BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  What NY Times Best Selling Authors are saying about Brainstorm

  James Rollins, NY Times bestselling author of Black Order, Sandstorm and Map of Bones as well as many others, says: "Gordon A. Kessler's Brainstorm is a wild ride into the reality of human consciousness, forcing us to question who we are and our place in the universe. It's also a kick-ass adventure story that will have you thrumming through the pages well into the night. Its blend of topical research, cutting-edge weaponry, and current political tension is handled with stunning effect."

  Douglas Preston, NY Times bestselling author of The Codex, and co-author of Relic and Book of the Dead as well as many more says Brainstorm: "…is as exciting and fast-paced as a thrill ride on a dive bomber, a maelstrom of action, violence, murder and mayhem, way too much fun to put down once you’re hooked. It is also frighteningly believable, based on an actual black CIA program known as Project Stargate. Kessler is a former US Marine parachutist, recon scout, and Super Squad team leader and he really knows his stuff. An outstanding novel."

  Brainstorm

  a thriller novel

  by

  Gordon A. Kessler

  http://GordonKessler.com

  Gordon@GordonKessler.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Brainstorm Copyright © 2011 Gordon A Kessler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Designed by: Gordon A Kessler. Copyright © 2011 Gordon A Kessler http://GordonKessler.com, http://www.ReadersMatrix.com

  EBook ASIN: B004AYDLP8

  Paperback version: ISBN-10: 0983190518 ISBN-13: 978-0983190516

  A Personal Message from Gordon A Kessler to the Reader:

  I've been writing thriller novels for over twenty years. I enjoy writing them almost as much as I enjoy talking about them.

  If you are entertained by this or any of my other works of fiction, could you be so kind as to drop me a quick email? I would appreciate it tremendously. Let me know who you are and what pleased you the most. I promise that I will personally respond.

  Email me and say hi!: gordon@gordonkessler.com

  Please stop by my website and blog at:

  http://gordonkessler.com/

  It's fun and you'll be glad you did.

  On my website you'll find my blogs as well as info on not only my past work but also on novels to come.

  And there's a special section for my new "The E Z Knight Reports" series novels. These are fast reads; a sexy, humorous and irreverent series as well as a somewhat realistic and poignant look at the darker side of life, crime and the human condition. With a modern-day, ramped up "The Rockford Files"/"Magnum PI" feel, it consists of page-turning, episodic novels.

  Within this section you'll find brief bios on all the "E Z Knight Reports" major characters. Be forewarned: you'll find a page of Oz's colorful witticisms, as well — adult readers only, please.

  My Jazzy Brass has her very own fan pages on the website, complete with photos, blog and "Jazzy Brass's Missing Scenes". You'll love her, if you don't already!

  Also, you'll discover a special section on the site highlighting the "Knight's Girls" (a little risqué) in a gallery showing the different Knight Girl for each current "E Z Knight Reports" novel covers, as well as some that are coming up.

  And don't forget I have other thriller novels besides Brainstorm. You'll learn more about them here: Thrillers.

  Enjoy!

  Want your latest Gordon Kessler novel autographed with a personal message? ↓

  Click here for your free Kindlegraph!

  Please check out Gordon Kessler's other books on Amazon

  Thriller novels:

  JEZEBEL

  DEAD RECKONING

  BRAINSTORM

  "The E Z Knight Reports" series novels

  KNIGHT'S RANSOM

  And coming soon:

  KNIGHT'S BIG EASY

  KNIGHT'S LAST SHOT

  Short stories:

  "Jack Knight," a nostalgic romance

  "Toothpick for Two," a humorous relationship story

  Nonfiction about novel writing:

  NOVEL WRITING MADE SIMPLE

  Preface

  The Star Gate, Grille Flame, Bluebird and MK-ULTRA projects, as well as devices like the “stemoceiver,” mentioned in the following work of fiction are not in the least bit fictitious and do not refer to Hollywood movies or to popular cable TV series.

  During the early days of the Cold War, the U.S. Government, through the newly formed CIA, actually experimented on its own unknowing citizens with mind altering drugs, radiation, “narco-hypnosis” and electroconvulsive therapy in order to keep up with the technology being developed by its Cold War nemeses. They endeavored to create unwitting assassins that would be infallible against interrogation—as revealed by the U.S. Congress’s Church Committee and the Rockefeller Commission.

  Then, beginning in the sixties and early seventies, a number of the major world powers shifted focus away from the control of the mind and began conducting mind-power studies. During the latter days of the Cold War, the U.S. Government furtively threw its hat into the paranormal ring. For the next twenty years, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency and the U.S. Army conducted experiments in remote viewing and other psychic phenomena through the Star Gate and Grille Flame projects as well as others under various code names. They reported moderate success, likely relying much more on the information gathered through their remote-viewing teams than is recorded.

