Ten Days to Hell

[Pro A.]

The newest novel by me is one of the more ambitious projects I have undertaken. Tell me what you think.

Prologue: The Attack
Dublin, Ireland
The two men watched from their perch as the plane started to circle around towards them. They sat in their perch, which remained hidden and out of sight thanks to the shadows. The spotter indicated with his binoculars that it looked like they’d be getting ready for take-off. The shooter nodded and he got his weapon into position. After all they had gone through just to get this far, he hoped that nobody might happen upon them by mistake. Of all the incidents to happen, that would be the worst one. It reeked of bad luck, more than anything. It seemed to say that forces beyond their control had conspired against them to succeed; the teaser had just been a nastier method of driving the point home. The shooter put the weapon up to about eye level and told the spotter to get down and to stay there. The spotter nodded, knowing better than to argue with him. He had a nasty temper at times and tended to be quite hostile when his temper got up.
The plane, sitting about three hundred meters away, looked like it was going to make the final turn before leaving the runway and heading into the air. The shooter checked his watch. The plane had fallen behind schedule to a slight mishap with some luggage. The shooter had wanted to finish the job just before the plane left the ground, but it seemed that the grand scheme would have to go through some minor adjustments. He turned the safety off on his weapon, a Soviet Stinger missile launcher. He got a fix and squeezed the trigger. The rocket flew from its berth and landed right on target, destroying the nearest engine to the cabin on the left side. The explosion set off a fireball that started to spread as the nearest engine also exploded, sending the plane right down to its side. Another explosion went off after the fuselage took some damage, creating a widespread chain reaction that destroyed the entire plane from top to bottom.
The two men watched the carnage they had created for about a minute before the shooter patted the spotted on the shoulder. He didn’t say anything, though. It seemed like a waste of breath.
They walked through the open hole in the fence and went down the street into a nearby garage. A fifteen year-old gray truck waited for them. He tossed the missile launcher into the trunk and got into the passenger side. His associate got on the driver’s side and they drove away, slipping right past the police cruisers heading towards the airport. The shooter chuckled to himself. It wouldn’t be long before the world—especially Britain—realized the price of their crimes.
The spotter said, “The war has begun.”
The shooter said, “This, my friend, is only the beginning.”

