No one could ever know how the world had almost ended.
The team had escaped Chauvet Cave to the eerie melody of sirens bouncing between the limestone cliffs of the Ardèche River valley. Chess Team was long gone by the time the gendarmes arrived. Less than an hour later, they were back aboard Senior Citizen and on their way back home.
Almost home, he amended.
As soon as Senior Citizen arrived at ‘The Pope,’ the team was moved to Decon, an isolated quarantine area where teams were debriefed after returning from particularly sensitive missions. Decon—short for ‘decontamination’—was a place for operators to ‘come down’ from the adrenaline high of combat before going home to their families. It was also the last chance for the teams to get their stories straight before making an official report.
They had been in Decon for two full days, sleeping on cots, eating MREs, watching TV and playing X-Box games and generally going stir-crazy waiting for the hammer to fall. Rook had joked that they were “stuck in Limbo,” and King thought that was pretty close to the truth.
Then, on the afternoon of their second day, the door was thrown open. General Keasling strode into the room. He made a low growling sound when Rook, sprawled on a couch with a game controller in hand, threw him a casual wave, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. He strode to the corner of the table where King was sitting with the others, and calmly put his hands behind his back.
Keasling wasn’t alone.
A second figure entered right behind him. King had to do a double-take to recognize the man who had traded in his combat fatigues for blue jeans and Star Wars T-shirt; it was Lewis Aleman.
“Lew!”
Just seeing the Delta sniper filled King with a stew of emotions. Parker and Aleman had been friends, and the latter’s presence was a harsh reminder of just how much King had lost along the way. Still, it was good to see a friendly and familiar face.
Aleman’s right hand looked like the end of a Q-tip, swathed in bandages, but he looked otherwise none the worse for wear. He had a laptop computer tucked under his arm, and he promptly stepped in front of Rook and plugged a cable from the computer into the X-Box.
“Hey!” Rook protested as his virtual re-enactment of D-Day was replaced by a blank screen, but Aleman just threw him a mischievous grin and started tapping on his keyboard.
“Game over,” Keasling said in flat voice. “Deep Blue wants to talk to you.”
Here it comes, King thought.
“Got it,” Aleman announced.
A spherical object—King recognized it immediately as a web cam—now rested atop the television, but it was the image on the screen that commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
The silhouetted figure, a fit-looking man with short hair—either a military buzz cut or a receding hairline, King couldn’t tell for sure—was framed in the display. The man regarded them for a moment before speaking.
“It’s good to finally see you all,” he said, in the same electronically distorted voice they knew well from previous radio communications.
King realized that the others were all waiting for him to respond. “Likewise,” he began, and then added. “Sort of.”
“Forgive the theatrics,” Deep Blue said. “At present, it is necessary to keep my identity a secret, but I sincerely hope that one day I will be able to meet you face-to-face. And let me apologize for keeping you here so long; I had my hands full trying to cover your tracks in France. That said, I think congratulations are in order.”
King was by nature suspicious of praise from his superiors, but usually he knew better than to question it aloud. This time however, his caution kicked in a moment too late. “Sir?”
“You all showed exceptional valor. If you were in a traditional unit, I would see to it that you all received the highest commendation. Alas, all I can offer you is more work.”
King glanced at the others.
Queen’s eyes were alight with anticipation. This was what she had dreamed of when joining the Army; a chance to prove herself, to test her limits in the most extreme ways possible. There was no better reward for someone like her than to be thrown back into the fire.
Bishop was not so easy to read. Although he kept a tight rein on his emotions, he always looked like he was just a few seconds from critical mass…except right now, he looked almost serene, or at least as close to it as he would ever get.
Knight shrugged, feigning indifference to the news, but King knew it was an act. The Korean Casanova was an adrenaline junkie, eager for his next fix, and whether it was at a nightclub full of supermodels or in the thick of battle, he lived for the thrill of beating the odds.
Even Rook seemed to greet Deep Blue’s statement with his own brand of enthusiasm. “More work? In this economy, what could be better than that?”
King returned his attention to Deep Blue. “Am I missing something here?”
Although he could not see the man’s eyes, King got the impression that he was being scrutinized from across the electronic ether. After a moment, the silhouette shifted slightly and the auto-tuned voice said, “General Keasling, would you give us the room for a moment?”
An irritated scowl flickered across Keasling’s face, but he smartly executed an about-face and strode through the door. Deep Blue waited a full ten seconds after his departure before speaking again. “Is there a problem, King?”
King took a deep breath. “I…don’t think I’m the right man for this job.”
There was a low roar of protest from the others, though Queen’s voice was distinct above the others. “Bullshit.”
“You’re wondering how I can call this a win,” Deep Blue said, as if reading King’s mind. “You feel responsible for their deaths; for Daniel Parker and Sasha Therion.”
“I am responsible.”
“No, you aren’t.” There was a sadness in Deep Blue’s reply that the artificial voice modulator could not disguise. “The ultimate responsibility lies with me. But if I had it all to do over again, I would make the same decision.”
