Omega Crisis (Gemini Gate Book 1) Read online

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  “You are going to Chiapas, Mexico.”

  “Rumors of a nuclear weapon.”

  We have confirmation

  Time to take action

  With each new twist of the knife

  A good show for the masses

  “Is this threat real, Dad?”

  “Should people evacuate?”

  “An imminent threat of nuclear war.”

  “Caught ya’!”

  “The ant and the grasshopper.”

  “We’ve decided you can go.”

  “We just need to follow them.”

  “Aaron Carlsen. Is that you?”

  “Where are my mom and dad?”

  “Patrick, we need transportation.”

  “This is home.”

  “Welcome to the Preserve.”

  “You are the devil, not us.”

  “I really love this valley.”

  “So, is war inevitable then?”

  “Two hours before the terrorist deadline.”

  “If there’s a nuclear explosion.”

  “That’s enough Jason.”

  “Against all the laws of physics.”

  Epilogue: “We’re here for you if you need us.”

  Author’s Note

  Book 2 Preview: Worlds in Collision

  About the Author

  (For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)

  Dedicated to Marilyn. You are the inspiration and motivation for everything I do. I love you with all my heart and soul.

  And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.

  For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom . . .

  All these are the beginning of sorrows.—Matthew 24:6–8

  4 July

  On the TV screen, a smartly dressed man and woman sat behind a conference table in what looked like a schoolroom.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Dennis Spaulding and this is Melanie Kearns, with Channel Eleven News. We’re reporting from the Chantilly Elementary School in Chantilly, Virginia, about twenty-five miles from the capital, and our studio in Washington D.C. We have a crew in the Channel Eleven Skycam helicopter as well, currently getting in position for a firsthand report.”

  Melanie continued the narrative.

  “If there’s a nuclear explosion, and we’re told it’s still if and not when, the mushroom cloud would spread downwind, with radioactive particles dropping out of the cloud as ‘fallout.’ With today’s weather, we would expect the cloud to spread to the northeast.”

  Dennis took over again.

  “That’s right, Melanie. And now we’re told that our Skycam team is in position, so we’ll hand off our coverage to Mr. Justin Chase, our reporter in the sky. Hello, Justin, what’s going on up there?”

  The picture on the TV split so that Dennis was on the left side of the screen. The right side now showed a young man with short, unruly hair and a pair of wraparound sunglasses propped on top of his head. The creases from his smile stretched nearly to his ears, and his tanned skin looked wrinkled where his headset touched his cheeks just below his ears. He was holding a microphone and there was a banner under his picture that read: Justin Chase, Channel Eleven Reporter in the Sky.

  “Hi Melanie and Dennis,” Justin said seriously. “It’s beautiful up here. Clear sky. Gentle breeze from the southwest. It’s hard to believe we’re actually contemplating a nuclear explosion that could totally destroy the Washington, D.C. area. Wow.”

  “I agree Justin,” Dennis said. “Hard to believe.”

  “Okay,” Justin continued, “we’re in the Channel Eleven News Skycam helicopter, ten miles west of Washington, D.C., at five thousand feet.” He looked briefly at his watch. “It’s 2:52 p.m. We’re told the military still has teams in the area, checking for a bomb and watching for terrorists who might try to use the confusion of the evacuation to carry a bomb into the area.”

  “Our pilot says he can see a military helicopter now,” Justin continued.

  The camera panned away from his face and to look out a side window, where a military helicopter flew rapidly from the right to the left below the news helicopter.

  “Wow,” Justin said. “He’s really hauling. It must be show time.”

  The camera panned back to Justin’s face, which was turned to the military helicopter. He wore an easy grin, a dimple in his cheek. It was obvious that he liked flying and speed, maybe picturing himself at the controls of the military helicopter.

  “Can you tell if anyone’s still in the city?” Melanie asked.

  That brought Justin back to the present. As he turned toward the camera, he dropped the smile and the dimple disappeared, but his eyes still sparkled.

  “It’s hard to tell, Melanie. It’s been eleven days since the president mentioned voluntary evacuation, and nine days since he confirmed that the terrorists have a bomb and plan to set it off in Washington, D.C. We’ve been watching people stream out of the capital and surrounding cities for days now, but we’re told that there are likely thousands of people still in the city for one reason or another.”

  “That’s amazing! Are the police and military helping with the evacuation?”

  “We’ve seen them helping with traffic control, but whether or not they’re going door-to-door telling people to get out is hard to say. Remember, they’re also trying to find a bomb.”

  “Thanks Justin. It’s 2:57. Do you want to take over and show us what’s going on?”

  “Thanks Melanie.”

  The view of Melanie in the schoolroom disappeared, leaving Justin and the helicopter to fill the entire screen. The camera panned right for a view out the side window and zoomed in on the National Mall.

  “If you look closely at the spot where our camera is aimed, you can see the National Mall, with the Capitol building and reflecting pool on the left, the Washington Monument on the right, and the Smithsonian buildings running down both sides of the Mall in between.”

