The Last Oracle (Sigma Force)
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In Washington, D.C., a homeless man takes an assassin's bullet and dies in Commander Gray Pierce's arms. A bloody coin clutched in the dead man's hand--an ancient relic that can be traced back to the Greek Oracle of Delphi--is the key to a conspiracy that dates back to the Cold War and threatens the very foundation of humanity. For what if it were possible to bioengineer the next great prophet--a new Buddha, Muhammad, or even Jesus? Would this Second Coming be a boon . . . or would it initiate a chain reaction that would result in the extinction of humankind?
Vital seconds are ticking rapidly away as Pierce races across the globe in search of answers, one step ahead of ruthless killers determined to reclaim the priceless artifact. Suddenly the future of all things is balanced on the brink between heaven and hell--and salvation or destruction rests in the hands of remarkable children.
history—someone who alters the fundamental path of mankind. I’m talking along the lines of the great prophets. Buddha, Muhammad, Jesus Christ. Someone who thinks so differently, who sees the world through such unique eyes, that his very viewpoint bends humanity in a new direction. From where do such figures arise? Where does this uniqueness of mind come from?” Masterson stirred, stretching a kink in his back. Gray recalled the professor’s discussion about autism and its role in human history.
“Under a large steel hangar.” As Gray studied the sheet, Masterson listed the dignitaries and leaders who would be in attendance at the event and quickly summarized the morning’s ceremonies. “As to Nicolas’s specific plans, all I could get was the name. Operation Uranus.” “Operation Your Anus?” Kowalski said. “That sounds painful.” Gray ignored him and headed for the stairs. “Where’s Solokov now?” “Headed to Chernobyl.” As Gray descended with Kowalski, he pictured the towering ventilation
The control board smoked from deep gashes into the smoldering circuitry. Keyboards lay cracked. Glass crunched underfoot. Everything was shattered, except for a row of wall monitors. Monk pointed to the center screen, recognizing the room. It was the heart of Operation Saturn. Only now, black water poured like a river out of a hole in the roof and swirled down a shaft in the floor. “It’s already under way,” he said hollowly. “We’re too late.” On a neighboring screen, Monk spotted the mining
air, familiar, spiced yet musky. No memory came with it, but his breathing grew heavier. Something…something about… “We should let him rest,” Gray said and guided the woman away. “We’ll come back in the morning. It’s been a long day. You should be getting her home anyway.” Gray nodded to a blue stroller behind them. A small child slept, nestled in blankets, head capped like Monk’s, eyes closed, a pursed button of a mouth. Monk’s eyes locked on the baby. Staccato flashes burst into existence
legs. It stood over a natural crack in the floor. Pythia, long accustomed to Apollo’s vapor, was still struck by the scent rising from below, smelling of almond blossoms. The god’s pneuma, his prophetic exhalation. “It is time,” she said to the younger sister, who had followed her down. “Bring the child to me.” Pythia crossed to the tripod and mounted the seat. Positioned over the crack in the floor, the rising vapors bathed her in Apollo’s breath. “Hurry.” The younger sister gathered up the