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The room is electric with tension. Two dozen people stand behind President Mailer, staring helplessly at the images of the Russian and Chinese leaders, waiting for them to respond.

Grozny looks up, his piercing blue eyes in sharp contrast to his angelic features. “Give our people a chance to live? Each day, a thousand more Russians starve to death in their homes—”

The screen flashes: SEVEN MINUTES TO IMPACT.

“Abort the attack, and we’ll sit down and talk about solutions—”

“Solutions?” Grozny pushes closer to the camera. “What good are economic solutions, when your country continues to engage itself in policies of war?”

“The United States has been supporting the Russian Federation for two decades,” Borgia yells back. “The reason your people are starving has more to do with the corruption in your own government than any policy—”

The president swallows the bile rising in his throat.
This is getting us nowhere
. He signals to one of the MPs on duty. “Your sidearm, Sergeant. Give it to me.”

Mailer pushes Borgia aside, standing alone before the video-comm, his face chalky white.

“President Grozny. General Xiliang, listen to me. In less than one minute, our ICBMs and SLBMs will self-destruct. That will give you less than two minutes to follow suit. If you do not, then my secretary of state will order an all-out nuclear strike on your two countries with every last ICBM and SLBM in our arsenal. We will wipe your nations from the map as surely as you will ours. Gentlemen, for the world’s sake, I beg of you, let us regain our senses in this moment of insanity. Just as I mourn the death of my own family, so do I mourn your own losses, but as I stated earlier, the United States is not responsible for those fusion detonations. Show the world you have the courage to stop this madness. Give us a chance to reveal the real enemy.”

The president takes a deep breath.

“I know what I’ve told you is hard to believe. So that you’ll know that I have no ulterior motives, I offer you this.”

President Mark Richard Mailer raises the .45-caliber weapon to his own temple and fires.

Beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid,
Chichén Itza

Michael Gabriel’s consciousness is rising …

Rising directly above the square roof of the Kukulcan pyramid, jumping higher as the lush green Yucatan jungle kisses the blue waters of the Gulf …

A smooth leap into the stratosphere and the entire peninsula comes into view. Another leap—and the Western Hemisphere drops below, the sphere of the Earth appearing in his mind’s window.

The utter silence of space …

Moving away faster now, Earth becoming a blue marble as the moon slingshots by. A quantum leap, and Earth disappears, replaced by the brightness of a yellow star, the entire solar system coming into view.

Time and space surging by at an unfathomable speed, Mick glimpsing the nine planets racing around the Sun in staggered orbits …

Another quantum leap, and the Sun becomes a pinprick of light, a single star among an ocean of stars.

Light-speed—the stars soaring by, dropping away faster and faster now, as luminescent clouds of interstellar gas and dust appear in his mind’s eye.

A final leap and he slows, his consciousness staring at a spiral vortex of swirling stars so magnificent that its breathtaking brilliance, its scale, its omnipotence is almost too overwhelming to behold.

Mick feels his soul trembling as he gazes upon the Milky Way in its entirety, his mind drowning at the realization of his utter insignificance.

God … so beautiful
…

Billions of stars, trillions of worlds, all part of a living cosmic organism—a churning island among the vast ocean of space.

Mick soaring above the galactic bulge, rising higher, until he is staring down upon the black heart of the Milky Way, a swirling vortex of unfathomable gravity, its orifice driving the galaxy as it inhales interstellar gas and dust into its monstrous mouth.

And then—in a blink of his mind’s eye—the galaxy is transformed, reappearing in a perspective totally alien to his species, a
fourth dimension
of time and space.

The black hole becomes a radiant emerald funnel, its mouth dropping beneath the galaxy, constricting, until finally breaking away into an expanding cobweb of gravitational strings—a latticework of fourth-dimensional highways that spread out over the Milky Way like a slowly revolving net, never touching the other heavenly bodies—yet somehow touching them.

The information becomes too overwhelming for his brain to comprehend.

Mick blacks out.

