The doomsday key : a [upper case Greek letter "sigma"] Sigma Force novel / James Rollins.

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In this electrifying adventure from James Rollins, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Sigma Force series, Commander Gray Pierce returns to solve a centuries-old secret, one coded in prophecies of doom.

At Princeton University, a famed geneticist dies inside a biohazard lab. In Rome, a Vatican archaeologist is found dead in St. Peters Basilica. In Africa, a US Senator's son is slain outside a Red Cross camp. Three murders on three continents bear a horrifying connection: all the victims are marked by a Druidic pagan cross burned into their flesh.

The bizarre murders thrust Commander Gray Pierce and Sigma Force into a race against time to solve a riddle going back centuries, to a ghastly crime against humanity hidden within a cryptic medieval codex. The first piece of the puzzle is discovered inside a mummified corpse buried in an English peat bog-a gruesome secret that threatens America and the world.

Aided by two women from his past-one his ex-lover, the other his new partner-Gray must piece together the horrifying truth. But the revelations come at a high cost, and to save the future, Pierce will have to sacrifice one of the women at his side. That alone might not be enough, as the true path to salvation is revealed in a dark prophecy of doom.

Sigma Force confronts humankind's greatest threat in an adventure that races from the Roman Coliseum to the icy peaks of Norway, from the ruins of medieval abbeys to the lost tombs of Celtic kings. The ultimate nightmare is locked within a talisman buried by a dead saint-an ancient artifact known as the Doomsday Key.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

