Caleb Fast's Blog, page 8

Review: B-17s Over Berlin

B-17s Over Berlin



By Ian L. Hawkins



My Rating 10/10

This is my all-time favorite WWII book (or it’s way up there, at the very least). A definite must-read for any World War enthusiast.

The content can’t be beat. This book is filled to the brim with first-hand accounts from quite a few airmen from the Second World War. These airmen all served in the 95th Bomb Group in the USAAF* (United States Army Air Force). These heroes’ roles in the fall of Hitler’s Europe cannot be overstated. Without the unwavering courage of these airmen, the war on Nazism could have very well been lost.

B-17s Over Berlin recounts numerous tales that range from lighthearted true stories and tall tales to harrowing recounts of death and near-death. This book provides valuable insight into the lives of these wonderful GIs, and I have read through it several times now.

This book also has several black-and-white photos that really help to paint a better picture of what these airmen saw. Many of these photos were taken during the various missions the bombers ran and they are beautiful.

I got the hardcover version of this book, and it is gorgeous. I highly recommend getting this one in hardcover, and I don’t say that often! It just commands such a presence.

My Store Review: (5 Stars)

This may very well be one of the best books on the Second World War. It follows the lives of quite a few US airmen in the USAAF who did what was thought to be impossible. They bombed Berlin in the broad daylight. I have the hardcover and love it! It has a prized place on my shelf.

A must-read (It is also a great source for research projects, I got quite a few A’s on assignments I referenced this book in.)

Caleb Fast’s Store Review

Sound interesting? Grab it on Amazon today!

Order B-17s Over Berlin Now

*Interestingly enough, the USAF (United States Air Force) didn’t come into being until after WWII. Up until World War Two the various bomber and fighter wings were all part of the Army or Navy and not part of their own Air Force.

Renaissance: The Limit of Infinity (Preview)

By Caleb Fast

Prelude



Northern Union, Earth

Lighting danced on the horizon as the Korolya Ptitsya lumbered over the Bering Strait. Martin Ranger watched as water spattered upon the cockpit windows of the outdated shuttle. Looking about the cockpit, he saw the patched remnant of a World War Four transport. Tools lay strewn about, many repair jobs were left partially done, and wires hung soldered together so many times they were unrecognizable looking more like the art from before the Third World War. The two Russian pilots, veterans of the Northern Union’s most recent civil war, sat in silence, keeping watchful eyes on the gauges because the indication lights had long since gone out, or been salvaged for use elsewhere.

Martin chuckled as he wondered why he even paid money for this flight back to Dallas. Sure, he did want back with his son, but he thought it would be better if he made it in one piece, this hulking junker was a death trap.

The lights flickered and the Korolya Ptitsya shuttered as it dove for the dark water below, the lights then died, and only the occasional lightning strike lit the cockpit. Martin grabbed hold of his arm rests and checked his harness for the hundredth time. He listened as the engines growled in protest to the pilot’s’ attempts to restart it. It had already stalled twice, but those were above land. Sputtering, and wheezing, the engines turned over. Most of the lights flicked back on and everyone relaxed a bit.

“Spokoynoy nochi,” Martin said to the pilots as he struggled against his safety harness. Breaking free from its stone grip and exiting the cockpit, Martin heard the copilot said something about “Outworlders” and “Beauty sleep” as the door slid shut behind him. With a laugh, Martin tried to recall a few of the directions the pilot had given him, as he searched among the crates and countless dead ends that made up the bulk of the ship’s cargo bay. Eventually, as if by a miracle, he finally found himself in the passenger area. He looked at the sad faces of the sleeping refugees from all over Northern Europe, as he made his way down the narrow aisle, occasionally tripping over an outstretched leg in the dark. Finally, he slid into his personal quarters. Being wealthy, Martin had decided he wanted a cot and not just a seat to sleep in, he didn’t splurge on much of anything, other than his travel arrangements. It was a nine-hour flight from Arkhangelsk, to Dallas, and then off to his family, in Athens, Alexandria with first-class accommodations the rest of way.