When he reopens his eyes, he is gazing down upon one of the arms of the spiraling galaxy, a pattern—a constellation materializing as he moves nearer. Another leap forward and three stars appear—three stars set at a familiar alignment.

Al Nitak, Al Nilam, Mintaka … the three belt stars of Orion
.

Soaring ahead, he finds himself staring at a planet of behemoth proportions, its surface colored in a tapestry of deep greens and azure blues.

Xibalba
. It is as if the thought is whispered into his consciousness.

A solitary moon orbits the alien world. As his consciousness passes over the lunar surface, he sees a transport ship rising from a small outpost, heading toward the planet’s surface.

His mind hitches a ride.

The vessel dips below dense layers of atmospheric clouds, revealing a molten ocean of pure energy. The silvery, mirrorlike surface reflects the planet’s magnificent cardinal red sky. Looming ahead on the southern horizon is a triple sunset, the blue-white binary star of Al Nitak the first to drop, its disappearance causing the seascape to meld into brilliant shades of lavender and magenta.

An exhilarating sensation washes over him as the transport ship races along the purple sea. Then he sees it—a mammoth continent of incredible beauty—soothing beaches surrounded by a lush tropical jungle, peppered with magnificent waterfalls, mountains, streams …

Moving closer, he sees a megalithic crystalline habitat of dazzling beauty. Sparkling alabaster pyramid-shaped structures dot the landscape, interconnected by winding walkways that weave through a futuristic, alien skyline. Below, lush, tropical gardens that would put Eden to shame grow amidst twisting rivers and cascading waterfalls of molten silver energy.

There are no moving vehicles, no traffic, yet the city is teeming with life. Tens of thousands of people—
Homo sapiens
, but for their elongated skulls, move about the hive of alien humanity with an overriding sense of purpose and joy.

For a wondrous moment, Mick’s consciousness is bathed in love.

And then something monstrous happens.

As the distant fireball of Mintaka sets, the placid ocean begins churning. Ominous olive and bloodred clouds race across the darkening sky as the swirling vortex below builds to unfathomable proportions.

Mick watches as a lead gray ooze seeps out of the center of the maelstrom, the contaminated elixir inundating the pristine coastline, the tide rising higher, higher, until it infiltrates the city of the Nephilim.

His consciousness registers a demonic presence.

Darkness descends upon the city, spreading like the shadow of a great serpent upon the Edenlike world. Terrified humanoids drop to the ground, clutching their throats, their eyes transforming into vacant, pupilless pools of black.

The images overwhelm him. Once more, his consciousness blacks out.

Mick reopens his eyes.

What was once a civilization of magnificent beauty has now been transformed into a monstrous alien shipyard. Nephilim zombies, their faces ashen and expressionless, their eyes, vacant black holes, hover motionless in midair as their enslaved minds manipulate titanic iridium plates with invisible hands onto the skeletal framework of an ungodly seven-mile-diameter spherical hull. At the core of the vessel is a central pod—a one-mile-diameter nerve center equipped with twenty-three tubular limbs.

Situated within this sphere, harnessed amidst a myriad of alien conduits is a three-hundred-foot-long life-support pod. Mick focuses on the abominable object, recognizing it immediately.

Tezcatilpoca’s chamber
…

And then a deep chill washes over Mick’s consciousness, as his mind’s eye struggles to grasp the alien being emerging from within the vortex of the still-swirling maelstrom.

It is a serpent, but like none he has ever seen. The viperous face is more devil than beast, its pupils—vertical slits of gold, surrounded by incandescent crimson corneas more cybernetic than organic. The skull is as large as the mixer on a cement truck, the creature’s girth as long as four city buses aligned bumper to bumper.

Mick’s vantage changes as the serpent approaches the Nephilim complex. The jowls of the great beast open, revealing rows of ebony, scalpel-sharp teeth.

Stepping out from the serpent’s jaws—a humanoid.

A shadow of death seems to pass over Mick’s soul. He cannot see the man’s face, the head and body being cloaked in a black shroud, but he knows he is gazing upon pure evil. The humanoid moves toward the life-support chamber, then extends an arm, pointing. Glowing within the man’s hand is a jade object, about the size of a football.