The Doomsday Key Chapter One Spring, 1086 England The ravens were the first sign. As the horse-drawn wagon traveled down the rutted track between rolling fields of barley, a flock of ravens rose up in a black wash. They hurled themselves into the blue of the morning and swept high in a panicked rout, but this was more than the usual startled flight. The ravens wheeled and swooped, tumbled and flapped. Over the road, they crashed into each other and rained down out of the skies. Small bodies struck the road, breaking wing and beak. They twitched in the ruts. Wings fluttered weakly. But most disturbing was the silence of it all. No caws, no screams. Just the frantic beat of wing--then the soft impact of feathered bodies on the hard dirt and broken stone. The wagon's driver crossed himself and slowed the cart. His heavy-lidded eyes watched the skies. The horse tossed its head and huffed into the chill of the morning. "Keep going," said the traveler sharing the wagon. Martin Borr was the youngest of the royal coroners, ordered here upon a secret edict from King William himself. As Martin huddled deeper into his heavy cloak, he remembered the note secured by wax and imprinted by the great royal seal. Burdened by the cost of war, King William had sent scores of royal commissioners out into the countryside to amass a great accounting of the lands and properties of his kingdom. The immense tally was being recorded in a mammoth volume called the Domesday Book, collected together by a single scholar and written in a cryptic form of Latin. The accounting was all done as a means of measuring the proper tax owed to the crown. Or so it was said. Some grew to suspect there was another reason for such a grand survey of all the lands. They compared the book to the Bible's description of the Last Judgment, where God kept an accounting of all mankind's deeds in the Book of Life. Whispers and rumors began calling the result of this great survey the Doomsday Book. These last were closer to the truth than anyone suspected. Martin had read the wax-sealed letter. He'd observed that lone scribe painstakingly recording the results of the royal commissioners in the great book, and at the end, he'd watched the scholar scratch a single word in Latin, in red ink. Vastare. Wasted. Many regions were marked with this word, indicating lands that had been laid waste by war or pillage. But two entries had been inscribed entirely in crimson ink. One described a desolate island that lay between the coast of Ireland and the English shore. Martin approached the other place now, ordered here to investigate at the behest of the king. He had been sworn to secrecy and given three men to assist him. They trailed behind the wagon on their own horses. At Martin's side, the driver twitched the reins and encouraged the draft horse, a monstrously huge chestnut, to a faster clop. As they continued forward, the wheels of the wagon drove over the twitching bodies of the ravens, crushing bones and splattering blood. Finally, the cart topped a rise and revealed the breadth of the rich valley beyond. A small village lay nestled below, flanked by a stone manor house at one end and a steepled church on the other. A score of thatched cottages and longhouses made up the rest of the hamlet, along with a smattering of wooden sheepfolds and small dovecotes. "'Tis a cursed place, milord," the driver said. "Mark my words. It were no pox that has blasted this place." "That is what we've come to discern." A league behind them, the steep road had been closed off by the king's army. None were allowed forward, but that did not stop rumors of the strange deaths from spreading to the neighboring villages and farmsteads. "Cursed," the man mumbled again as he set his cart down the road toward the village. "I heard tell that these lands once belonged to the heathen Celts. Said to be sacred to their pagan ways. Their stones can still be found in the forests off in the highlands up yonder." His withered arm pointed toward the woods fringing the high hills that climbed heavenward. Mists clung to those forests, turning the green wood into murky shades of gray and black. "They've cursed this place, I tell you straight. Bringing doom upon those who bear the cross." Martin Borr dismissed such superstitions. At thirty-two years of age, he had studied with master scholars from Rome to Britannia. He had come with experts to discover the truth here. Shifting around, Martin waved the others ahead toward the small hamlet, and the trio set off at a canter. Each knew his duty. Martin followed more slowly, studying and assessing all he passed. Isolated in this small upland valley, the village went by the name Highglen and was known locally for its pottery, forged from mud and clay gathered out of the hot springs that contributed to the mists cloaking the higher forests. It was said that the town's method of kilning and the composition of the potter's clay were tightly guarded secrets known only to the guild here. And now they were lost forever. The wagon trundled down the road, passing more fields: rye, oats, beans, and rows of vegetables. Some of the fields showed signs of recent harvesting, while others showed evidence of being set to torch. Had the villagers grown to suspect the truth? As the wagon continued down into the valley, lines of sheep pens appeared, fringed by tall hedges that half hid the horror within. Woolly mounds, the bloated bodies of hundreds of sheep dotted the overgrown meadows. Closer to the village, pigs and goats also appeared, sprawled and sunken-eyed, dead where they'd dropped. Off in a field, a large-boned ox had collapsed, still tethered to its plow. As the wagon reached the village green, the town remained silent. No bark of dog greeted them, no crow of rooster, no bray of donkey. The church bell didn't ring, and no one called out to the strangers entering the village. The Doomsday Key . Copyright © by James Rollins . Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Doomsday Key by James Rollins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Rollins's (The Last Oracle) prose explodes off the page in a twisty and compelling thriller that explores the issues of human overpopulation and genetically modified food. The Sigma Force must unravel the mysterious deaths of a geneticist, a senator's son working for the Red Cross in Africa, and someone with close ties to the Vatican. Gray Pierce and his team follow the clues starting from Rome, while Sigma leader Painter Crowe takes his group to meet with the head of a corporation that appears to be genetically modifying food. VERDICT Swashbuckling adventure, elite team effort, and religious symbology all add up to another gripping and terrifying read. Rollins somehow juggles all of these elements and incorporates them into an amazing and brilliant technothriller that might be his best to date. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 3/15/09.]-Jeff Ayers, Seattle P.L. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

Bestseller Rollins's labyrinthine sixth Sigma Force thriller (after The Last Oracle) offers plenty of intriguing science and history lessons. Sigma Force director Painter Crowe gathers the usual crew-Cmdr. Grayson Pierce; Pierce's best friend, Monk Kokkalis; lumbering Joe Kowalski-to discover why an experimental agriculture site in Africa has been attacked and razed, killing everyone, including a U.S. senator's son. "The future of mankind" may depend, they learn, on the "Doomsday key," a strange substance brought to England long ago by ancient Egyptians that holds the promise of a new and powerful medicine. A few of the book's many highlights include genetic manipulation, traitorous beautiful women, illuminated manuscripts, saints, prophecies, curses and miracles. Rollins deftly juggles all this and more as the Sigma team races from the depths of the Vatican to the outer reaches of Norway toward an explosive confrontation with the shadowy forces of evil known as the Guild. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved