Red Glare Read online

  Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author

  THOMAS GREANIAS

  AND HIS NOVELS

  RAISING ATLANTIS

  “A wonderfully honed cliff-hanger—an outrageous adventure with a wild dose of the supernatural. A THRILL RIDE FROM START TO FINISH.”

  Clive Cussler

  “A GRIPPING PAGE-TURNER. Better than The Da Vinci Code.”

  CBS News

  “PULLS YOU INTO AN ASTONISHING WORLD OF SCIENTIFIC FACT AND FICTION, SUSPENSE, AND GOOD OLD-FASHIONED ADVENTURE. THOROUGHLY ENTERTAINING.”

  Nelson DeMille

  “IRRESISTIBLY ADDICTING.”

  San Francisco Chronicle

  “An enchanting story with AN INCREDIBLE PACE.”

  The Boston Globe

  “COLORFUL CHARACTERS…clean, no-nonsense writing…speed and suspense.”

  Chicago Tribune

  THE ATLANTIS PROPHECY

  “A DEVILISHLY CLEVER MAELSTROM OF HISTORY, SECRETS AND MODER-DAY POLITICAL INTRIGUE. Relentlessly action-packed, with tantalizing twists and twirls on every page.”

  Steve Berry

  “A ROLLER COASTER that will captivate readers of Dan Brown and Michael Crichton, penetrating ONE OF THE BIGGEST MYSTERIES OF OUR TIME.”

  The Washington Post

  “Thomas Greanias masterfully exhibits SUPERIOR CRAFTSMANSHIP of the English language as he weaves his in-depth knowledge of many different aspects ranging from astrology to international politics throughout his books.”

  Sacramento Book Review

  “A TOP-FLIGHT THRILLER.”

  Blogcritics.org

  “The breakneck pace…sweeps readers into Conrad’s struggle.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Finally, a hero worthy of our admiration.”

  FreshFiction.com

  THE ATLANTIS REVELATION

  “Once again Thomas Greanias takes the Atlantis mythology and ties it to events stripped from today’s headlines. LIGHTNING-PACED, DAGGER-SHARP AND BRILLIANTLY EXECUTED, The Atlantis Revelation made me gasp out loud.”

  James Rollins

  “FAST, FASCINATING, and far too hard to put down. Don’t expect to come up for air until the very last page!”

  Brad Thor

  “A GIDDILY PACED, ROLLICKING, GLOBE-SPANNING TALE OF ADVENTURE, DISCOVERY AND DERRING-DO that pulled me in from the very first page. It’s rare to find such a tale as well researched as it is entertaining, and this is it. Best of all, it’s PURE FUN. Highly recommended!”

  Christopher Reich

  “Extremely fast-paced. … AN EXCITING ADVENTURE.”

  Booklist

  “A PEDAL-TO-THE-METAL thriller that combines good old-fashioned suspense with THROAT-GRABBING TWISTS…Marvelous.”

  Steve Berry

  NOVELS BY THOMAS GREANIAS

  Gods of Rome

  Red Glare

  The 34th Degree

  The Promised War

  The Atlantis Revelation

  The Atlantis Prophecy

  Raising Atlantis

  RED

  GLARE

  THOMAS

  GREANIAS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Thomas Greanias

  All rights reserved.

  Atlantis Media Rights LLC.

  “For such a time as now.”

  —Book of Esther

  1

  0500 Hours

  Offutt Air Force Base

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Every minute of every day since February 3, 1961, a Strategic Command "Looking Glass" plane carrying an Air Force general has been circling the Midwest, ready to seize control of America's nuclear arsenal should a surprise attack destroy command posts on the ground. The program officially ended with the Cold War, but actually carries on under various guises and aircraft. Only once, in the skies of September 11, 2001, has a Looking Glass plane ever been spotted by the general public. Even then the Pentagon denied its existence.

  This morning it was General Brad Marshall's turn to play God.

  Marshall gazed at the converted military Boeing 747-200 “Doomsday” jumbo jet waiting for him in the pre-dawn darkness as his black Chevy Suburban, wipers working furiously, braked to a halt and he stepped out.

  The ice on the tarmac crunched under his brisk, powerful strides. The snow was coming down harder now. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and bore through the curtain of white to Looking Glass, its gigantic GE 80-series engines winding up to takeoff power. Originally, the plane was an EC-135C, then an E-6 Mercury. The new model, a modified E4-B conscripted from Operation Nightwatch, had triple the floor space and was practically a dead ringer for the president’s Air Force One. Only the small white dome on top betrayed its enhanced military capabilities.

  So this is what Siberia feels like, Marshall thought, both of the bitter cold and his new obscure-if-critical posting. A “promotion to general” hatched by an insecure president to keep a war hero as far away as possible from TV crews.

  At the base of the tall stairs leading up to the six-story-high plane stood an intelligence officer Marshall had never seen before in person. Marshall recognized him from a video briefing somewhere, despite the ridiculous N95 face mask he was wearing.

  The officer saluted as he approached. "General Marshall, sir."

  Marshall frowned. "What happened to Colonel Reynolds?"

