This book...
To say it's a bad book is a true thing, but somehow calling it a "bad book" just doesn't do it justice. It's like saying the Grand Canyon is a just a big hole in the ground. That's /true/, but that goes nowhere near the raw beauty, the sense of deep time it took to form, or the power of the Colorado River to create it. Somehow calling it a hole in the ground misses out on the very nature of the experience. The Atlantis Gene is so bad it may be an attack on the act of reading, and maybe even the entire human project of using the written word to communicate.
There are the obvious surface faults: it's profoundly sexist (forget it passing the Bechdel Test, it's never even /heard/ of it) and racist (there's a simpering Tibetan character -- inexplicably named Milo -- who would shame Stepin Fetchin as he bows and scrapes to the Anglo characters). Half the characters change names about 2/3 of the way through the story so you spend the last third of the book having to check who's who; unfortunately any idea of characterization which might help the reader figure out who's who is completely alien to the author, who seems to think character is determined solely by past trauma. Rather than defining personality by, say, actions or dialogue, each character's past is dropped on the reader by a series of clunky pro-forma info-dump narration. The effect is like torture porn: something like watching the characters in Walking Dead go through trauma after trauma but without any reason to care about the characters going through it or even the ability for audiences to figure out who's who. And none of this suffering has a point -- no one is different at the end of the book than at the beginning.
When the author does attempt, and then fails at, to create character, the only tool he uses are cliches so hackneyed they literally made me groan. The hero (I guess you'd call him the hero: he kidnaps the female lead and kills dozens of people throughout the plot in between being wounded an improbable amount of times; he's not a protagonist because he never starts any actions) whose name, essentially, is Heathcliff, was wounded as a first responder during 9/11; you don't really hear from again until after he's made the transition from fireman to CIA operative (as is so commonly done) to working for international secret society. The female character dutifully and inexplicably -- unless you discount Stockholm Syndrome, but that would be more logical than anything else that transpires -- falls in love with her kidnapper. The female character, by the way, never once shows any initiative and whose primary occupation is child-care, first of children in a medical study, then of the "hero."
And to top off the most hoariest old cliches, the Antagonist is, literally, a Nazi. Because in a sprawling chasm of duelling ancient conspiracies, Atlantean high tech and pop-science gene therapy, you can't just be bad. You have to be Nazi bad, apparently. And if the plot audibly creaks to include the Third Reich both in the backstory and the main plot, well, you're clearly not paying attention to the Unceasing Action the author clearly prides himself on.
It's odd that the novel focuses so much on violence to the characters, because it's language that takes all the real abuse in the book. The author simply has no appreciation of language as such. There's no poetry in the language of the characters or style in the narration. Riddle uses language like a felon uses a cosh: bluntly, to accost the reader.
And he's able to use the form of the novel just as competently as he does language. The real success of the novel's format -- the reason it's had staying power over centuries -- is that its length allows a (competent) author to delve deeply into the psychology or inner life of the characters. Chapters extend over dozens of pages so the reader can learn the background of a character's unique experience, hear their unique inner voice and appreciate the subtleties of their actions as they relate to others. As mentioned above, The Atlantis Gene has none of these things. Consequently, the chapters are about page and a half each. There are many "chapters" no more than a half- or even quarter-page long. This barely allows the author to communicate the simple actions of the plot, so there is virtually no complication or in-depth investigation of anything. If I was charitable, I'd suggest this was an authorial attempt to create pace or mood.
I'm not charitable. But the tiny little chapters point at a far more obvious conceptual problem at the heart of this book. Riddle's chapters aren't chapters. They're scenes (bad scenes, lots of bad scenes) because Riddle doesn't want to write a novel. Or any type of book. It wants to be an action movie, but the author on his own had no means to make a film. So he cranked out a screenplay with a few more stage directions than average. Unfortunately, he's no better a screenwriter or playwright than novelist, so the book suffers from being neither fish nor fowl, crippled by an author who doesn't want and doesn't know how to deal with the format he's chosen. This book was doomed from the get-go.
But Riddle -- allegedly, anyway, self-publishing allows you to throw around words like "best seller" or "soon to be on movie screens" with nothing to back those up -- got his wish. Somebody, presumably a rich illiterate with a chip on his shoulder for every other sentient being in the world, bought the movie rights to this and the two sequels (sequels I cannot bring myself to read), so we'll all soon have the opportunity to see this dreck on the silver screen. And it would take the talent of a Nick Cage or Stephen Segal to flail through the wooden dialogue and general lack of character motivation The Atlantis Gene suffers from. The idea of that film is a far bigger threat hanging over its audience than anything the characters have to deal with.