Part One: Counterattack

Day One
Chapter One
London, England; 6:25 A.M.
The package arrived at 10 Downing Street a little before five in the morning. The Prime Minister had his security teams check the package out. Everything came back negative. No bomb or any kind of weapon. The box, no bigger than a foot tall and two feet wide, didn’t seem like the kind of object that could cause serious harm anyways. The package had been dropped off, according to surveillance, by a black Citroen. Teams were sweeping the area, but nothing had come across just yet. With everything safe, they opened the package to find a tape recorder. They relayed this to the P.M. The P.M. thought this might be related to the recent attack last night involving the British Airways Jet. Flight 723 shot down in Dublin. 132 passengers and crew aboard. All of them killed. A few prominent politicians had been onboard. Their losses would be felt in the Parliament, no doubt. No suspects had been named yet. Al-Qaida ran at the top of the list, followed by radical Irish dissidents looking to stir up some real trouble.
With his cabinet assembled, the tape was played. The gears started to turn and a robotic voice started to speak. “Mr. Prime Minister, no doubt by now you have heard about the incident involving British Airways Flight 723. Mark my words, this is only the beginning. If you do not end your oppressive foreign policies and withdraw all foreign troops, diplomats, and other representatives of your despicable country within ten days at noon time, another attack will be launched against your country. The next one, I promise you, will hit you right where it hurts the most. Good day, gentlemen.”
The recording stopped. The Prime Minister looked at his men. His eyes looked white and scared. He looked unsure of himself. The rest of the cabinet looked scared. A terrorist attack had already struck and that seemed to be nothing more than a warning of future events to come. If they didn’t give in within ten days… then what? What would he do with his demands not fulfilled?
The P.M. said, “Get me MI6 and MI5. We’re going to need their help on this job, if they haven’t already started.”
The Minister of Defense said, “Be assured, I have already talked with both agencies and they have their best people working on the case. I will see to it personally that both sides get a copy of the recording.” The Minister was a short, chubby man with the red cheeks that had little dots on both sides, like they had been pinched a few times too many for their sake. His fat hands remained folded over one another. His eyes continued to dart back and forth, wondering if anyone had caught on to his fear just yet. He didn’t want to come across as weak in front of everyone else, but he knew most of the men and women in this room quite well. They smelled fear. They latched on to the person and then exploited them for all they were worth. This was how things were done in England.
“You’ve talked with both Lowell and Parks, then?”
“Yes, they’ve been brought up to speed. They’ve agreed to share their intelligence regarding the matter. Not bad, considering the two of them don’t bloody well get along.”
“Mm, yes,” the P.M. said. “I remember hearing about that. Something over a card game, was it?”
“Omaha, I believe. Parks thinks Lowell stiffed him out of a 2,000 pound debt for more than three months.”
“Can’t believe they’d gamble that much to begin with, especially since both of them have families.”
The Minister didn’t have an answer to that. The P.M. closed the meeting, saying that he wanted full updates from everyone. They needed to catch the men behind this before the ten-day deadline. MI6 and MI5 would run point and direct everything to the Minister and the rest of the necessary members in the loop. The Minister went back to his car, which was waiting for him on the opposite side of the street. He got inside and told the driver to take him down to the office. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. It had already been a long day and the first rays of sunlight had just appeared on the horizon. He grabbed his cell phone and called Parks, figuring it would be easier to tell him the news first. Lowell would want to ask more questions about authority and autonomy in the case. They were working together for Britain and to avenge the loss of their countrymen, but even that couldn’t salve certain wounds.
Parks answered after the first ring, “Parks.”
“It’s me. I just got done talking with the P.M. Terrorists left a message for him.” He explained the basics of the message and what would happen if they didn’t capitulate to their demands. “Unfortunately, the terrorists did not leave any way for us to contact them or relay our conditions or anything like that.”
Parks grunted. “Looks like they don’t want us to give in. They want to launch that second attack.”
“I agree. This gives us ten days to figure it out.”
“Right, and we’re running point?”
“Along with MI5. You’re running foreign. They have domestic. Simple.”
“Right, then,” Parks said. He tried not to choke on his own tongue as he forced the words out of his mouth. Last thing he wanted to do right now was work with Lowell, but under the circumstances he didn’t have much choice. He’d have to bite the bullet on this one and try to make the best of a bad situation. He knew Lowell had a tendency to be hard-headed, but he wasn’t going to be an idiot about this situation. 132 people were dead. That was enough to keep the personal agenda off to the side for a little while. Perhaps something good would come out of this. Wishful thinking, maybe, but it was worth a try.
The Minister called Lowell, the head of MI5, right after and explained the current arrangement. Lowell asked a few questions about who would be running the operation. He said that he would be in charge of everything, but as far as domestic/foreign worked there wasn’t any need to ask. It would remain the same. Lowell asked a few more questions about MI6 working in Britain. The Minister explained that was unlikely unless a lead came over to Britain from a foreign country. Should that be the case, then it would be permissible for them to assist in any operation or to lead it. Vice-versa would be the case if MI5 had a lead head over to a foreign land. The Minister knew he had just broken several jurisdiction rules right then and there, but under the circumstances they didn’t have a choice, not when their very livelihood had just been threatened by some madman.
The worst part was: It could be anybody.

[Boggy700]

I think it's really good.
Political... oriented stories aren't really my thing though.

A few things I would suggest:
The first four sentences all start with 'T-H-E'.
I understand that the first sentence begining with "The" is also done in the next three paragraphs, so it could be intentional.
Looking back over it, it seems a lot of those sentences begin with 'The', 'They', 'He', and maybe something else.
I think you might want to try beginning a few of them in different ways.
Like with a verb.
Or an ADJECTIVE!
So,
Another thought I have is regarding your opening sentence.
I feel like it should establish the atmosphere of the scene more immediately.
Coupled with the previous advice, maybe something along the lines of,
"Warm winds sauntered across the open surface of the airfield, breathing down the neck of the unwavering assailant and his patient accomplice."
Or, y'know, something better.

I almost forgot about this last part of the post I was going to write.

One more thing.
You seem to tell us most of the information.
Might I suggest showing us instead.
More often anyway.



Every time I see a new thread in the Literature section, I am always hopeful that it will be something someone has created.
Thank you.

(Also, I still really think Literature should be merged with Entertainment.)

[Pro A.]

Well, thank you for the input. This is only a first draft, so its more about getting the basics down and then adding the details the second time around. As for show/tell, well, thats a fairly subjective thing. I try to show as much as I can and it gets easier as the book goes along. First eight, nine thousand words are usually telling because I have to fill in the blanks in the background, but I'll be sure to keep that in mind.

As for your suggestion on the opener, I disagree only on the grounds that I follow the rule from Elmore Leonard, which is where he says to never, ever open a book with something about weather. Does seem like a tired cliche, doesn't it? Grisham might be the best I've seen with opening sentences.

