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

  ATLANTIS: GATE, series book four

  COPYRIGHT © 2002 by Bob Mayer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author (Bob Mayer, Who Dares Wins) except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Who Dares Wins Publishing

  www.whodareswinspublishing.com

  Bob Mayer is the Best-Selling author of numerous books, both fiction and non-fiction. He is a West Point graduate, served in the Infantry and Special Forces (Green Berets): commanding an A-Team and as a Special Forces battalion operations officer; and was an instructor at the JFK Special Warfare Center & School at Fort Bragg. He is the CEO of Who Dares Wins Publishing.

  His books have hit the NY Times, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, USA Today and other best-seller lists. With over 3 million books in print, he’s the author of Who Dares Wins: The Green Beret Way to Conquer Fear & Succeed and Hunting Al Qaeda. He has appeared on/in local cable news around the country as well as PBS, NPR, the Discovery Military Channel, the Wall Street Journal and Sports Illustrated as an expert consultant.

  Bob is an honor graduate of the Combined Arms Services Staff School, the Infantry Office Basic & Advanced Courses, the Special Forces Qualification Course, the Special Warfare Center Instructor Training Course and the Danish Royal Navy Fromandkorpset School. He is Master Parachutist/Jumpmaster Qualified and earned a Black Belt in the Orient and also taught martial arts and boxing. Bob also earned an MA in Education. He's spoken before over 1,000 groups and organizations, ranging from SWAT teams, Fortune 500, the University of Georgia, IT teams in Silicon Valley, the CIA, Romance Writers of America and the Maui Writers Conference. He brings a unique blend of practical Special Operations Strategies and Tactics mixed with the vision of an artist.

  www.bobmayer.org

  Fiction work published by Who Dares Wins Publishing:

  www.whodareswinspublishing.com

  Books by Bob Mayer BLACK OPS: THE GATE BLACK OPS: THE LINE THE OMEGA MISSILE THE OMEGA SANCTION

  THE CELLAR: BODYGUARD OF LIES THE CELLAR: LOST GIRLS

  CHASING THE GHOST

  Books by Robert Doherty ATLANTIS ATLANTIS: BERMUDA TRIANGLE ATLANTIS: DEVIL’S SEA ATLANTIS: GATE ATLANTIS: ASSAULT ATLANTIS: BATTLE FOR ATLANTIS

  ATLANTIS: GATE by ROBERT DOHERTY

  PROLOGUE THE PRESENT

  “Some say the world will end in fire; some say in ice.” The voice was deep, resonant with power, echoing off the walls of the Oval Office. “From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to know that for destruction, ice is also great and would suffice.”

  The act of speaking wore out the old man and his head slumped back on the chair’s high back. President Kennedy was behind his desk across from the old man. The hallway outside the closed door was full of advisers and Secret Service agents, everyone on edge given the current crisis with Cuba, but there was only the two of them in the room.

  The old man’s voice lost some of its power as he continued. “The words. The words are the key.”

  Kennedy leaned forward. “Did Kruschchev really say we were too liberal to fight, Mister Frost?”

  Robert Frost’s deep blue eyes turned toward the President. “You’re not listening. No one listens.”

  Kennedy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Kruschchev isn’t important,” Frost said.

  “One of our U-2 spy planes was shot down over Cuba yesterday,” Kennedy said. “He’s very important. You met the Premier two months ago. I need a feel for him. He sent a letter yesterday agreeing to pull out the missiles if we agreed not to invade Cuba. Then his people in Cuba shoot down a U-2. Can I trust him? That’s the key.”

  “Kruschchev isn’t important,” Frost repeated. “I hear voices. I always have. Since I was a child. Some of the words I’ve written aren’t exactly mine. They come through me.” He blinked, his gaze regaining some focus. “No, Kruschchev didn’t say that.”

  Kennedy leaned back in his chair, relaxing slightly. “Why did you say it then?”

  “It got your attention. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “And why did you want to see me?”

  “The voices of the gods,” Frost murmured. His voice firmed. “I’ve been told things. Some that have happened, some yet to happen.”

  “You predicted my election in ’59,” Kennedy acknowledged. “No one else gave me a chance that early.” He checked his watch. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “There is a man. In the CIA.”

  Kennedy half-turned in the seat away from Frost. Ever since the Bay of Pigs, those three letters had brought such a reaction.

  “His name is Foreman. He works alone. Studying gates.”

  “’Gates’?”

  “We’re not alone,” Frost said. “In the universe. There are gates on our planet. To other places. He studies them.”

  Kennedy half-stood, ready to end the meeting, but Frost’s next words froze him.

  “I die soon. So do you. Within a year. Maybe sooner if you don’t listen.”

  Kennedy sank back into the seat. “How do you know?”

  “The voices tell me.”

  “Whose voices?”

  “The voices of the gods that I hear inside.” Before Kennedy could respond, Frost waved a frail hand. “Not God, as in the traditional version. But something, some beings, some presence, beyond our world. Just like the Shadow. The force that seeks to destroy our world.”

  “Wait.” Kennedy turned slightly toward the right side of the office. “Bobbie, come in here.”

