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I didn’t want to write this.

Not because my last flight in the F/A-18 was bad or I was embarrassed by it, but simply because I knew that writing a blog post would serve as an acknowledgment that things have changed.

Whether it’s voluntary or we’re dragged kicking and screaming, change isn’t always easy. It’s scary. It’s sad. But sometimes, it’s simply necessary.

Just over a year ago, I thought I would never get the opportunity to fly again period, much less be afforded the opportunity of a final flight in a fighter. I had just been diagnosed with Polycystic Kidney Disease, and . That was a long seven months.

But with a little patience, perseverance, and a lot of luck, I was able to . I felt like I had dodged a bullet, and in the sixty flight hours that followed, I felt like I was on borrowed time, trying to make the most out of the second chance I had been given.

The relief, however, was short-lived. Despite receiving a full-up clearance by the Naval Aviation Medical Institute, the non-flying bureaucrats in other parts of the Navy Reserve independently determined that, although requiring no treatment or medicine, and remaining asymptomatic, my condition prevented me from deploying outside of the Continental U.S. And because I couldn’t deploy, I could no longer participate in a squadron that had the off chance of deploying.

I had until the end of the fiscal year (Sept 30th) to figure it out, at which time I would be moved to the Inactive Ready Reserve if I didn’t seek out another billet. Despite no clear avenue of appeal, I tried anyway. My condition was discovered only by chance, I argued. NAMI had cleared me to go back flying and there was no reason I couldn’t fly in combat��in the unlikely event our 1986-era birds were needed �� although, let’s be honest, it would take a Will-Smith-Fighting-Aliens level event for those birds to ever see combat again.

Welcome to Earth!

Once more, I tried to . Only this time, I just ran out of time.

My last flight was September 29th. As last flights went, it was awesome.

I briefed with my wingman, callsign Simple Jack, just before 8 AM on a beautiful fall morning. A front had just rolled through, and the forecast called for clear skies, unlimited visibility and light winds. We were scheduled to each take two live MK-83 1000 lb bombs to the live range near Fort Polk, LA (REDLEG).

“This is it,�� I said with a nervous sigh as we walked into the briefing room. I had , only then I knew I was transitioning from one capable, badass fighter to another. This time was different. This time I knew I would likely never strap into a fighter cockpit again. It was a tough pill to swallow.

I briefed the flight as I had done hundreds of times before. The plan was to fly up to REDLEG, check in with the callsign BLACKCAT 20, and drop our MK-83s. Then we’d do a quick set of Basic Fighter Maneuvers (BFM) training (dogfighting), come back via the Northshore return, and land. My friends from the Sheriff’s Office that I volunteer with planned to meet me as I landed to celebrate my last flight.

“Questions?�� I asked as I finished going through the plan.

“Nope,�� SJ said quickly.

“Alright,�� I replied. “Last flight �� as long as we drop our bombs on the right target, don’t get violated by ATC, or run into each other, I’ll consider it a success.��

“Sounds good to me,�� SJ laughed.

We went downstairs to put on our flight gear. I won’t miss having to step into the harness or wearing the 40 lbs worth of flight gear. I’ll never understand the Navy’s approach to flight gear. Two $5 buckles from Home Depot would fix everything �� no waddling to the jet or fighting with a twisted harness as you step in and out. But I digress.

“Have a good flight, sir,�� the Petty Officer working in flight equipment said as I walked out.

We walked down the hall to Maintenance Control where I flipped through the aircraft’s maintenance logs. I had to laugh as the annoying OOMA program warned that my password would be expiring in six days and pushed me to change it. “Nope!�� I said as I clicked through and signed out the jet.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,�� I said to the sailors in maintenance control before SJ and I walked outside to the pickup waiting to take us to our jets. They were parked in the CALA, an area on the other side of the field designated for jets with live ordnance.

��The truck dropped us off in front of our aircraft. I exchanged a salute with my plane captain and began my walk around. One of the maintainers asked me if it was really my last flight in the Hornet.

“Yes,�� I said.

“We’re sorry to see you go, sir,�� he replied.

With the walk around complete, I strapped into the airplane and started up. The sentimental nature of the flight was temporarily pushed aside as I went through the startup checklist for a final time. That’s the funny thing about being a fighter pilot �� once you get busy doing the mission, it’s easy to compartmentalize everything else and focus on the task at hand.

That was, at least, until I taxied out. Like the true professionals I had known them to be for the four years I had spent in the squadron, the sailors working the flight line made my last flight something special.

As I saluted my plane captain for the final time, I looked forward out the canopy to see everyone standing in formation just off to the left. They saluted in unison as I taxied by. Wow. ��Right in the feels. Is someone chopping onions in here?

I returned their salute as I choked back tears. Such a simple gesture but it meant so much to me. It was a sign of mutual respect, something I could never begin to repay. A class act all the way.

After a lengthy delay waiting for the 8-ship of Eagles to return and finish their patterns, we took off and headed northwest toward Fort Polk. It was a beautiful day, and I enjoyed taking in the scenery as we made our transit to the area.

I had flown a similar route hundreds of times before in my Glasair I RG in college, but much slower and lower. We flew over Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River and then crossed Opelousas where I first learned to fly before entering the Warrior Military Operations Area airspace.

Flying over New Orleans on the way to the range.

Once checked into the airspace, I coordinated the frequencies we’d be using to give us advisories of civilian traffic on our way home, and then switched to BLACKCAT to check in.

After a quick authentication, I gave the Joint Terminal Attack Controller the “�� brief. We were two F/A-18s with four thousand pounds of hate and just under twenty minutes of playtime (due to fuel constraints for the alternate mission after). BLACKCAT 20 copied the brief and then replied with his own situation update.

I copied down the targeting information in the standard 9-Line format, and we went to work. We did a clearing pass over the live range to ensure no people or animals had wandered into the impact area, and then spun back around to set up for our attacks.

On the second lap around the orbit over the target, I rolled in, finding the 30-degree “wire�� as the jet hurtled toward the ground. “River 11 in.��

“Cleared hot!�� came the reply.

I centered the steering cue and refined the diamond on the cratered impact area. I watched the release cue tick down as I heard the altitude warning go off, indicating I had reached the planned release altitude. I pressed the pickle button and felt the jet rock as the two 1000 lb bombs fell from the jet.

“Off safe, two away,�� I called, as I started a 5-G climbing safe escape maneuver to ensure the jet wouldn’t get fragged.

Looking over my shoulder as I climbed away, I watched the two bombs seemingly fly in formation toward the target. They impacted with a brilliant explosion right on target. “Boom!�� I yelled.

“Good hits!�� the JTAC called.

“River 12 contact lead’s hits,�� SJ called out from his jet, indicating he had seen the impacts.

I reached up and flipped the MASTER ARM switch to Safe as I re-entered the orbit over the target and watched SJ drop his bombs. He also shacked the target.

Smoke from the bomb impacts at Redleg

After confirming we were both switches safe and had no more bombs, the JTAC asked for a show of force over their position. We rejoined into a tac-wing formation and descended toward the JTAC’s observation point, simulating that we were flying over a group of bad guys to let them know we were overhead and ready to make it rain if they kept doing terrorist things.

We flew above the treetops at just over 500�� and 550kts, then made a climbing left turn as we flew past the observation tower. With no more playtime, the JTAC declared the mission a success and gave us a simulated debrief. I thanked him for his help and working with me on my last flight. ��Then we checked out, heading southeast toward home.

Once clear of the range, we set up for our BFM set. We each only had around a thousand pounds of fuel to play with before BINGO, but I wanted to do it anyway just to say I had one more chance to bend the jet around before hanging it up.

We climbed up to 12,000 ft, 350 kts, and a mile and a half abeam. When we were both set, I called ��3��2��1�� fight’s on!�� and we turned toward each other and started fighting.��

We made it through just over two and a half merges before having to knock it off, but it was fun. I always loved BFM, and the quick set was just what I needed to say goodbye to the awesome handling characteristics of the Hornet.

We knocked it off and headed back home, cancelling our flight plan and proceeding VFR. We flew east over Baton Rouge and then to Covington, turning right over the Sheriff’s Office Law Enforcement Center where I spend a lot of time volunteering. I just wanted to say hi one more time. I would often fly over on my way back from missions and land to a flurry of text messages asking, “Was that you?��

Well, for the last time, it was me.

Heading south, we dropped down to 500�� and each took a side of the Causeway Bridge back toward the city. The skyline of New Orleans was clearly visible off in the distance. I sure did love flying over my home city.

As we cleared the Causeway, SJ rejoined into a closer, “Cruise formation�� and we did a lap around downtown for the “City tour.��

I grew up watching the Saints. I went to Tulane. Flying over the Superdome in a fighter was a dream come true for me. It was awesome to be able to take a two-ship over the Dome one more time before heading back to base.

After radioing back to base that we were on our way home, we flew to the initial for the carrier break. I was hoping all of my friends would be out waiting for us to watch my last few laps around the pattern.

Coming in for the fan break

SJ did a great job hanging on as I made the turn toward initial and lined up down the runway. We descended to 800�� for the carrier break. As we passed mid-field, I gave him the signal to follow and I made the turn to downwind.

I did a touch and go while SJ did a full-stop behind me. After takeoff, I raised the gear and headed back to the initial for one more carrier break, this time solo.

I came back around, knowing it was my last time, dreading the inevitable as I watched the fuel tick down. I made a 7.2G break and called for the full stop as Tower asked for my intentions.

But as the controller cleared me to land, I just couldn’t let go. “Just one more,�� I said, dropping all etiquette. “I’ll be closed full stop after.��

“River 11 roger cleared low approach.��

I came around for the low approach and then raised the gear, climbing to downwind as I raised the nose.

Last pattern in the Hornet

“River 11 Closed Full stop,�� I said as the “FUEL LO�� caution sounded. I had run out of quarters. The ride was over.

The controller cleared me to land. My hands were trembling ever so slightly as I landed and cleared the runway. I didn’t expect the ride to be over so soon. It had been a challenging but fun four years.

I taxied in and shut down. My friends…my family in blue�� met me at the jet and hosed me down. I shook everyone’s hand as I tried to hide the sadness of it all. Having my brothers and sisters in blue there made it so much easier. I wore a thin blue line American flag on my shoulder to honor them.

But there was still something missing. You see, I had originally transferred to the squadron to be closer to my family. My dad, brother, and stepmother were in Louisiana, and I wanted to be closer to them after being gone for so long.

Just eighteen short months after moving back to New Orleans, and only a year into my time with my new squadron, . It was the worst day of my life, and it cast a shadow over the rest of my time with the squadron.

I had been lucky in my career to be able to fly F-16s and F/A-18s to airports near him to see him, and I know he would have been there. I will never stop missing that man.

We took pictures and walked back in, leaving behind four years of flying the Hornet and 10 years of flying fighters.

The Way Forward

��

It’s unlikely that I’ll ever get another chance to fly a fighter that can kill people and break their things again, but that doesn’t mean the story ends there.

I’m in the middle of an inter-service transfer back to the Air Force Reserve, this time to fly T-38A Adversary Air for the F-22. The squadron also helps groom young aviators selected for the F-22 to give them more airmanship before flying the 5th Gen fighter.