  "Virus, sir.” The intelligence officer pointed a thermometer at his forehead. "I'm Colonel Quinn. I’ll be your second."

  Marshall looked Quinn over. He had handpicked the Looking Glass crew himself, and this ringer was second-string at best. The switch wasn’t entirely unexpected, but Marshall was annoyed that General Carver at STRATCOM hadn’t bothered to give him an official heads-up about such a critical assignment. It only confirmed just how routine and insignificant these flights had become to the Department of Defense.

  "Any other changes, Quinn?" Marshall said as he started up the steps. “Are all the surfaces sanitized? Are the HEPA air filters recycling properly? Are all the airmen in Hazmat flightsuits? We wouldn’t want anybody catching a cold or sniffle.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Quinn said eagerly until he realized Marshall was mocking him. “Just following procedures.”

  Marshall worked his way through the main deck’s various compartments—a command work area, conference room, briefing room, an operations team work area, and a secondary communications compartment. Not a mask in sight. With a confident smile he acknowledged their salutes and heartfelt greetings.

  Inside the communications center, Major Brianna Thompson lit up when Marshall entered, Quinn right behind.

  “General Marshall, sir,” the curvy redhead said.

  “Major Tom,” Marshall replied. “Threat alert status?”

  She handed him a report. “Orange, sir.”

  Marshall looked over the report. “Flight forecast?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Clear skies, sir.”

  Marshall nodded, but Quinn looked confused as he glanced at the dark clouds. “The President, Major. Give me his twenty.”

  “Back in Washington with everybody else for tonight’s State of the Union.”

  “Not everybody,” Marshall said, handing back the report.

  She nodded and said softly, “You deserve better, sir.”

  “Don’t we all?” Marshall said and marched off.

  Two armed Looking Glass officers were already waiting in the battle staff compartment when Marshall entered and sat down in his general's swivel chair.

  "Harney, Wilson." Marshall n
odded to the men. "Welcome to Air Armageddon. Please present your boarding passes."

  The young officers dutifully surrendered the nuclear authenticator codes they were carrying.

  Marshall removed the key he wore around his neck and inserted it into one of two locks in the red steel box next to his seat. "Colonel Quinn?"

  "Sir." Quinn, still hurrying in behind Marshall, produced his own key and inserted it into the second lock.

  Marshall opened the double-padlocked safe.

  "As you gentlemen know, a Looking Glass plane like ours is always in the air." Marshall paused to look each officer in the eye. "In the event of surprise nuclear attack, we can command American forces from the air and launch our ICBMs by remote control. Colonel Quinn, as my second officer, you are watching me place the nuclear authenticator codes in here for safekeeping."

  Marshall placed the code cards that Harney and Wilson had given him inside the safe, next to the two launch keys that together could unleash the Apocalypse. He locked the double padlocks with the safe keys. He hung the long chain of his key to the safe around his neck again. He then pocketed Quinn’s second key.

  "God forbid we'll ever need these."

  Marshall turned his attention to a pre-flight checklist. Wilson and Harney stood like statues on either side of him, emotionless. But he could feel Quinn's stare.

  Quinn cleared his throat. "Sir."

  "Yes," Marshall said without looking up. But he could hear the uncertainty in Quinn’s voice.

  "The other key, sir."

  Marshall played it cool. "What about it, Quinn?"

  "Regulations state that both keys are not to be in the possession of a single officer,” Quinn said, sounding forced.

  Marshall knew that this kind of situation could throw even the most seasoned officer, and Quinn was hardly that. "I know the regulations," Marshall replied evenly. "I think we have too many regulations these days, don't you?"

  Just then Major Tom appeared. "General Marshall," she said, "the tower has cleared us for take-off."

  Marshall handed her his checklist and locked eyes with Quinn. "Who's our pilot today, Quinn?"

  Quinn did his best not to look at his tablet. It took a few seconds, but he got it right. "That would be Captain Delaney, sir. And Rogers is co-pilot."

  Marshall nodded. "Trained them myself. Just like the rest of the crew. Everybody but you, Quinn. We don't just look out for each other. We've made a pact. You know the kind of loyalty I'm talking about, Quinn?"

  Quinn said nothing. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed tightly.

  "I didn't think so." Marshall turned to his crew and smiled. "To your stations, officers."

  Wilson and Harney did as they were told. As did Major Tom.

  Marshall heard Quinn unlock his sidearm holster, and when he looked up again he saw the barrel of Quinn’s M18 handgun pointed at him.

  Quinn said, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you for that key."

  Marshall smiled. His voice turned softer. "You're new to Looking Glass, aren't you?"

  "My first flight, sir. But I've flown several times with Colonel Kozlowski aboard the Nightwatch plane."

  "Flying with the chauffeur of the president's Air Force limo isn't the same as flying with me, Colonel. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to keep your key."

  “Regulations, sir,” said Quinn as his hand holding the pistol trembled slightly.

  "I thought you were a team player, Quinn."

  "I am, sir. But I insist you surrender the key, or I'll be forced to shoot you.”

  “Go ahead, Quinn. Make my day.”

  Quinn looked bewildered. But he took a firmer grasp of his pistol. “On the count of three, sir. Three…”

  Marshall stared a hole through him and said nothing.