Sitting on the threadbare sheets of the cot -which actually was just several boxes pushed together- Martin opened his suitcase and took out his dated laptop. His father had told him many times the stories that this laptop had lived through, told him how it was good luck and would bring him home. He had told Martin of the time my great-great (and a countless more greats)-granddaddy had bought it when he served in the army about two hundred years ago, told me how it had stopped a bullet when my great-grandpappy had been ambushed in the jungles of Peru on a humanitarian trip—Martin paused to trace the pockmark the bullet had left—his father had told him how it had even brought his parents together. His father had told him, ‘Sometimes you gotta trust the old-fashioned ways…’ that speech like all the others were ignored by the arrogant twelve-year-old. ‘Another long speech,’ was what Martin called them.

Martin tapped the worn power button and the laptop hummed to life. Although the laptop had likely been repaired more time than the trash heap he was flying in, it held much more value. With a buzz of protest, the screen flashed to life. A tear ran down Martin’s face as he looked at the screensaver, which was a short clip of his father waving goodbye on his last trip. Martin had taken that video for his mother when he was sixteen. She had told him that even though she couldn’t see my father off, she at least wanted it filmed. Martin had protested, not only was it weird to see someone filming a video of a space shuttle taking off, but because he had grown apart from his father. He had felt so wronged by the fact his father spent more time on trips than with him. He had grown to the point where he didn’t even go to the ball games his father had bought seats with the team in the dugout. He didn’t dare call him daddy, or even dad. Father was what he called him in his own act of rebellion. He told himself every day that he hated his father. Everyone he knew had their dads with them at every school event, Martin’s father could never make it.

On his final business trip, Martin had finally broken, telling his dad that he hated him. He screamed it. He had told him he would rather his father not even come home. Pain had overtaken his father’s eyes the moment the word left his mouth. When Martin had told him, he didn’t want him back, a lone tear fell across his father’s face. Martin pushed his father away as he tried to give him a so-long hug. Martin remembered his dad telling him no matter what he would always love him as he took a step back. Martin remembered watching the broken shell of a man who had been his father walk to his flight. The broken shell he had just created.

Martin wiped the tear from his face as he regretted everything he did to mistreat his father. Beneath the hate was a caged love. He didn’t truly mean anything he said. Martin remembered wanting to race to his father and hug him and say sorry a million times. As he considered apologizing, the shuttle roared to life, Martin remembered filming the take off with shaking hands. He remembered getting home and calling his father from the in-home comm-station. Behind him he had heard the sound of his father’s laptop chirping with its call waiting sound, his dad had left it on the table. The weeks that followed Martin had starved himself. He hated himself because his father was a great man. He had been going to another war-torn planet to deliver aid to exhausted people who had their lives ruined by the long civil war. Martin had waited awake for hours at the home’s comm-station, awaiting his father to send any message.

Finally, Martin remembered racing to the shuttle depot after the long month. He had planned a week of what he had hoped would lift his father’s spirits and show him how sorry he was. He had put together most of his money to take his father and mom to the nicest restaurant in the city. He had planned to tell his father he did love him, to apologize. Martin had waited in the terminal for hours until his father’s shuttle arrived. He had stood to greet him, trying also to see over the heads of the passengers and refugees. One had stopped in front of with his face ashen and had rattled something off to him in some language he had never heard. Eventually, the crowds had all left, and Martin approached the desk clerk, asking where his father was. The look she had given him was one he had never seen before. She had told him to go to the cargo hold, Martin tried to clarify that it was his father, not a piece of luggage.

The clerk had then said, “I know honey. I know. He’s down there though,”

Mystified and hopeful, Martin made his way to the unloading dock, marching through the maze of the spaceport’s innards. He found the man in charge and asked of his father.

“Martin Ranger? Humph. Your daddy’s dead, kid,” He had continued, reading off this and that to me, and even taking time to give out more orders, “Now get out of my sight. I’ve told you where he is.”

