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    The X-Files: Ground Zero
    The X-Files: Ground Zero
    The X-Files: Ground Zero
    Ebook311 pages4 hours

    The X-Files: Ground Zero

    By Kevin J. Anderson

    3/5

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    About this ebook

    FBI agents Mulder and Scully take on a radioactive case in this eerie thriller by the New York Times–bestselling author . . .

    Dr. Gregory, a renowned nuclear weapons researcher, is not only dead—he’s been charred to a radioactive cinder.

    Since this is a death on Federal property, Mulder and Scully are hastily called in. As FBI agents who specialize in unexplained phenomena, they are the investigators of the X-Files, strange and inexplicable cases which are also mysteries that the FBI doesn’t want solved.

    When a second victim, completely unrelated to nuclear science or Dr. Gregory, is obliterated in the New Mexico desert, and then a third dies the same way in Washington, DC, Mulder and Scully begin to focus on the frightening dimension of their task. The bizarre deaths cannot be a coincidence. And as they work to uncover the secret unifying element that unites these deaths, it becomes clear that this twisted puzzle has fatal consequences for the entire world . . .
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateOct 1, 2008
    ISBN9780061981838
    The X-Files: Ground Zero
    Author

    Kevin J. Anderson

    Kevin J. Anderson has written 50 national bestsellers and has over 23 million books in print worldwide in thirty languages. He has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFX Readers' Choice Award; in 2012 at San Diego Comic Con he received the Faust Grand Master Award for Lifetime Achievement. He has written numerous bestselling and critically acclaimed novels in the Dune universe with Brian Herbert, as well as Star Wars and X-Files novels. In his original work, he is best known for his Saga of Seven Suns series, the Terra Incognita trilogy, the Dan Shamble Zombie PI series, and Clockwork Angels: The Novel with Neil Peart. Find out more about Kevin J. Anderson at www.wordfire.com.