  What the camera couldn’t detect from this distance were the people walking on the Mall and working in offices around the city. There were those who didn’t believe the threat was real. There were young families on vacation who didn’t want to lose their vacation time and the money their trip had cost, who were betting their lives that the bomb wasn’t real. There were business men and women who didn’t think they could afford to miss a day’s work. And there were those who didn’t hear the warnings, didn’t understand, or didn’t care, like many in the homeless population.

  “I’ll give you a second-by-second rundown of what’s happening from our perspective,” Justin continued. “We’re putting on special dark glasses that we’re told can withstand extreme changes in light, just in case we see a fireball. Whoa, it’s like I’m in a cave. I can’t see anything now.” There was muffled laughter in the background. “We’re waiting for the 3:00 p.m. deadline, which is coming up right . . . now.”

  Damascus, Syria, 6 January (Six Months Earlier)

  As he entered the airport luggage area, Saleh spotted his good friend and mentor, Ahmed, across the room. With a subtle nod, Ahmed left the terminal, walking slowly so as not to attract attention. A few minutes later, bag in hand, Saleh followed. He found Ahmed in a drab 1980s sedan at the curb, its engine running. He dropped his bag into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

  Ahmed set a London Times newspaper in Saleh’s lap, open to the front page.

  “Good to see you,” he said in Arabic, as he pulled the car into traffic. “Another successful mission, my fr
iend.”

  Saleh looked at the headline: TERRORIST BOMB IN CROWDED NEW YEAR’S EVE CELEBRATION.

  Only slightly smaller was the subtitle: Suicide Bomber Kills 38, Wounds 147, at Victoria Embankment in Westminster.

  Saleh would read the story, but for now he was satisfied with his good friend’s compliment. He smiled at Ahmed.

  “Khalid was one of the faithful, Allah be praised,” he said.

  “He will be rewarded in heaven,” Ahmed replied. After a pause he added, “We have another assignment for you.”

  “Whatever the Brothers require,” Saleh said with a slight nod, still basking in his mentor’s approval. He was surprised that another mission would follow so soon. He’d spent the previous three weeks in London preparing Khalid and his support team for the last mission, and three weeks before that planning and selecting his team. Still, he was hesitant to ask.

  “What’s this one?”

  Ahmed looked briefly at Saleh before returning his eyes to the traffic ahead, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled broadly through his heavy beard. Unlike Ahmed, Saleh had been required to shave his beard for his overseas missions, so he was pleased that the latest style favored a little facial hair—it allowed him to have a few days’ growth. With his light skin and Queen’s English, he was able to move freely around Europe. And his assumed name, Samuel, led many people to assume he was Jewish, which always made him laugh—when it didn’t make him angry.

  “You’ve performed flawlessly on your assignments, Saleh,” Ahmed said. “How many students did you recruit for the camps? Twenty-seven? And you supported Rashid’s team on quite a few successful missions. You’ve demonstrated that you know how to plan a mission and lead a team.”

  Saleh had been raised in Saudi Arabia, in one of the Wahhabi training camps, along with children from around the Arab world. That he had pleased his instructors was evident when, at age seventeen, he was sent to England to study at Cambridge and to observe for himself Western decadence. With nearly unlimited funding from the Brothers, he immersed himself in the culture—fast cars, alcohol, and women. But despite appearances, he’d never doubted the teachings of his youth for a moment, and only once questioned his own actions. Even then, he’d rationalized away his concerns without much effort. After all, he’d been sent to England to understand why the United States was referred to as the Great Satan, and why she and her Western allies were called godless. After experiencing the temptations of decadence for himself, he understood all the better why Westerners needed to be destroyed.

  Called back from England after three years, Saleh had been given small assignments, and then gradually larger ones, taking messages and packages to Brothers in Islamic centers around the world. Eventually, he’d been assigned to Rashid’s team in England, which recruited local Arab youths for the Wahhabi training camps. Then he was assigned to set up communications networks for young people returning to England from the camps—what they called sleepers. Having proven himself to be a resourceful and dedicated organizer, Saleh had found himself back in Cambridge, recruiting sleepers for suicide missions. His assignments had increased in size and complexity so that now, at age twenty-nine, he had completed two successful missions of his own.

  Ahmed had stopped talking. Saleh was disappointed that he wasn’t going to say anything about the next assignment, but then Ahmed surprised him.

  “This one will be special, the most audacious mission the Brothers have ever planned. They have a lot of faith in you. It’s not safe to talk out in the open. You will get the details from them.” Then, as he stopped at a light, he turned to face Saleh, grinning broadly at his protégé. “This one will be solo. You are going to Chiapas, Mexico.”

  Matamoros, Mexico, 21 January

  The sounds of gunfire pierced the otherwise silent air. The guards standing against the walls around the room raised their rifles and moved toward the door. The battle between the Gulf Cartel and the Los Zetas Cartel had become the bloodiest war Mexico had seen in more than a century—almost two. Los Zetas was led by former elite members of the Mexican military who were notorious for their unmatched brutality. The Gulf Cartel had been the target of Los Zetas aggression for years, but never within the city—the battle for control of Tamaulipas and the production of cocaine was escalating.

