Domain. - Domain. Part 3
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Domain. Part 3

Chapter 2.

SEPTEMBER 8, 2012.

THE WHITE HOUSE.

Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as usual.

Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.

Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. "Go on in. He's waiting."

Borgia nods, then enters.

Mark Mailer's gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The fifty-two-year-old physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.

Borgia tells him he looks like he's lost weight.

Mailer grimaces. "It's called the Viktor Grozny stress diet. Have you read this morning's CIA briefing?"

"Not yet. What's Russia's newest president done now?"

"He's called for a summit between military leaders from China, North Korea, Iran, and India."

"For what purpose?"

"To conduct a joint nuclear deterrent exercise, in response to our latest tests involving the Missile Defense Shield."

"Grozny's grandstanding again. He's still fuming about the IMF canceling that twenty-billion-dollar loan package."

"Whatever his motive, he's succeeding in stirring up nuclear paranoia in Asia."

"Marko, the Security Council meeting's this afternoon, so I know you didn't bring me in just to discuss foreign affairs."

Mailer nods, then drains his third cup of coffee. "Jeb's decided to step down as vice president. Don't ask. Call it personal reasons."

Borgia's heart skips a beat. "Christ, the election's in less than two months-"

"I've already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It's between you and Ennis Chaney."

Jesus... "Have you spoken with him yet?"

"No. Thought I owed it to you to brief you first."

Borgia shrugs, smiling nervously. "Senator Chaney is a good man, but he can't hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence-"

"Not as much as you think, and the polls show that most Americans aren't interested in China's military buildup. They perceive the Missile Defense Shield as being the see-all, end-all of nuclear war."

"Then let me be blunt, sir. Does the Republican National Committee really think the country's ready for an African-American VP?"

"The election's going to be tight. Look what Lieberman did for Gore. Chaney would give us a much-needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision's going to be made for at least another thirty to forty-five days."

"That's smart. Gives the press less time to pick us apart."

"Any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with?"

"I'm sure your people are already looking into that as we speak. Mark, level with me, does Chaney have the inside track?"

"Opinion polls show Chaney's popularity stretches across both party and racial lines. He's down-to-earth. The public trusts him even more than Colin Powell."

"Don't confuse trust with qualifications." Borgia stands, then paces. "The polls also show Americans are concerned about Russia's collapsed economy and how it will affect the European market."

"Pierre, take it easy. A lot can happen in forty-five days."

Borgia exhales. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. It's a great honor just to be considered. Listen, I'd better get going, I have to meet with General Fecondo before this afternoon briefing."

Borgia shakes his friend's hand, then starts for the camouflaged panel door. He turns before leaving. "Marko, any advice?"

The president sighs. "I don't know. Heidi did mention something at breakfast. Ever thought about replacing that patch with a glass eye?"

Dominique exits the treatment facility's lobby, the south Florida summer heat blasting her in the face. A distant bolt of lightning streaks across an ominous afternoon sky. Shifting the leather-bound journal from her right hand to her left, she presses her thumb to the keyless entry, unlocking the driver's side door of the brand-new, black Pronto Spyder convertible, an early graduation gift from Edie and Iz. She places the journal on the passenger seat, buckles her seat belt, then presses her thumb to the ignition pad, registering the annoying microscopic pinprick.

The dashboard computer jumps to life, flashing its message: Activating Ignition Sequence.

Identification Verified. Antitheft System Deactivated.

She feels the now-familiar double dunk as the axle locks disengage.

Checking Blood-Alcohol Level. Please Stand By . . .

Dominique lays her head back against the leather seat, watching the first heavy drops of rain pelt the polyethylene terephthalate plastic hood of her roadster. Patience is a requirement of the new safety ignition features, but she knows it is well worth the extra three minutes. Drunk driving has become the leading cause of death in the United States. By the fall of next year, all vehicles will be required to have the blood-alcohol devices installed.

The ignition activates.

Blood Alcohol At Acceptable Levels. Please Drive Safely.

Dominique adjusts the air conditioner, then presses the power button of the Digital DJ CD player. The built-in computer processor reacts either to voice inflection or touch to interpret the driver's mood, selecting the appropriate music from among hundreds of preprogrammed selections.