[Ihsiin]

You could start taking about the weather, but talk about it slightly longer than is usual, imbuing it, perhaps, with something of a human nature; and then, just before the reader thinks to himself "hang on, this book's just about the weather", you let the weather interact with your two men, and the narrative is passed on. That’s sort of a double bluff (or something much like it). Just an idea.
Boggy really said everything I was going to say, and a slight bit more. Good work!
Apart from one thing. No one ever refers to the Prime Minster as “Mr. Prime Minster”. It’s either Mr. Whatever (whatever being the Prime Minster’s surname) or simply Prime Minster.

[Pro A.]

Ahhh... thank you for the factual note. I'll be sure to fix that in my re-write. As for the weather thing, if I did do it, it would be in the second or third paragraph, acting as a bridge, not as the opener.

[Boggy700]

As for your suggestion on the opener, I disagree only on the grounds that I follow the rule from Elmore Leonard, which is where he says to never, ever open a book with something about weather. Does seem like a tired cliche, doesn't it? Grisham might be the best I've seen with opening sentences.
It is an old cliche, but it was the first thing that came to mind for my example.
But however you might choose to do it, I still think the atmoshpere needs to be established right away.
Unless it some kind of experimental abstract mystery or something.
Instead of the weather you could describe the tension in the atmosphere, or the emotions of a character, or convey the passage of time, etcetera...

Maybe you should never open with the weather, but at least open with an opening.

I'm sure you'll deal with it in a later draft though, as you said.



On a side note,
Does Elmore Leonard say why people shouldn't open...
Nevermind, Googled!
I found his ten rules, and it seems that the first is as follows:
"1. Never open a book with weather. If it’s only to create atmosphere, and not a character’s reaction to the weather, you don’t want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways to describe ice and snow than an Eskimo, you can do all the weather reporting you want."
So, don't open with the weather unless you can do it well?
Also I don't consider my one sentence to be "too long."
And it does display the characters reaction to the weather.

Upon further reading, I find I disagree with a few more of his rules.
Firstly on the basis that they are not "rules" so much as they are guides.
Secondly, his second "rule", not that I disagree with it, is "Avoid Prologues."
Thirdly, "rule" three, "Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue."
The word "said" is more or less redundant when using quotation marks.
Along with rule four, "Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said”", it only becomes unecessarily difficult to express tone.
Should writers not embrace the flourishes of their medium rather than shun it's intricacies?

I mean, these "rules" tell us not to start a story a certain way, not to describe the way a person speaks or how they look, or to describe places in great detail.
I understand that there are other ways of communicating some things, and that too much detail can be uninteresting, and that it is important in some styles of writing that the author remain invisible, but if an author achieves this, what makes them any different than other invisible authors?
If they don't put themselves into their writing, how are they being expressive?
If I wanted a story written without soul, I would read a history book.
Or the dictionary.
But art is best made from personality.


My best examples against invisible-authoring is not in book form, but film form instead.
'Annie Hall' leaps to mind, but leaping faster and higher (or further,) is '24 Hour Party People'.
I mean one of the lines of dialogue spoken to the audience in the film is,
"This scene didn't actually make it to the final cut. I'm sure it'll be on the DVD."
And that film was nominated for ten awards, and won another.
Granted, none of them were solely for writing.
But one nomination was for the Golden Palm at Cannes Film Festival.

Woody Allen is one of the most "visible" writers I can think of.
In 'Annie Hall', he opens with the lines,
"
There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The... the other important joke, for me, is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud's "Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious," and it goes like this - I'm paraphrasing - um, "I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." That's the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships with women.
"
And if that isn't injecting personality into one's writing in a positive way, I don't know what is.

Also, in 'Mighty Aphrodite' his character actually speaks to the Greek chorus that does their thing throughout the film.
And the film's main conflict is resolved with the line...
"DEUS EX MACHINA!!!" being bellowed forth (sorry, "said".)

To end my post, because I've been writing it over the course of about two hours and have forgotten my intention, here is an excerpt from a scene from 'Annie Hall', as detailed by this place: http://www.filmsite.org/anni2.html

"

In the movie-ticket line, Alvy wishes to one-up and embarrass the pseudo-intellectual movie buff who loudly pontificates, claims to teach a course on TV, Media and Culture at Columbia University, and quotes extensively from influential Canadian media theorist Marshall McLuhan:

"What I wouldn't give for a large sock with horse manure in it. (He steps forward out of line and addresses the camera.)...What do you do when you get stuck in a movie line with a guy like this behind you? It's just maddening."

Even the blowhard speaks to the camera: "Why can't I give my opinion? It's a free country." Alvy triumphantly brings on the real-life Professor McLuhan to tell the man he doesn't know what he is talking about. Media critic McLuhan conveniently emerges from behind a theatre lobby signboard to contradict the theories of the startled, pompous bore who is annoying Alvy (and to satirize himself):

"I heard what you were saying. You, you know nothing of my work. You mean my whole fallacy is wrong. How you ever got to teach a course in anything is totally amazing."

