Why do you run? What is it you fear?

Gunning the engine, he converts the jeep into a boat, then activates the craft’s autopilot, pressing the setting for Miami – as the wave of energy slams into them from behind, zapping them into unconsciousness.

Friday Morning

Captain Robert Wilkins, Operational Commander of the Weather Net-Atlantic Force, stares at the real-time satellite image of Super-Cane Kenneth being projected on the control room’s large monitor. The Category-6 storm has become an absolute freak of nature, its clearly defined eye sixty nautical miles northeast of Eleuthera Island, its swirling vortex already engulfing the Bahamas, punishing the hastily abandoned islands with winds in excess of 195 miles an hour.

Wilkins is as frustrated as he is worried. The delivery of the MPK gas mix to the Port of Miami was not only late, it was light, with barely enough of the pressurized cryogenic nitrogen to fill half the fleet’s converted vertical silos. Category-6 super-canes mandate a minimum of eight fully loaded vessels. Wilkins has barely six, and Kenneth is no ordinary superstorm.

Executive Officer David Sutera approaches, handing him a printout. ‘Skipper, we just received this latest GMT.’

SUPER -CANE KENNETH 1100 GMT FRIDAY 11/25/33

LOCATION: 26.1 N 75.8 W

MAX. WIND: 197 MPH

GUSTING: 208 MPH

MOVING: WAT 16 MPH

PRESSURE: 941 MB

PREDICTED U.S. LANDFALL: SATURDAY 11/26/33 09:20 HRS

DESTINATION: MIAMI

‘Christ, it’s picked up speed.’

‘A mandatory evacuation order was just issued. Key West north to West Palm Beach.’

‘Conn, sonar, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us about, make your course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Aye, sir, coming about. Making my course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Bring us to periscope depth.’

‘Aye, sir, coming up to periscope depth. Steady at sixty feet.’

Sutera presses his face to the periscope and takes a quick 360-degree scan of the surface. ‘Confirm, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Sonar, Captain, is the fleet in position?’

‘Conn, sonar, still waiting on the Wyoming and Kentucky. ETA four minutes. All other ships have come about and are standing by.’

Wilkins reverses his cap and looks through the periscope.

Sunshine reflects off an ominous olive green sea, its rolling waves peaking at thirty feet.

An oasis of calm within a vortex of hell…

The captain rotates to the west and focuses on the advancing eye wall. It is as if he is looking out from inside the heart of a tornado. A dark purple wall of clouds-swirling, twisting, igniting every few seconds in bursts of lightning-the storm is a living, raging beast.

‘Conn, sonar, all ships now in position.’

Wilkins pulls himself away from the periscope and readjusts his cap. ‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, put us on the ceiling. Increase speed to sixteen knots.’

‘Aye, sir, surfacing ship. Increasing my speed to sixteen knots.’

‘Conn, sonar, give me two pings down the fleet’s bearings.’

‘Aye, sir, two pings.’

Two thunderous gongs echo across the sea, alerting the other Trident subs, which have fanned out along the eastern eye wall.

‘Weather Net Officer, this is the captain. Begin ejecting MPK gas.’

‘Aye, sir. Ejecting MPK gas.’

Located amidships, standing in pairs like steel redwood trees, are the sub’s twenty-four vertical missile silos, each rising more than three stories. Originally designed to launch sixty-five-ton Trident D-5 II nuclear ballistic missiles, the tubes have been refitted to hold compatibly sized canisters of pressurized cryogenic nitrogen gas mix.

Weather Net Officer Matt Winegar activates the digital clock on his control board, then presses EJECT -1 and EJECT -2.

Exterior hatches pop open along the top of the submarine. Seconds later, a clear stream of gas is forcibly expelled through venturi tubes. As the MPK gas mixes with the low-pressure, high-humidity atmosphere, it expands and crystallizes, forming a thick fog, which is quickly suctioned toward the approaching wall of the cyclone.

Immense waves lift and drop the sub, sending several off-duty sailors scampering to the head.

WNO Winegar tries his best to ignore the building queasiness in his gut as he watches his clock. Each MPK tank release must be timed to feed the storm, too much gas at once, and the storm will choke.

At four minutes a green light flashes, alerting Winegar to release the next two batches of compound.

The storm continues east as it feeds, its western eye sucking the chemical up into its vortex, dispersing it within its cumulus fury.

High overhead, flying back and forth through the supercane’s clouds like steel falcons are ESMA’s Unmanned Cyclone Aerial Labs. These four-foot-long winged darts, known affectionately as UNCLE, traverse the walls of the eye, gathering precious data.

The officers and crew of the Pennsylvania hold on and watch as UNCLE’s data appears on screen.

SUPER -CANE KENNETH: SUSTAINED WINDS: 193 MPH

The hurricane’s winds continue dropping. 182mph… 181mph… 179mph

…

‘Conn, Weather Net Officer. All silos flushed, skipper.’

‘Officer of the Deck, take us down. Make your depth one hundred feet.’

‘Aye, sir, taking us down. Making my depth one hundred feet.’

Captain Wilkins stares at UNCLE’s numbers, silently rooting for them to descend faster. From experience he knows the MPK gas must decrease sustained winds below 140 mph for the storm’s feedback cycle to be significantly disrupted.

168mph… 167mph… 166mph… 167mph…