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    Reviews for The X-Files

    3/5

    133 ratings6 reviews

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    • 3/5
      The story begins with a scientist leading the development of a new kind of atomic bomb being found dead after an atomic explosion in an office where they only ever ran computer simulations of explosions.Exciting but extremely far-fetched!
    • 4/5
      I had not read Kevin J. Anderson before this (I've made it to the 5th of Frank Herbert's original 6 Dune novels). I had collected many of Anderson's books, and had started reading his blog around the release of his and Brian Herbert's "The Winds of Dune".Recently on his blog KJA is doing a series of writing tips which is to be a part of a lecture he'll be presenting in Superstars Writing Seminar. Wish I could go... Anyway, in one of his posted tips he mentioned that he had written "Ground Zero" in six weeks, which piqued my curiosity.I had been in love with Gillian Anderson (whoa, is there a relation?) when X-Files was airing and a HUGE fan. I had sort of fallen off of that cart even before the movies were released. I never have seen them, though I haven't seen most movies. That being said, when I first started reading "Ground Zero", I could quickly tell that the magic wasn't there for me anymore. Scully and Mulder seemed as faded ghosts of the past, and I was really beginning to regret picking up the book in the first place. This all changed around page 100, where things were picking up. The historicity of nuclear warfare in the Cold War era was interesting if not disturbing. KJA really didn't make you feel sorry for any of the people mysteriously murdered, besides perhaps the 2 guys way down below ground. The old guy maybe, if he hadn't been such a patriotic grouch. His horse definitely. I disliked that Scully went to Berkeley at all, but am excited that consequentially she may be a closet hirsute. It wasn't the same as when Philip Dick talked of Berkeley. Yes, I do realize Scully is only a character. Speaking of which, I just remembered when the X-Files series turned sour for me. It was upon hearing that Gillian Anderson was pregnant with her first child. X-Files was never the same for me.My favorite chapter was 22—Ryan Camida Residence, Waikiki, Oahu, Tuesday, 11:17 P.M. I was carried upon a wave of nostalgia to Magnum P.I. and Charlie Chan's Hawaii. At this time within KJA's novel, there had also sparked for me a remembrance of things past. I exalted in KJA's description of Mulder's apartment, gloried in Mulder and Scully's Chinese takeout dinner, and was vividly envisioning Director Skinner's bald pate.I'm glad I came, as the dead past was not helped to bury its dead, but enlivened a bit.
    • 5/5
      One of the better X-Files books I have read.
    • 3/5
      Awesome as tie-in novels go; character voices were well done and the plot was an interesting one.
    • 3/5
      I chose The X Files; Ground Zero, by Kevin J. Anderson, because it started with an "X". That's the only reason I would have ever picked this up as I'm not a big fan of books based on TV shows or movies. I was, however, a fan of the show so I'm aware of the characters and mythology. This book was fairly stand alone plot-wise. You don't need to know anything about the show in order to understand the book.The story is all about nuclear weapons. A reader might be able to debate whether the author had any particular political statements to make. It was clearly portraying the nuclear weapons industry in a negative light, but I don't want to get into that. Mulder and Scully are called in to investigate the bizarre death of a nuclear physicist. He was killed in a flash fire, which could only be compared to that of a nuclear weapon. The fire was contained in his office and nobody else was injured.A few more similar deaths occurred before Mulder and Scully tie the pieces together. They are eventually led to a small island in the Marshall Island chain where a new weapon is about to be tested. I don't want to give any more away but this is where the typical supernatural explanation takes place.It wasn't a bad read overall. I found it to be a quick, easy read. The subject matter bored me a bit and it read like fan fiction, but overall, the author captured the characters voices and created a decent story. I'm not going to recommend this to the world but certain readers will enjoy it.
    • 3/5
      Fox Mulder og Dana Scully undersøger en atomforskers død. Han ser ud til at være brændt ihjel af radioaktive flammer. Scully's far, som var flådeofficer, er død for nylig. En farmer McCarron og en ansat i energiministeriet Nancy Scheck og et par officerer i en missilsilo dør også af radioaktive flammer. Det har måske noget med Lysende Ambolt projektet at gøre eller måske noget med en af de første afprøvninger af brintbomber. Her sprængte man en attol i luften uden lige at checke den for indbyggere først. Ryan Kamida overlevede men plages nu af spøgelser fra fortiden. Historien kulminerer med sprængningen af en lille brintbombe midt under en orkan - Lysende Ambolt går på at al strålingen også brændes af. Ryan dirigerer kraften fra bomben og kraften fra spøgelserne og kun Scully, Mulder og Miriel Bremen og et par andre fra en protestbevægelse overlever.Udmærket skrevet historie

    Book preview

    The X-Files - Kevin J. Anderson

    ONE

    Teller Nuclear Research Facility,

    Pleasanton, California

    Monday, 4:03 P.M.

    Even through the thick windows of his laboratory building, the old man could hear the antinuke protesters outside. Chanting, singing, shouting—always fighting against the future, trying to stall progress. It baffled him more than it angered him. The slogans hadn’t changed from decade to decade. He didn’t think the radicals would ever learn.

    He fingered the laminated badge dangling from his lab coat. The five-year-old picture, showing him with an awkward expression, was worse than a driver’s license photo. The Badge Office didn’t like to retake snapshots—but then, ID photos never really looked like the subject in question, anyway. At least not in the past five decades. Not since his days as a minor technician for the Manhattan Project. In half a century his face had grown more gaunt, more seamed, especially over the past few years. His steel-gray hair had turned an unhealthy yellowish-white, where it hadn’t fallen out in patches. But his eyes remained bright and inquisitive, fascinated by the mysteries hidden in dim corners of the universe.

    The badge identified him as Emil Gregory. He wasn’t like many of his younger colleagues who insisted on proper titles: Dr. Emil Gregory, or Emil Gregory, Ph.D., or even Emil Gregory, Project Director. He had spent too much time in laid-back New Mexico and California to worry about such formalities. Only scientists whose jobs were in question concerned themselves with trivialities like that. Dr. Gregory was at the end of a long and highly successful career. His colleagues knew his name.

    Since much of his work had been classified, he was not assured of a place in the history books. But he had certainly made his place in history, whether or not anybody had heard about it.