"

[Pro A.]

I don't agree with all of Leonard's rules (particularly the ones about regional dialogue and prologues) but I think he is right about certain aspects, and they have helped me. I agree with his rules about dialogue attribution and the adverbs, however. When you get to attribution, I shouldn't have to tell you how he/she said. If I use a question mark, its an obvious given that a question is being asked. Saying "he asked" is both redundant and lazy. Adverbs in dialogue attribution fall in the same road. Its flaccid, sloppy writing. Adverbs are okay when it comes to straight description because its all about pacing and action and so forth, but even then I try and minimize them. Your dialogue should be pushing the story when the characters speak and the author should make his intrusions in that respect as little as possible. It is the writer's responsibility to make the dialogue resonate. The best have that ability like Leonard, Tom Wolfe, and so on, and you will rarely, if ever, see any adverbs around because they know their dialogue can speak volumes.

As for invisibility, I think he was referring to second-person description (you). I've never been a big fan of second-person only because it does sound like I'm reading a textbook or travelogue where the author is trying to grab me with the subject material. Authors tend to use second person to try and make the reader a personal connection with a certain event. I don't particularly like it, but I will use it to expand or clarify a point if it helps everyone out in the end. I don't recommend using it every page because it becomes quite self-indulgent and less about the story, which is what you're paying the twenty-six bucks to read (or eight dollars if you buy the paperback).

[Pro A.]

That's Dickensian, all right. Very much so. I sincerely hope there's a story in all of this, but thats good writing for what it is.

[Boggy700]

As for beginning your sentences with the, I think whoever recommended you change it knows little about writing. It doesn't matter what your opening sentence sounds like; it doesn't matter if the proceeding sentences start with "the" or "he" or "they"; it matters that you tell the story to your uttermost ability.
You're absolutely correct.

Although I want to make clear the fact that I wasn't suggesting that the opening sentence didn't sound good.
Rather, it didn't establish the atmosphere of the scene as I personally felt beffiting.
Also, beginning sentences with 'the', 'they' or 'he' is not a problem at all.
But I found that the frequency with which they were made it awkward to read.
(Kinda like that sentence. At least, I found it awkward to write.)
Of course, as Pro. A said, it's still in it's drafting stages.
And as I might have said (as I certainly should have,) it's not my place to impose my own ideas and techniques upon someone elses writing.

But I don't see how any of that has a direct impact on my limited knowledge of writing.
Especially since my comments were made from a purely personal point of view.
I don't claim to know anything about anything.
I know I know nothing.
I aknowledge my lack of knowledge.
Such is the small extent of my Socratic influence.


Anyway, I'm taking this thread WAY too seriously.
Or way too personally, I'm not sure.
I need to let it go.

[Pro A.]

This, my friends, is my biggest project ever. Nothing will top it. My war epic. An estimated 4,000-page colossus spread out over four or five books. The basic skinny: Marine Special Ops unit Force Recon gets caught in a war between West vs. East. U.S., the EU, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Japan against Iran, North Korea, and the PRC. A battle for the ages. Here's an early scene that gets the prologue to The New Apocalypse Part I: Underworld, rolling.

September 13, 2010
In lieu of the recent attacks, the U.S. Marines approached Colonel Scott Paulson, the Chief of Force Recon, to come up with a special unit that could respond to high-pressure situations. A special unit within a unit, they said. After some thought, Paulson agreed to the proposal and created a unit of six soldiers that he called the Red Devils. He assumed operational control of the unit. His XO, Lt. Colonel Ken Phillips, would give them the day-to-day assignments. The field unit would be run by Captain Jack Lusher, a long-time veteran of the elite Marine unit. He and the rest of the team would be trained in Black Ops, sabotage, and other forms of covert warfare. Since most of them were already trained on some level in these methods, it was a matter of getting them to work together as an actual unit. Within days, it didn’t take Paulson and Phillips long to realize that they had a real team on their hands. After two weeks of basic training, they were activated as an official unit within the military and given the go-ahead to take the call on any assignment that came their way that fit their specific needs.
After more than three weeks of idle activity, they got their first assignment, code-named White Cobra.