The heavy bass of the Rolling Stones' latest album, Past Our Prime, begins pumping out of the surround-sound speakers. She backs out of the visitors lot and begins the forty-minute drive home.

It had not been easy convincing Dr. Foletta to relinquish Julius Gabriel's journal. His initial objection was that the late archaeologist's work had been sponsored by both Harvard and Cambridge University and that, legally, it would be necessary first to receive written permission from both grant departments before releasing any sort of research documents to her. Dominique countered that she needed access to the journal, not only to do her job properly but to gain Michael Gabriel's trust. An afternoon of phone calls to department heads at both Harvard and Cambridge confirmed that the journal was more a memoir than a scientific document and that she was free to use it, provided she did not go public with any information. Foletta had finally conceded, producing the two-inch-thick binder by day's end, releasing it only after she had signed a four-page nondisclosure agreement.

The rain has let up by the time Dominique pulls into the dark parking garage of the Hollywood Beach high-rise. She deactivates the car's engine, staring at a ghostly image appearing on the heads-up display of the windshield. The picture provided by the infrared camera mounted on the front of the roadster's radiator confirms the garage to be empty.

Dominique smiles at her own paranoia. She takes the antiquated elevator up to the fifth floor, holding the door open so Mrs. Jenkins and her white miniature poodle can enter.

The one-bedroom condominium owned by her adoptive parents is down the hallway, the last apartment on the right. As she enters the security code, the door at her back opens.

"Dominique-so how was your first day at work?"

Rabbi Richard Steinberg embraces her with a warm smile from behind a graying auburn beard. Steinberg and his wife, Mindy, are close friends of her parents. Dominique has known the couple since she was adopted nearly twenty years ago.

"Mentally exhausting. Think I'll skip dinner and climb into a hot bath."

"Listen, Mindy and I want you to come over for dinner next week. Tuesday sound okay?"

"Should be. Thanks."

"Good, good. Hey, I spoke to Iz yesterday. Did you know he and your mother are planning to drive over for the High Holy Days."

"No, I didn't-"

"Okay, I gotta run, I can't be late for Shabbat. We'll call you next week."

She waves, watching him hurry down the hallway. Dominique likes Steinberg and his wife, finds them both to be warm and genuine. She knows Iz has asked them to keep a parental eye on her.

Dominique enters the apartment and opens the balcony doors, allowing the ocean breeze to fill the musty room with a gust of salty air. The afternoon shower has chased off most of the beachgoers, the last rays of sun peeking out from the clouds, casting a crimson glow along the water.

It is her favorite time of day, a time for solitude. She contemplates a leisurely walk along the beach, then changes her mind. Pouring herself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge, she kicks off her shoes and returns to the balcony. Placing the glass on a plastic table with the leather-bound journal, she lies down on the lounge chair, stretching as her body sinks into the soft cushion.

The pounding mantra of surf quickly works its magic. She sips the wine, closing her eyes, her thoughts again returning to her earlier encounter with Michael Gabriel.

Four Ahau, three Kankin. Dominique has not heard the words spoken since her early childhood.

Thoughts slip into a dream. She is back in the highlands of Guatemala, six years old, her maternal grandmother by her side. They are on their knees, toiling in the afternoon sun, working the onion crops. A cool breeze, the xocomil, blows in off Lake Atitlan. The child listens intently as the old woman's voice rasps at her. "The calendar was handed down to us from our Olmec ancestors, its wisdom coming from our teacher, the great Kukulcan. Long before the Spanish invaded our land, the great teacher left us warnings of disastrous days ahead. Four Ahau, three Kankin, the last day of the Mayan calendar. Be wary of this day, my child. When the time comes, you must make the journey home, for the Popol Vuh says that it is only here that we can be restored to life."

Dominique opens her eyes, staring at the black ocean. Alabaster crests of foam roll in beneath the partially obscured moonlight.

Four Ahau, three Kankin-December 21, 2012.

Humanity's prophesied day of doom.

JOURNAL OF.

JULIUS GABRIEL.

AUGUST 24, 2000.