When King didn’t respond, Deep Blue continued. “One of the burdens of command is that you feel personally responsible for every soldier lost on your watch. In my book, that doesn’t make you unfit to lead; it makes you human.
“There’s something else you should consider also. Lewis hasn’t been able to figure out why, but instead of blocking radio signals, the limestone in that cave amplified the outgoing transmissions. You couldn’t receive, but I was able to monitor your comms.” His electronic tone lowered almost to a whisper. “I heard everything that happened in that cave.”
The revelation hit King like a cold slap. He looked around at the others, expecting to see unasked questions on their faces, but none of them would meet his gaze.
They know, he realized. They all know.
Deep Blue went on as if the former matter was permanently concluded. “You were given an impossible task, and you accomplished it. You went up against an enemy with resources that—speaking frankly—still boggle my mind, and you beat him. So, by any standard, that’s a win in my book. So pull it together, and get back on the horse. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have leading this team.”
Rook stood up raising his hands like an old-time preacher. “Amen, brother.”
The others just nodded in silent agreement.
King was speechless for a moment, but when no one else—not even Rook—filled the silence, he gathered his wits. “So, what’s next?”
“For the moment: recovery. Mandatory R&R. Stay loose, but stay sharp. Chess Team is going to be on alert status 24/7.”
“Chess Team,” Rook said. “I still think it sounds like an after-school club for nerds.”
Aleman threw him a withering glance. “I never played chess.”
King ignored them. “We’re going to need an HQ.”
“You’re sitting in it,” Deep Blue replied. “It’s temporary until we can come up with something better, but feel free to redecorat
e as you see fit; just submit your requisitions to General Keasling.”
Rook rolled his eyes at that news, but then his face seemed to brighten. “Dudes. We’ve got to have a horseshoe pit!”
Bishop’s face creased in annoyance. “Horseshoes? Really?”
“Just promise me this,” King said, cutting Rook off before he could launch into an impassioned defense of his favorite hobby. “Next time, can we just go up against some normal bad guys; you know, tangos with loose suitcase nukes and nerve gas? No more freaky science experiments, killer mountain crocodiles, historical voodoo…no more weird shit.”
Deep Blue laughed. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep, but it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever have to deal with anything quite so extreme in the future.”
King had a sudden urge to knock on wood, but before he could rap his knuckles against the tabletop, he realized that it was molded plastic.
Ah, hell, he thought. Deep Blue’s right. Nothing could be as weird as what we just went through.
Shanghai, China
Three days was long enough—too long, really.
Rainer wasn’t coming back. The rogue Delta operator had failed, and given the resources he’d taken into the field, that was a frightening prospect indeed.
The telephone trilled once, twice…
Damn it! They know they need to pick up on the first ring.
“Reinhart.”
“What took you so long?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. You’ve just been promoted; congratulations.”
“What?”
God, the man is thick. “Rainer’s not coming back. He’s either dead or—God forbid—captured. Either way, you’re running the show now. First order of business is damage control.”
“Got it; no loose ends. I’ll make sure there’s nothing that ties us to him.”
To his credit, Reinhart seemed to grasp what was being asked of him, but was tidying up after Rainer going to be good enough?
The whole situation had been a farce from the beginning. He had no interest in plague research; that had been Katherine’s passion, and the only reason he’d even started down that road was to honor her memory; he’d thought that perhaps if he could salvage something useful from her work, her death wouldn’t feel like such a waste.
Sentimentality is for suckers. It’s time to write this whole fiasco off.
“Good. And while you’re at it, I think it’s time to dissolve our partnership with the Chinese.”
“When you say ‘dissolve?’” Reinhart let the question hang.
“Complete liquidation of our assets.”
“Clear as crystal.”
Reinhart hung up first, which would have been a further irritant to his employer under any other circumstances, but the breach of protocol barely registered. Things were finally looking up.
He had never been comfortable with the idea of dealing with the triad. Criminals were so unsavory, and while the partnership had been useful for procuring test subjects and generating untraceable revenue, the risk of exposure was just too great.
Besides, that line of research was a dead end—literally. Richard Ridley had no use for dead ends. He was going to live forever.
###
Dear Reader,
You have just finished the Chess Team origins novel book and I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the journey and that you will come back for more adventures. If you did enjoy the book, please show your support by posting a review at Amazon.com. The Amazon website works on algorithms, meaning the more people review my books, the more Amazon will recommend them to other readers. And the more people buy my books, the more I get to write them, which is a good thing for both of us (assuming you enjoyed the book). While some authors pay for five star reviews, I'm depending on you, the actual reader, to voice your opinion. And while you're there, feel free to pick up the next Chess Team books, PULSE, INSTINCT, THRESHOLD, RAGNAROK and OMEGA. There are also eight novellas bridging THRESHOLD and RAGNAROK! Hey, I’m an author, shilling my books is part of the job.
Thank you!
-- Jeremy Robinson
PROJECT NEMESIS
Available now! Click here to purchase.