  Through these gifted, psychically trained voyeurs of space and time came the opportunity to look into the past, the present and even into the future. Originally considered only slightly better than a coin-flip, their accuracy improved dramatically over the life of the project. The remote viewers became valued consultants, giving strategic advice and foretelling the outcomes of conflicts in Grenada and Panama as well as Operation Desert Storm and many other actions, both made public and kept covert.

  Much of the nonlethal weaponry you will read about also exists. A few of the devices and substances mentioned herein are in prototype, experimental or yet in concept, but most are in use in at least limited amounts today by the U.S. military and by select local law enforcement agencies.

  As well, many of the defensive measures described are actually being used in the field today and, although active and reactive camouflage is primarily in concept or experimental, it is expected to be fully developed and in
wide use by the military in the very near future.

  According to Albert Einstein: “A human being is part of a whole, called by us the Universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest as a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us…. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison….”

  Prologue

  “It’s time,” Major Lionel Jackson said and patted the back of Sunny McMaster’s hand. In the red night lighting inside their armored vehicle, her slender ivory hand seemed to glow, appearing remarkably delicate in his dark palm. But he knew it wasn’t fragile. “Ready?”

  “God, yes,” she said, her voice determined and confident.

  Jackson released Sunny’s hand, then turned to the forward viewfinder and pulled down the microphone attached to his helmet. “Lion Team, move out,” he said evenly, and the driver in front of Jackson cocked his head back and repeated the order over his shoulder.

  The mission to rescue Sunny’s husband and several dozen other missing elite citizens thought to be held in Gold Rush, Colorado, began under presidential directive —regardless that the latest reconnaissance reports indicated it was a ghost town.

  Their six Stryker vehicles set out quickly and without faltering like dark, single-minded ants on a sugar trail, churning down the gravel roadway leading to the small town ten miles away. A blue-white full moon hugged the ridge behind their boulder-littered staging area, its frosty radiance washing over the rocky cliff sides and the snaking passage before them.

  Inside the leading personnel carrier, the man known to his military peers as the Black Lion once again turned in his seat toward Sunny. Major Jackson never dreamed he’d see this woman dressed in black fatigues and combat boots, her fiery-red hair pinned back and hidden under a helmet. What she’d worn the first time they met in Maui was quite different—a wedding dress. Jackson had been best man, and the ceremony was in his garden. That was fifteen years ago.

  Sunny asked, “How ‘bout you, Jax? You ready?”

  He knew she meant emotionally, not militarily. As he pushed his small microphone out of the way, he returned a thin smile. “We’re going to find Dan, Sunny,” he said. “I’m sure of it. We’re going to find him, and he’s going to be . . .” He hesitated, knowing okay or even alive was a promise he couldn’t keep. Instead, he simply repeated, “We’re going to find him.”

  His words seemed to cause a tear to trickle from her eyes, and he grimaced, realizing she’d understood his indecisive pause.

  Sunny looked away and wiped the moisture from her cheek. When she turned back with her jaw clenched, her eyes set hard on Jackson. Through the crimson glow inside the armored vehicle, she stared—face stone-like and expressionless—and Jackson did his best to hide his anxiety. She seemed to look through him, gazing at something just out of reach in the past. Her tears were gone, any redness in her eyes imperceptible in the red night lighting. In her face was a grittiness Jackson had seen in only a handful of men, the ones sure to become great soldiers. But the major wanted no part in making the beautiful redhead before him into a Kevlar-tough warrior. He wished he had another choice, but today Sunny could play an important role in bringing in her husband and saving dozens of lives.

  People were disappearing. Scientists, surgeons and men and women of special abilities were vanishing from all over the world, particularly from the United States. Jackson hoped that at least one of those presumed abducted, Daniel McMaster, hadn’t become a traitor—that he wouldn’t have to kill his best friend.

  Behind them in the cramped steel carrier, eight of Major Jackson’s soldiers sat nearly motionless, breathing lightly through parted lips, their faces blank. Occasionally, the rough road jostled them—their shoulders meeting forcibly, helmets clacking together, assault rifles tapping. But they showed no sign of discomfort. They were ready—for hell, for death, for anything, and that was what they were to expect today.

  After nearly twenty minutes of driving, the digital mission clock on the console in front of the major changed to 05:42 a.m., and he took an anxious breath. Once again, he leaned into the forward-looking periscope of the commander’s cupola as an abandoned guard shack and barricade came into view several hundred yards ahead. After turning back to his men, he held up two fingers and called out only loud enough to be heard, “Two minutes.”

  The next one hundred and twenty seconds elapsed too slowly—and too quickly. Jackson had hoped he’d never have to see another of his men die—prayed this rescue operation would unfold quickly and without casualties. But he didn’t expect his prayer to be answered.