The mission is important and the guys in the squadron are awesome. Yes, I’m sad that my time as a trigger-puller on the pointy end of the spear is coming to an end, but flying a jet built in the 60s without a HUD or any avionics will make me a better pilot and pose its own challenges to a HUD-baby like me.

And while the transfer works itself out, I’ll also be training on heavier iron. Last month, I received a conditional job offer with a Legacy Airline. So when I’m not harassing Raptors at the merge, I’ll be turning on the fasten seatbelt light and flying people all over the world.

It’s a change that will hopefully give me plenty of time to write. I might be done, but Spectre is far from it!

We had been warned all week about a historic rainfall event heading our way, but it wasn’t until I was sitting in the studio of WWL-TV, , that I realized how bad it was truly going to be. I watched as the weather updates scrolled across a nearby screen warning of torrential downpours, flash floods, and the potential for more flooding even after the rain event ended.

The rain had held off so far, one of the production assistants told me, but later that night, we’d be in for a wild ride. I drove home that Thursday morning under high winds and overcast skies. The system had yet to arrive �� it was still pummeling northern Louisiana.

That night and early into Friday morning, the rains arrived. It was almost like a hurricane. I could hear the rain pelting my windows and walls. I wondered if I’d wake up to water at my doorstep.

The storms raged off and on all night. When I woke up, to my relief, the neighborhood had handled the water well. There was still a steady rain, but the heavy stuff seemed over. Crisis averted, I thought.

I was preparing for my the next day when I got the phone call. The sergeant over Criminal Patrol in the Reserve Division of the Sheriff’s Office said that the areas to the north �� Covington, Folsom, etc. �� were experiencing heavy flooding. They needed all available manpower.

I turned on the news to see the extent of the flooding. All of the water that had been dumped on north Louisiana was heading to Southeast Louisiana. Rivers were at historic flood stages and dumping into nearby roads and subdivisions. The water was rising and it was going to get worse.

I arrived at the Law Enforcement Center just after five PM. The mood was serious. Deputies and first responders were returning after being out in the weather and flood waters all day. Full time and Reserve deputies were starting to show up. Everyone was focused on the mission at hand. There were nearly two hundred calls for rescues ongoing. People needed help. I suddenly had a front row seat to watch real heroes at work.

As others started showing up, assignments were handed out. Some went out to do rescues in boats. Others went out to do traffic control where roads had been shut down. And then they pulled out the heavy equipment.

Sheriff Dept High Water Vehicle

Military vehicles –�� five ton troop transports and Humvees �� would be critical in saving lives because they could go places patrol vehicles couldn’t get near. They were the backbone of our rescue operation.

My first assignment of the evening was a supply run. Using an F350 dually, another deputy and I had to go to the Red Cross, pick up cots, medical supplies, and food, and deliver them to Folsom, Louisiana. Normally, that would’ve been a thirty minute drive, but with the flooded roads and heavy traffic, it took much longer.

Sheriff Dept F350 Dually Carrying Supplies for the Folsom Shelter

Along the way, I saw more examples of heroics. In some of the neighborhoods we passed, police and fire were out braving the elements, getting people to safety. Some were busy pushing disabled vehicles out of the way to clear the road for first responders, something we appreciated.

It took us two hours, crossing flooded roadways and maneuvering through traffic to get to the shelter in Folsom. I saw more shining examples of humanity �� volunteers who were working at the shelter, helping to set up cots and comforting the victims of the horrible flooding. It was inspiring.

The flooding grew worse as we made our way back to the LEC. When we arrived, water was now rushing into the parking lot. In the course of two hours, it had gone from completely dry to two feet of water and climbing.

Covington Law Enforcement Center

Again, I watched the heroes at work. They never wavered or faltered. The command center had to be abandoned, but contingency plans were enacted. We moved all of the equipment and vehicles to a nearby secondary location on higher ground. The show had to go on. People who had been out there all day just wanted to go out and help more people. Reserve deputies who get paid nothing left their paying jobs to answer the call and serve their hurting community.

When the secondary command center was set up, my partner and I were given our next assignment. We were given a Humvee, told to fuel it up, get on the radio, and start listening to calls for rescues.

Sheriff Dept Humvee used for high water rescues

It was chaos everywhere. The waters rushing from the north were swelling the nearby rivers, draining south toward the Gulf. There was a clear line of neighborhoods and houses directly in the flood’s path. The five ton trucks went where no other vehicles could, sometimes being pushed to the limit to save people. The answered the call with little regard for their own safety.

Our first call was preempted by one of those five ton trucks. A vehicle had gotten trapped in the rapidly rising water. We arrived on scene just behind it, as deputies were helping the women out of their truck. It was completely dark out. The power had gone out early on, and there was no moon. The water had gotten so deep that it was hard to tell what was road and what wasn’t.

We rerouted to the second call. Routes had to be discussed and planned, as many bridges and roads were completely washed away or unpassable. It was a slow, methodical journey to our first pickup.

Entering our first flooded neighborhood

Upon arrival at the neighborhood, we ran into other first responders. Firefighters were already on scene, going door to door in the nearly four foot waters, knocking on houses to see if people were ok.

We slowly maneuvered our way through the deep waters, following one of the responders as he walked the path in front of us to ensure we stayed on solid ground. He led us to the back of the neighborhood, where an elderly couple and family were trapped by the waters.

The firefighters slogged through the water, carrying people, animals and bags while helping people into the back of the Humvee. The water was rising and flooding in the neighborhoods was getting worse. I heard more calls for rescues on the radio.

We picked up eight people and secured them in the back before making our way back out of the neighborhood. In some cases, the only way to tell that we were still on the road was to stay between the mailboxes which were barely sticking up above the water.

We maneuvered through the traffic and closed roads as we brought the people to the nearest shelter. When we arrived, I saw more volunteers trying to comfort the devastated families. People who had lost everything except for what they could carry were sitting about, not sure what would happen next.

We cleared the scene and headed back to the same neighborhood. As we headed that way, we heard that a boat with first responders had flipped and three deputies were in the water. I listened on the edge of my seat as a rescue was coordinated. I breathed a sigh of relief when they were all accounted for.

More of the neighborhood was under water when we returned. The first call was for an elderly couple that had gotten trapped in a vehicle while trying to escape. When we arrived, the vehicle was empty and blocking the roadway. We walked the rest of the way on foot until meeting up with the same firefighters as before.

Moving slowly through a flooded neighborhood

They were still busy going house to house. My partner made contact with the elderly couple �� both in their nineties –as I discussed things with the firefighter. He had an additional ten people that needed help. The Humvee would be loaded out as much as we could.

As my partner went to another nearby address, I started to help the elderly couple. The walk to where we’d left the Humvee was too far. We had to get their vehicle out of the way. Luckily, it still started and I was able to move it off to the side.

By the time I moved the Humvee back to their location, the firefighter had returned with another elderly woman. We helped the three into the back as best we could and then set off for another family farther down the street. They had an infant and small children and needed to evacuate.

I followed the firefighter as we made our way down the street. I tested the limits of the Humvee as I watched the water rise from his knee level to waist level. By the time we made it to the house, water was spilling over the high door sills of the Humvee into the cab.

We loaded everyone up. By the time it was all done, we had eleven people and two dogs total. They crammed onto the small benches as best they could, leaving everything behind.

I headed back out of that street and linked up with my partner. Fire and rescue showed up with another high water vehicle to rescue the people he had gone to help. We headed back to the shelter.

It was nearly 1 AM by the time we dropped everyone off at the shelter and made it back to the new command center. I talked to the crew that had flipped in the rescue boat. They were ok, but the dog that had caused it by jumping off during the rescue hadn’t made it. The deputies were all ready and willing to go back out there, but the supervisor erred on the side of caution and told them to go home.

Knowing I had an event the next day, the supervisor also cleared me off to go home. He had enough people and the rescues had slowed down for a bit. I went home to get some sleep.

My partner stayed out for several more hours, and then came back later on Saturday, working all day.

As I got through my first book signing on Saturday, I received another text requesting to come back out and help. As before, I arrived at 5 PM.

When I arrived at the command center on day two, the scene was much like before. The mood was serious and people were determined. The ones that were just showing up were ready to go out and make a difference. The ones that were just getting off reluctantly went home.

My new partner and I went to help with a neighborhood in a different part of the parish. The water in the neighborhood was too deep for a Humvee, so the fleet of five-ton trucks ran constantly back and forth delivering people to safety. It was an impressive display, but also very sad to watch families clinging to what was left of their possessions as they were shuttled off to shelters.

The rescue efforts went on for most of the night. We patrolled nearby neighborhoods in the Humvee, looking for any people that needed help as the water headed that way. By 10 PM, the rescue was complete. First responders had gone door to door to check on each house.

We went back to the Command Center as a convoy. By 11 PM, we were released. “Be ready for the east side of the parish Sunday and Monday,�� they told us, “we’re expecting historic flooding there too.�� Everyone nodded.

Six more deputies were called out on Sunday to patrol the eastern half of the parish, standing by for rescues as the flood waters approached. They worked throughout the night, patrolling neighborhoods as reports came in that the Pearl River would reach historic levels.

On Monday, I received another phone call. Flooding was expected in more populated areas like Slidell. It was time to go back to work.

I arrived at the Slidell Law Enforcement Center around 5:30 PM. People were tired. Some of the full timers had been working with few breaks since Friday. My partner Friday night, a fellow Reserve Deputy, had worked nearly thirty hours over the weekend and was back for more. No one complained. No one wondered when it would be over. Everyone just wanted to help.

My partner from Saturday night and I went back out in a Humvee. There were no active calls for rescues, but we patrolled neighborhoods with water just in case. We stopped and chatted with residents that had been living in the area for decades. They had seen flooding like this before, but were hopeful it wasn’t as bad as reports suggested. They were thankful that we were out and being proactive.

My partner talking to a Pearl River resident about the flood waters on her property

Later in the night, the floodwaters moved farther south. We relocated to Slidell and began patrolling the subdivisions along with another unit. The water was much higher and still rising. Kids were driving around sightseeing in big trucks and ATVs. We were called out to ask them to leave.

Following another unit through Indian Village subdivision

After a couple more hours of patrolling, my partner and I headed back to the LEC. The National Guard was staged in numerous locations, ready to assist with evacuations. Units stayed around the clock in shifts to assist people who needed help evacuating. Luckily, the flooding wasn’t nearly as rapid and unexpected as what we saw in Covington on Friday and Saturday nights.

Driving through flooding in Indian Village

That’s not to say that the threat is over. As of this writing, the water is still rising and many homes could still be at risk. I have no doubt that the brave men and women who’ve been at work for the last several days will continue to answer the call, because that’s just what they do.

I had the unique honor to see that call answered firsthand, and it’s important to bring to light what first responders and law enforcement have done for their community. And equally important are the firefighters and EMS who have also been working around the clock. There’s so much tension and “cop hating�� going on, but times like these show that we are one community, and the men and women who wear the badge are committed to serving.

It was an honor and a privilege to work alongside these types of people that run toward danger. Although this natural disaster is a horrific tragedy that has affected so many lives, the response from the community and people going out there to help, really restores one’s faith in humanity. To see people come together, regardless of their role, to give and aid comfort to those who need it most, is just inspiring.

Every single one of them is a hero, and none of them wear capes.