Scott Paulson walked into the briefing room, a small, cramped area that had a card table for a conference desk. The men, sitting in their metal foldout chairs and sipping their stale coffee, waited for their orders. Paulson, standing at an imposing six-foot-three, was taller than any man in the unit and his broad physique gave him an added dimension to shake the men down to their core. Of course, if that didn’t work, he could just watch them with his steel blue eyes, which were harder than ice, or so the story went. Paulson put the folder down on the makeshift podium, a riser that had been reworked and made a little taller with a box on the bottom. Paulson waited for everyone to stop talking before he started his briefing. Lusher, sitting at the head of the table, quieted everyone down, dropping his hand towards the floor. Ken Phillips, sitting in the chair next to the podium, watched as the observer. If needed, he would be adding to the briefing a little later on. Paulson cleared his throat and got down to the business at hand.
“We’ve got some new Intel that came in from Navy,” Paulson said.
“Not another goddamned false lead, is it?” Lusher said. “Can’t take another one of those.”
Paulson shook his head. “This is the real deal. Triple-checked.”
“Oh, triple-checked. How wonderful,” Jack said. He turned to his friend and XO, Captain Patrick Schifler. “I guess all of us can sleep a little better at night.”
Schifler nodded. “Only if we survive.”
“Damn right,” Paulson said. “Operation: White Cobra. You boys are gonna run point for the Marines on this job.”
“Shit,” Lusher said. “We gotta watch their asses now?”
“Yeah, you do gotta watch their asses. That’s why you’re Special Ops. You can watch your own and theirs at the same time.”
Jack shrugged. “What’s the target?”
“There’s a dam about twenty-five clicks from here, in the middle of the city. One of the major bridges that connects this city across the river,” he said. “It’s a major PRC base. They have dozens of troops and lots of tanks sitting on the top.”
“You expect us to blow it up?” Jack said.
“No,” he said. “I expect you to help seize the interior.”
“What’s in the interior?” Lieutenant Frank Oder said. He sat in the back, his feet on the table. He did his best to make the folding chair and the table his best friends. He had his legs on the table. Paulson snapped his fingers twice. His legs went down right away. Paulson’s legs snapped down to the floor.
“Missile silo,” he said.
“Missile silo? The fuck? How come we didn’t hear about this till now?” Lusher said.
“Because the PRC has been in operational control since the beginning, since 1970, when they built the fucking thing.”
“And now we’re supposed to get rid of it. They fucking nuclear?” Lusher said.
“No, we don’t believe so. The Intel we’ve intercepted doesn’t seem to say that.”
“Well, it probably says a lot of things,” Schifler said.
“Yes, it does, but we’ve deciphered it down to this,” Paulson said. “Your mission is to infiltrate the silo and stop the PRC from using this silo. We’ve pushed them down to a stalemate. If we get the dam, we might be able to break their hold on the city.”
Lusher nodded. It did make sense. They hadn’t seen combat, but the early stories said the same thing. The PRC had the numbers but not the talent. They were losing seven soldiers for every American that was killed. The initial body count had 344 Americans dead and more than 2,000 PRC dead. That didn’t count the wounded. The battles went on day and night. Soldiers passed out because the Benzedrine wouldn’t keep them functional any longer. Their bodies ended up crashing after about thirty-six hours of fighting.
The problem with killing Chinese soldiers was that the enemy almost looked at the situation as a good thing. They had severe overpopulation problems and a gender imbalance. Killing a couple hundred thousand was keeping things in check as far as they were concerned. That left them with an enemy that wouldn’t be demoralized by the body count. The American public, of course, would see things in a different light. If a hundred soldiers were killed tomorrow, there would be a massive protest on the streets. Just no winning these people over, no matter what you did.
Lusher said, “When do we start?”
“Now. Get your stuff and get to the helipad at hangar 3A. I want you guys out there and I want you in the field. I’ll give you details on your PDA’s.”
“You ain’t coming with us?” Lusher said.
“No. I’ll relay everything to you over the radio.”
“Equipment’s on the chopper, right?” Schifler said.
“Yes,” Paulson said, waving them towards the door. “Go, go. I gave you the fucking assignment, now get your asses out the door and fight for this fucking country like you fuckin’ mean it!”
The troops, acting like they had just been hit with a shock of voltage, got up and raced for the door, grabbing their equipment off the table and heading down towards the armory. Paulson followed them with Ken on his six. Ken asked him if they had the uplinks all set to go. Paulson nodded, following that with a grunt that served as another affirmation of what both of them knew to begin with. Paulson watched them grab their weapons and gadgets from their foot lockers. They moved like machines, every one of them. Routine had been ingrained into their minds. It became part of their movements and part of their reactions. They had been in the military long enough to know how the game worked. Even the young ones, who had only been around a year or so, had everything down pat. They could have with such precision time and time again that a drill sergeant would punish them for showing him up and making him look like a fool. That was the sort of thing that couldn’t be taught in the military, no matter how hard they drilled.
When they finished grabbing their equipment, they filed out of the base through the security checkpoints and towards the airfield on the opposite side. During the first week of fighting, the U.S. and British forces managed to get their hands on a U.K. base that had been turned into a Chinese Army base. It didn’t have all of the facilities they needed, but for a command base it would do just fine. The Chinese had made a couple of passes on the compound with their MIG jets, but none of the attacks amounted to much. The F117 and F18 jets were always in the air, ready to shoot the targets down at the first signal.
“Good luck, men,” he said, saluting them as they went down the runway. They stopped and returned the salute to their CO before heading for the Black Hawk UH60 waiting for them. The sleek, black helicopter was armed with missiles, twin machine guns, and cluster bombs in case things got ugly for them on the ground. Paulson didn’t anticipate any severe problems on their first assignment, even if the job was a precarious one. They had been in far worse than this and come off just fine.
Still, Paulson felt a twinge of nervous energy tear through him. This was the Devils’ first assignment. He had some pressure coming from the Joint Chiefs’ and the other Marine Commanders, wondering if another special unit was worth their time. Paulson had insisted repeatedly that it was, but the success rate of the missions ultimately defined their fate.