My name is Professor Julius Gabriel. I am an archaeologist, a scientist who studies relics of the past to understand ancient cultures. I use evidence left to us from our ancestors to frame hypotheses and formulate theories. I sift through thousands of years of myths to find single veins of truth.

Throughout the ages, scientists like myself have learned the hard way that man's fear often suppresses truth. Labeled heresy, its very breath is suffocated until Church and State, judge and jury are able to put aside their fears and accept what is real.

I am a scientist. I am not a politician. I am not interested in presenting years of evidence-backed theories to a lecture hall of self-appointed scholars so they can vote on what an acceptable truth about mankind's fate may or may not be. The nature of truth has nothing to do with the democratic process. Like an investigative reporter, I am only interested in what really happened, and what may indeed happen. And if the truth turns out to be so unbelievable that I am labeled a heretic, then so be it.

After all, I am in good company: Darwin was a heretic; and Galileo before him; 400 years ago, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake because he insisted that other worlds besides our own existed.

Like Bruno, I will be dead long before humanity's bitter end arrives. Here lies Julius Gabriel, the victim of a diseased heart. My physician urges me to his care, warning me the organ is but a ticking time bomb set to detonate at any moment. Let it explode, I say. The worthless organ has only given me grief since it broke eleven years ago after the departure of my dearly beloved.

These are my memoirs, an accounting of a journey that began some 32 years ago. My purpose in summarizing this information is twofold. First, the nature of the research is so controversial and its ramifications so terrifying that I realize now that the scientific community will do everything in its power to suffocate, stifle, and deny the truth about man's destiny. Last, I know there are individuals among the populace who, like my own son, would prefer to fight rather than sit idly by as the end approaches. To you, my "warriors of salvation," I leave this journal, thereby passing the baton of hope. Decades of toil and misery are hidden within these pages-this slice of man's history, extracted from eons of limestone. The fate of our species now rests in my son's hands- and perhaps yours. At the very least, you'll no longer be part of the majority Michael calls the "innocent ignorant." Pray that men like my son can resolve the ancient Mayan riddle.

Then pray for yourselves.

It is said that fear of death is worse than death itself. I believe that witnessing the death of a loved one is worse still. To have experienced my soul mate's life slip away before my eyes, to have felt her body turn cold in my arms-this is too much despair for one heart to handle. At times, I am actually grateful to be dying for I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of witnessing an entire population suffer amidst the planetary holocaust to come.

For those of you who scoff at my words, be forewarned: The day of reckoning is fast approaching, and ignorance of the event will do nothing to change the outcome.

Today, I sit backstage at Harvard, organizing these excerpts as I await my turn at the dais. So much rides on my speech, so many lives. My greatest concern is that the egos of my colleagues may be too large to allow them to listen to my findings with an open mind. If given a chance to present the facts, I know that I can appeal to them as scientists. If ridiculed, then I fear all is lost.

Fear. I have no doubt as to the motivational effect the emotion has on me now, yet it was not fear that started me on my journey on that fateful day in May of 1969, but the desire to seek fame and fortune. I was young and immortal back then, still full of piss and vinegar, having just received my doctorate degree with honors from Cambridge University. While the rest of my peers were busy protesting the war in Vietnam, making love, and fighting for equality, I set out with my father's inheritance, accompanied by two fellow archaeologists and companions, my (former) best friend, Pierre Borgia, and the ravishing Maria Rosen. Our goal-to unravel the great mystery surrounding the Mayan calendar and its 2,500-year-old prophecy of doom.

Never heard of the Mayan calendar's prophecy? I'm not surprised. These days, who has time to concern themselves with an oracle of death originating from some ancient Central American civilization?

Eleven years from now, when you and your loved ones are writhing on the ground, gasping for your last breath, your lives flashing before your eyes-you may well wish you had made the time.

I'll even give you the date of your death: December 21, of the year 2012.

There-you've been officially warned. Now you can act, or shove your heads in the sands of ignorance like the rest of my learned colleagues.

Of course, it's easy for rational human beings to dismiss the Mayan calendar's doomsday prophecy as mere superstitious nonsense. I can still recall my own professor's reaction when he learned of my intended area of focus: You're wasting your time, Julius. The Maya were heathens, a bunch of jungle-dwelling savages who believed in human sacrifice. For Cod's sake, they hadn't even mastered the wheel...