Available March 12, 2016

��

We’re just ten short days away from the release of . We’ve watched Spectre peel back the layers of the conspiracy, promising to unravel one man’s organization brick by brick and bury him in the rubble. Now it’s time to see how it all ends.�� SPOILER ALERT �� if you haven’t read the other books, turn back now! This book picks up where left off.

Here’s a preview of the fifth book in the Spectre Series.�� I hope you’ll enjoy it, and if you’re in the New Orleans area on March 12, 2016, join me at Barnes and Noble in Mandeville for a special book signing and book launch celebration!

��

Prologue

Tallahassee Federal Detention Facility

0945 Local Time

��

��

He had been here before. The pain and depression of losing loved ones. The first time was when he lost his parents. They had died in a horrific car crash. He was barely a teenager then. It all seemed so distant now.

And then he had lost his fiancée, Chloe Moss. She had dumped him beforehand, but the pain was still immense. He had been told she had crashed in an F-16, but the lack of wreckage and debris caused him to seek answers, eventually leading to the discovery that she had defected to an abandoned airfield in Cuba. She had died in a hospital after the recovery efforts, but the pain remained. It was as if a small piece of him had gone missing. His friends had gotten him through it. Friends like Joe Carpenter and Marcus Anderson, who had been killed by an assassin in South Florida.

Carpenter’s death had sent him into a deep depression. He had survivor’s guilt. The bomb that had killed Carpenter had been meant for Spectre, he was sure of it.

It was a funny thing �� depression. Every major setback seemed to carry with it lower lows and an easier return to the depths of despair pushing him toward the edge. Carpenter’s death had done that for him. He had given up, allowing a Cuban thug to capture and torture him without a fight as he tried to drown his sorrows with a bottle of whiskey.

He had gotten through those events, seemingly stronger for it as he climbed out of the valleys and tried to move on. He kept moving forward. He had to, because he still had someone in his life that made him want to live. He had finally found hope in love.

But as Cal “Spectre�� Martin lay curled in the corner of the bunk in his prison cell, he realized that the hope was gone. He had reached the deepest valley from which there would be no escape. He had blitzed right through rock bottom and had found himself in a death spiral.

The crumpled newspaper next to him said it all. The headline told of a billionaire’s jet crashing off the Atlantic coast, and that search and rescue efforts were underway. Debris had been located, but due to harsh conditions caused by a tropical storm, rescuers were unable to reach the crash site. The article held out a sliver of hope that the people aboard that fateful flight could be found at sea.

But Spectre could read between the lines. He had been in the aviation business long enough to know what that meant. There were no beacons, no mayday calls, and the jet in question had no ejection seats. If a debris field were found, it meant that the plane impacted the water in an attitude that just wasn’t survivable. Everyone on that plane was dead. Spectre was sure of it.

Spectre had recognized three of the four names that the newspaper had given. He had worked with Darlene “Jenny�� Craig as a fellow pilot with the top-secret special operations group known as Project Archangel. She had a thing for fast Corvettes and Spectre knew she was a great pilot from the many missions he had flown with her. If the plane crashed with Jenny at the controls, Spectre knew she had exhausted every effort to save the aircraft.

Freddie “Kruger�� Mack was the second name on the list. Spectre had both respected and feared the bearded ginger. A former elite operator with the famed “Delta�� force, Kruger had been an interrogator, sniper, and de facto second-in-command with Project Archangel. He had helped Spectre take down a Chinese intelligence operation in the Gulf of Mexico, and more recently, Spectre had watched Kruger save his new fiancée’s life.

He was a ghost, and Spectre knew that if he were listed on the manifest, all hope that the crash was an act of deception was lost. It simply wasn’t possible to fabricate Kruger’s name like that.

And then there was the last name on the list. Michelle Decker. She had become the love of his life, pulling him out of the valley of depression and giving him a reason to live again. She was the most beautiful, intelligent, loyal, and courageous person Spectre had ever met. She made him want to be a better man. She was his hope.

Spectre felt numb. He had loved Chloe, but it was nothing like what he felt for Decker. They were the perfect team, and they had been through so much together. The note wrapped in the newspaper had said it all. YOU WERE WARNED. God. If only we had just run away together and never looked back.

As the public address system directed the inmates to prepare for their time in the yard, Spectre rolled off the bottom bunk and slid into his slippers. His cellmate said something, but Spectre didn’t register any of it. He felt like he was underwater, like he was drowning in some sort of lucid dream.

He shuffled out into the blinding sun like a zombie with his shoulders slumped and his head held low. Spectre knew he’d never get out of the prison alive, and he didn’t care. He could feel the dozen or so inmates staring at him as he walked across the basketball court toward the bleachers. He thought of spending the rest of his days knowing he would never see Decker again and hoped that one of them would end it for him soon.

Spectre sat down on the bleachers next to his cellmate. A day earlier, he had been alert, watching hands, looking for weapons, reading body language, and gauging general intent in an attempt to survive. Now he found himself staring at the dirt, hearing and seeing nothing as he tuned out the world.

Four inmates approached surrounding Spectre and his cellmate. They exchanged words with his cellmate. Spectre looked up to see one of them holding a switchblade knife. He stood.

Staring straight through the man threatening him, Spectre held his arms out wide with his palms up.

“Do it,�� he said as he closed his eyes. He had found his release from the pain. Living with the knowledge that Decker was gone forever was just too much to bear. Spectre wasn’t a very religious man, but he said a silent prayer, asking to be reunited with her soon. Maybe they would get a second chance in a different life. This one had been less than kind to them.

He heard words and then a scuffle followed by a loud scream. Before he could open his eyes, he felt the tip of the blade as it entered his abdomen. As the blade sliced into his gut, Spectre fell to his knees. The pain was immense, yet muted by his desire to die. He felt the blade withdraw momentarily and then it pierced his chest.

He fell forward and his face crashed into the dirt. Spectre opened his eyes briefly and turned his head, seeing what appeared to be a dozen feet shuffling in the dust. He gasped for air as his vision blurred.

He felt someone grab his shoulders and flip him onto his back as he drifted away into darkness.

He had finally found peace.

��

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Chapter One

4 Miles North of Mosul, Iraq

0338 Local Time

Freddie “Kruger�� Mack pulled down the quad-tube Panoramic Night Vision Goggles (PNVG) over his eyes and then tapped the shoulder of the breacher in front of him. Axe nodded and readied a pair of bolt cutters, waiting for the green light from Guardian 21 over the radio. As they waited, Kruger stretched his trigger finger against the lower receiver of his suppressed H&K 416 chambered in 5.56 NATO and took a deep breath.

“All players, Leroy Jenkins,�� Guardian 21 said over the radio, giving the code for the mission to begin. The dimly lit compound instantly went dark as the power grid was taken off line, leaving only the quarter moon to illuminate the way forward.

Axe sheared the chain and ripped the wooden gate open. Kruger shot through the opening with his rifle up and ready, button hooking to his left as his teammates, Cuda and Beast, followed on his heels. Cuda cleared right as Beast shot straight ahead through the gate. Axe followed, covering their six as the team entered the rear courtyard of the Islamic State training compound.

“Tango down front entrance,�� Kruger heard Tuna softly announce over the radio. It was the same voice that had given the green light seconds earlier. Kruger’s teammates, Tuna and Rage, were perched on the roof of an abandoned house at the edge of the nearby village, providing overwatch with their suppressed sniper rifles.

The rear courtyard of the compound was empty except for various cardboard shooting targets and training obstacles. The team cleared the area without resistance, and they regrouped at the rear door of the mission’s objective, a multi-level building near the center of the terrorist camp.

As before, the team stacked up, tapping forward in the line to indicate they were ready to move. Axe checked the door, quietly verifying that it was unlocked.

“Front courtyard is clear,�� Tuna announced over the tactical frequency.

Axe pulled the door open and Kruger bolted in. Cuda and Beast stepped into the narrow hallway. As before, Axe raised his rifle and entered behind them. The team moved quickly down the hallway toward the front of the three-story building.

“Door left,�� Kruger announced.

As they approached the door, Beast and Axe peeled off and entered while Kruger and Cuda continued forward and covered the front and rear of the hallway. Kruger could hear the muffled pops of suppressed gunfire as Beast and Axe dispatched the ISIL fighters in the room.

“Door right,�� Cuda said as Beast and Axe reemerged behind them. Kruger followed as Cuda opened the door and moved in, clearing left as he entered. Kruger cleared right and found two fighters sleeping with rifles propped against their beds. He aimed the holographic sight of his EOTech and fired two rounds into each man, killing them both in their sleep before Cuda whispered, “Clear.��

Flipping up his PNVGs, Kruger quickly checked the faces of the dead fighters against the picture he had of the man they were looking for. Satisfied they hadn’t found him, Kruger gave a thumbs down to Cuda and flipped his PNVGs back down over his face.

With the room clear, Kruger and Cuda reentered the hallway where Beast and Axe were still covering. The team reformed and headed up the nearby stairway toward the second floor. They moved quickly and quietly up the dark stairway, sweeping for threats as they entered the second floor hallway.

They cleared the second floor as they did the first, splitting off into two-man teams to clear each room and take out the sleeping fighters. Kruger grew increasingly frustrated as they continued to have no luck in finding the man they were looking for.

Kruger led the way up the next flight of stairs toward the third floor. He slowed as he neared the top, seeing a man exit into the hallway while shining a flashlight toward the nearby rooms. Kruger lowered his rifle and swung it around on its single point sling against his body armor before unsheathing his double-edge HRT tactical knife from his vest.

As the others covered the hallway, Kruger silently approached the man from behind. As he came to within a few feet, he surged, covering the man’s mouth with his left hand as he jabbed the knife into the man’s throat with his right. He twisted the knife and pulled it away, slicing the man’s jugular as he struggled against Kruger’s grip. As the man’s body fell limp, Kruger dragged it out of the way and briefly raised his goggles to check the man’s identity. Still not him.

The team searched two more rooms with similar results. Kruger followed Axe to the last door in the narrow hallway. Axe kicked the door open with the heel of his boot and carried his momentum into the room.

“Fuck!�� Kruger hissed as he realized their search had come to a dead end. They had entered a makeshift office with laptops and file cabinets. “He’s not here!��

“Clear,�� Axe said, ignoring Kruger as he stuck to protocol in clearing the room.

Kruger flipped up his goggles and pulled out a flashlight, shining it around the room. They had found a gold mine of intelligence in the form of hard drives and files that would eventually be useful, but the man responsible for the brutal public execution of four American aid workers captured in Baghdad was gone.

“Tuna, SITREP,�� Kruger said over the secure radio.

“No movement outside,�� Tuna replied from his rooftop overwatch position. “Still quiet.��

“Ok, let’s get what we can from this shithole and get out of here,�� Kruger said as he slung his weapon and took off his backpack. “Cuda, you and Beast go through this roach motel one more time. Make sure we didn’t miss this son of a bitch.��

“Copy,�� Cuda said as he raised his weapon and continued down the hall with Beast.

“I can’t believe this fucker got away from us,�� Kruger said, shaking his head in disgust as he ripped a hard drive from the nearby desktop and stuffed it in his bag.

Axe froze as he reached a table in the corner of the room. Shining his light on the desk, he found several booklets and maps. “Uhh, Kruger, you might want to look at this,�� he said as he thumbed through the documents.