[Pro A.]

This is merely the prelude to the main event. Most of them have to be detached anyways. Paulson, in particular, is practically an assassin working as an officer. All these soldiers have seen combat on some level. I guarantee you, these boys are going to suffer big-time when I'm through dragging them into the mud. Not for exploitation purposes, but you get my drift. And I have read parts of War and Peace. Should probably finish the damn thing, but I see what you're saying.

[Pro A.]

The first part of the war epic is completed, clocking in at 541 pages. It was an exhausting endeavor and as usual, I reward myself by jumping head-first into the deep end once again. This time, I've returned to the familiar haunt of the spy novel and touching on a central theme: Loyalty, the one thing that doesn't exist in this world of espionage. This will be explored in a novel where an NSA agent investigating a powerful North African terrorist and two CIA operatives in Munich investigating the aftermath of a potential bust that went badly. Here's a brief snippet from the opener.

Northern Nigeria

Spying is often considered a lonely profession. Dissociation to all life is the rule, instead of the exception. Kurt Newman kept this in mind as he sat on his stomach in the mud, with the rain failing down on his head from above. He could feel the warm raindrops beat up against the sides of his face. His attention didn’t waver. His mind remained sharp. His focus was on the target up ahead. He could see them. His binoculars, equipped with night-vision, gave him a perfect vision of what was ahead. They couldn’t see him. They would need the perception of a jungle cat to spot him from his current position in the jungle.

In spite of this, Kurt kept his movements to a minimum. He hadn’t eaten or drank anything in the last six hours. His mouth felt quite dry and he could hear his stomach growl. He only had a little bit of the ration pack left. Kurt hadn’t anticipated that he’d be here this long. Circumstances had changed matters. Instead of being here four hours, he had been here closer to eighteen. Each minute ticked away at a sluggish pace. It was like watching a snail cross the floor. Kurt had become immune to the effects of time after eight hours. He checked his watch when it felt like an eternity had slipped by. It was usually only an hour.

Kurt reached into his pocket and grabbed a small chunk of the ration bar. He nibbled on it with his incisors. His body felt a rush of energy from the food that entered his system. He made sure to keep these emotions to a minimum. Kurt knew he could deal with those emotions when he wasn’t in the field any longer. Still had the job to do. People had to be eliminated and brought to their knees before he could return from the cold. When he finished swallowing, he felt a hard jabbing pain in the core of his stomach. His body, deprived of food for so long, screamed out at the abuse inflicted upon it. Kurt winced through the pain for a couple of minutes and then returned to his position.

He raised the binoculars and watched the enemy sentries continue their patrols for yet another round. Kurt had seen the same man for the last five hours work in the same circle. His movements, precise and languid, seemed almost robotic in their precision. There didn’t appear to be any emotions on his face, near as he could tell. He made periodic reports over the radio to his superior. He’d listen for a couple of seconds and then continue with the same round. Talk about a mind-numbing job, he thought. This had to be the fucking pits, doing the same circle for hours on end. For what, exactly? He still didn’t understand what these people hoped to accomplish. His boss, Alan Ricks, the head of the NSA Black Ops division, said they were trying to bring Nigeria back to military rule. Down with the corrupt, inefficient, and lazy democracy, they said. These revolutionaries—most of whom were ex-military and Special Forces—promised to bring more efficiency to the populous nation. Kurt thought that was amusing. Now they promised these things when they weren’t in power. Small wonder they got booted in the first place. They made their declarations after the fact and never before.

They had become quite a nuisance to the government, however. The Nigerians had dealt with a series of bombings against the police, the military, and even civilians. One of the most recent attacks was a car bomb placed outside a public mall. Thirteen were killed and a hundred were wounded by the attack. Kurt bet that damaged their message just a little bit. If they wanted to inflict change on the people, than maybe killing the people wasn’t the best avenue.