  A hidden door in the middle of the wood paneling swung open and the President’s brother entered.

  “What do you have on this Foreman?” the President asked.

  “He’s being held at Langley. He tried to transmit a message to the Russians over the CIA emergency landline to Moscow six hours ago.”

  “About?”

  Robert Kennedy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “He listens in on your conversations?” Frost asked, indicating the hidden door.

  The President nodded. “Of course.”

  “Foreman needs to send that message,” Frost said. “It is probably already too late.”

  “Why?”

  “To save the world.”

  The President frowned. “Mr. Frost. You’ve had five minutes of my time. You’re not making any sense and I’m afraid there are pressing matters I must attend to.”

  Frost looked confused, as if he were trying to remember something, but it was eluding him. Bobbie Kennedy went over to the old man and put his hand on the frail shoulder.

  “Please come with me, Mister Frost.”

  “But . . . there’s something; something I should say.”

  “Please come with me.”

  Before Frost was even out of the office, the President was on the phone to the Pentagon, getting the latest update on the situation in Cuba. Frost was still protesting there was something he needed to remember, to say, as the door shut behind him.

  ***************

  The Russian freighter cut through the Atlantic, north of the Bahamas, bow pointed toward the south and Cuba. The American blockade was somewhere ahead and the ship’s crew was uncertain what reception they would receive, even though their new orders from Moscow were to help in the removal of the missiles.

  The unusual fog appeared off the star
board bow, a small patch at first, but it grew at an alarming rate, spreading over the ocean. The freighter’s captain ordered a course adjustment to the southeast to avoid the rapidly approaching swirl of gray and yellow, but the ship was too slow. The first tendrils of the mist swept over the decks, followed shortly by the screams of the terrified and dying.

  Five minutes later, when the fog pulled back and faded, there was no sign of the freighter.

  ***************

  The disappearance was noted both in Washington and Moscow. The first missile lifted out of a silo outside of Moscow heading toward NATO forces in Europe five minutes later. The order to launch against the United States was transmitted to the sites in Cuba two minutes and twelve seconds later.

  ***************

  The car carrying Robert Frost was pulling out the gates of the White House when the sirens began their wail. The old man leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye, he ‘saw’ Miami, the mushroom cloud rising over what had once been a city.

  “Stop here,” he told the confused driver. He pushed open the door and got out. He stood on the sidewalk outside the White House feeling the fear of the people around him running for the shelters. Beyond that, though, he felt another connection, one that had touched on him all his life. He realized what he had failed to say. He looked south, across the Mall at the Jefferson Memorial. That was it, he realized, just as the first intercontinental ballistic missile from Cuba screamed down over the city.

  The first bomb detonated over the Lincoln Memorial, less than a mile from where Frost stood. The blast came toward the poet, a racing wall of blazing death.

  “Fire this time,” Frost said a split second before the wave hit him.

  ***************

  Dane jerked upright in accompaniment to Chelsea’s whine. His first action was to put a comforting hand on the Golden Retriever’s head, fingers automatically scratching her forehead. He felt cold even though a warm Pacific breeze came through the open porthole in the cabin. He became aware that his skin was wet. He was puzzled for a moment, and then realized it was sweat.

  He got out of the bunk, and pulled on a black t-shirt with a Special Forces crest on the chest to complement the faded green jungle fatigue pants he wore. Barefoot, he silently padded out of the cabin, Chelsea right behind him. He went to the railing at the edge of the deck and halted. Chelsea sat next to him, waiting, then slid down to lay her belly against the cool metal, her nose just over the edge, nostrils flared, smelling the ocean.

  He was on the deck of the FLIP, a unique research vessel over two hundred meters long. Just behind him was the control section, and in front was the bulbous bow, which contained the muonic probe that had allowed Dane and the others to enter the gate and go through the portal inside. When in operation, tanks near the bow were flooded and the long ship went from horizontal to vertical, the probe going down while the decks in the control section pivoted to keep everything level.

  Muons, formerly called mu-mesons, were sub-atomic particles with a negative charge and an incredibly short mean lifetime; or at least muons that were generated by nature were like that. The muons that the gates generated were a different matter, lasting far longer than traditional physics said they should. Dane knew it had taken decades of research to discover the muon emission that occurred whenever the Shadow acted. He also knew that Professor Nagoya and his assistant Ahana, had learned to manipulate muons enough to allow his entry into the Devil’s Sea gate the previous day and that the two scientists were now in the control room, studying the data he had gathered and trying to make sense of it. He was also aware that Foreman, the CIA agent who had been studying the gates for decades was in contact with Washington, trying to decide what the next move would be in this strange war mankind was raging with the Shadow, the malevolent, unknown power behind the gates.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The voice startled Dane. He hadn’t sensed Foreman’s presence, which was unusual.

  “I had a strange—“ Dane paused as he realized he had been about to say dream, but knew better— “vision.”

  “Of?” Foreman asked. The old man was a silhouette in the dark, his sharp nose the most prominent feature, the starlight glinting off his silver hair.