DESCRIPTION:
Jon Hudson, lead investigator for the Department of Homeland Security's Fusion Center-P, thinks his job is a joke. While other Fusion Centers focus on thwarting terrorist activity, Hudson's division is tasked with handling paranormal threats to national security, of which there have been zero during his years at the DHS. When yet another Sasquatch sighting leads to a research facility disguised as an abandoned Nike missile site in the back woods of Maine, Hudson's job becomes deadly serious.
Hudson and the local Sherriff, Ashley Collins, suddenly find themselves on the run from a ruthless ex-Special Forces security team, but the human threat is short-lived as something very much not-human destroys the facility and heads for civilization, leaving only a single clue behind--a name scrawled in blood: Nemesis. Working with his team at Fusion Center-P, Sherriff Collins and a surly helicopter pilot named Woodstock, Hudson pursues the creature known as Nemesis, attempts to uncover the corporate secrets behind its creation and accidental release and tries to comprehend why several clues lead to a murdered little girl named Maigo.
But as the body-count explodes, along with the monster's size, it quickly becomes clear that nothing short of a full military response can slow Nemesis's progress. Coordinating with every branch of the U.S. military, Hudson simultaneously searches for clues about Nemesis's origins and motivations, and leads the counterattack that will hopefully stop the monster before it reaches Boston and its one million residents.
Witness the birth of a legend as Jeremy Robinson, bestselling author of SecondWorld and Ragnarok, combines the pacing of Matthew Reilly with the mystery of James Rollins and creates the first iconic American Kaiju* story since King Kong. Includes original creature designs by legendary Godzilla artist, Matt Frank.
*Kaiju is Japanese for "strange beast." The genre includes classic monsters such as Godzilla, Gamera, Mothra, Rodan and King Ghidorah.
1
Now
"You have got to be kidding me!" I shout to myself when Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me blares from my pickup truck's feeble speakers. If the flashback to my childhood wasn't bad enough, every thump of the bass drum releases a grating rattle. Whoever owned the beat up, faded red Chevy S-10 before me blew nearly every speaker. Probably some teenager. Man, I'd like to punch that kid in the face. Of course, right now I'd like to punch every radio DJ within a hundred miles, too.
I tap the radio's "seek" button. Boston. More than a Feeling.
Again. Jane's Addiction. Pets.
One more time. Aerosmith. Love in an Elevator.
I punch, literally punch, the radio's power button, but all I manage to do is spin the volume up. Steven Tyler howls in my ear. The vibrating speakers make him sound like a smoker with an artificial voice box. I tap the button more carefully, despite the racket, and silence fills the cab once more.
My neck cracks as I roll it, releasing my music-induced tension. "Welcome to Maine," I say, doing my best DJ impression, "home of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and...that's it."
I should probably invest in a new stereo system someday. Hell, I should probably buy a car with anti-lock brakes, eighteen airbags and all the other things most people care about. But that would require an effort beyond my actual desire to replace Betty.
Yeah, I named my truck. Betty was the name of my first girlfriend. Like this truck, she had a grating voice and a high maintenance personality. Despite girlfriend-Betty being easier on the eyes, I stayed with her for only six months. Pickup truck-Betty talks less. And doesn't complain when I turn her on. We've been together for going on five years now, and even though she's rough around the edges, she's just about the only thing in my life that makes any sense.
I glance in the rearview. The road behind me is as empty as the road ah
ead. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and shake my head. I don't look like a DHS agent. DHS—Department of Homeland Security. Most of the people working for the DHS are straight-shooting, tight-ass suits. An inordinate percentage of the men have mustaches, like they're 70s porn stars or 1900s Englishmen ready to engage in some old fashioned fisticuffs.
Of course, I am sporting the beginning of a beard myself, but that's less of a style choice and more of a result of my ancient shaver, pilfered from my father when I moved out ten years ago, crapping out a week ago. I think it looks good, but if any of my superiors saw it, I'd probably get a good talking to. Proper dress. Appearances matter. That kind of stuff. It's a good thing my superiors don't give a rat's ass about me or my department. I don't think I've seen or heard from someone with a higher pay scale than mine in the last six months.
I adjust the maroon beanie cap covering my crew-cut brown hair. The tight-fitting knit hat has become a staple of my wardrobe, and it is a style choice, mostly because it disguises the fact that my hair is slowly retreating like soldiers from my muddy battlefield. I think it makes me look like The Edge, from U2, a band of the eighties, nineties, and today that I actually wouldn't mind hearing on the radio.
My smartphone—which is really a company phone—cuts through the silence, saying, "Turn right," in a far from sexy, yet feminine voice that is the closest thing I've had to a girlfriend in a year. Other than Betty, I mean. I spot the dirt road up ahead and turn onto the uneven surface. The road is covered in half buried stones the size of grapefruits and rows of hardened ridges formed by water, which, in combination with Betty's rigid suspension, bounces me around like I'm on a grocery-store horsey ride, having a seizure.
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