  “Two…”

  Quinn’s voice started to shake again. But Marshall had to admit to himself that the kid could stand his ground.

  “One…”

  Marshall’s face broke into a wide grin.

  “Congratulations, Colonel.” Marshall removed the second key from his pocket and dangled it in front of Quinn. “You passed the test.”

  Quinn grabbed the key with one hand and with his other holstered the M18 and wiped his forehead. “For a minute there, sir, I thought…”

  “Yeah, I know,” Marshall said. “You thought I was flipping out. Next time pull the trigger.”

  “Yes, sir, “ Quinn said. “I will, sir.”

  Marshall tapped his armrest comlink and said, “Captain Delaney.”

  The pilot’s voice came through on the speaker. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s roll.”

  The engines roared to take-off speed as the Looking Glass plane began to barrel down the runway. A minute later they lifted off the ground and soared into dark skies. At last, thought Marshall, the National Airborne Military Command Post was in the clouds where she—and he—belonged.

  2

  0730 Hours

  O Street

  Washington, D.C.

  The headline in the Washington Post read "No Sachs Education for Kids." A photo showed a beleaguered U.S. Secretary of Education Deborah Sachs at a meeting of the nation's governors in Washington. Her deer-in-the-headlights look said it all.

  Sachs frowned at the picture of herself. It was above a smaller story about a slain Metro security guard whose body was found in a railyard. She adjusted the AirPod in her ear as she sipped her morning coffee while the TV blared.

  "The president is expected to announce the resignation of his outspoken and controversial Secretary of Education after tonight's State of the Union address," the Today show was saying, and proceeded to recite her most recent run-ins with the Administration. "Moving on to the crisis in the Far East..."

  She lowered the volume on the TV to take a call from her friend Lauren at Commerce, who immediately offered her condolences.

  "No, he hasn't given me my resignation yet," Sachs said, flicking her freshly cut black hair away to adjust the AirPod in her right ear. She was going to grow her hair out, she decided, now that she no longer required the Beltway cut of a Cabinet secretary. “I have to give it to him this morning. Then he’ll accept it tomorrow. Tonight is all about him, remember? All I know is that Nadine has been a super assistant."

  Blah, blah, blah. Lauren was such a spin doctor with the excuses.

  "Well, could you see what you could do for her just the same? Thanks."

  Sachs hung up and stared out the windows at the falling snow. Her Georgetown rowhouse until now had been her sole refuge from the nonsense of Washington. The hunter green walls, white trim and oils over the fireplace had offered an illusion of security and tradition in her otherwise uncertain life.

  But it couldn't shield her from urban Democrats who made a federal case for public education while their own children attended private schools, which were the first to fully reopen from the global COVID-19 pandemic. Or from suburban Republicans, whose children could attend quality public schools or simply study online at home, who demanded vouchers for private schools. Or from the nagging reality she had no home to go back to again because Richard was gone forever, and without him it just wouldn't be home. But in the process she was depriving Jennifer.

  She was mulling over this last painful thought when her assistant Nadine emerged from the front hallway, immaculate in her latest fashionable suit beyond her pay grade, ready to tackle lobbyists, teachers unions and Congress. Her dark hair was slicked back. She smiled broadly, keeping up a good front.

  "Good morning, boss.”

  "For some Americans," Sachs replied.

  "Told you being a public servant isn't worth the cost after two years,” Nadine said, and then stopped. “What’s this?” She was pointing to the packed overnight carry-on by the door.

  “I’m grabbing the shuttle to see Jennifer,” Sachs said. “You book my ticket like I asked?”

  “Uh, no,” Nadine said. “You’re going to see the president and tell him why you should keep your
job.”

  Nadine walked over to the desk and picked up what looked like a student term paper awash in red corrections. In the upper right corner was a big, fat "B."

  “And what’s this, Madame Secretary?”

  Sachs said, "My speech for Jennifer's school assembly."

  "You graded yourself?"

  "I'll do better on the next draft," Sachs replied without a trace of embarrassment.

  "Next draft?" Nadine looked at her Rolex. Sachs had told her to stop with the bling as they were trying to help inner city schools, but it was no use. "Hey, we canceled that speech. You have a meeting at the White House this morning. Why are we still talking?"

  "I rescheduled,” Sachs told her. “I’m not going to disappoint Jennifer again. School assemblies actually mean something to kids now. Besides, the president is going to cancel on me anyway. He always does. This time permanently. Just text him my resignation."

  Sachs grabbed her carry-on and rolled it behind her down the hallway into the wintry day and the waiting government limousine, leaving Nadine to lock up after her. The driver popped the trunk, dropped her bag inside, and opened the rear door for her to get inside where it was warm.

  Nadine finished a call at the curb and then climbed in, incredulous. "Only you, boss.”

  "Meaning what?" Sachs asked her.

  "Meaning here you are losing your job on national TV and all you can do is worry about your assistant's ass and some speech nobody's going to hear."

  "Jennifer and her friends are going to hear it,” Sachs said. “You have a better suggestion?"

  "Lecture circuit," Nadine replied. “You might as well get paid for it.”