“What is it?��

“My Russian isn’t so good, but I’m pretty sure this is a picture of an SA-24 MANPAD,�� Axe said, shining his light on the picture of a man holding a man portable surface to air missile launcher.

“No shit?�� Kruger asked as he turned to inspect Axe’s discovery with his flashlight. “This part is English, look. Grinch 9K338 Igla-S portable air defense missile system. Son of a bitch!��

“SA-24,�� Axe said. “How the hell did they get their hands on those? I thought these dudes were pretty limited in their surface to air capes?��

“Libya,�� Kruger said as he shuffled through the papers on the desk. “Shit, look at this.��

Kruger held up a map. It showed the U.S.-Mexico border and had Ciudad Juárez in the Mexican state of Chihuahua circled with a red marker. There were three arrows showing routes across the border into Acala, Texas; Santa Teresa, New Mexico; and Fort Hancock, Texas.

“Do you think they’re trying to smuggle these into the U.S.?�� Axe asked as he studied the map.

Kruger stuffed the manuals and maps into his backpack and zipped it as he flipped his goggles back down. “All players, Millertime,�� he directed over the tactical frequency.

“That’s why this place was so lightly manned,�� Kruger said as he started toward the doorway with his rifle up. “Our intel was bad; he’s been gone for a while.��

“Dude, if he’s planning to shoot down an airliner—��

“We have to get to him in Mexico before he crosses the border,�� Kruger said, cutting Axe off. “I just hope we’re not too late.��

is available for Pre-Order NOW!

��

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Avoid. Negotiate. Kill. They were the three basic tenets of Krav Maga that his Sensei had instilled in him since day one of his training.

First, he was to avoid confrontation. Some even called it the “Nike Defense.�� Running away was generally the preferred option. Living to fight another day was the highest priority, regardless of what his ego said. He had already spent the last two days practicing the art of avoidance by evading and hiding. It hadn’t worked. The commandos of the al-Nusra Front captured him after he made initial contact with Iraqi Security Forces. He had exhausted that option.

His next priority was to negotiate. Sometimes a person could talk his way out of a situation. Maybe the attacker hadn’t fully resolved his will to fight. Maybe the attacker wanted something that wasn’t worth risking life and limb over. Or maybe a person could buy enough time for help to show up. As Cal “Spectre�� Martin stared down the barrel of his own confiscated Beretta 92FS 9MM at point blank range, he realized that option was also no longer on the table. The man before him, in his torn and worn out camouflaged jacket and military pants, didn’t appear to be willing to negotiate as he shouted for Spectre to read the paper the man had given him. All Spectre could do now was kill.

��

Tonight (Friday, November 13, 2015), over 150 people were killed when Islamic terrorists executed a series of coordinated attacks on multiple soft targets in Paris, France. One of the terrorists that law enforcement managed to arrest stated that he and the others were Syrian ISIS fighters.

Self-defense tenets can be applied to both small and large scale philosophies. teaches three basic tenets of self-defense: avoid, negotiate, or kill. I’ve written about it in the , and even went as far as to name the second book to pay homage to the over-arching theme. But what does it mean and how does it apply to what happened tonight?

The first priority is to AVOID. In a street fight, the most survivable confrontation is one you can walk away from. Some may call it the “Nike defense,�� because you’re using your fancy shoes to run away. When the odds are stacked against you, there is no shame in running away to live to fight another day.

France (and the Western world in general) has spent a lot of time avoiding the issue of the Islamic State and its goal of reestablishing the caliphate. With an open borders policy, they’ve allowed millions into their country, just as Americans have done in failing to secure our own borders.

We’ve withdrawn from Iraq, and as ISIS has grown in strength, we’ve done our best to avoid putting boots on the ground to face the threat head on, instead settling for hollow airstrikes that don’t destroy, degrade, or deny the enemy the ability to keep fighting.

If avoidance is not an option, the second priority is to NEGOTIATE. Police officers call it “verbal judo.�� Sometimes you can talk your way out of a confrontation, often through direct negotiation or appeasement. Sometimes it’s better to just give up your fancy watch than risk getting your family killed during a mugging.

While we may not have been negotiating with ISIS, we have tried applying the “negotiate�� principle. Western countries have given safe-haven to thousands of Syrian refugees. We’ve given weapons and training to rebel factions, hoping they would side with us and help us fight ISIS. It didn’t work.

And as we’ve allowed ISIS to strengthen over the years, we’ve exhausted those options, leaving the last tenet of �� KILL.

On the street, killing doesn’t necessarily mean to take a person’s life. We kill their will to fight. We kill their ability to fight. And if all else fails, we kill them. In the geopolitical environment, this sometimes means unpalatable choices.

The only way to defeat ISIS is to kill them. This means killing their ability to fight �� strengthening borders, cutting off funding (to include shutting down their oil exports), striking their training camps, and stopping the flow of military age male refugees into our countries.

It means killing their will to fight �� total war. After years of combat, America is war-weary, but at this point, there is no other option. We must partner with our allies to make a concerted effort to find and destroy ISIS, and that means boots on the ground and fighters overhead. That means taking out their infrastructure, social media, and command and control. And it means killing them.

ISIS is a direct result of what happens when evil meets apathy. We’ve watched them burn people �� women, children, and men �� alive. We’ve watched them drown people. We’ve watched them behead people. And they’ve taken the fight to the Western world on three separate occasions. It’s only a matter of time before those attacks once again reach American soil.

What they want, we cannot give them. They will not stop until the Islamic State is established, and then they will continue their push for assimilation globally. We have the opportunity right now to crush them while they’re a well-organized insurgency and terrorist organization. If we wait until they become a nation-state in control of a crumbling Middle East, we will have signed ourselves up for a third World War with an enemy that we will have once again underestimated.

The attacks in Paris tonight were a tragedy. My thoughts are with the victims and their families. I sincerely hope this serves as a wake-up call to the U.S. and its allies that we must act swiftly and aggressively to completely neutralize this threat before it’s too late. I also hope it forces people that are fixated on celebrity attire and other trivial nonsense to pay attention to this looming threat.

In , I wrote an author’s note with a disclaimer that, although I’ve seen and done a lot of cool stuff as a fighter pilot, I didn’t think my life or service interesting enough to warrant an autobiography. As a result, I turned to fiction. I made it clear that the story contained within that book was just that, a fictional story derived wholly from my imagination.

But every author pulls inspiration from various places.�� Some work strictly from their imagination, creating worlds and settings that only the most vivid of imaginations could conjure. Some get their inspiration from news headlines. Still others pull from life experiences, putting their characters through events based on their own lives.

The SPECTRE Series is a mix of all three.�� Hopefully this post offers some insight into a scene that hit very close to home for me.

Today marks the two year anniversary of the death of my father. I started writing . just a few months after his passing. Writing helped me take my mind off the loss of my best friend, mentor, and idol, but some of that pain also translated into the pages of that book. The following is the story of the day I found out he was gone forever. If you’ve read ANK, you’ll know exactly what chapter I’m referring to. It’s one of few in this series that I have written directly from personal experience.

A little backstory before we begin�� �� on October 18th, 2013, my dad had his third back surgery to fix the spinal stenosis he had been struggling with. He was 65 years old and in good health. He had lost a lot of blood during the surgery, but had been released after a week in the hospital. After two weeks, his prognosis seemed good. He was walking and getting around with a lot less pain than he’d had before the surgery. Things were looking good, or so I thought.

Me with my dad �� my best friend, idol, and mentor.

How do you quantify the worst weekend of your life?

On the morning of Saturday, November 9th, 2013, I woke up focused on one thing only �� getting through a PT test for the Sheriff’s Department Reserve Division that I had recently volunteered for. I was completely oblivious to how drastically my life would change that day as I chatted with my girlfriend on Facebook about whether there might be a “secret set of standards for the PT test�� and how she planned on taking her dog to a pet social event that morning. Nothing deep down told me that something was wrong. Nothing seemed out of place.

Even when I turned onto the main road in front of my house, nothing seemed wrong when I called Dad’s phone and it rang until it went to voicemail (which he had only recently finally set up). Generally, he always answered on the first or second ring, but the last couple of days he had called me back, saying he had left the phone in the kitchen. I figured this time was no different. He had just left the phone in another room. I still didn’t think anything was wrong as I turned on the on ramp to interstate and it went to voicemail again.

As I set the cruise control and settled in for the 20 minute interstate drive, the phone rang. The caller ID in my truck showed my stepmom’s number. I thought maybe he had used her phone or she was calling me to tell me his phone was off, as she sometimes did when he missed my call. We talked on the phone every day �� sometimes multiple times.

“Hello, Eula,�� I said cheerfully.

There was a pause on the other end. I still had no idea anything could possibly be wrong. And then she said the words I had dreaded my entire life.

“Your daddy’s dead!�� she shrieked.

The words stopped me in my tracks. I thought there was no way I had heard that. “Wait, what? No! Eula?��

She was panicked, nearly screaming. I tried to get information from her. She told me he wasn’t breathing and the ambulance was on the way. I asked her if she was sure. She wasn’t. We hung up. I prayed she was wrong.

I turned off at the first off ramp and sped toward the opposite direction on ramp to go back home. Were it not for the center catch fence, I would’ve probably gone across the median and turned around. I didn’t care, I wanted to get the boys and get there as quickly as possible.

I called my girlfriend. We might have been having problems, but those didn’t matter anymore. She was still the only person I knew to turn to. She tried to calm me down, I didn’t know what to say. I was in a state of disarray as I passed car after car trying to get home.

I hung up with her and called my Aunt, telling her what happened. In the chaos, there’s always false hope. I asked her to tell my cousin. We prayed that there was still hope.

I arrived at my house and grabbed my go-bag along with food and essentials for the dogs. We were back on the road within ten minutes and I sped toward my dad’s house in the early hours of the cold November morning. I was wearing PT clothes and had packed nothing but underwear and t-shirts. I didn’t have time to think about funerals.

I needed to talk to someone as my heart raced. I called my girlfriend back. What can you say to someone whose world has just shattered? Apparently nothing. She didn’t answer. I called and left a voice mail with my Air Force mentor. It was Saturday morning. People were out doing things. I kept calling people.

Finally, an old high school friend answered. We talked. I begged anyone that would listen to pray. I hoped there was a chance. And then the phone rang again.

It was Eula’s phone, but a family friend was on the other end. The coroner had pronounced him dead. All hope was gone. She asked if I wanted them to wait for me to get there so I could see him. I said no. There was no way I could see him like that.

I got bits and pieces of the story. He had died in his chair as he put his coffee down to check his e-mail at the desktop. It had been quick and painless. At least he had that much.

Eventually I realized there was no reason to keep speeding toward a funeral and slowed. More people called. I finally got in touch with my girlfriend for support. She said she had been at a chapel saying a rosary for him. I asked her to be with me. She couldn’t. She had a promo that night and couldn’t get away. I went back to calling people.

When I got home, the computer chair had been pulled out and rolled into the dining room. Eula was hysterical. There were people everywhere. I broke down, wishing it were a dream. It wasn’t.

We went to the funeral home and waited. And waited. And waited. I stayed outside to get air, still talking to my girlfriend via text and on the phone. I asked her again to be with me. She said she couldn’t. I asked if she planned on breaking up with me before all of that, she said no. I felt so alone. My family couldn’t make it until the next day. My brother’s caretaker (he is 30 and has cerebral palsy, she had worked with us for nearly 23 years and was like family to us) and Eula were just as bad off as I was.

