GEMWORLD
FACETS OF REALITY BOOK ONE
Copyright © 2014 Jeremy Bullard
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.
Dedications and Acknowledgments
First and foremost, to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, without Whom none of this would be possible for me. His mercies truly are new every morning. He gave me the imagination to see this world, the intellect to explore and define it, the words to describe it, and the patience to let it reveal itself without me getting in the way. Too much ;-)
To my wife, Mary, who is a constant believer in my crazy ideas, a ready source of encouragement – or common sense, whichever I am most in need of at any given moment – and a window to my soul when I am too blind to see into myself. I couldn’t imagine loving someone more completely, Baby, though you certainly deserve more than I could ever hope to offer.
To Olivia, Caleb, and Madison – the very best parts of me. Let this serve as notice that Daddy is, in fact, pretty intelligent. Remember that as you approach your teen years...
To my Dad, who instilled in me at an early age a love for all things weird. Star Trek. Star Wars. The X-Files. The Dark Crystal. Jurassic Park. You name it, we’ve watched it, often together, only to pick it apart for long hours afterward. You showed me that it IS POSSIBLE to both love and obey Christ, and to still have imagination enough to explore the bounds of extreme possibility. I love you, Pop.
To my Mom, who suffered every kind of scorn I could dish out as an angry youth. Granted, I wasn’t as bad as other kids, but that’s neither here nor there. Your patience is inspiring, your discipline unmatched, and your penchant for two-hour lectures undoubtedly the source of my own longwindedness! I love you, Mom.
To the writers and members of Iron Sharpening Iron – David G Johnson, Parker J Cole, Mary Findley (the designer of this AWESOME cover art!), and others – thank you so much for your support. We’ve built a wonderful community of Christian spec fic authors together, and that community is probably the reason that this book is finally off my laptop. Sorry I’m so late to the game.
To my friends and coworkers at Joseph M Farley Nuclear Plant – whaddaya know? I guess it’s so easy, a caveman CAN do it!
Chapter 1
The persistent clank-clank of government issue boots on metallic flooring echoed down the hallway, doing nothing to quell the sense of foreboding that was growing in Sal’s belly. He hitched his shoulder, trying to loosen the knot that was already threatening to form there.
The call had only come in about fifteen minutes ago. His first reaction had been one of elation. Weeks of blood, sweat, and tears were finally going to pay off. He was going on his first mission!
But even as his spirits soared, a dark cloud spread over the horizon. Why him? Why now? He’d always heard that a newbie might wait months or even years for his first covert op, as SEAL missions had grown scarce under the last few presidents. And yet here he was, barely out of training, and already going out. Was he that good, or the mission that impossible?
That dark cloud grew to a thunderhead as he entered the briefing room and recognized two of the three faces as members of his graduating class. That impossible, he groaned inwardly. After a moment’s pause, he angled toward Michael Andrews.
Andrews had been known as “Hood” back in boot camp, a nickname born like many others—as a good-natured insult. He was a former gang-banger from the Bronx, and had seen more death in his first seventeen years than most people do in their entire life, so it sort of made sense that he had such a calm, almost cavalier attitude. Surprisingly, that cavalier attitude translated into one of the most refined senses of humor that Sal had ever encountered. Nothing seemed to rattle the man, and nothing was too sacred to poke fun at. Apparently, that was a characteristic the Navy really liked seeing in their snipers. Good thing, since that’s all he’d ever wanted to be anyway. To hear him tell it, he was living his dream—getting paid to sit on his can and do nothing while the Navy shipped him to every exotic point on the map. But boisterous as he was, Hood knew when to put it away and get down to business.
“Hey, Sally-boy,” Hood greeted Sal as he took his seat.
Sal chuckled at Hood’s ultra-Bronx accent, wondering for the millionth time just how much of it was real and how much was put on. “Wallbanger been in yet?” he asked.
“Nah. He’s prolly still in the galley, bustin’ some poor schlum’s chops over da cuisine.”
“Yeah,” said the man seated in front of Hood, Dewayne Gunter. Gunter was your typical small-town hero-all-state quarterback who went to college on a football scholarship and Daddy’s money, only to let his four-year degree go to waste when he decided to enlist. He was a likable enough guy, a bit too big for his britches but alright overall. “You’d figure after a hundred years on a tub, Walsh’d be used to the three hots that came with the cot.”
“Like you ever learned to appreciate ‘free’, All-Star,” Sal ribbed, drawing jeers from Hood and the officer seated across the aisle, Randy Tillman.
Seeing Tillman there gave Sal hope, meager though it was. In his last two years as a SEAL, Tillman had been out on ten missions—four of them as support for various guerilla cells in the Middle East, and six as covert ops. His last mission had gone bad, though, and he’d spent a few weeks in the hospital as a result. Seeing him there and laughing along with the rest of them lifted Sal’s spirits immensely.
“Pipe down, ladies,” a deep voice rumbled into the room, preceding an impressive specimen of military training and servitude—Nathan Walsh, Commander, US Navy. “Eyes front, lips locked. This briefing is classif—”
“Oh crap, we’re gonna die,” came a voice hard on Walsh’s heels, echoing Sal’s own fears.
