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—