Steve Wilson's Blog - Posts Tagged "excerpt"
Chapter One excerpt--Evil Empire
The lobby was enclosed by expansive glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling. The visual effect was intentional. A local architect had designed the building, paying particular attention to the entrance, and giving the structure a certain symbolism. It was a nod to the newspaper’s mission—providing transparency to life—but the metaphor was lost on most city-dwellers.
Viktoriya Gavrilenko checked her image in the glass, heels clattering as she exited the offices of the Odesa Sivodnya. Her outerwear did little to deflect attention, but that was never her goal. The coat she wore was a double-breasted trench, made of white leather, with wide lapels on either side of the cowl-neck sweater crowning her shoulders. An ivory belt was cinched around her narrow waist, with black denim jeans and matching shoes for contrast.
The young journalist took to the sidewalk and began moving east on Balkovskaya Street. Her appearance earned a few admiring glances, but Viktoriya paid no attention. Navigating through pedestrians, her head was tilted down as she checked her phone.
“She just came out.” The man in the car had a wireless headset.
His accomplice was across the street, leaning against a kiosk and pretending to read the morning edition. A receiver was stuck in his ear.
“Right on time.”
She checked her email first. Viktoriya’s in-box contained only a few messages—which was both a relief and a disappointment. A trending story on a news site caught her eye next. Archaeologists in neighboring Poland were poking around a riverbed near Warsaw. The report looked interesting; she scanned the highlights and then filed it away for later.
There was a chill in the air, not uncommon for Odessa on an October afternoon. Viktoriya clutched her collar just a bit closer and kept walking. A tram stop was one street over on Rozumovskaya. The aging conveyance was always on time, and if she caught the 5:05, she could be home in less than twenty minutes.
From half a block away, Sergei Holcek matched the woman’s pace and kept his distance. He allowed himself a smug grin. She was making his job easy. With the way she was dressed, it would be hard to lose her now.
A head taller than those around him, he was a stocky man, in his mid-forties with graying temples. He had been watching Viktoriya’s movements for the past two days. She didn’t own a car, and the towering Russian knew she’d hop on the trolley approaching from the far side of town.
“Get into position,” Sergei ordered.
“On my way.”
The driver revved the engine. The Mercedes crept past Viktoriya slowly, allowing him one last eyeful. The woman had more curves than—
“Focus on your driving, tavarisch,” the Russian snapped.
The man in the car turned away.
“Such a waste.”
He left Viktoriya and Sergei behind, and then turned on the next street, headed north.
Holcek stared ahead, scouting the terrain. The intersection was crowded with Ladas and other Eastern European models. The congestion didn’t concern him; in fact, he was silently thankful for it. A glance to the north gave him a fix on his escape route, an alley between the main thoroughfare and Kolinsky Street. The Russian breathed deeply, measuring his steps and gauging the arrival of the tram.
Sergei resumed his surveillance. His mark was right where she should be, so the Russian began assessing obstacles. There were no militia cars in sight, and no officers walking a beat.
All the better, he thought.
Small groups began milling toward the corner, waiting for the trolley. Holcek glanced at those closest to Viktoriya and moved a little faster. She arrived at the stop just as he crossed Rozumovskaya.
It was time for one last check.
“Ready?”
The receiver crackled in Holcek’s ear. “Waiting for you.”
“Keep the motor running.”
The driver could hear the anxiety in Sergei’s voice. “I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
She was still alone. A loose-knit throng of commuters stood nearby. Sergei gave them a studied look. Most were simple office workers who wanted to go home. A few tourists had wandered up from the port, and students from the Institute huddled together, portfolios clutched under their arms. Close to the corner, an old babushka sold flowers, a display of nested matryoshka dolls on her cart.
The tourists and students weren’t a concern. Holcek was more interested in picking out individuals. Beneath the stop’s canopy, a transient weaved from side to side, his posture stooped. He wore a dirty, hooded sweatshirt; Holcek gave him a passing glance and then dismissed his presence. Another man was now standing to Viktoriya’s left, stealing glances as she waited. A third—very tall—ignored everything else except his hand-held mobile device.
Truly a shame, Holcek reflected. Throughout his life he had been a connoisseur of beautiful women. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to enjoy this one; but business was business, and his handlers were paying him well. It was just too bad that Viktoriya Gavrilenko had to die.
The Russian stood patiently as the tram slowed. The students moved toward the street, and would be the first to board. Holcek got into position next to the man with the roaming eyes, while Viktoriya fell in behind the tourists.
“Astarozheneh,” Attention; a metallic voice squeaked from a speaker. “Dveri atkraviyetseh,”—doors opening. No one disembarked at this stop, and the small group began crowding forward.
Holcek reached into his jacket. A 9 millimeter Beretta rested in a holster on his left side. The weapon was heavier than usual, equipped with a noise suppressor. The Russian had also chosen subsonic ammunition, not terribly effective over great distances—but certainly lethal at close range.