The NSA and the U.S. government denounced the actions, but did nothing to stop them. Their denunciations had little impact and the terrorists continued their policies anyways. If anything, their attacks only got more violent. Their wave of violence might have gone unchallenged with one exception: A recent terrorist attack claimed the life of a U.S. diplomat. Once that happened, the terrorists had just made themselves an enemy they could not afford to fight. With support from the government and the African Union, the NSA decided to help put these bastards out of business for good. Newman would be the tip of the sword that they would use to inflict their wrath. Newman thought the timing was more than a little curious and it said a lot about their foreign policy. He wasn’t complaining, however, about being asked to be their eyes and ears on the ground. His job was to verify the terrorist leader being at the camp. The reason he had been here for this long was because he hadn’t spotted him yet. His awkward position didn’t help, but neither did the sorry weather. On more than one occasion, Kurt had considered moving in and accomplishing his mission the hard way. No way, Ricks said. No need to put himself in unnecessary danger. Just wait, he said. Kiwale Adaje, the leader, had to show his face sooner or later. Once they got a positive ID, the African Union would swoop in with the Nigerian troops and clear out the fucking vermin.

Kurt tapped his earpiece and said, “Eighteen hours elapsed. No sighting.”

“Copy,” Ricks said from his post in Fort Meade. “How you holding up?”

“I hate the jungle.”

“I know. You have a slight phobia with snakes, right?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Any cross your path?”

“No,” Kurt said. “I’m sure there are a few nearby. They’re just leaving me alone right now.”

“Right, well, you know what to do if anything happens.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kurt said, cutting the line on his radio. God, he thought, if I had known it’d be this boring I’d have brought my iPod with me to kill some of this time. He continued holding his ground for another forty-five minutes, stopping on occasion to stretch his legs. He got into a crouched position quarter past every hour to allow his stomach muscles a chance to breathe. They cried out in pain, unappreciative of the abuse they had been forced into. Kurt lowered his body back onto the ground and continued his rounds. He reached for his small canteen and took a small sip of water to keep his tongue lubricated.

That’s exactly where he was. In the wilderness. The nearest sign of any friend was a very long ways away. Safety and security were nowhere to be found. Ricks had told him once that this was spying. Right now, he had a difficult time disagreeing with that.

[Pro A.]

More story material from the current book, and the above post was edited.

