FOOTPRINTS OF GOD GREG ILES PDF
The Footprints of God is a thriller novel written by American author Greg Iles. It was published in hardcover in by Scribner, then in March by Pocket. The Footprints of God has ratings and reviews. Mike said: We were introduced to Greg Iles when we attended one of my partners weddings in Natch.. . Wildly unbelievable tale of a sentient computer that—what else?—seizes control of the Internet, the world’s military defense systems, and a.
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This “alarming, believable, and utterly consuming” bestselling author Dan Brown thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of the Natchez Burning trilogy and the Penn Cage series explores the terrifying possibility that the next phase of human evolution may not be human at all The government’s top-secret supercomputer is an intelligence beyond comprehension—and a nightmare beyond humanity’s worst fears.
At the heart of a maelstrom of limitless science and ruthless ambition, Dr. David Tennant, Project Trinity’s ethicist, harbors a lethal secret: Fleeing for his life alongside psychiatrist Rachel Weiss, the only hope for survival lies in revealing the shocking connection between Trinity’s apocalyptic power and David’s tortured mind.
Mankind’s future hangs in the balance—and the price of failure is extinction. After graduating from the University of Mississippi inhe performed for several years with the rock band Frankly Scarlet and is a member of the lit-rock group The Rock Bottom Remainders. He lives in Natchez, Mississippi.
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Price may vary by retailer. Add to Cart Add to Cart. I’m professor of ethics at the University of Virginia Medical School, and if you’re watching this tape, I’m dead. I didn’t want to rant. I’d mounted my Sony camcorder on a tripod and rotated the LCD screen in order to see myself as I spoke. I’d lost weight over the past weeks. My footprnts were red with fatigue, the orbits shiny and dark.
I looked more like a hunted criminal than a grieving friend. I keep seeing Andrew lying on the floor. And I know they killed him. I’m getting ahead of myself. I was born in in Los Alamos, New Mexico. My father was James Howard Tennant, the nuclear physicist. My mother was Ann Footpirnts, a pediatrician. I’m making this tape in a sober state of mind, and I’m going to deposit it with my attorney as soon as I finish, on the understanding that it should be opened if I die for any reason. Andrew Fielding was found dead beside his desk, the victim of an apparent stroke.
I can’t prove it, but I know Fielding was murdered. Under the highest security classification, that team and its work are known as Footprjnts Trinity. I’d made sure the pistol wasn’t visible on camera, but it calmed me to have it within reach. Reassured, I again stared at the glowing red light. It happened in a dream. Seemingly from nowhere, a seventy-year-old man visualized the most revolutionary possibility in the history of science.
That letter shook the White House to its foundations. I know this because the president was my brother’s close friend in college.
My brother died og years ago, but because of him, the president knew of my work, which is what grey me in the middle of all footrpints followed. Leave out nothing, said a voice in my head. Fifty years ago, he’d played his own part in America’s secret history, and that burden had greatly shortened his days.
Foptprints father died ina haunted man, certain that the Cold War he’d spent his youthful energy to perpetuate would end with the destruction of civilization, as it so easily could have.
Einstein’s letter spurred the Manhattan Project, the secret quest to ensure that America would be the first to possess nuclear weapons.
Peter Godin’s letter resulted in a project of similar scope but infinitely greater ambition. Only six people on gre planet ever had full knowledge of Trinity. Now that Andrew Fielding is dead, only five remain.
Someone was rapping on my front door. Through thin curtains, I saw a Federal Express truck parked at the foot of my sidewalk. What I couldn’t see was the space immediately in front of my door. Ilws package from a dead man? Only one person would send me a package under the name of the author of Alice in Wonderland.
Had he sent me something the day before he died? Fielding had been obsessively searching the Trinity labs for weeks now, the computers as well as the physical space.
Perhaps he’d found something. And perhaps whatever it was had got him killed. I’d sensed something strange about Fielding’s behavior yesterday — not so easy with a man famed for his eccentricities — but by this morning he’d seemed to be his old self. I cocked the pistol and edged over to the door.
I’d fastened the chain latch when I’d got home. With my left hand, I unlocked the door and pulled it open to the length of the chain. Through foottprints crack, I saw the face of a uniformed man in his twenties, his hair bound into a short ponytail.
The Footprints of God
I’ll sign and give it back to you. I can’t give you that. Footprints grabbed the stylus hanging from the string and scrawled my name on the touch-sensitive screen. I took it and tossed it onto the sofa, then shut the door and waited until I heard the truck rumble away from the curb. I picked up the envelope and glanced at the label. As I pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope, a greasy white granular substance spilled over my fingers.
The instant my eyes registered the color, some part of my brain whispered anthrax. The odds of that were low, but my best friend had just died under suspicious circumstances.
A certain amount of paranoia was justified. I hurried to the kitchen and scrubbed my hands with dish soap and water. Then I pulled a footlrints medical bag from my closet.
Inside was the usual pharmacopoeia of the M. I found what I wanted in a snap compartment: I swallowed one pill with water from the tap, then took a pair of surgical gloves from the bag. As a last precaution, Ilex tied a dirty T-shirt from the hamper around my nose and mouth. Then I folded the FedEx envelope and letter into separate Ziploc bags, sealed them, and laid them on the counter. As badly as I wanted to read the letter, part of me resisted.
Fielding might have been murdered for what was written on that page. Even if that weren’t the case, nothing good would come from my reading it. I carefully vacuumed the white granules from the carpet in the front room, wondering if I could be wrong about Fielding’s death being fotprints. He and I had worked ourselves into quite a state of suspicion over the past weeks, but then we had reason to.
And the timing was too damn convenient. Instead of putting the vacuum cleaner back into the closet, I walked to the back door and tossed the machine far into the yard. I could always buy another one. I was still eerily aware of the letter sitting on the kitchen counter. I felt like a soldier’s wife refusing to open a telegram. But I already knew my friend was dead. So what did I fear? The why, answered a voice in my head. You want to keep your head in the sand.
The Footprints of God — book review
It’s the American national pastime More than a little irritated to find that the dead could be as bothersome as the living, I picked up the Ziploc containing the letter and carried it to the front room. The note was brief and handwritten.
David, We must meet again. I finally confronted Godin with my suspicions. His reaction astounded me. I don’t want to commit anything to paper, but I know I’m right. Lu Li and I are driving to the blue place on Saturday night.