My professor was both right and wrong, and this is the paradox, for while it is true the ancient Maya could barely grasp the significance of the wheel, they had, in fact, managed to acquire an advanced knowledge of astronomy, architecture, and mathematics that, in many ways, rivals and even exceeds our own. In laymen's terms, the Maya were the equivalent of a four-year-old child mastering Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the piano while remaining unable to pound out "Chopsticks."

I'm sure you find it hard to believe, most self-proclaimed "educated" individuals do. But the evidence is overwhelming. And this is what compelled me to embark on my journey, for simply to ignore the calendar's wealth of knowledge because of its unimaginable doomsday prophecy would have been as much a crime as to dismiss summarily the theory of relativity because Einstein was once employed as a junior clerk.

So what is the Mayan calendar?

A brief explanation: If I asked you to describe the function of a calendar, your initial response would probably be to describe the device as a means of keeping your weekly or monthly appointments. Moving beyond this somewhat limited scope, let us see the calendar for what it really is-a tool, designed to determine (as accurately as possible) the Earth's annual orbit around the Sun.

Our modem Western calendar was first introduced in Europe in 1582. It was based upon the Gregorian calendar, which calculated Earth's orbit around the Sun to take 365.25 days. This incorporated a very small plus-error of 0.0003 of a day per year, quite impressive fir scientists of the 16th century.

The Maya derived their calendar from their predecessors, the Olmec, a mysterious people whose origins can be traced back some 3,000 years. Imagine for a moment, that you are living thousands of years ago. Then are no televisions or radios, telephones, or watches, and it is your job is to chart the stars to determine the passage of time equating to one planetary orbit. Somehow the Olmec, without precision instruments, calculated the solar year to be 365.2420 days, incorporating an even smaller minus error of 0.0002 of a day.

Let me restate this so you can grasp the implications: The 3,000-year-old Mayan calendar is a 10,000th of a day more accurate than the calendar the world uses today!

There's more. The Mayan solar calendar is but one part of a three-calendar system. A second calendar, the "ceremonial calendar" operates concurrently, consisting of 20 months of 13 days. The third part, the "Venus calendar" or "Long Count," was based on the orbit of the planet Venus. By combining these three calendars into one, the Maya were able to forecast celestial events over great expanses of time, not just thousands but millions of years. (On one particular Mesoamerican monument, an inscription refers to a time period dating back 400 million years.) Impressed yet?

The Maya believed in Great Cycles, periods of time that registered the recorded creations and destructions of the world. The calendar recorded the five Great Cycles or Suns of the Earth. The current and last cycle began on 4 Ahau 8 Cumku, a date corresponding to August 13, 3114 BC, considered by the Maya to be the birth date of the planet Venus. This last Great Cycle is predicted to end with the destruction of humanity on 4 Ahau 3 Kankin, a date determined as December 21, in the year 2012- the day of the winter solstice.

The Day of the Dead.

How convinced were the Maya that their prophecy was true? After the departure of their great teacher, Kukulcan, the Maya began practicing barbaric rituals involving human sacrifice, cutting out the hearts of tens of thousands of men, women, and children.

The ultimate sacrifice-all to forestall the end of humanity.

I'm not asking you to seek such outlandish remedies, just to open your mind. What you don't know can affect you, what you refuse to see can kill you. There are mysteries that surround us whose origins we cannot fathom-yet must! The pyramids of Giza and Teotihuacan, the Temples of Angkor in Cambodia, Stonehenge, the incredible message inscribed upon the Nazca desert, and most of all, the Kukulcan pyramid in Chichen Itza. All these ancient sites, all these magnificent, unexplainable wonders were not intended as tourist attractions but are pieces to a single perplexing jigsaw puzzle that can prevent the annihilation of our species.

My journey through life is nearly over. I have these memoirs, highlights of the overwhelming evidence I've accumulated over three decades, to my son, Michael, and to all those who would carry on my work ad finem-to the end. While presenting the clues in the manner in which I stumbled across them, I will also endeavor to paint for you an historical accounting of the events along the time line in which they actually occurred throughout man s history.