    His former assistant and prize student, Miriel Bremen, knew about his research—but she had turned her back on him. In fact, she was probably standing outside right now, waving her signs and chanting slogans with the other protesters. She had organized them all. Miriel had always been good at organizing unruly groups of people.

    Outside, three more Protective Services cars drove up for an uneasy showdown with the protesters who paced back and forth in front of the gate, blocking traffic. Uniformed security guards emerged from the squad cars, slamming doors. They stood with shoulders squared and tried to look intimidating. But they couldn’t really take action, since the protesters had carefully remained within the law. In the back of one of the white official cars, a trained German shepherd barked through the screen mesh of the window; it was a drug- and explosive-sniffing dog, not an attack animal, but its loud growls no doubt made the protesters nervous.

    Dr. Gregory finally decided to ignore the distractions outside the lab building. Moving slowly and painfully in his seventy-two-year-old body—whose warranty had recently run out, he liked to say—he went back to his computer simulations. The protesters and guards could keep up their antics for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, for all he cared. He turned up his radio to cover the noise from outside so he could concentrate, though he didn’t have to worry about his calculations. The supercomputers actually did most of the work.

    The portable boom box tucked among books and technical papers on his shelf had never succeeded in picking up more than one station through the thick concrete walls, despite the jury-rigged antenna of chained paper clips he had hooked to the metal window frame. The lone AM station, thank goodness, played primarily Oldies, songs he associated with happier days. Right now, Simon and Garfunkel were singing about Mrs. Robinson, and Dr. Gregory sang along with them.

    The color monitors on his four supercomputer work-stations displayed the progress of his simultaneous hydro-code simulations. The computers chugged through numerous virtual experiments in their integrated-circuit imaginations, sorting through billions of iterations without requiring him to throw a single switch or hook up a single generator.

    But Dr. Gregory still insisted on wearing his lab coat; he didn’t feel like a real scientist without it. If he wore comfortable street clothes and simply pounded on computer keyboards all day long, he might as well be an accountant instead of a well-respected weapons researcher at one of the largest nuclear-design laboratories in the country.

    Off in a separate building on the fenced-in lab site, powerful Cray-III supercomputers crunched data for complex simulations of a major upcoming nuclear test. They were studying intricate nuclear hydrodynamic models—imaginary atomic explosions—of the radical new warhead concept to which he had devoted the last four years of his career.

    Bright Anvil.

    Because of cost limitations and the on-again/off-again political treaties regarding nuclear testing, these hydrodynamic simulations were now the only way to study certain secondary effects, to analyze shock-front formations and fallout patterns. Aboveground atomic detonations had been banned by international treaty since 1963…but Dr. Gregory and his superiors believed they could succeed with the Bright Anvil Project—if all conditions turned out right.

    The Department of Energy was eager to see that all conditions turned out right.

    He moved to the next simulation screen, watching the dance of contours, pressure waves, temperature graphs on a nanosecond-by-nanosecond scale. Already he could see that it would be a lovely explosion.

    Classified reports and memos littered his desk, buried under sheafs of printouts spewed from the laser printer he shared with the rest of his Bright Anvil team members down the hall. His deputy project head, Bear Dooley, posted regular weather reports and satellite photos, circling the interesting areas with a red felt-tip marker. The most recent picture showed a large circular depression gathered over the central Pacific, like spoiled milk swirling down a drain—eliciting a great deal of excitement from Dooley.

    Storm brewing! the deputy had scrawled on a Post-it note stuck to the satellite photo. Our best candidate so far!

    Dr. Gregory had to agree with the assessment. But they couldn’t proceed to the next step until he finished the final round of simulations. Though the Bright Anvil device had already been assembled except for its fissile core, Gregory eschewed lazy shortcuts. With such incredible power at one’s fingertips, caution was the watchword.

    He whistled along to Georgie Girl as his computers simulated waves of mass destruction.

    Somebody honked a car horn outside, either in support of the protesters, or just annoyed and trying to get past them. Since he planned to stay late, those demonstrators—weary and self-satisfied—would be long gone by the time Gregory headed for his own car.