When tragedy strikes, you find out who your real friends are and aren’t. My high school friend that answered the phone earlier showed up shortly after we got home. She brought food, and more importantly, friendship. Eula’s family was there. My brother’s caretaker and her family were there. The family friend that had called earlier and her family were there. The house was crowded, but I felt very alone.

Dad always had at least three flags flying in the front yard. I put the one on the flagpole down at half mast. A true patriot like my dad deserved the honor.

And then the phone calls started. One of the wives from my squadron called just as as my Air Force mentor showed up. I couldn’t believe it. He showed up out of nowhere. A former A-10 pilot, he’s one of those guys that doesn’t do emotions, and when it comes to distractions, that’s exactly what I needed. It was an escape.

As the crowds scattered, my high school friend was still there. She took me and the boys to get milkshakes that I didn’t drink. I didn’t eat much after he died. The day prior, I weighed in at 195 after doing two-a-days for two months. By the time I weighed myself again the next week, I was down to 177.

But I wanted to see the woman I thought I loved. Or used to love. She could see me after the promo she was doing was over. I thought about driving home. I was going to drive home. To see her. To get clothes. To be held. All I wanted was for someone to hold me. But I was talked out of it. I was in no condition to be driving, they told me.

The next day, we went to the funeral home for the wake. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want it to be real.

People showed up from all around, telling me how much my dad had loved me. How much he talked about me. How proud he was of me. I felt like I didn’t deserve it. I had never given him the thing he wanted most �� a part III. (Grandkids)

I didn’t want to see his body. I couldn’t be in the funeral home. I stayed outside. Alone. I had never felt so alone in my life. My brother’s caretaker had her family. My stepmom had hers. I felt like I had no one. I sat in the parking lot and cried.

I texted my girlfriend. I’m not a man to beg, but I begged. I begged God for this to be a bad dream. I begged her to be with me. I was denied on both accounts. She couldn’t leave her dog overnight and her family didn’t want her driving that far.

My brother’s caretaker came and found me and took me to see the body. It was for my own good. He didn’t look right. I broke down. I was gone.

I sat down in the front row pew next to my brother. I wondered how he was taking it. Due to his condition, he has the mentality of an infant. He can walk, but he can’t talk more than baby noises. Sometimes we underestimate how much he understands, but in that moment, I learned he was much stronger than all of us combined.

As I sat there, sobbing to myself, my brother reached over to me and grabbed me as best he could. He wrapped his little arm around my neck and pulled me close to him, burying my face into his shoulder. I cried for a minute as he held me there.

When I looked back up, he gave me a knowing smile. He understood, and despite everything wrong in the world, he wanted to tell me it was going to be ok. It was the most real gesture of brotherly love he and I had ever shared.

Despite all of that, I couldn’t stand to be so close to Dad’s body. I had to get back out. I returned to my solitude in the parking lot. At least I could control that.

As I sat on the curb wishing I could just be held, I saw a welcome sight. More friends showed up. It was good to see them. They took my mind off things. They cared. We talked about my crazy girlfriend. Anything to not deal with the pain.

Eventually more people showed up. Friends, neighbors, and finally family. My aunt, uncle, and first cousin (despite getting lost and ending up at the wrong funeral home in a different town altogether, but I digress). The loneliness wasn’t as bad anymore. I just had to endure it.

We talked about the funeral, and I said I wanted to do the eulogy. I didn’t know if I could, but I thought I owed my dad that much. I felt like that’s what he would have wanted.

We got home late that night. I thought about writing a speech, but I collapsed from the lack of sleep and food. I still hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day prior. I was running on empty.

The next morning, my girlfriend checked on me. I had been crying in the living room, curled up in the fetal position wishing for death. I asked her if she would be there for me, especially given the eulogy I had to give. She said no. She couldn’t explain, but she just couldn’t.

I turned off my phone as my cousin pulled me up and made me quit wishing for death. She took me to go buy clothes. I still had none, and needed something to wear for the funeral. When I returned to my phone, I had a half dozen or so text messages devolving from “are you mad?�� to “I was going to come, but since you’re not responding, I guess not.�� I apologized and turned my phone back off. I knew it was over. I wasn’t surprised. My entire world was crashing down around me. Why wouldn’t it be?

We went back to the funeral home for round two of the wake. More people showed up to tell me how proud he was of me. Every time was like getting punched in the gut. It was a nice gesture, but I still felt like I had let him down. It was good to see old friends there.

More friends showed up. People who had my back like my editor, Doug Narby. I finally felt safe. I was still purely ballistic, but I at least knew people were watching my back. I appreciated that.

The time came for the funeral. The preacher nodded for me to stand after he said whatever it is preachers say during funerals. I don’t remember much.

My hands were trembling as I stood in front of the packed room. I pulled out my phone where I had pulled up a Poem from Tecumseh. I had heard it on Act of Valor and thought it was appropriate for the way dad lived his life. It was called “Live Your Life�� and I thought it especially appropriate for this line, “Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.�� Here it is in its entirety:

“So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.��

That was my dad. He had a way of being friendly and joking with everyone he met. It annoyed the crap out of me as an angry teenager, but I appreciated it more as I grew older. He just had a way of disarming people with his sense of humor.

After I read the poem, I tried to just talk from the heart. My dad was a man of selflessness. He gave everything for his family. He sacrificed so much to take care of me and my brother. And he did it all without asking for a thing in return.

On top of it all, at his core, he was a patriot. He served his country and loved America. He proudly flew the stars and stripes in the yard. And when he learned that I was joining the military, he was so proud.

One of the coolest moments in my career was having him at my Officer Training School graduation. You see, traditionally, enlisted men and women give officers their first salute, but my dad was kind of a special case as former warrant officer so he too could do it. And he did. He kept the “silver dollar�� I gave him in his wallet until he died.

My dad giving me the traditional first salute as I graduated Officer Training School

So at the end of the eulogy, I turned and saluted as best I could, hoping to return the honor he had given me.

The funeral ended and we headed to the cemetery. The police officers of the local PD honored my dad, saluting the hearse as we drove by. It meant so much to me to see that kind of respect for a fallen soldier.

We finally made it to the cemetery for the burial. The National Guard Honor Guard did a great job in honoring him. Hearing the taps play was soul crushing to me. I had heard it before for friends and that sucked, but never family.

My family stuck around after the funeral to give support. They say the worst part of losing someone is not the funeral, but when everyone goes home. I can attest to that.

I broke up with my girlfriend the next day. It wasn’t because I wanted to, but because there was no way to fix it. She had abandoned me when I needed her most. That was a bridge that just couldn’t be rebuilt. I later learned that she declared that she was happy to finally be rid of the baggage [me] that had been keeping her down. All’s well that ends well, I guess.

Losing a family member is a very painful and personal thing, and so is losing a friend. I wanted to translate to paper what I felt and went through during that very rough time in my life. Unfortunately that meant Spectre had to live it too, but I think it made him a stronger, more dynamic character for it.

What did you think of the funeral chapter in .?�� Leave your opinions in the comments section.

Thanks for reading!

is set for release on October 20, 2015. Here’s an excerpt of book four in the SPECTRE Series.

��

PROLOGUE

Springfield, Virginia
12 February
2028L

As Lt Colonel Jason Waxburn pulled his BMW 5-series into the narrow driveway of his two-story suburban home, the hair on the back of his neck instantly stood. The porch light that his wife always turned on as soon as she got home was off, despite her minivan still parked in the garage.

With Jason’s twenty-year career as an Air Force pilot, Jason’s wife Clara had grown used to his constantly changing schedule and the late hours he often put in at work. Putting on the light to welcome him home had become a tradition in their family. Whenever he came back from a long trip or worked late, she would always leave the light on for him, and most of the time she and their ten-year-old son would be outside sitting in their porch rocking chairs as he drove up.

But tonight was very different. He had tried both the house phone and her cell phone on his commute home and had been unable to make contact. He had only been gone for three days �� a short trip in his line of work �� and when he had last spoken to her the night prior, they had planned on a late dinner after his estimated arrival at 8:30 PM.

Jason pulled into the garage until the hanging tennis ball touched the windshield and then killed the engine. He grabbed his garment bag from the backseat as the garage door closed behind him. He had changed out of his Air Force blues before leaving base and was wearing a blue polo shirt and jeans for the commute home.

The house alarm chirped as he walked through the doorway into the laundry room that attached to the kitchen. It was not armed �� something he and his wife religiously ensured when they left the house. As Jason walked into the kitchen, it was completely dark. The house seemed completely empty.

“Hello? Clare?�� he said as he flipped on the light switch. “John? Where are you guys?��

There was nothing but silence as he looked around the kitchen. Dishes were in the sink and a couple of bills had been opened on the granite countertop. An orange juice carton sat unopened on the cooking island in the center of the room next to two unused glasses. After setting his garment bag down on a nearby chair, Jason grabbed the carton to put it back in the refrigerator, noticing that it was room temperature.

“Clare?�� he called out again. “This isn’t funny. I know y’all are here.��

Jason’s heart started racing as he considered the possibilities. He walked into the living room as he searched for clues. He turned on the light, revealing the leather couches and plasma TV near the fireplace. There were no signs of foul play. The house was just as neat and orderly as he had left it three days ago.

As Jason turned toward his office, his cell phone rang. He desperately pulled it out of his pocket and answered the call, barely noticing the caller ID reading “BLOCKED�� as he pressed the phone against his ear. “Clare?�� he asked.

“Turn on your television and press play,�� a male voice said. It was deep and robotic, sounding like a protected witness on the crime drama shows Jason and his wife often enjoyed watching,

“What? Who is this?�� Jason demanded.

“Just do it,�� the voice said before abruptly hanging up.

Jason looked at his phone as the “Call Ended�� notification flashed on the screen. He found the remote on the coffee table and powered the TV and Blu-Ray player on. As the blue screen came on, Jason hit play and the disc in the player spun to life.

A man wearing a black balaclava and black tactical clothing appeared on screen. He was standing in front of what appeared to be a black flag.

“Colonel Waxburn,�� the man said in the same deep, metallic voice as the one on the phone. “You must cooperate.��

Jason’s heart sank as the man stepped back to reveal his wife and son gagged, their limbs bound to chairs. Their faces were bruised and their eyes darted back and forth frantically. He could see the fear and panic in his wife’s eyes while his son tried to remain stoic. He was immediately overcome with mixed feelings of rage, panic, and desperation.

“We have your wife and son,�� the man continued as he walked back and stood between them. “If you do as we say, they will be released upon completion of your tasking. You will also be rewarded handsomely for your efforts.��

“But if you do not. If you attempt to alert the authorities, or fail to comply with our instructions exactly as they are given to you, you will get them back piece by piece,�� the man warned as he pulled out a knife from his pocket.

“I am sorry, but I must now show you that this is not a game,�� the man said as he reached for Clare’s left hand that was tied to the arm of the chair.

Jason ran his hands through his silver and gray hair as the muffled, but still blood-curdling screams from his wife echoed throughout the living room. The man stood in front of her, blocking out the camera as she twisted and writhed in the background. Moments later, the man turned back toward the camera, holding up her detached ring finger in front of the cameraman as another masked man tended to her wound.