A crewmember of his father’s flight guided me to the morgue. Martin was shown the broken shell of a great man. He had screamed in defiance, as if the scream could bring back his father. For hours he had stood there. Lost. Hopeless. A few people drifted in and out. His mom had awakened him hours after he had cried himself to sleep. Tenderly, she had led him out, and after months she had him as put back together as possible.

Martin closed his eyes and let the images of his mother play before his eyes. Her love for him kept her going, while his love for her kept him going. She was too busy with him to care for herself, and after three years she had died. By then though, Martin had grown acquainted with death. His counselor had told him forgetting was how to go on. Sure, forgetting didn’t truly work, but it was a defense. Martin touched the screen and the image of his father’s last moments disappeared. They were replaced with the image of his family. His beautiful wife and son—who somehow inherited his mother’s blue eyes and a blue tuft of hair—smiled towards the camera as they sat in the courtyard of their penthouse, “Hello, Natallia,” Martin whispered. Natallia had been dead for seven years. Martin’s son Clive was only a year old when she died, so he didn’t go through the pain of loss like Martin had. Martin traced his deceased wife’s face and eventually taped the only icon on the screen. The laptop chimed happily for a moment before Clive answered the call on the other end.

“Hi, daddy,” Clive’s image said as it filled the screen.

“Hey, Clivey!” Martin smiled, forgetting his cabin conditions as he looked at his strong young boy, “Where’s Lydia?” he went on to asking of their caretaker whom he hired after his wife’s death.

“But dad… I wanna talk to you,”

“Alright,” Martin immediately gave in. It had been weeks since they last spoke due to his hospital visits and the lack of comm-arrays in Russia, “What do you want to talk about?”

Clive spoke for an hour, as Martin listened enthusiastically. He watched as Clive showed him what he learned at school. Smiled as he listened to Clive recite the last four meals he had had (surely with some embellishment, cookies and cake were brought up countless times). Martin had told Lydia, ‘Only the best for Clive,’ she saw to it. She showed love in a way towards Clive like Martin thought only Natalia could show it.

“Promise?”

“Prom—”

The cabin lights flickered again, and Martin paused mid-word to search for a safety harness of some sort. The engine continued to hum in the distance. He felt the ground buck and heard a metallic thud as he was thrown from his feet. The lights continued flickering as Martin struggled to get to his feet. The lights shut off, and the only illumination in the room was the laptop with Clive’s face.

Martin looked up to his laptop, and saw Clive’s scared face, “I love you Cli—”

Chapter One



Paradise, Galatia

Seventeen Years later

“Wake up! Up! Up! Up!” Commander Jenniston calls, “Another day of work, another day closer to freedom.”

Jenniston hit the lights of the cell, illuminating the grey walls, floor, and ceiling. At one time they may have been one solid shade of grey, but between vandalism, age, and blood, the color had long since changed to its current patchy state. Like the rest of the prison, cracks lined every surface. The ground was settling faster than the Coalition anticipated when it rebuilt the prison about fifteen years back, but everyone knows the cracks are by no means a way of escape. Venturing outside of these walls meant leaving the security of them, which meant certain death.

Clive, along with the other prisoners squint against the harsh lights. Awakened from his same old nightmare to another entirely different nightmare. His dad had been gone for almost seventeen years, yet he still couldn’t move on. Every morning the same images of his father, of the flash, then of the empty cabin with the gaping hole. A streak of blood on the floor marked his father’s final attempts of survival. And then there was always the lights, the wakeup call, the work. Life on the prison world of Galatia was not something many –or any—were cut out for.

Jenniston looks around the room studying the twenty bunks, and their exhausted occupants. Eventually, her eyes rest on one bunk, bunk TA-12, “Ah, another one,” She walks towards the bunk barking some obscure orders into her comm unit. She draws her bloodied baton, “Up!” after several strikes, Jenniston then covertly check for a pulse, only to find the body cold to the touch.