    It didn’t matter to him how many extra hours he remained in the lab, since research was the only thing left of his real life. Even if he went home, he would probably work anyway, in his too-quiet and too-empty house, surrounded by photos of the old 1950s hydrogen bomb shots out in the islands or atomic blasts at the Nevada Test Site. He had access to better computers in his lab, though, so he might as well work through dinner. He had a sandwich in the refrigerator down the hall, but his appetite had been unpredictable for the past few months.

    At one time, Miriel Bremen would have stayed working with him. She was a sharp and imaginative young physicist who looked up to the older scientist with something like awe. Miriel had a great deal of talent, a genuine feel for the calculations and secondary effects. Her dedication and ambition made her the perfect research partner. Unfortunately, she also had too much conscience, and doubts had festered inside her.

    Miriel Bremen herself was the spearhead behind the formation of the vehement new activist group, Stop Nuclear Madness!, headquartered in Berkeley. She had abandoned her work at the research facility, spooked by certain incomprehensible aspects of the Bright Anvil warhead. Miriel had become a turncoat with a zeal that reminded him of the way some former cigarette smokers turned into the most outspoken antitobacco lobbyists.

    He thought of Miriel out there on the other side of the fence. She would be waving a sign, taunting the security guards to arrest her, making her point loud and clear, regardless of whether anyone wanted to hear it.

    Dr. Gregory forced himself to remain seated behind the computer workstation. He refused to go back to the window to look for her. He didn’t feel spite toward Miriel, just…disappointment. He wondered how he had failed her, how he could have misjudged his deputy so thoroughly.

    At least he didn’t have to worry about her replacement, Bear Dooley. Dooley was a bulldozer of a man, with a dearth of tact and patience, but a singular dedication to purpose. He, at least, had his head on straight.

    A knock came at the half-closed door to his lab office. Patty, his secretary—he still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her as an administrative assistant, the current politically correct term—poked her head in.

    Afternoon mail, Dr. Gregory. There’s a package I thought you might like to see. Special delivery. She waggled a small padded envelope. He started to push his aching body up from his computer chair, but she waved him back down. Here. Don’t get up.

    Thanks, Patty. He took the envelope, pulling his reading glasses from his pocket and settling them on his nose so he could see the postmark. Honolulu, Hawaii. No return address.

    Patty remained in the doorway, shuffling her feet. She cleared her throat. It’s after four o’clock, Dr. Gregory. Would you mind if I left a little early today? Her voice picked up speed, as if she were making excuses. I know I’ve got those memos to type up tomorrow morning, but I’ll keep one step ahead of you.

    You always do, Patty. Doctor’s appointment? he said, still looking down at the mysterious envelope and turning it over in his hands.

    No, but I don’t really want to hassle with the protesters. They’ll probably try to block the gate at quitting time just to cause trouble. I’d rather be long gone. She looked down at her pink-polished fingernails. Her face had a fallen-in, anxious expression.

    Dr. Gregory laughed at her nervousness. Go ahead. I’ll be staying late for the same reason.

    She thanked him and popped back out the door, pulling it shut behind her so he could work in peace.

    The computer calculations continued. The core of the simulated explosion had expanded, sending shockwaves all the way to the edge of the monitor screen, with secondary and tertiary effects propagating in less-defined directions through the plasma left behind from the initial detonation.

    Dr. Gregory peeled open the padded envelope, working one finger under the heavily glued flap. He dumped the contents onto his desk and blinked, perplexed. He blew out a curious breath.

    The single scrap of paper wasn’t exactly a letter—no stationery, no signature—just carefully inked words in fine black lettering.

    FOR YOUR PART IN THE PAST—AND THE FUTURE.

    A small glassine packet fell out beside the note. It was a translucent envelope only a few inches long, filled with some sort of black powder. He shook the padded envelope, but it contained nothing else.

    He picked up the glassine packet, squinting as he squeezed the contents with his fingers. The substance was lightweight, faintly greasy, like ash. He sniffed it, caught a faint, sour charcoal smell mostly faded by time.

    For your part in the past—and the future.

    Dr. Gregory frowned. He scornfully wondered if this could be some stunt by the protesters outside. In earlier actions, protesters had poured jars of animal blood on the ground in front of the facility’s security gates and planted flowers alongside the entry roads.

