A second later, the AMRAAM missile violates his fuselage, vaporizing his existence into eternity.

Beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid,
Chichén Itza

Barefoot, Mick and Dominique walk hand in hand through the alien vessel, the upper portions of their neoprene diving suits hanging unzipped around their waists.

The tunnel-like corridor is warm though quite dark, the only light coming from a luminescent blue glow somewhere ahead. The floor, walls, and thirty-foot-high arched ceiling of the passage are barren and smooth, composed of a highly polished, translucent black polymer.

Mick pauses to press his face against the dark, glasslike wall, attempting to peer inside. “I think something is behind these walls, but the glass is so tinted, I can’t see a damn thing.” He turns to Dominique, who gives him a terrified look. “You okay?”

“Okay?” She grins nervously, her lower lip quivering. “No, I don’t think I’ve been okay since I met you.” She smiles, then starts to cry. “I guess … I guess the good news is you’re not crazy. Does that mean we’re all going to die?”

He takes her hand. “Don’t be scared. This vessel belongs to Kukulcan, or whatever the humanoid called itself.”

“How do we get out of here?”

“This ship must be buried directly beneath the Kukulcan pyramid. There’s probably some kind of hidden passage that leads up into the temple. We’ll find a way out, but first we need to figure out how to prevent the doomsday prophecy from coming true.”

He leads her to the end of the corridor, which opens to a massive, onion-shaped chamber. Rounded walls radiate a faint electric blue light source. At the very center of the cathedral-like, domed ceiling is a five-foot-wide passage, which rises straight up like a chimney, the orifice disappearing into darkness high above their heads.

Positioned directly beneath the opening is an enormous bathtub-shaped object.

It is a polished rectangle of brown granite—seven and a half feet long, three and a half feet wide, and three and a half feet deep. As they move closer, a dim crimson glow appears on the side of the granite tub, growing brighter as they come nearer.

Mick’s eyes widen as he stares at the rows of luminescent red hieroglyphs. “It’s a message, written in ancient Quiche Mayan.”

“Can you translate it?”

“I think so.” Mick feels his insides quivering with adrenaline. “This first section identifies the author, a being whose name translates into the Mayan equivalent of the word guardian.”

“Just read it,” she whispers.

“I am Guardian, last of the Nephilim. Not of this world, yet we are one. The ancestors of man were … our children.” He stops reading.

“What? Go on—”

“We … your seed.”

“I don’t understand. Who were the Nephilim?”