The vermilion eyes of the serpent glitter, the golden pupils disappearing. The blinded creature, mesmerized by the small object, follows the cloaked being as if under a spell.

The beast
enters
the enormous life-support pod.

His mind’s eye moves beyond the alien sphere and approaches the planet’s surface. There are no traces of tropical jungles, no waterfalls, no Eden. Instead there are bodies—children’s bodies, immersed in a solid layer of lead gray tar. A deep moan rises from his soul. The Nephilim young are alive, yet somehow not alive.

Mick’s consciousness moves closer. He looks down upon the face of a young male child.

Jaundiced eyes flash open, staring back at him in haunting agony.

Mick’s mind shuts down.

Once more, he finds himself orbiting
Xibalba
, his soul trembling as he observes an object rising from the planet’s surface.

The sphere
…

From the moon base appears another vessel, a sleek, gold star cruiser.

The Nephilim survivors race after their enemy, disappearing within the sphere’s celestial tail.

Raven Rock Underground Command Center
Maryland

2:27 A.M.

Pierre Borgia is standing in a pool of blood, pieces of President Mailer’s brain tissue and skull splattered across his sleeve.

General Xiliang’s face has turned deathly pale. The Chinese leader turns to his second-in-command. “Engage autodestruct.”

Borgia turns to Viktor Grozny. “America’s missiles have self-destructed. General Xiliang is complying. You only have four minutes left—”

Grozny’s face is serene. “It is better to die in battle than suffer in misery. What will be gained by aborting the attack? The threat of nuclear annihilation grows stronger as our country grows weaker. The finality of war has a cleansing effect, and both our nations need to be cleansed.”

The screen powers off.

A visibly shaken Dick Pryzstas enters the war room. “The Chinese missiles have self-destructed.”

“What about Grozny’s missiles?”

“Not a one, and we can’t reach the vice president,” Pryzstas says to Borgia. “Which means you’re in charge. You’ve got three and a half minutes before several hundred nuclear warheads reach our coastlines.”

“Damn that Russian bastard.” Borgia paces, the words of Pete Mabus echoing in his ears.
What this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove like Chaney as second-in-command
.

“Contact Strategic Command. Order our forces to launch every last ICBM, SLBM, and nuclear-tipped TLAM in our arsenal. I want that goddam motherfucker blown to hell.”

Within the Guardian’s sarcophagus

Mick opens his eyes, startled to find himself standing on a hillside, overlooking a magnificent green tropical setting, a cascading silvery waterfall creating a rainbow, off in the distance.

A presence appears beside him. He is not afraid.

Mick looks up to face the large Caucasian. The man’s long hair and beard are silky white, the eyes dazzling, an unearthly deep blue and penetrating, yet somehow kind.

Guardian … am I dead
?

There is no death, there are only varying states of consciousness. Your mind is looking through a window to a higher dimension
.

Those humanoids—

The Nephilim. Like your own species, we began as children of the third dimension, cosmic travelers, whose journeys led us to
Xibalba
. But the intoxications of this planet were a ruse, the world a fourth-dimensional purgatory of wicked souls, its inhabitants’ intentions to use the Nephilim as a means of escape
.

I don’t understand. The Nephilim, those children. Are they—

The minds of the Nephilim are held in stasis, their bodies enslaved by the souls of the condemned to complete their task—to send Tezcatilpoca through a fourth-dimensional passage into your solar system, to open a porthole leading to another third-dimensional world
.

A porthole directly to Earth
?

Not at first. The conditions on your world were not suitable. Having been exiled to
Xibalba,
the wicked ones can no longer exist in an oxygen environment. Their intended target was Venus. The brotherhood of the Guardian followed Tezcatilpoca through the fourth-dimensional corridor, causing its transport to crash-land on Earth. The life-support pod survived, Tezcatilpoca held in protective stasis. The Guardian remained behind to aid the ascension of your species and engineer the arrival of the Hunahpu
.