  Dane quickly related what he had ‘seen’, from the meeting of Frost and Kennedy in the Oval Office through the detonation of the atomic bomb over Washington. When he was done, Foreman made no immediate comment.

  “It was sent to me,” Dane finally said.

  “It was a dream,” Foreman differed.

  Dane shook his head. “It was too detailed.”

  “But it didn’t happen that way,” Foreman said.

  “So part of it is true?” Dane wasn’t surprised.

  Foreman nodded, remembering events almost forty years ago. “We picked up the Bermuda Triangle gate opening from a reconnaissance plane flying the blockade. I called Professor Kolkov in Moscow immediately on the CIA landline. He got hold of the Russian military and they managed to change the freighter’s course. It avoided the gate. That was the last day of the crisis. That freighter picked up the first of the missiles from Cuba that night and removed them.”

  Dane ran a callused hand over the metal railing, listening to the gentle lap of the sea against the ship. “I felt what Frost did. That’s not a normal dream. And I saw the freighter get caught in the Bermuda Triangle gate.”

  “Why would you get a vision of something that didn’t happen?” Foreman asked.

  Dane had been thinking about that while he stood at the railing. “We’re missing something important about these Gates and the true nature of the Shadow. Something very important. I was given that vision for a reason.”

  “Get some sleep,” Foreman said. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” He nodded toward the pitch-black wall two miles to the west, the Devil’s Sea gate that Dane had escaped out of the previous day.

  The CIA agent wandered off into the dark. For the first time Dane wondered why Foreman had been out in the middle of the night also. Then, unbidden, the thought struck him that maybe what he had seen had happened. How that could be, he had no idea, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

  480 BC. GREECE

  The King, one of the few kings who still ruled in Greece against the rising wave of democracy, was alone, a most strange occurrence for someone of his rank. Leonidas was also far from his kingdom. Sparta was one hundred and fifty kilometers due south of his current location. He rode along a rocky trail that wound its way through the steep hills that constituted the northern shore of the Gulf of Corinth. He saw a temple on a mound to the right and knew he was close to his goal. It was dedicated to Apollo who was worshipped here at Delphi.

  He pulled back on the reins, eyes darting about in the shadow cast by the two cheek guards of his bronze helmet. His right hand went to the pommel of his sword, resting there, fingers lightly curled over it. There was no one about, which was most strange. Usually the area was crowded with supplicants trying to see the Oracle. Still, he felt a strong sense of threat, as if an enemy force lay in ambush. Decades of warring—and living to learn the lessons-- had taught him to trust these feelings.

  Then he noted the fog, a thick, unnatural mist, creeping up from the low ground to the south, out of the Gulf. He spurred the horse forward, passing the necropolis that held the temple and the place where the Oracle held formal meetings with supplicants. The sacred grove was ahead, but he edged the horse toward the Corycian Cave.

  The fog was rising faster, covering all the land below and coming closer. Leonidas halted as a torch appeared in the mouth of the cave. An old woman, wrapped in a long white cloak held the flame.

  “Quickly,” she called out. “Enemies come.”

  Leonidas rode up to her and dismounted, drawing his xiphos—sword-- as his feet touched the ground. He pulled his heavy shield off the saddle and hefted it with his off-hand.

  “You must attack the eyes,” the Oracle said. “It is the only place
they are vulnerable to your weapon.”

  “Whose eyes?”

  With her free hand, the Oracle pointed toward the mist. “There.”

  Leonidas turned. A white figure floated in the front edge of the fog, less than forty feet away and approaching rapidly. At first the King thought it was a ghost or a demon of the gods, as it was completely covered in white and its feet were six inches above the ground. It moved as if carried by the fog.

  But when it raised its arms, hands extended, and he saw the foot long blades on the end of each finger, he knew this thing was real. He went on guard, sword point toward the creature, shield covering the other half of his body and waited. He felt a moment’s shock as he saw that its face was featureless white, with only two red eyes, bulging like an insect’s.

  It swiped at him and he ducked the blow, blocking the second swipe from the other hand with his sword. Then he struck, a lifetime of military training making the movement lightning quick.

  The tip of the xiphos entered the creature’s left eye, smashing through the crystal. The arm propelling the metal blade was well-muscled and covered with scars that rippled as the sword plunged deeper into the smooth white face. Leonidas twisted the sword, the metal scraping along the rim of the socket, giving to the harder white material. He jerked back, pulling his sword out as a terrible scream rent the night.

  The creature struck at him once more, the blow so powerful that it dented his shield and knocked it from his left hand. He jabbed with the sword once more, point hitting the open socket and the creature screeched, pulling back. The creature floated backward into the thickening mist. The Oracle was behind Leonidas’s right shoulder.

  “Wait,” she whispered as the creature disappeared. “There’s something else out there.”

  Leonidas checked his blade. The edge was ruined where it had caught on the creature’s armor. The shield lay five feet away and slightly behind him and he dared not turn his back on the fog to retrieve it.

  “What was that?” he asked as he peered into the mist.

  “A Valkyrie,” the Oracle said. “An emissary of the Shadow.” She pointed once more. “There.”