Clive watches a squadron of guards march into the room, “What are your orders, commander?” Captain Richardson dismissively asks Jenniston who is still hovering over the dead man like an assassin over their first contract kill.

“Take this rat to the furnace,” Jenniston says, drawing her revolver and shooting the dead man, turning to the others she continues, “Anyone else too tired to work? Any of you want a day off too?” You can join your friend here!” She flips the bunkbed, throwing the dead man, and the inmate on the bunk above him the ground.

The man from the upper bunk scurries to his feet and back up to a wall where he finds some semblance of safety. The others look at each other helplessly, three of them give a defeated nod which tells the others, ‘We are done, good luck to you.’ Clive catches their attention and silently pleads them not to give up yet.

“Line up!” Jenniston ordered.

Sixteen men stand and shuffle into a haphazard line. The three remain next to their bunks, pale, defeated, and yet, still defiant. The three look at Jenniston, at the guards, then finally back to their friends, they pat their hearts gently as they look to their friends, giving them their final goodbyes the Paradise way. Jenniston and the guards notice the men at the same time. Clive and the rest of the prisoners return the Paradise farewell as everyone focuses on the three.

“Your choice,” Jenniston says, she continues to the guards, “Guards, no need to be humane. Make them suffer. Drinks on me for whoever can keep theirs alive the longest.”

The sixteen look away and begin to shuffle toward the door, as is the protocol. Suddenly, another gunshot rings out, and the inmate leading the line crumbles to the ground. The rest of the line raises their hands and clasp them behind their heads, per yet another protocol. Clive glances down to the latest kill, lying in a pool of his own blood was Raymond, a man who had shared stories about his time as a Coalition politician before he leaked some documents to the Resistance to save countless lives. Raymond had always assured Clive that he would do it all again, saying, ‘I’d rather die an honest man, than a rich one.’ It looks like he got his wish, Clive thinks solemnly as he slowly looks away from his dead friend.

“Did I say you could leave…?” Jenniston asks with a cruel grin, as she slaps her neck idly with her revolver, “I’m offended that you didn’t want to stay for the show, in fact… I think you should take part in all the fun!” Jenniston takes three guns from some of the guards, releasing their magazines, she hands the weapons over to three inmates. The three hesitantly take the weapons, then hold them loosely at a distance. Looking distastefully at the weapons, they glance around the room in concern.

“Go on,” Jenniston prods, “I don’t have all day.”

“I will never,” A once-handsome man who went by Brett says, “I can’t. I won’t hurt my friends.”

“Very well,” Jenniston says with a passive nod. Another gunshot. Another body. She picks up the rifle from the fresh puddle of blood and selects another appointee. She continues in a condescending voice mostly to Clive, “If you don’t kill these three, I may just kill everyone in the first shift in the mines. That’s all seven wings of the mines too. What is that Clive? You’re good with numbers, right?”

“That’s… Well, that’s f-fourteen hundred people!” Clive stutters as he realizes this was no empty threat, Jenniston was serious. He knew for a fact that she wasn’t bluffing because there were countless accounts of her purges that found themselves spreading to the outside world.

The chosen three fix their gazes upon the condemned who lower their heads in consent. Clive taps his foot to get the others’ attention, and nods to them giving the order to comply, once he sees they are paying attention to him. The three grasp their rifles a little tighter, and look up, their faces showing determination as they prepare to save the lives of hundreds at the expense of a few friends.

“I thought you snakes would agree,” Jenniston says mockingly, oblivious to the fact that the three were acting on Clive’s orders, not hers, “Go on. Send these rats from one Hell to another. And everyone will watch. I’m sure you all can learn something from this.”