Iyad Dabaya had been to many of these assignments before. They were quick, cut-and-dry type of missions that didn’t require anything special. It was nothing more than a transaction between two groups. Dabaya’s people had the guns and Adaje’s people wanted them. They were willing to pay top dollar for this kind of merch. Dabaya supposed they would. Considering their reputation, Dabaya knew he could demand top dollar for just about anything. He went into this meeting with that thought sitting in the back of his calculating, shrewd brain. A price had already been agreed on, but there was no reason they couldn’t squeeze these people. A couple hundred thousand extra might be just enough to let them know who was in charge. Dabaya hadn’t decided whether he was going to do that.
Sitting across from him on the sofa was Kiwale Adaje. He looked relaxed, almost reposed to the rest of the world. His eyes were fixed on Dabaya’s expression, looking for any signs of what he might do or say. Adaje knew better than to accept their word. Until he had the product in his hands, anything could happen. Didn’t matter if they had a very good reputation throughout the region. An exception to the rule was never far behind in his opinion. Adaje lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs, letting the nicotine work its seductive magic as it brought his brain back to full alert. His synapses jumped to attention and he was ready to go.
“Fifteen minutes late,” Adaje said, glancing at his watch.
“Bad terrain. I apologize for the delay.”
“No worries. I hope our directions were adequate.”
“Very much so. Your knowledge of this terrain is excellent. My compliments,” Dabaya said.
“Would you like a drink before we begin?”
Dabaya nodded. “Sure. What do you have?”
“Cheap American beer. Miller Lite, I think, and some Coors.”
He winced at the thought of drinking that despicable poison. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“As you wish.” He turned to his bodyguard and ordered him to bring a Coors. The bodyguard saluted and went out through the side exit to grab him his drink. “Our setup might not be as advanced as yours, but we are quire comfortable in our environment, just like you, I’m sure,” he said.
“Yes, we seem to get by all right,” Dabaya said. He didn’t want to get side tracked. Focus, he told himself. Don’t let Adaje think he can sweet-talk his way into paying something lower. He agreed into the initial price. It was Dabaya’s job and his intention to make sure he paid at least the minimum, if not more. Dabaya watched Adaje. Adaje watched Dabaya. Dabaya said, “You want to take a look at some of the merch before we begin?”
“Three samples. My men will pick which ones. Security purposes…”
“Of course,” Dabaya cut him off and gestured to his men. “Open the front crate.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead soldier said. He reached into his cloth and pulled out a set of keys from his sheath for the padlock. He walked outside and opened the crate in the lead truck. He made sure the canopy protecting the top was secure before reaching inside to make sure the guns were dry. Two of Adaje’s men jumped front and center. They went inside and picked the weapons at random. They went back to the tent. Adaje got up from his groove and walked towards the discarded pool table. His associates put the automatic weapons down and allowed Adaje to begin his inspection. He spent a minute each going through the weapons, making sure the essentials worked. When he was satisfied, he handed the guns back to Dabaya’s men and they returned the rifles back to their berths inside the crate.
Dabaya turned to Adaje. “The current price is 400, as you know. However…”
“Here we go…”
“Due to recent… inflation on the Russian market, I feel obliged to raise the price slightly.”
“Yeah, I bet you do,” Adaje said, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits. He folded his arms across his chest. The intensity thickened like a blanket covering the landscape.
“Because of this inflation, we wouldn’t be getting fair market value for these weapons.”
“Yes, yes, yes. What’s the new asking price?”
“550.”
“Absolutely not,” Adaje said. “For these weapons? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You’re in no position to refuse,” Dabaya said. “You need the guns a lot more than we need the money.”
“If you don’t need the money that badly,” Adaje said, “you might be a little more… inclined to reduce the price.”
“These are high-tech American weapons. You think we’re going to roll over on these? You got another thing comin’ if you think that’s what we’re gonna do.”
“Well, I can get my weapons from someone else, you know, for a slight fraction of what you’re offering.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you’re going to get the same reliability. You know my boss. You know his principles. He doesn’t rip his clients off. He knows better than to commit virtual suicide.”
“Yes, and he also knows when to kiss ass to religion, which he apparently does quite often.”
“Nature of the beast. 525.”
Adaje snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. These weapons aren’t worth a small fortune.”
“For a fledgling group, however, they will provide plenty of needed bulk. Most of your weapons these days are third-generation knock-offs that most people would be embarrassed to have in their possession.”
“You make it sound like they’re decadent.”
“They are decadent. The Russian Army, which is a cosmic joke, doesn’t have technology this bad.”
“450,” Adaje said.
He laughed at the offer. “Please… you really think I’m going to stoop to that? You have no bargaining power.”
“Then why’d you drop twenty-five?”
“Because I’m trying to get you to see the light, but you’re too blind to see it for yourself.”
“475,” Adaje said, trying to tack a little extra without feeling like his dignity had been thrown out the window. Too late, he thought. Looks like I’ve already sacrificed that much.
“I’m not budging. You have a minute to accept 525 or I’m leaving.”
“You’re gonna throw away that much money?”
Dabaya chuckled. “What makes you think I need the money, or my boss? We’ve got plenty to go around. You’re just a business transaction to us. What you do with our merch is just a side benefit.”
Adaje looked at Dabaya. His eyes showed he was dead serious. He looked at his advisors. They looked relenting. They wanted him to just get the deal over with. There wasn’t anything they could do. Dabaya had the bargaining power in his hands. They didn’t have anything on their side. It was a no-win situation. They were boxed in the corner. At least they’d get reliable technology for the next several months. This would be enough firepower to make serious advances in their campaign against the enemy. That was plenty considering the price. They’d get their money’s worth at 525, more than likely.
“All right, all right. 525.”
“Good,” he said. “Glad we could work this out. Wire the money to the account and we’ll be done.”
Adaje nodded. He looked beaten and depressed. His eyes sunk towards the ground. He felt deflated, like someone had let the air out of his balloon. He went over to his laptop and logged in to his bank account. He got the money amount punched in. He turned to Dabaya. Dabaya pulled out a small piece of paper and punched in his number along with the password. He hit the enter key. A small scroll appeared onscreen for a couple of seconds. An icon appeared, confirming the transaction. Dabaya reached into his pocket and called the group’s contact in Europe. He answered.
“This is Dabaya. Confirm a recent wire transfer of $525,000 U.S. to our numbered account.”
“Just a sec… yeah, I got it. $525,000, sir.”
“Good, thank you.” He flipped the phone shut. “We’ll unload the weapons for you and we’ll be on our way.”
Adaje felt humiliated and relieved at the same time; humiliated for being pushed around at the negotiating table, but relieved they had managed to get weapons they badly needed to continue their campaign against the government.
“Thank you,” Adaje said, reluctantly sticking out his hand. Dabaya, being a good sport, reached out and shook his hand and they completed their business deal.
“The pleasure was all mine. I wish you luck in your endeavor.”
“Yeah,” Adaje said. Dabaya walked away and barked to his men, telling them to get the crates off the trucks. They needed to be home before dusk tomorrow. The boss had other plans and deals to make. This was really just a small side-trip compared to the big schemes and ambitions they had intended for their future.