“Your first instructions are in your mailbox. Go now,�� the man said, holding up the finger. “This is your only warning.��

Jason felt nauseous as the video ended and the blue screen reappeared on the TV. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and raced toward the front door and out into the street. He reached the mailbox and opened it, revealing a sixteen-inch bubble mailer that had been stuffed in the box.

He ripped open the mailer. Inside there was a piece of paper and something wrapped in bubble wrap. As he unwrapped the object, it suddenly became clear. It was Clare’s ring finger with her titanium wedding ring still attached. Jason dropped it as the nausea grew worse. He steadied himself against the mailbox.

As he picked up the piece of paper that had fallen, his phone rang. He studied the caller ID this time as he pulled the phone out of his pocket. Again, the screen showed “BLOCKED.�� He answered it.

“Do you understand your instructions?�� the same voice from the video said.

Jason bent over, picked up the paper, and read it. He had flown combat missions into Afghanistan in C-17s with Night Vision Goggles and no runway lighting, but he had never felt more scared in his life. They were asking him to choose between his country and his family.

“I can’t…What you’re asking is just…�� Jason said with a trembling voice.

“Your next warning will be from your son,�� the voice replied menacingly.

“No! Please!�� Jason shouted. “This is suicide though. It will never work.��

“Do exactly as we say, and your family will survive and you will be fine. Do not test us. Do you understand?��

“Yes,�� Jason replied meekly.

“Good. Pick up your wife’s ring and go back inside. Study the instructions you have been given and then burn them. Do not be late for the first check-in,�� the voice said before hanging up.

Jason stood in shocked silence as the phone went dead. He looked around the small suburban neighborhood to find the source of the call.The man on the other end was presumably watching him, but the neighborhood was quiet. There was nothing suspicious anywhere around.

He picked up the finger and shoved it back into the mailer along with the letter. He made it halfway down the walkway to his house before throwing up on his freshly manicured lawn. After twenty years of blissful marriage and twenty-three years of serving his country, he had been forced to choose between the two things he loved the most in the world. Family or country.

is available for pre-order now!

��

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is now available for PreOrder. Here’s another sample chapter of my third book in the SPECTRE Series.

Chapter One

NAS JRB New Orleans

0335L

��

Major Jeff “Foxworthy�� Vaughan cycled his flight controls and checked his engine instruments one last time as he took the runway in his F-15C. He looked over into his canopy mirror to see the taxi light of his wingman three hundred feet behind him as Major Jake “Buzz�� Bronson followed him onto the runway.

It was dark out. The airfield was still closed, and other than the ambient lighting from the city of New Orleans a few miles away, the relatively clear skies were pitch black. The runway edges were barely illuminated from the pilot controlled lighting that stayed on after field hours.

With the tower closed, Foxworthy had contacted New Orleans Approach for takeoff clearance and coordination for their scramble. It had only been barely fifteen minutes since the klaxon had gone off, waking him from his nap. He and his wingman had been scrambled to intercept an unknown aircraft crossing the Air Defense Identification Zone out over the Gulf of Mexico without talking to anyone.

Foxworthy lined his aircraft up on runway centerline for Runway 22 after making the short taxi out from the alert hangars at the end of the runway and lit the afterburners. He watched his engine instruments, confirming the nozzle indicators showed “two good swings�� as the afterburners lit and rocketed his F-15 down the ten thousand foot runway. Seconds later, Foxworthy’s wingman took the runway and followed suit as the two climbed out to the southeast toward the target.

“WatchDog, Bayou Zero One airborne, passing one-five-thousand,�� Foxworthy said as he checked in with the military controller that would be directing the intercept. He pulled out his Night Vision Goggles from their case, clipped them to the bracket on his visor, and flipped them down over his eyes. The green image changed the abyss of darkness in front of him to a green monochrome presentation. The moonlight illumination was low, and even with the goggles, there wasn’t much of a discernible horizon or clear delineation between the dark, calm waters and the sky.

Foxworthy had flown the F-15 as an Air National Guard pilot for nearly fifteen years. He had seen the unit transition from the F-15A to the basic F-15C and finally to the upgraded F-15Cs with AESA radars. He had been scrambled more times than he cared to count on varying targets from crop dusters to helicopters to airliners.

Airliners scared Foxworthy. Since 9/11, the mission of the alert pilot had changed significantly. Gone were the romantic musings of being scrambled up against the hoard of MiG-29s invading the U. S. Mainland and fighting to save the day. It had long since been replaced with the idea of terrorists using passenger jets as weapons against critical infrastructure targets. The harsh reality was that he might have to use one of the eight radar-guided air to air missiles on his wing to shoot one down to prevent an even bigger catastrophe. It was not a very palatable thought for the crusty Major.

But as Foxworthy looked over to see Buzz rejoin in a combat spread formation a mile and a half off his left wing, he was confident that tonight’s mission would be relatively benign. The initial Intel they had received when they checked in with their Command Post for the tasking was that it was a slow-moving aircraft located seventy miles southeast of New Orleans. The aircraft was not responding to WatchDog’s repeated identification calls and required a visual identification.

“Bayou Zero One, bogey BRAA one-zero-zero, fifty-nine, five thousand, cold, maneuver,�� the WatchDog controller responded, giving Foxworthy the Bearing, Range, Altitude, and Aspect of the unknown aircraft. As they cruised along at seventeen thousand feet and four hundred knots, the aircraft was just under sixty nautical miles away from their current position.

“Sounds like he’s in WHODAT,�� Buzz said over the auxiliary radio. The WHODAT airspace was the name for the military working airspace they used during training to practice their air-to-air tactics.

Foxworthy checked his radar. Seconds later, the Active Electronically Scanned Array Radar had picked up the target and track file indicated the radar was tracking the aircraft. He moved his cursors over it and took a lock. The unknown aircraft was moving at just under ninety knots and had appeared to be orbiting at five thousand feet.

“Bayou Zero One, radar contact,�� Foxworthy said to alert the controller that he was now tracking the unknown aircraft and required no further point outs.

“WatchDog copies,�� the controller responded. “No traffic between you and the bogey, cleared to elevator at your discretion.��

“Bayou Zero One,�� Foxworthy replied sharply. At almost four in the morning, it was not surprising that the controller had given them unrestricted ability to descend to the target’s altitude. Except for the cargo air carriers, there were few aircraft out flying, which was the only thing that bothered him about the aircraft they were intercepting. It was rare to get scrambled so early in the morning on an “Unknown Rider�� call.

“Two cleared wedge,�� Foxworthy directed as he started his descent down toward the aircraft. His wingman said nothing and collapsed from his perfect line abreast formation to a fluid formation behind Foxworthy’s aircraft.

Foxworthy watched the radar indication as the unknown aircraft continued to orbit. He pulled up the Sniper Pod display above his right knee and tried to get an infrared look at the target as they closed inside of twenty miles.

Leveling off at ten thousand feet, the clear summer night’s sky became even more difficult to discern from the calm waters below. They were flying in an area peppered with oil rigs that stayed lit up twenty four hours a day, making it easy to momentarily confuse up for down. Foxworthy remained cautious as they sped toward the orbiting aircraft. He knew it might be easy to get spatially disoriented if they weren’t careful.

“Two’s eyeball bogey,�� Buzz said on their auxiliary radio, indicating he had picked up a visual on the aircraft through his Sniper Advanced Targeting Pod. “Looks like a multi-engine prop of some sort,�� he added.

“One copies,�� Foxworthy replied. Seconds later, the white-hot infrared image of his targeting pod showed the same thing. It appeared to be a four engine propeller-driven aircraft with a twin boom tail configuration. Although they were still too far out to get sufficient detail, the initial image was confusing to Foxworthy. He couldn’t quite identify it.

Foxworthy checked his radar display again. They were nearing fifteen miles. As he started his descent down to intercept the aircraft, the radar suddenly broke lock and filled with chevrons, indicating it was receiving electronic jamming.

As if on cue, Buzz piped up on the auxiliary radio, “Two’s clean, strobes east.��

Foxworthy acknowledged and went back to his radar display, trying to make sense of it. He had fought against jammers before in training, but had never seen or heard of it happening on a real world alert scramble. It just didn’t make sense. He turned his attention back to his targeting pod image. The aircraft had rolled out of its orbit and appeared to be descending straight ahead. Foxworthy opted to continue the intercept visually.

“One same,�� Foxworthy finally responded on the radio. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Buzz?�� Although Buzz had spent time in the Active Duty Air Force unlike Foxworthy, the two had been in the same squadron together for nearly a decade.

“I was hoping it was just my radar,�� Buzz admitted as Foxworthy looked out and saw the surprisingly large aircraft flying slowly over the water.

“Let’s set up an orbit here at seven thousand, I don’t know what this guy is doing,�� Foxworthy said as he leveled off. He could see the aircraft through his NVGs, but the targeting pod image was fairly clear as they leveled off and set up an orbit just outside of five miles. It was a large cargo aircraft of some sort. Foxworthy wasn’t sure, but it looked Russian.

He looked back at his radar screen. Still jammed. As he looked back out at the aircraft through his goggles, he noticed it getting lower and slower. It appeared to be completely blacked out with no lights on at all. He tried picking it up using his naked eyes, but all he could see were the lights from nearby oil rigs.

Foxworthy zoomed in using the targeting pod infrared image. The aircraft’s flaps appeared to be down, but its gear was up. Seconds later, the aircraft touched down on the calm waters. It landed! A float plane? Foxworthy’s mind was racing.

“Dude did you just see that?�� Foxworthy yelled excitedly on the auxiliary frequency.

“What’s a floatplane doing out here?�� Buzz responded after a pregnant pause.

“WatchDog, Bayou Zero One, the target aircraft appears to have landed,�� Foxworthy said to the controlling agency.

“Say again, Bayou,�� the controller queried. It was obviously not the response he had been expecting.

Foxworthy double-checked what he was seeing in his pod by zooming in and out. The seaplane slowed to a crawl as it approached one of the oil rigs.

“Bayou Zero One, I say again, the target aircraft has landed and appears to be approaching one of the oil rigs out here,�� Foxworthy repeated.

“WatchDog copies,�� the controller responded. The confusion was evident in his voice as well.

As Foxworthy continued watching the seaplane taxi up to the oil rig, a low-pitched beeping caught his attention in his headset. He looked up at his Radar Warning Receiver. The green circular display had just lit up as the beeping intensified. He was being targeted by a surface to air missile. Nothing made sense.

“Bayou Zero One, spiked,�� Foxworthy announced over the interflight frequency. His heart started racing. Is it real? Or related to the jamming? The adrenaline began surging as the indication grew stronger. He had never seen anything like it.

“Two same!�� Buzz responded.

His Radar Warning Receiver was lit up like a Christmas tree, indicating that a SAM’s target acquisition radar was locked to him.

“Bayou Zero One, WatchDog, I checked with the Director. The aircraft is in international waters. You’re cleared to disengage and RTB at this time,�� the controller directed.

“Bayou Zero One is defensive!�� Foxworthy responded as the indication changed pitch and his RWR indicated that a target tracking radar was engaging his aircraft. He knew he was just seconds away from a potential missile launch.

“Bayou Zero One, you are directed to disengage, do you copy?�� the controller said firmly. “Vector two-seven-zero and RTB at this time.��

Ignoring the call, Foxworthy lit the afterburners and executed a break turn while expending chaff to attempt to break the lock of the radar. His wingman followed suit in the opposite direction, using their in-flight data link to keep track of each other.