Clive looks toward the six men, but gazes past the scene that was about to unfold, as do the other men. No one should watch broken men get killed like this. We sure will learn something, Clive tells himself as he stares past the scene, And that’s how we will kill you. Clive puts up a mental barricade, muffling the cries of pain that sound from the condemned as they are beaten to death with the rifles. There’s something about cries of pain like that, something no one can forget. Cries that one should never hear, and never grow used to. The cries that Clive has heard thousand times, and can never completely block out, despite his best efforts.

Jenniston watches with a devilish grin as three men are destroyed, under her orders. The absolute power she has makes her tremble with excitement. After what felt to her like only a moment, two bodies lay before her, battered and bloodied. Only one still clings to life when Jenniston orders, “Stop,”

The three prisoners snap out of their dutiful trance, jumping from the bloodied mounds before them. These were once their friends, men with names, with families, they had killed them. They toss the weapons aside and fall to their knees. Richie, one of the chosen three, finally breaks, and weeps openly. His tears running down his face, washing away the blood which had splattered onto his face. His cries echoing off the cold concrete walls, his wails are soon accompanied with those of the other two.

“Leave this one to bleed out,” Jenniston orders. She strides confidently over to the door before she continues coolly, “And don’t clean this mess. I need it for evidence in our investigation. Why would these three suddenly kill their friends?”

Clive snaps to attention as he hears the lies being spun before him. How could a woman be so cruel? He listens, shocked as Jenniston tells the story of what “Really happened” saying the three were found killing these men after they killed the man in bunk TA-12. They are to be exiled on the outside of the prison walls. None survive the beasts of the wilds beyond the walls. Clive had heard that Jenniston was apt to make up these coverup stories for her own benefit, but had never been present for one, he shudders at the thought of anyone buying the lies.

The three look through their tears to their friends. They had killed and were to be killed by the beasts beyond the walls. That is the justice system of Paradise Galatia, no matter how one looked at it. They were to be left to fend for themselves against creatures bred from a hundred of years of “science” and inbreeding. The resulting creatures made up a huge variety of killing machines which few live to tell about. When these creatures first arrived, they killed half of the people of the Galatian jungles in a matter of a few months. After nearly a year the galactic superpowers sought to contain the creatures they had created. The result was a hundred-meter-tall wall encircled by the ancient jungles, the prime location for an inescapable prison, Or at least that’s what they believe, Clive thinks.

“Alright you three,” Richardson says as he gently helps one of the inmates to their feet, “Up. You heard commander Jenniston.”

When the three are standing, Richardson quietly leads them out of the cell to their certain end, his team in tow.

“As for you,” Jenniston says, facing the remaining prisoners, “You’ve missed your breakfast. It’s too bad too, I heard they had protein bars today. Straight to the mines with you. Move it.”

•••••••••••••••

Clive and the others shuffle by the cafeteria longingly as they make their way to the west wing of the prison for the morning shift. Every corridor has an automated security check, Clive flashes his prison ID and walks through, leading his line of inmates into the mines. As he was told by the last Mr. X, ‘Some men are born leaders, others are thrust into that position,’ Clive was one of those forced leaders. Mr. X was the title given to the person responsible for planning escape attempts, and now Clive had the ‘honor.’ He stops at the entrance of the titanium mine’s west shaft, allowing the rest of the two hundred people charged with working the west wing file in around him. It has been the same workload for the last year and a half. Clive has outlived most every prisoner in the complex, so he has been deemed the luckiest man in Paradise. As he told everyone who uttered the idea, he was anything but lucky to stay alive in here.

“The others wanted me to ask you, sir,” Jenessa Gurst, a tall, built woman from Sinerra, and Clive’s second says, as she leads the line of female inmates alongside Clive’s, “Where were you and your roommates? You didn’t show up for the morning mess, and we were kept clear of the area all morning.”

Jenessa had fallen off the grid several months before Clive was captured. She had led countless task forces for Clive up until the moment she disappeared, alongside the entire team that Clive had sent out with her. It wasn’t until Clive found her a couple months ago in Paradise that he got the full story. Evidently the ship she had been on was carrying some sort of disease, and after several months in Coalition quarantine, Jenessa was the last survivor. When a Coalition emissary came to visit the quarantine area, he immediately recognized Jenessa, who was quickly arrested. After several months in various prisons, Jenessa found herself here, in the dumping ground of the Coalition’s most dangerous enemies.