The big black man slowly turned around and took in the late-comer. “Everett. So nice of you to join us. I trust my little briefing didn’t cause too much of a scheduling conflict for you?”
“N-no, sir,” answered Everett, yet another of Sal’s alums. It was a running joke during Hell Week that Dale “Booby Trap” Everett would be late for his own funeral. By the look on Wallbanger’s face, that joke might have been up for review.
“So glad to hear it. Would you please take your seat so that I may continue? If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”
“No, sir—I mean, yes sir—I mean…” Without another word, Boob took his seat.
“Thank you kindly,” Walsh said, once more proceeding to the front of the room. “As I was saying, this briefing is classified. All material discussed, no matter how widely known to the general public, will be considered safeguards information. You don’t so much as breathe a word of it to your teddy bear.”
He retrieved a remote control from a podium in the corner of the room and pressed a button. A flat panel monitor slowly descended from the ceiling, revealing the handsome—if haughty—image of a man known to all present.
“Hans Merrick,” Walsh began. “Doctor, geophysicist, suspected terrorist. It was his research of isotopic manipulation that gave birth to the geomedical field, utilizing inorganic materials to achieve organic response. Hailed as a modern-day alchemist, his research has the potential to revolutionize every aspect of our society.”
The image shifted to that of a building, also well-known to those present. “The Merrick Building at the University of Bagdad, commissioned in honor of his
role in eradicating Chaldaean flu, a disease that had killed thousands and had moved the UN to quarantine the entire region. Merrick is considered a hero by many in that corner of the world…”
Again the scene shifted, this time showing the same building engulfed in orange flame and black smoke. The timestamp of the image dated it less than a month old. “…but apparently not by all,” he continued. “His motivations have proven to be… less than altruistic.”
The monitor then flickered between a number of scenes, showing Merrick time and again with soldiers of various races and uniforms. “Mosul. Jakarta. The Sudan. Muslim jihadis. Christian cultists. Taoist separatists. Merrick has graced the cover of every propaganda flyer and supported every extremist cause on the planet. As brilliant as he is, he has proven time and again that his only priority is himself.”
Walsh continued to talk as the monitor flickered, each scene more disturbing than the last. The images moved on from soldiers to laboratories, from test subjects to corpses. Men, women, old, young, everyone seemed represented in those hateful pictures. Sal felt his gorge rise as the neo-Nazi progression grew worse.
Finally, the screen went black, and Walsh addressed the team directly. “Global outrage at Merrick’s research methods—even at the expense of those we might consider enemies—has moved the Administration to approve covert action. Our orders are quite simple, really. Go in, retrieve the good doctor and whatever materials are convenient, and get out. Merrick is to be taken alive if possible, of course”, he sighed, overtly displaying his view of that, “but his heath and well-being are not mission priorities.”
Walsh fell silent for a moment to let the gravity of the mission sink in. Einstein or Mengele, Hans Merrick was the most revolutionary scientist of his time, and rightly so. The guy was a veritable case study in German advancement through unlimited resources. His father immigrated to the States in the sixties to work on the moon project. He sent for his wife and infant son a year later. The younger Merrick grew up living the American dream by German standards. He boarded at all the finest schools, received the finest education. Any river that crossed his path, he built a bridge over. Any locked door, he battered down. Nationality, prejudice, money, ethics-nothing stood in his way for long. More, nothing could touch him. In many ways, he embodied everything the Fatherland revered. In other ways, everything they feared.
And Lieutenant James Salvatori, US Navy SEAL, was being given orders to take him out. Casting his eyes about the room, he took in his teammates and realized just how confident the Department of Defense was of their success.
***
Sal let loose a yawn as the briefing came to a close. Geez, two and a half hours. The old man sure knew how to drag one out. Sal indulged himself in a long, slow stretch, relishing the crackles and pops his spine let out.
“Don’t get too comfortable there, Sally-boy,” Hood muttered over his shoulder, pushing his chair back as he stood. “Ol’ Wallbanger’s liable ta think yer sweet on him.”
“Dollars to doughnuts he’d get off on it,” Sal replied wryly, subtly snagging one of Andrews’ favorite sayings.
“See, I knew you was a frikkin’ homo da moment I laid eyes on ya.”
Sal couldn’t help but laugh and play along. “You’re just pissed ‘cuz I ain’t hit on you, ain’tcha, big boy?” Andrews casually winked at Sal and blew him a kiss, eliciting more laughter.
He liked Hood. Everybody did. Hood was just one of those guys that you took to right away. That was his strength—he inspired confidence, trust. He had a way about him that set a person completely at ease. He was the grease in their gears, and it all came naturally to him. It was just the way he was. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Arright, but I don’t put out on da first date,” Hood cautioned.
***
The officer’s club was packed that night. That suited Sal just fine, because what he wanted to talk about wasn’t for the ears of the general public.
“So what’s your take on all this Merrick crap?” he asked Hood as he tipped up his longneck.
“Personal opinion? I tink it’s a death trap.”
“Well, Walsh said as much in the briefing.”