  One guard opened the door, while four others cautiously stepped through, crouching and fanning out. All of them were quickly gunned down by automatic weapons fire, dead before they hit the ground. The remaining guards closed the door, then ran to the windows to return fire. The drug lord and his captains, sitting around a long table deeper within the room, drew their guns, tipped the table over, and crouched behind it, preparing to defend themselves.

  The Gulf drug lord was a veteran of the Mexican drug wars. Shrewd and careful, he’d risen to power by systematically eliminating all competition for leadership of the cartel. Then he’d expanded his franchise, learning how to grow coca plants in Tamaulipas and exporting the cocaine into the United States.

  He’d stayed in power by mistrusting everyone, even his captains. He let each of them think that he, alone, was trusted, asking each one, in feigned confidence, to watch the others.

  The Los Zetas were aggressive, but the Gulf drug lord and his men had bested them time and again. This latest escalation was different, though. The Los Zetas must be getting outside help, the drug lord thought, but from where? He’d never been afraid of anything in his life, but this was starting to make him nervous.

  Suddenly, dozens of Los Zetas soldiers swarmed the front of the house. The first few fell to the guns of the Gulf, writhing in silence, but the room was soon overrun by Los Zetas gunmen. Within minutes, the Gulf Cartel’s stronghold in Tamaulipas had been obliterated.

  White House Situation Room, National Security Council meeting, 5 March

  The president of the United States, Gregory McCormick, was a tall, dignified-looking fifty-year-old, his hair beginning to turn gray at the fringes. He sat in his usual place at the head of the table, leading a meeting he’d called of the full National Security Council—the NSC—to review recent world events and consider their potential impact on national security. Seated in the plush armchairs on either side of the long conference table were the statutory members of the council and some key advisers. Straight-backed wooden chairs around the wall, and folding chairs in the few remaining open spaces, held other regular attendees and staff. On the table, in front of the president, were a push-button phone with multiple lines and a small control panel that operated the large monitor on the wall to his right. Speakers lined the middle of the conference table.

  As the last few invitees settled into their seats, the president thought about how large this group had become since the attacks of September 11, 2001. The participants represented virtually every government agency in the country, as well as those that dealt with U.S. interactions with the rest of the world. He was grateful that he was surrounded by so many good men and women, the best in their various fields. With such a diversity of priorities and opinions represented, he could count on this group to make the best decision possible for the country . . . under normal circumstances.

  But the president had a nagging concern. He knew that the characteristics that normally made the council great could also make it slow and deliberate, and therefore ineffective in an emergency. Quick action would be nigh impossible—if they were facing a real crisis, he’d have to whittle this group down to a manageable size, keeping only those whose opinions he trusted the most. Ultimately, the real decision-making fell to him anyway.

  McCormick looked to his right and left, confirming that his most trusted advisers were in place and ready. Then he turned to the Director of National Intelligence (DNI) Thomas Mitchell, seated on his left. A slender, fiftyish man, with thinning hair and a long face, DNI Mitchell didn’t have an intelligence background—he was a political appointee—and he didn’t manage the day-to-day operations of the various intelligence agencies. But Tom was a brilliant str
ategist. As DNI, he was the head of the sixteen-member United States Intelligence Community, and in that capacity he directed and oversaw the National Intelligence Program and served as an adviser to the president on intelligence matters. He was also a longtime friend of the president, and had managed his last two political campaigns—both successful—for the Senate and the presidency. Tom was one of the president’s key advisers.

  “Okay, Tom, what do you have for us?” the president asked.

  Tom had some notes in front of him, but he didn’t refer to them. McCormick knew they contained details such as names and dates, in case the president wanted them. He also knew that Tom had extensive knowledge of the history of the drug cartels in Mexico, including the latest developments, from months of working closely with intelligence experts.

  “The battle between the cartels has escalated since the Gulf Cartel started growing coca plants in Tamaulipas,” Tom began. “Up until three years ago, virtually all of the cocaine coming into the U.S. was grown and processed in Colombia. When the Colombian cartels shifted their attention to South America and Europe, the Los Zetas started growing coca in Chiapas with the idea of cutting Colombia out of the U.S. market completely. The Gulf Cartel was sidelined until about a year ago, when they brought in Peruvian farmers to teach them how to adapt coca plants to their soil and weather conditions. That’s when the fighting escalated again.”

  Tom summarized the battle in Matamoros six weeks earlier and the takeover of the Tamaulipas territory by the Los Zetas. There were whispers around the room, including a few gasps as he described the intensity of the violence and carnage.

  “There are indications of ongoing, isolated fighting on the plantations and in the streets. A few Gulf Cartel captains are holding out against Los Zetas, probably in hopes of setting up their own operations. Satellite images show fires at several sites, including the estates of two of the Gulf captains.”

  “That sounds like a good thing, doesn’t it?” the president asked. “Let them kill each other off and destroy the crops?”