“Jenniston made another surprise check-in. Dean died last night, Jenniston found the body, and it all went south from there,” Clive briefs Jenessa on the events, without turning, “She exiled three of our boys too, including our demo expert Richie,” Finishing, Clive pulls the lever for the lift, with a groan, the lift races into the shafts below.

Lights play on the faces of the two hundred as the freight elevator roars along, eventually grinding to a halt far from the actual mine shaft. Here, work lights illuminate a rickety tower of scaffolding rising the hundred meters necessary to reach the ragtag elevator. One by one, everyone makes their way to the shaft below. Everyone shuffles along, all to their respective tunnels for another day of work in the dank, poorly lit tunnels of Paradise.

“So, does that push our plans back again, sir?” Jenessa asks, as she and Clive make their way to their station, “Because we are losing our strength, and our hope, sir.”

“No,” Clive says, picking up a dull, worn pickaxe and getting to work, “In fact, I think I may push things ahead, I think we can convince a few of the guards to join us.”

“Who? And how? They all serve Jenniston diligently, sir.”

“Captain Richardson seems to be disturbed and sick of Jenniston’s cruel treatment. I’m sure he would be willing to help, if not, at least for a price.”

“And how do you suppose we pay him, sir? Open up our wallets and hand him a few of… whatever they use here? We don’t have anything.” Jenessa says hopelessly as she takes an angry swing at the tunnel wall nearest her with her pickax. Grit and dust go flying, which sets Jenessa off, and she takes several dozen swings as she grits her teeth.

Once Jenessa has calmed down, Clive reaches into a crevasse in the wall, and pulls out a small bag. Smiling, he opens it to show Jenessa as he continues with a chuckle, “There’s several billion Coalition dollars’ worth in here. Did you really dare to doubt my resourcefulness?”

“How?” Jenessa asks, curiosity, and a flash of hope blooming in her eyes.

“Last month I found a small seam of these gems. I dug up what I could, and then boarded up the shaft. If Jenniston found out she was sitting on something of real value… I hate to imagine what she would do. Now, we just have to make sure Jenniston and Triborn hear nothing of this and we should be home free.”

Clive quickly tucks the gems into the folds of his tattered prison garb as a line of inmates shuffle by him and Jenessa. Once they are all out of earshot, Jenessa presses, “What about the old plan? If Richardson joins us, that’ll make everything easier, right?”

“It will,” Clive answers confidently as he smashes a nearby rock.

“Are you sure about Richardson?”

“I wouldn’t offer it unless I was certain. I trust his team too.”

“Well… I guess they aren’t like the rest,”

“They’ve treated us better than the other guards. They treat us like we’re people too. You and I both know that they want out of here as bad as we do.” Clive presses, his mind was already made up; he was going to recruit Richardson, his only issue was that he wanted Jenessa’s support. Leading everyone to their potential deaths was a burden Clive wasn’t interested in bearing alone, if she was on board, that would make everything easier on him.

“You’ve got your mind made up,” Jenessa observes, “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I think he’s our best bet,” Clive cedes with a shrug, “I think we could get more people out this way too.”

“But he and his team are always down here with us, we’ll need to be in the hangar… how will he help us up there?”

“Triborn and his team sweep the mines after every shift, if we knock them out, Richardson is next in line to take over.”

“Won’t Jenniston suspect us?”

“I’ve got a plan,”

“Can’t you just tell me the plan for once?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Clive asks with a chuckle before falling into a coughing fit, the dingy tunnels always made him cough. Clive wobbles over to a nearby cart and glances back to an exasperated Jenessa before pushing the cart toward the exit of the tunnel. He pauses just long enough to call back, “I’ll tell you at the end of the shift.”