“Yeah, but I’m not talkin’ about da guards or whatever else Merrick has on dat base. I mean, tink about dis. Here we got dis supergenius who’s hostin’ Lifestyles of da Rich and Power Hungry. He don’t care who he hurts, who he helps, or what global consequence it brings. All he’s worried about is ‘what new kinda weird stuff can I pull off today?’ He’s like a kid who found his daddy’s stash o’ porn and don’t mind tapin’ da centerfolds all over da bedroom wall, ‘cuz he knows Daddy ain’t gonna do nothin’ but stroll aroun’ da room hisself. So what happens when we come tryin’ ta crash da party? He’s gonna hear us comin’ a mile away. And it ain’t gonna matter a bit ta him if he kills off every one o’ his guards or whatever, just so long as he comes out on top. Everyone in dat base besides him is expendable.”
“Good point,” Sal conceded. “Kinda like we’re expendable because all the Navy really wants is the technology.”
“Yup,” Hood said, taking a swig of his beer. “So why ain’t you off in a corner, cowering in a puddle of your own piss?”
Sal noticed immediately that Hood had dropped much of his New York-flavored accent, but schooled his face to show indifference. Whatever Hood’s game was most of the time, he was deadly serious right now, and Sal had no desire to insult whatever trust his friend was granting him.
“I dunno,” Sal said noncommittally. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s necessary. Maybe I die over there, maybe I don’t, but somebody needs to take care of Merrick before he sets his sights on something a bit more permanent. What if he takes it into his head to become the next Hitler? It’s definitely in his blood, and he’s already shown just how little regard he has for life as it is. If he decides tomorrow to take over the world, he’s smart enough to do it, and he won’t care how high the body count is or who winds up on that pile, so long as he gets what he wants. He needs to be reined in, and I mean now, before our sacrifice becomes a futile one.”
Sal realized that he was starting to rave, so he raised his bottle to his lips, more to shut himself up than anything. He usually held his cards a little closer to his chest, but oddly, he didn’t feel bad for his outburst, his uncharacteristic lack of discretion. He was afraid. He could act tough all he wanted to, put up a brave front, hold his head high with some air of nobility, but it all came back to the same thing. Necessity be damned, justification be damned, he was afraid. He was almost surely going to die on this mission, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
What, go AWOL? His honor would forever be tarnished, his principles forever compromised. Sure, he’d still be alive, but what kind of life would that be? His nation had called upon him, and he’d rejected that call. He would live a life of shame and die a miserable, lonely old man. So he really had no choice. He’d heed the call, satisfy his honor and principles, and sign his own death warrant. Didn’t make him feel a hair better about the prospect.
“See, that’s just the thing,” Hood said, almost too softly to be heard over the din of the crowded officer’s club. His eyes were bright, staring at some point far away. “The Navy can say what it wants, but I don’t believe we’re gonna die. Not all of us, anyway.”
Hood took a deep breath and turned his too-bright eyes at Sal. Those eyes made him uncomfortable, as if they were seeing into his very soul. Maybe he even saw a touch of madness within their red-veined borders. Or maybe... hope?
Hood laughed at Sal’s slack-jawed expression. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’. I would too, if I was in your shoes. ‘The Yankee done went off the deep end’,” he drawled, completely mangling Sal’s own southern accent. “I can’t explain it, Sally-boy, but I got this gut feeling. Ever since Walsh ran the video, I’ve had this—I dunno—peaceful feeling inside me. I mean, yeah, it’s gonna be real bad, but there’s something more
to this mission, bro. There’s an opportunity here...” His voice trailed off as he spoke, and his eyes drifted again to that far-away point.
Sal ran his tongue over his dry lips. Dry not out of fear, but out of... what? Excitement? Inexplicable, but true. “What kind of opportunity?” he asked in spite of himself.
“Something... more,” he struggled, searching for the words to accurately express his feelings. “Something incredible is gonna happen. And we’re gonna be a part of it.”
“Yeah, we’re gonna get our Navy SEAL butts handed to us,” Sal scoffed, trying his best to shake the spell Hood had over him.
“Maybe,” Hood shrugged, completely nonplused by this insight he had—and yet completely unafraid.
And for one brief moment, Sal shared his insight.
That hopeful feeling faded in an instant, and as the night went on, even that short conversation faded, leaving behind nothing but a pair of drunk SEALs who, blessedly, didn’t follow their urge to blow off some steam with some of the more irritating patrons of the officer’s club.
But even though Sal couldn’t remember a word of that conversation later, he did carry something with him out of it. He was no longer afraid. He couldn’t explain the transformation—couldn’t even put a finger on when the change took place—but it was there all the same. And as far as Sal was concerned, so much the better.
***
The following two weeks went by in a blur. The team members were all used to the rigors of training, the grueling schedule that necessarily preceded any op. Training for a real op was no different than training for a staged one. You play like you train, so every training session had to be real. Granted, they could have used more time to get used to each other, to get to know how the others thought so they could anticipate each other’s actions in the heat of battle, but time was a luxury that was in short supply. So whatever might happen on the mission, they were as ready as they would ever be.
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