Read Online Phobos: Mayan Fear by Steve Alten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Alten
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Thrillers, End of the world
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neck.”
The sand is cold and coarse, each shovelful stinging his skin. Manny focuses his gaze upon the dark silhouette of the carob tree, its leaves dangling pods of edible seeds. In Roman times, the purity of a gold coin was weighed against the weight of the seeds: twenty-four carats or seeds equaling a pure gold coin, twelve carats being half gold, half alloy. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son had subsisted on the seeds for thirteen years.
Like the famous sage, Immanuel Gabriel’s intent is to channel the spirit of a righteous man, hoping to discover his own path to fulfillment.
The sand reaches his neckline. Beck hides the shovels beneath a bush while Kurtz collects the backpacks, offering Manny a sip of bottled water. “Pep will be stationed below, I’ll guard the trail from above.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You’ll be in a transcendental state, which means you’ll be vulnerable.” Kurtz removes a small matchbox-size transmitter from his backpack, the device attached to a three-pronged spike. He counts off five paces from the Gabriel twin’s head, then pushes the object into the ground. “On the quarter of every hour I’m going to do perimeter sweeps with my pain cannon. The transmitter will seal you off from the microwaves, anything outside this perimeter gets lit up like a Christmas tree. So if you have to pee, pee in the hole.”
Manny smiles. “You’re like a protective Jewish mother.”
“Somebody has to watch your ass. I mean, what would I do without you?”
“Have a life.”
“I have a life. And I get laid a helluva lot more than you do.”
“The Israeli waitress from Carmel?”
“Actually, she’s an American, Arlene Lieb. She teaches English in the West Bank. Forty-two and divorced, with a set of hooters that could feed a starving African nation. Speaking of which—”
Beck rejoins them. “Perimeter’s secure. Salt talkin’ about his new woman again?”
“You’re so jealous.”
“Know what he told her? He told her he was a film producer, scouting locations for the next Zach Bachman movie. You should see the posters he made up.”
Kurtz’s frat house laugh is infectious. “I said I couldn’t get her a speaking part, but if she could play sexy I might be able to use her as an extra in the opening brothel scene.”
“You never change. I remember you pulling the same crap when Jake and I lived at the compound.”
“What can I say? I’m a dirty old man.”
Beck smirks. “You’re definitely old.”
“You’re only as old as your penis. Remember your penis, Pep? It’s that thing hidden somewhere beneath your belly.”
“All right, you two, go. I’ll see you at sunrise.”
Manny waits until they’re gone before closing his eyes, shifting his brain’s biorhythm back into Theta waves—awaiting the midnight hour and the channels that will open, allowing him to communicate with the higher dimensions.
CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
MAY 2, 2047
4:56 P.M. (EASTERN STANDARD TIME)
The facility lies on 140,000 acres of wildlife refuge, located on two barrier islands situated to the northeast of Cocoa Beach, Florida. The smaller landmass wedged between the Banana River and the Atlantic Ocean is Cape Canaveral. Just west of the Cape is Merritt Island, a much larger domain harbored between the Banana and Indian rivers. Two decades ago, Merritt Island was home to the Kennedy Space Center and her sister organization, NASA. Now, both islands are the property of Project H.O.P.E.
The privately owned site is protected by a small militia and an electrically charged, forty-foot-high perimeter fence. Gun towers are positioned along each corner, two by the adjacent beach, one more along the shoreline of the Banana River. Aerial drones patrol 24/7. No one gets in or out of H.O.P.E. without permission.
The completed Mars shuttles are located in twelve of the twenty-two steel and concrete structures situated on the southernmost tip of Cape Canaveral. As wide as a football field
The sand is cold and coarse, each shovelful stinging his skin. Manny focuses his gaze upon the dark silhouette of the carob tree, its leaves dangling pods of edible seeds. In Roman times, the purity of a gold coin was weighed against the weight of the seeds: twenty-four carats or seeds equaling a pure gold coin, twelve carats being half gold, half alloy. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son had subsisted on the seeds for thirteen years.
Like the famous sage, Immanuel Gabriel’s intent is to channel the spirit of a righteous man, hoping to discover his own path to fulfillment.
The sand reaches his neckline. Beck hides the shovels beneath a bush while Kurtz collects the backpacks, offering Manny a sip of bottled water. “Pep will be stationed below, I’ll guard the trail from above.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You’ll be in a transcendental state, which means you’ll be vulnerable.” Kurtz removes a small matchbox-size transmitter from his backpack, the device attached to a three-pronged spike. He counts off five paces from the Gabriel twin’s head, then pushes the object into the ground. “On the quarter of every hour I’m going to do perimeter sweeps with my pain cannon. The transmitter will seal you off from the microwaves, anything outside this perimeter gets lit up like a Christmas tree. So if you have to pee, pee in the hole.”
Manny smiles. “You’re like a protective Jewish mother.”
“Somebody has to watch your ass. I mean, what would I do without you?”
“Have a life.”
“I have a life. And I get laid a helluva lot more than you do.”
“The Israeli waitress from Carmel?”
“Actually, she’s an American, Arlene Lieb. She teaches English in the West Bank. Forty-two and divorced, with a set of hooters that could feed a starving African nation. Speaking of which—”
Beck rejoins them. “Perimeter’s secure. Salt talkin’ about his new woman again?”
“You’re so jealous.”
“Know what he told her? He told her he was a film producer, scouting locations for the next Zach Bachman movie. You should see the posters he made up.”
Kurtz’s frat house laugh is infectious. “I said I couldn’t get her a speaking part, but if she could play sexy I might be able to use her as an extra in the opening brothel scene.”
“You never change. I remember you pulling the same crap when Jake and I lived at the compound.”
“What can I say? I’m a dirty old man.”
Beck smirks. “You’re definitely old.”
“You’re only as old as your penis. Remember your penis, Pep? It’s that thing hidden somewhere beneath your belly.”
“All right, you two, go. I’ll see you at sunrise.”
Manny waits until they’re gone before closing his eyes, shifting his brain’s biorhythm back into Theta waves—awaiting the midnight hour and the channels that will open, allowing him to communicate with the higher dimensions.
CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
MAY 2, 2047
4:56 P.M. (EASTERN STANDARD TIME)
The facility lies on 140,000 acres of wildlife refuge, located on two barrier islands situated to the northeast of Cocoa Beach, Florida. The smaller landmass wedged between the Banana River and the Atlantic Ocean is Cape Canaveral. Just west of the Cape is Merritt Island, a much larger domain harbored between the Banana and Indian rivers. Two decades ago, Merritt Island was home to the Kennedy Space Center and her sister organization, NASA. Now, both islands are the property of Project H.O.P.E.
The privately owned site is protected by a small militia and an electrically charged, forty-foot-high perimeter fence. Gun towers are positioned along each corner, two by the adjacent beach, one more along the shoreline of the Banana River. Aerial drones patrol 24/7. No one gets in or out of H.O.P.E. without permission.
The completed Mars shuttles are located in twelve of the twenty-two steel and concrete structures situated on the southernmost tip of Cape Canaveral. As wide as a football field
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