“Bayou Zero One, WatchDog,�� the controller attempted again.

“Standby,�� Foxworthy replied as he strained under the G-forces.

He continued maneuvering his aircraft away from the target aircraft’s last known position. As they cleared ten miles, the Radar Warning Receiver suddenly fell silent.

“One’s naked,�� Foxworthy said on the auxiliary radio.

“Two same, I’m at your five o’clock and seven miles,�� Buzz replied.

“Cleared rejoin,�� Foxworthy replied, trying to stay calm as he turned back toward New Orleans. “What the hell was that?��

“I have no idea,�� Buzz replied, still breathing heavily.

��

is currently available for preorder and will be released on July 14, 2015. Here's another sample chapter from my latest book!

ARCHANGEL FALLEN, Available now for preorder!

Chapter One��NAS JRB New Orleans0335L
M ajor Jeff “Foxworthy�� Vaughan cycled his flight controls and checked his engine instruments one last time as he took the runway in his F-15C. He looked over into his canopy mirror to see the taxi light of his wingman three hundred feet behind him as Major Jake “Buzz�� Bronson followed him onto the runway.
It was dark out. The airfield was still closed, and other than the ambient lighting from the city of New Orleans a few miles away, the relatively clear skies were pitch black. The runway edges were barely illuminated from the pilot controlled lighting that stayed on after field hours.
With the tower closed, Foxworthy had contacted New Orleans Approach for takeoff clearance and coordination for their scramble. It had only been barely fifteen minutes since the klaxon had gone off, waking him from his nap. He and his wingman had been scrambled to intercept an unknown aircraft crossing the Air Defense Identification Zone out over the Gulf of Mexico without talking to anyone.
Foxworthy lined his aircraft up on runway centerline for Runway 22 after making the short taxi out from the alert hangars at the end of the runway and lit the afterburners. He watched his engine instruments, confirming the nozzle indicators showed “two good swings�� as the afterburners lit and rocketed his F-15 down the ten thousand foot runway. Seconds later, Foxworthy’s wingman took the runway and followed suit as the two climbed out to the southeast toward the target.
“WatchDog, Bayou Zero One airborne, passing one-five-thousand,�� Foxworthy said as he checked in with the military controller that would be directing the intercept. He pulled out his Night Vision Goggles from their case, clipped them to the bracket on his visor, and flipped them down over his eyes. The green image changed the abyss of darkness in front of him to a green monochrome presentation. The moonlight illumination was low, and even with the goggles, there wasn’t much of a discernible horizon or clear delineation between the dark, calm waters and the sky.
Foxworthy had flown the F-15 as an Air National Guard pilot for nearly fifteen years. He had seen the unit transition from the F-15A to the basic F-15C and finally to the upgraded F-15Cs with AESA radars. He had been scrambled more times than he cared to count on varying targets from crop dusters to helicopters to airliners.
Airliners scared Foxworthy. Since 9/11, the mission of the alert pilot had changed significantly. Gone were the romantic musings of being scrambled up against the hoard of MiG-29s invading the U. S. Mainland and fighting to save the day. It had long since been replaced with the idea of terrorists using passenger jets as weapons against critical infrastructure targets. The harsh reality was that he might have to use one of the eight radar-guided air to air missiles on his wing to shoot one down to prevent an even bigger catastrophe. It was not a very palatable thought for the crusty Major.
But as Foxworthy looked over to see Buzz rejoin in a combat spread formation a mile and a half off his left wing, he was confident that tonight’s mission would be relatively benign. The initial Intel they had received when they checked in with their Command Post for the tasking was that it was a slow-moving aircraft located seventy miles southeast of New Orleans. The aircraft was not responding to WatchDog’s repeated identification calls and required a visual identification.
“Bayou Zero One, bogey BRAA one-zero-zero, fifty-nine, five thousand, cold, maneuver,�� the WatchDog controller responded, giving Foxworthy the Bearing, Range, Altitude, and Aspect of the unknown aircraft. As they cruised along at seventeen thousand feet and four hundred knots, the aircraft was just under sixty nautical miles away from their current position.
“Sounds like he’s in WHODAT,�� Buzz said over the auxiliary radio. The WHODAT airspace was the name for the military working airspace they used during training to practice their air-to-air tactics. Foxworthy checked his radar. Seconds later, the Active Electronically Scanned Array Radar had picked up the target and track file indicated the radar was tracking the aircraft. He moved his cursors over it and took a lock. The unknown aircraft was moving at just under ninety knots and had appeared to be orbiting at five thousand feet.
“Bayou Zero One, radar contact,�� Foxworthy said to alert the controller that he was now tracking the unknown aircraft and required no further point outs.
“WatchDog copies,�� the controller responded. “No traffic between you and the bogey, cleared to elevator at your discretion.��
“Bayou Zero One,�� Foxworthy replied sharply. At almost four in the morning, it was not surprising that the controller had given them unrestricted ability to descend to the target’s altitude. Except for the cargo air carriers, there were few aircraft out flying, which was the only thing that bothered him about the aircraft they were intercepting. It was rare to get scrambled so early in the morning on an “Unknown Rider�� call.
“Two cleared wedge,�� Foxworthy directed as he started his descent down toward the aircraft. His wingman said nothing and collapsed from his perfect line abreast formation to a fluid formation behind Foxworthy’s aircraft.
Foxworthy watched the radar indication as the unknown aircraft continued to orbit. He pulled up the Sniper Pod display above his right knee and tried to get an infrared look at the target as they closed inside of twenty miles.
Leveling off at ten thousand feet, the clear summer night’s sky became even more difficult to discern from the calm waters below. They were flying in an area peppered with oil rigs that stayed lit up twenty four hours a day, making it easy to momentarily confuse up for down. Foxworthy remained cautious as they sped toward the orbiting aircraft. He knew it might be easy to get spatially disoriented if they weren’t careful.
“Two’s eyeball bogey,�� Buzz said on their auxiliary radio, indicating he had picked up a visual on the aircraft through his Sniper Advanced Targeting Pod. “Looks like a multi-engine prop of some sort,�� he added.
“One copies,�� Foxworthy replied. Seconds later, the white-hot infrared image of his targeting pod showed the same thing. It appeared to be a four engine propeller-driven aircraft with a twin boom tail configuration. Although they were still too far out to get sufficient detail, the initial image was confusing to Foxworthy. He couldn’t quite identify it.
Foxworthy checked his radar display again. They were nearing fifteen miles. As he started his descent down to intercept the aircraft, the radar suddenly broke lock and filled with chevrons, indicating it was receiving electronic jamming.
As if on cue, Buzz piped up on the auxiliary radio, “Two’s clean, strobes east.”�� Foxworthy acknowledged and went back to his radar display, trying to make sense of it. He had fought against jammers before in training, but had never seen or heard of it happening on a real world alert scramble. It just didn’t make sense. He turned his attention back to his targeting pod image. The aircraft had rolled out of its orbit and appeared to be descending straight ahead. Foxworthy opted to continue the intercept visually.
“One same,�� Foxworthy finally responded on the radio. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Buzz?�� Although Buzz had spent time in the Active Duty Air Force unlike Foxworthy, the two had been in the same squadron together for nearly a decade.
“I was hoping it was just my radar,�� Buzz admitted as Foxworthy looked out and saw the surprisingly large aircraft flying slowly over the water.
“Let’s set up an orbit here at seven thousand, I don’t know what this guy is doing,�� Foxworthy said as he leveled off. He could see the aircraft through his NVGs, but the targeting pod image was fairly clear as they leveled off and set up an orbit just outside of five miles. It was a large cargo aircraft of some sort. Foxworthy wasn’t sure, but it looked Russian.
He looked back at his radar screen. Still jammed. As he looked back out at the aircraft through his goggles, he noticed it getting lower and slower. It appeared to be completely blacked out with no lights on at all. He tried picking it up using his naked eyes, but all he could see were the lights from nearby oil rigs.
Foxworthy zoomed in using the targeting pod infrared image. The aircraft’s flaps appeared to be down, but its gear was up. Seconds later, the aircraft touched down on the calm waters. It landed! A float plane? Foxworthy’s mind was racing.
“Dude did you just see that?�� Foxworthy yelled excitedly on the auxiliary frequency.
“What’s a floatplane doing out here?�� Buzz responded after a pregnant pause.
“WatchDog, Bayou Zero One, the target aircraft appears to have landed,�� Foxworthy said to the controlling agency.
“Say again, Bayou,�� the controller queried. It was obviously not the response he had been expecting. Foxworthy double-checked what he was seeing in his pod by zooming in and out. The seaplane slowed to a crawl as it approached one of the oil rigs.
“Bayou Zero One, I say again, the target aircraft has landed and appears to be approaching one of the oil rigs out here,�� Foxworthy repeated.
“WatchDog copies,�� the controller responded. The confusion was evident in his voice as well.
As Foxworthy continued watching the seaplane taxi up to the oil rig, a low-pitched beeping caught his attention in his headset. He looked up at his Radar Warning Receiver. The green circular display had just lit up as the beeping intensified. He was being targeted by a surface to air missile. Nothing made sense.
“Bayou Zero One, spiked,�� Foxworthy announced over the interflight frequency. His heart started racing. Is it real? Or related to the jamming? The adrenaline began surging as the indication grew stronger. He had never seen anything like it.
“Two same!�� Buzz responded.
His Radar Warning Receiver was lit up like a Christmas tree, indicating that a SAM’s target acquisition radar was locked to him.
“Bayou Zero One, WatchDog, I checked with the Director. The aircraft is in international waters. You’re cleared to disengage and RTB at this time,�� the controller directed.
“Bayou Zero One is defensive!�� Foxworthy responded as the indication changed pitch and his RWR indicated that a target tracking radar was engaging his aircraft. He knew he was just seconds away from a potential missile launch.
“Bayou Zero One, you are directed to disengage, do you copy?�� the controller said firmly. “Vector two-seven-zero and RTB at this time.��
Ignoring the call, Foxworthy lit the afterburners and executed a break turn while expending chaff to attempt to break the lock of the radar. His wingman followed suit in the opposite direction, using their in-flight data link to keep track of each other.
“Bayou Zero One, WatchDog,�� the controller attempted again.
“Standby,�� Foxworthy replied as he strained under the G-forces.
He continued maneuvering his aircraft away from the target aircraft’s last known position. As they cleared ten miles, the Radar Warning Receiver suddenly fell silent.
“One’s naked,�� Foxworthy said on the auxiliary radio.
“Two same, I’m at your five o’clock and seven miles,�� Buzz replied.
“Cleared rejoin,�� Foxworthy replied, trying to stay calm as he turned back toward New Orleans.��“What the hell was that?��
“I have no idea,�� Buzz replied, still breathing heavily.��
��

We’re just a few short weeks away from the release of ARCHANGEL FALLEN, the third book in the SPECTRE SERIES. Here’s a sneak peek of my latest book. I hope you enjoy it! Available for preorder now!

Prologue

Tampa, FL

1845L

��

“I should be home by midnight, sweetie. Kiss the girls for me and tell them I love them. Love you,�� he said before hanging up as he pulled into the crowded parking lot.