    Black ash must be somebody’s newest idea—maybe even Miriel’s. He rolled his eyes and let out an Oh brother! sigh.

    You can’t change the world by poking your heads in the sand, Dr. Gregory muttered, turning his gaze toward the window.

    On the workstations, the redundant simulations neared completion after eating up hours of supercomputer time, projecting a step-by-step analysis of one second in time, the transient moment where a man-made device unleashed energies equivalent to the core of a sun.

    So far, the computers agreed with his wildest expectations.

    Though he himself was the project head, Dr. Gregory found parts of Bright Anvil inexplicable, based on baffling theoretical assumptions and producing aftereffects that went against all his training and experience in physics. But the simulations worked, and he knew enough not to ask questions of the sponsors who had presented him with the foundations of this new concept to implement.

    After a fifty-one-year-long career, Dr. Gregory found it refreshing to find an entire portion of his chosen discipline that he could not explain. It opened up the wonder of science for him all over again.

    He tossed the black ash aside and went back to work.

    Suddenly the overhead fluorescent lights flickered. There was an intense humming sound, as if a swarm of bees were trapped in the thin glass tubes. He heard the snapping shriek of an electrical discharge, and the lights popped and died.

    The radio on his desk gave out a brief squelch of static, right in the middle of Hang on, Sloopy. Then it fell silent.

    Dr. Gregory’s failing muscles sent stabs of pain through his body as he whirled in despair to see his computer workstations also winking out. The computers were crashing.

    Awww, no! he groaned. The systems should have had infallible backup power supplies to protect them during normal electrical outages. He had just lost literally billions of supercomputer iterations.

    He pounded his gnarled fist on the desk, then levered himself to his feet and staggered over to the window, moving more quickly than his unsteady balance and common sense allowed.

    Reaching the glass, he glanced outside at the other buildings in the complex. All the interior lights were still shining in the adjacent wing of the research building. Very odd.

    It looked as if his office had been specifically targeted for a power disruption.

    With a sinking feeling, Dr. Gregory began to wonder about sabotage from the protesters. Could Miriel have gone so far overboard? She would know how to cause such damage. Though her security clearance had been taken away after she quit her job and formed Stop Nuclear Madness!, perhaps she had managed to bluff her way inside, to interfere with the simulations only she could have known her old mentor would be running.

    He didn’t want to think her capable of such action…but he knew she would consider it, without qualms.

    Dr. Gregory swatted at the insistent hissing, buzzing noise that hovered about his ears, finally noticing it for the first time. With all the power suddenly smothered and machine sounds damped to nothingness, silence should have descended upon his office.

    But the whispers came instead.

    With a growing sense of uneasiness that he forced himself to ignore, Dr. Gregory went to the door, intending to shout down the hall for Bear Dooley or any of the other physicists. For some reason, the company of others seemed highly desirable right now.

    But he found the doorknob unbearably hot. Unnaturally hot.

    With a hiss, he yanked his hand away. He backed off, staring down in shock more than pain at the bright blisters forming in the center of his palm.

    Smoke began to curl around the solid security-locked doorknob, oozing out of the keyslot.

    Hey, what is this? Hello! He flapped his burned hand to cool it. Patty? Are you still out there?

    Contained within the concrete walls of his office, the wind picked up, crackling with electrical static. Papers blew, curled up by a foul breath of heat. The glassine envelope of black powder spilled open, spraying dark ash into the air.

    Untucking his shirt and using the tail to protect his hand against the heat, he hurried back to the door again and reached for the knob. By now, though, it glowed red-hot, a throbbing scarlet that hurt his eyes.

    Patty, I need your help. Bear! Somebody! His voice cracked, growing high-pitched with fear.

    Like an elapsed-time simulation of sunrise, the light in the room grew brighter and brighter, seeming to emanate from the walls, a searing harsh glare.

    Dr. Gregory backed toward the concrete blocks, holding up his hands to shield his face from yet another aspect of physics he did not understand. The whispering voices increased in volume, rising to a crescendo of screams and accusations climbing through the air itself.

    Reaching a critical point.