  At thirty seconds before zero hour, the sun crested a saddle in the butte. Its brilliant rays illuminated the numerous periscope viewfinders surrounding the driver and commander’s cupolas, overpowering the red night lighting. When Jackson turned the lock above him and threw back the hatch, the inside of their vehicle brightened like an operating room.

  After a sideways glance at Sunny, he stood up in the opening, brought his high-power Bushnell rangefinder binoculars up from his chest and placed his elbows on the steel roof of the moving vehicle. Nestled below a cobalt-blue ridge a half mile in front of them was Gold Rush.

  Major Jackson’s breathing and pulse quickened, and his eyes grew wide as he repositioned the microphone. While holding onto the hatchway coaming, he commanded, “Eagle and Lion, Eagle and Lion—Go, go, go!”

  Dampened by thrumming helicopter rotors, the instant reply came over his headset. “Eagle Force ‘Go!’ Roger, Black Lion.”

  Again, the young sergeant driving Jackson’s vehicle acknowledged over his shoulder, “Roger, ‘Go,’ Lion!”

  The six armored vehicles accelerated, lunging from cruising speed to an all-out sprint. They crashed through the barricade and crushed the vacant guard shack, leaving it as a pile of loose, splintered boards.

  In the following seconds, Apache helicopter gunships rose above the spruce trees and jagged ridges surrounding the small town. They hovered there as vigilant sentries, buffeting the evergreen boughs and raising dust along the crags. The four gunships carried enough firepower to level the entire town; however, that wasn’t an option with hundreds of innocents likely to be in the mix.

  As the troop carriers sped closer, three much larger helicopters roared overhead, their beating rotors saturating the air like the war drums of a thousand angry warriors. Their bellies full of heavily armed and anxious young soldiers in black body armor, these Pave Low IV rotorcraft dashed toward the middle of the village, then paused abruptly fifty feet above the business district.

  After rounding a slight curve, the major reached inside and tapped his driver’s shoulder, indicating to Staff Sergeant Chambers to apply the brakes. The wheels of the five vehicles behind them screeched lightly, their engines quieting to a low hum as they pulled to the shoulder within clear sight of the mountainside town.

  In the same instant that the debarkation ramps on the back of the armored vehicles fell open, the soldiers spilled out and scrambled for cover along the roadway. With paternal care, Major Jackson visually inspected each of his men’s position as he climbed from the commander’s hatch and dropped to the ground. Satisfied his soldiers had taken sufficient cover, he took up his binoculars and scanned the area before them.

  They’d met no opposition thus far, which was surprising. The town appeared totally lifeless, seeming to confirm the earlier reconnaissance reports that Jackson had discounted as erroneous. Still, he held his breath as he watched the operation through swirling dust clouds whipped up by the big helicopters’ rotor blades—the proverbial all hell could erupt at any time dominating his thoughts.

  In the town, the major’s airborne element fast-roped from the choppers and onto the roofs and streets, then rushed to safe vantage points. Jackson watched until the emptied helicopters banked in unison and sped back toward the safety of the ridge.

  Anticipation electrified the air.
Tension and angst seemed tangible. But as Major Jackson watched the insertion, time passed monotonously, uneventfully, and the minutes ticked by allowing dark despair to settle in, frustration laying heavily against him like some kind of medieval torture device.

  Jackson swung his glasses in the direction of the homes spread along the wooded mountainside. But he saw no lights from the houses. He spied no armed adversaries, no curious citizens on the sidewalks, in any of the yards or even peeking from behind their doors while still in their bathrobes. No cars drove on the streets or were parked in the narrow, gravel driveways. No morning newspapers lay on the porches—not even a single dog barked at their intrusion.

  The houses were old, saltbox style, the newest of which had most likely been built in the thirties and forties. Some were obviously dilapidated, gaping holes in their weathered and warped roofs, shutters hanging at odd angles from graying wood lap siding, windows busted. Tall, brown weeds had overgrown the small yards. Garages, many leaning awkwardly from years of wind abuse and snow load, rested wearily aside a few of the homes, but they were too narrow to accommodate anything more modern than Model Ts.

  Jackson’s breathing slowed and deepened with dread. If today’s mission failed, there’d be little hope of finding Dan McMaster. Sunny would be devastated.

  Less than ten minutes passed before a half-dozen of the hostage rescue squads returned to the center of town, trotting in from the deserted residential area. Meanwhile, Jackson watched through his binoculars as several of his men stepped from the buildings and shops along the main drag and into the open. One man slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and moved out from the rest. He looked toward Jackson and the column of Stryker armored vehicles on the road five hundred yards away and shrugged his shoulders.