It was a weeknight, but The Silver Fox Gentleman’s Club was always busy, pulling in crowds from the base just a few miles away. Transient aircrew flying into MacDill for the night loved blowing their hard-earned per diem on girls working their way through college. It was easy to get lost among the close-cropped GI haircuts filing in and out of the place at all hours of the night.

Blending in was exactly why Charles “Ironman�� Steele had chosen this meeting location. As the director of a highly classified covert unit, he spent a lot of time trying to blend in. Although for the 5��9�� 200 lb. Steele, blending in wasn’t always easy. His bald head and general lack of neck seemingly made him stand out in even the most military looking of establishments.

Ironman checked his watch as he flashed his retired military ID at the burly bouncer. He was fifteen minutes early. The bouncer pretended to study the ID for a moment and then waved him through the mirrored glass door. The relative silence of the lobby gave way to a blaring rock song as a girl made her best effort at flailing around the pole on stage. The banner above her proudly announced “Amateur Night�� as the younger airmen waved singles at her and cat called from the base of the stage.

Ironman chuckled to himself as the girl struggled with her top. He found a table in the corner of the dark room away from the stage and sat down. His white t-shirt and faded jeans glowed under the neon lights. He had changed out of his Desert ACUs that he usually wore just before driving out of the secure facility nestled in the center of MacDill Air Force Base near United States Central Command Headquarters. As his wife would tell anyone, Ironman was not known for his fashion sense.

As a former F/A-18 pilot and Joint Terminal Attack Controller that had been embedded with Navy SEALS in Afghanistan, Ironman preferred a uniform to anything else. The only variation he had ever needed was the change from summer whites to dress blues for which the Navy was famous. Otherwise, he preferred a flight suit or fatigues.

A scantily clad waitress shuffled up in her high heels to Ironman’s table. He ordered an ale and asked for the $5.99 steak special �� the rarer the better. As the petite young blonde finished taking his order, he slipped her a twenty and sent her on her way.

Ironman scanned the room as he leaned back into the plush booth. He hadn’t chosen the location by accident. He had a complete scan of the entire room and its rowdy occupants, including the most important part �� the door. As he continued the scan, he found the man he was looking for. The tall, slender Asian stood out in the homogenous crowd of military aviators, but given what Ironman knew about the man, he wondered if the guy even cared. Ruthless was the only word he could come up with to describe him.

Ironman checked his watch again as the pretty little waitress delivered his beer. It was 1900. His Breitling was still set on GMT from his recent trip to the sandbox. He never bothered changing it to local. It was always easier to just do the quick math to remind him where he was. As the Director of Project Archangel, he was almost always living out of his go-bag in some third world country. The world was full of hotspots, and although the current administration was nearing the end of its second term, the business of covert war had never been better.

Covert war. He had always thought it was a cute saying, but that was his job. He had been hand-picked by the previous administration to develop a team of special operators and aviators that could be deployed anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice with a minimal footprint while being self-sustaining. With its fleet of advanced Close Air Support fixed wing aircraft and helicopters, they could fight their way into any hot spot in the world and fight their way out without the US Government getting their hands dirty.

It had been the perfect retirement job for Ironman. He still got to see his wife and two girls most of the time while making money hand over fist as a high-level contractor and still being at the tip of the spear. It was a spear that, for the most part, even the most high level Pentagon officials didn’t know had been thrown until they read about it on the Internet days �� and sometimes even weeks �� later.

But despite the nice scenery as another sorority girl clumsily tried her luck on stage, his presence in the booth represented a part of the job he hated. His group was full of high-level operators and fighter pilots. They were all Type A personalities that worked hard and played hard. Most of the people he recruited had been screened extensively, but every now and then one guy would slip through the cracks. And then he would have to do damage control.

Sometimes it was simple �� the former SEAL who just couldn’t turn it off after spending three months being shot at and ended up putting five people in the hospital during a bar fight. Or one of his pilots who wound up in jail after leading police on a high-speed chase at speeds over 170 mph in a Corvette ZR1 while wearing Night Vision Goggles at three a. m. Those were easy, and often pretty funny. But Cal “Spectre�� Martin was different.

Spectre had been a problem child from the start. Ironman had been reluctant to even hire him. It had been his boss, then Secretary of Defense (SECDEF) and current Vice Presidential Candidate Kerry Johnson who had pushed the issue.

Ironman unwrapped his silverware from the paper napkin as the petite blonde returned with his steak. She walked off, he checked his watch one more time. 1915. Spectre was late. He looked back over at the Asian man he had picked out earlier. They made eye contact briefly as Ironman shrugged it off and returned to his steak.

It didn’t surprise him. Nothing in the file that Johnson’s aide had dropped on his desk screamed reliability. In fact, other than graduating at the top of his pilot training class, Spectre’s flying career had been less than impressive. Spectre hadn’t even upgraded to Instructor Pilot before being grounded after a deployment in Iraq.

In doing his due diligence, Ironman had pulled the mission report from Spectre’s last flight. Spectre had shown a reckless disregard for the current rules of engagement by employing ordnance while his flight lead was refueling at the tanker. He had even continued to prosecute the attack after the only qualified controller on the scene had been disabled. Although Ironman admitted that Spectre had probably saved more than a few lives that night, the action was evidence of a general lack of flight discipline.

Ironman had warned the SECDEF that Spectre wasn’t a good fit for the team. Spectre just didn’t meet the standard that had been set for Project Archangel’s pilots. On top of that, Spectre hadn’t flown in over five years. He had been working at a gun supply store in South Florida. Ironman initially resisted based on Spectre’s resume alone. When SECDEF effectively directed him to shut up and color, Ironman saluted smartly, said “Aye, Aye�� and drove down to Homestead, Florida to recruit Spectre. His first opportunity had been at the funeral of Spectre’s fiancée.

Ironman had never read the official report on the mishap involving Chloe Moss, but he knew there was more to her death than he had access to. The initial reports and eventual Air Force Accident Investigation Board investigation all said that Chloe Moss had fallen victim to spatial disorientation. Controlled flight into terrain, the reports said. But in his circle, the rumor mill had been running wild. The possible theories ran the gauntlet from defection to Cuba to a covert counter-intelligence mission against the Chinese. Despite his high-level clearance, he didn’t have a need to know for a lot of programs, but Ironman knew that the truth was somewhere in the middle while still being very far from the official cover story.

Spectre had seemed pretty shaken up at the funeral, and Ironman wasn’t even sure Spectre would return his phone call. He was hoping Spectre would just throw the card away and go on about his life. As he finished the last few bites of his steak and checked his watch again, he wished Spectre had. He would have much preferred to be spending his evening with his two daughters.

At first it appeared that Spectre was just as high level as any of the other members of the team. When Spectre made it through every level of the intense physical training, as well as the flight training, Ironman thought his initial assessments had been proven wrong. Spectre performed as well as any pilot he had put through the course, and almost as well as some of the Special Operators through the hand-to-hand combat and weapons phases. Ironman had been cautiously hopeful that Spectre had become the one-in-a-million undrafted free agent that football teams salivate for.

But a tiger can’t change his stripes, and when Ironman received the phone call that Spectre’s aircraft had been downed in Iraq, he kicked himself for letting his guard down. Spectre had failed to abort a mission when a pair of Syrian fighters scrambled to intercept his team. And when he finally did make the abort call, he managed to get himself shot down in the process. They were lucky Spectre’s aircraft had been the only one lost, but the team lost nearly three days in trying to recover Spectre from bad guy land �� time that could’ve been spent keeping chemical weapons out of the hands of terrorists in Syria.

Even more surprising to Ironman was the SECDEF’s reaction to the initial news. Although Ironman was not a huge fan of the man’s politics, he’d always thought Johnson to be a fair and compassionate person. He had been taken aback when the SECDEF outright refused to authorize an immediate Combat Search and Rescue Operation to find and retrieve Spectre. It was one of very few times Ironman had clashed with his boss. Johnson’s concern for creating an even bigger international incident had become more important than not leaving a man behind. Despite his reservations about Spectre, he was still a member of the team and deserved to go home to whatever family he had. It was simply unacceptable to Ironman.

Making matters worse, Spectre’s tag along had been very vocal in launching a rescue mission. To Ironman, Joe Carpenter was perhaps the closest thing to the magical free agent in the deal. Carpenter had been an Army Ranger and Air Force TAC/P. He was squared away and highly motivated. His record spoke for itself, and when Spectre asked to bring Carpenter along as part of the deal, it was a no brainer. Ironman wished he had stayed on the team after Spectre had been let go.

Let go. It was a polite way of saying fired. After being shot down in Syria, there was simply no way to justify Spectre’s presence on the team. As with his hiring, the SECDEF led the charge with his firing. There was no valid argument against it. Spectre had saved the other aircraft he had been escorting, but the entire incident could have been avoided if he had stuck to protocols and aborted. He was just too much of a wild card. Ironman had been disappointed that Carpenter quit in protest, but given their long-standing history together, he wasn’t surprised. It was a shame Carpenter had been killed a few days later.

Ironman checked his watch one more time as the Asian man stood from his table and approached. It was almost eight p. m. and it had become quite apparent that Spectre was a no show. At least he had gotten a cheap steak and free entertainment out of the deal.

The man walked up to Ironman’s booth and took his place across from Ironman. He was wearing a dark button down shirt and slacks. His dark goatee gave way to a sinister smile as he watched Ironman push aside his plate.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Steele?�� he asked.

“I can think of better ways to spend my evening,�� Ironman replied. “But not many.��

“I’m sure your two daughters would much rather have you home,�� the man said flatly.

Ironman’s brow furrowed. He never discussed his family outside of the people he trusted on his team, and the man across from him was neither on his team nor particularly trusted. He tried to hide his anger.

“Did I hit a nerve?�� the man said. He spoke with a slight Chinese accent, but his English was flawless.

“What do you want?�� Ironman asked impatiently.

“You said he would be here. He is not. Why?�� The man’s voice was almost robotic to Ironman. Beyond the forced grin, he seemed to exude no emotion whatsoever.

“I don’t know. I guess he had a change of heart,�� Ironman replied with a shrug. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled with me at the funeral.�� Ironman had attended Carpenter’s funeral, but despite Ironman’s offer to get to the bottom of Carpenter’s mysterious death, Spectre had been nothing but flippant during their brief encounter after the service.

“Do you know where he went?��

“Look, Xin, or Jiang, or whatever it is you go by,�� Ironman said as he slid out of the booth and put another twenty on the table. “I did what I was told to do. He didn’t show up. There’s nothing else I can do at this point.��

Xin stood to meet Ironman. He was nearly the same height, but much smaller in stature than the much bulkier man.

“You are right,�� Xin replied calmly.

Ironman waited for him to say something else as he stood within feet of the man. Ironman was used to dealing with angry special operations operators all the time, but Xin was downright scary. There was just something about him that creeped Ironman out.

“Let me know if I can do anything else for you,�� Ironman finally said, breaking the awkward silence.

“I will,�� Xin replied.

Ironman nodded and then turned to walk out, passing the stage as a wet t-shirt contest was just beginning. He shrugged off the feeling of terror he felt deep within his gut. He had landed on aircraft carriers at night in rough seas and bad weather, but nothing compared to the pit that had formed in his stomach.

“What have I gotten myself into?�� he mumbled to himself as he stepped out into the humid night air in the parking lot.

��