    An avalanche of heat and fire struck him, so intense that it knocked him into the wall. A billion, billion X rays brought every cell in his body to a boil. Then came a burst of absolute light, like the core of an atomic explosion.

    And Dr. Gregory found himself standing alone at Ground Zero.

    TWO

    Teller Nuclear Research Facility

    Tuesday, 10:13 A.M.

    The security guard stepped out of a small prefab shack just outside the chain-link perimeter of the large research facility. He glanced at Fox Mulder’s papers and FBI identification, then motioned for him to drive his rental car over to the Badge Office just outside the gate.

    In the passenger seat Dana Scully sat up straighter. She willed the cells of her body to supply more energy and bring her to full alertness. She hated catching red-eye flights, especially from the East Coast. Already today she had spent hours on the plane and now another hour in the car with her partner driving from the San Francisco Airport. She had rested fitfully on the large plane, managing only a brief nap instead of genuine sleep.

    Sometimes I wish that more of our cases would happen closer to home, she said, not really meaning it.

    Mulder looked over at her, flashed a brief commiserating smile. Look on the bright side, Scully—I know plenty of deskbound agents who envy us our exciting jet-setting lifestyle. We get to see the world. They get to see their offices.

    I suppose the grass is always greener… Scully said. Still, if I ever do take a vacation, I think I’ll just stay home on the sofa and read a book.

    Scully had grown up as a Navy brat. She and her two brothers and her sister had been forced to pull up their roots every few years while they were young, whenever the Navy assigned her father to a different base or a different ship. She’d never complained, always respecting her father’s duty enough to do her part. But she had never dreamed that when it came to her own career, she would end up choosing something that required her to travel around so often.

    Mulder guided the car to the front of a small white office isolated from the large cluster of buildings inside the fence. The Badge Office appeared relatively new, with the type of clean yet flimsy architecture that reminded Scully of a child’s step-by-step model kit.

    Mulder parked the car and reached behind him to pull out his lightweight briefcase. Scully flicked down the mirror on the passenger side sun visor. She gave a quick glance at the lipstick on her full lips, checked the makeup on her large blue eyes, smoothed her light auburn hair. Despite her tiredness, everything seemed in place, professional.

    Mulder stepped out of the car and straightened his suit jacket, adjusted his maroon tie.

    FBI agents, after all, had to appear suitable for the part.

    I need another cup of coffee, Scully said, following him out of the car. I want to be absolutely certain I can devote my full attention to the details of any case unusual enough to drag us three thousand miles across the country.

    Mulder held open the glass door for her to enter the Badge Office. You mean that ‘gourmet’ brew on the airplane wasn’t up to your exacting standards?

    She favored him with raised eyebrows. Let’s put it this way, Mulder—I haven’t heard of many flight attendants retiring to start their own espresso franchises.

    Mulder ran a hand quickly through his fluffy dark hair, ensuring that at least most of the strands fell into place. Then he trailed after her into the heavily air-conditioned building. The interior consisted primarily of a large, open area, a long counter that served as a barricade to a few back offices, and some small carrels that held televisions and videotape players.

    A row of blue padded chairs sat in front of a wall of windows that had been tinted to filter out the bright California sun, though patches of the modern brown-and-rust tweed carpet already looked faded. Several construction workers clad in overalls stood in line at the counter with hardhats tucked under their arms and folded pink forms in their hands. One at a time the workers handed their papers to the counter personnel, who checked IDs and exchanged the pink forms for temporary work permits.

    A sign on the wall clearly listed all of the items that were not permitted inside the Teller Nuclear Research Facility: cameras, firearms, drugs, alcohol, personal recording devices, telescopes. Scully scanned the list. The items were familiar from her own experience at FBI Headquarters.

    I’ll check us in, she said and flipped open a small notebook from the pocket of her forest-green suit. She took a place in line behind several large men in paint-spattered overalls. She felt extremely over-dressed. Another clerk opened a station at the end of the speckled counter and gestured Scully over.

    I suppose I must look out of place here, Scully said and displayed her badge. I’m Special Agent Dana Scully. My partner is Fox Mulder. We’re here to meet with— she glanced down at her notebook, "a Department

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