If you want to know what happens next, then click below and buy it now!

By Renaissance Now!

The Limit of Infinity Overview

The Limit of Infinity starts in the year 2290 and is the very first series I published.

I started writing this series all the way back in 2014. Back then, I was still in Middle School and I was just writing a book to write a book. Over the next five years, I continued writing this, and several other books, and I heard time and time again that I needed to publish my works.

Now with three books out in this series, I am finally following all those requests!

The Limit of Infinity represents everything I ever wanted in a science fiction book. I figured that if I was writing a book, I may as well do it my way.

That means that I got to have all the fighting I wanted, all the different societies. It meant I could include all the ails that I thought would plague the ideal sci-fi universe that was about to get into the bloodiest war that had ever been fought.

It also meant I could, and would, include all the aspects that made my writing unique. That meant I could focus on what I liked most in books, and avoid things I always found annoying. Like, who actually cares how tall a character in a book is? I mean, really? How does Sally Huntsmith being 5-feet-two-and-an-eighth-inches tall help anyone?

I have always preferred books that keep extraneous details out. Give me everything I need to picture where I am/where the story is taking place, and leave Sally’s exact height out of it! I love reading about how the coastal hills cascade toward the rolling seas below. How there is a quaint seaside town that belongs as much to the sea as it does the land. But sometimes people go so overboard.

I like to keep things concise to the story I’m telling. I’ll tell you what you need to know, paint a picture of where you are, and tell you what people are feeling and what’s going on. As I see it, there’s no point in telling you that Sally’s crush in kindergarten stole part of her shoelace.

So, with my lecture out of the way, here’s The Limit of Infinity!

The Limit of Infinity



Book One is Available on Amazon!Book Two is Available on Amazon!Book Three is Available on Amazon!



Renaissance: The Limit of Infinity Book One

Clive Ranger was born into a war that has raged on for generations.

Across the galaxy, families have been torn apart and cities have been razed. But Clive may be the one who shifts the tide of the rebellion that has risen up against the evil Coalition. 

The Coalition has locked away countless men and women utilizing them as slave labor across the galaxy. Clive is one of these unfortunate souls. However, he isn’t alone. Most everyone in the prison has their own scores to settle against the Coalition.

After all, it was the Coalition that killed their families, friends, and everyone they once knew.

Clive has a plan, and followers who have nothing to lose.

Can they finally retake their freedom?

Can they end the war they were all born into?

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Escapade: A Price to Be Paid Book Two

On the run from the Coalition’s forces,

Clive Ranger is at the helm of the outdated Resistance Fleet from Allur.

Thanks to Clive, the Resistance force on Allur is on the run, leaving behind the lives the comfortable lives they once knew. Leading the Resistance’s legendary Eagle Fleet, Clive continues his journey to his anticipated safe-haven.  

Clive hopes to continue his lifelong vendetta from here, far from the Coalition’s prying eyes. Fortunately, Clive is not alone, Trix and Richardson also have their own scores to settle with the Coalition. As do countless others in the Resistance.

But, not everything goes as planned when the retreating Resistance force arrives at Strehim.

Clive will find that the worst is yet to come.

Clive will have to reckon with the fact that he still has much to lose.

He needs to learn that the Coalition can still take away things he holds dear, including his own life, and the lives of his friends.  

Read the Preview…



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Overcomer: No Man Left Behind Book Three

When nothing goes as planned, thinking on your feet is the only way to stay alive.

Clive is desperate after losing contact with every team he sent ahead to scout out Strehim. Every single team. 

He knows that he is in a race against the clock to find them. He also knows that he’s in for a load more trouble, if the clouds of missiles he already faced were any indicator. 

As for those on the ground, they are fighting for their lives without any way to contact the fleet. 

Cut off from help, it is them, their wits, and whatever they may hope to find against a seemingly hostile world. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Or should we say, could things get worse?

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More books are to come, don’t worry! I’m writing as fast as I can!