The plan was simple enough, and bold. Sergei would wait until Viktoriya took her first step into the tram. He would press in from the rear, raise the weapon to the base of her skull and fire two rounds.
Things would happen quickly from that point.
As the young woman fell forward, Holcek intended to make a hasty retreat, capitalizing on confusion and shock. Street traffic would slow anyone who might try to follow him. The Russian would then race into the alley, and the driver would take over, carrying the assassin on a pre-determined path out of town.
Holcek filled his lungs again. The tourists had taken their time—had he imagined their sloth, or was he just nervous?—but had finally entered the idling streetcar. Viktoriya paused as the last one ascended the steps, and then edged to the open door.
Time to move...
Viktoriya Gavrilenko checked her image in the glass, heels clattering as she exited the offices of the Odesa Sivodnya. Her outerwear did little to deflect attention, but that was never her goal. The coat she wore was a double-breasted trench, made of white leather, with wide lapels on either side of the cowl-neck sweater crowning her shoulders. An ivory belt was cinched around her narrow waist, with black denim jeans and matching shoes for contrast.
The young journalist took to the sidewalk and began moving east on Balkovskaya Street. Her appearance earned a few admiring glances, but Viktoriya paid no attention. Navigating through pedestrians, her head was tilted down as she checked her phone.
“She just came out.” The man in the car had a wireless headset.
His accomplice was across the street, leaning against a kiosk and pretending to read the morning edition. A receiver was stuck in his ear.
“Right on time.”
She checked her email first. Viktoriya’s in-box contained only a few messages—which was both a relief and a disappointment. A trending story on a news site caught her eye next. Archaeologists in neighboring Poland were poking around a riverbed near Warsaw. The report looked interesting; she scanned the highlights and then filed it away for later.
There was a chill in the air, not uncommon for Odessa on an October afternoon. Viktoriya clutched her collar just a bit closer and kept walking. A tram stop was one street over on Rozumovskaya. The aging conveyance was always on time, and if she caught the 5:05, she could be home in less than twenty minutes.
From half a block away, Sergei Holcek matched the woman’s pace and kept his distance. He allowed himself a smug grin. She was making his job easy. With the way she was dressed, it would be hard to lose her now.
A head taller than those around him, he was a stocky man, in his mid-forties with graying temples. He had been watching Viktoriya’s movements for the past two days. She didn’t own a car, and the towering Russian knew she’d hop on the trolley approaching from the far side of town.
“Get into position,” Sergei ordered.
“On my way.”
The driver revved the engine. The Mercedes crept past Viktoriya slowly, allowing him one last eyeful. The woman had more curves than—
“Focus on your driving, tavarisch,” the Russian snapped.
The man in the car turned away.
“Such a waste.”
He left Viktoriya and Sergei behind, and then turned on the next street, headed north.
Holcek stared ahead, scouting the terrain. The intersection was crowded with Ladas and other Eastern European models. The congestion didn’t concern him; in fact, he was silently thankful for it. A glance to the north gave him a fix on his escape route, an alley between the main thoroughfare and Kolinsky Street. The Russian breathed deeply, measuring his steps and gauging the arrival of the tram.
Sergei resumed his surveillance. His mark was right where she should be, so the Russian began assessing obstacles. There were no militia cars in sight, and no officers walking a beat.
All the better, he thought.
Small groups began milling toward the corner, waiting for the trolley. Holcek glanced at those closest to Viktoriya and moved a little faster. She arrived at the stop just as he crossed Rozumovskaya.
It was time for one last check.
“Ready?”
The receiver crackled in Holcek’s ear. “Waiting for you.”
“Keep the motor running.”
The driver could hear the anxiety in Sergei’s voice. “I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
She was still alone. A loose-knit throng of commuters stood nearby. Sergei gave them a studied look. Most were simple office workers who wanted to go home. A few tourists had wandered up from the port, and students from the Institute huddled together, portfolios clutched under their arms. Close to the corner, an old babushka sold flowers, a display of nested matryoshka dolls on her cart.
The tourists and students weren’t a concern. Holcek was more interested in picking out individuals. Beneath the stop’s canopy, a transient weaved from side to side, his posture stooped. He wore a dirty, hooded sweatshirt; Holcek gave him a passing glance and then dismissed his presence. Another man was now standing to Viktoriya’s left, stealing glances as she waited. A third—very tall—ignored everything else except his hand-held mobile device.
Truly a shame, Holcek reflected. Throughout his life he had been a connoisseur of beautiful women. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to enjoy this one; but business was business, and his handlers were paying him well. It was just too bad that Viktoriya Gavrilenko had to die.
The Russian stood patiently as the tram slowed. The students moved toward the street, and would be the first to board. Holcek got into position next to the man with the roaming eyes, while Viktoriya fell in behind the tourists.
“Astarozheneh,” Attention; a metallic voice squeaked from a speaker. “Dveri atkraviyetseh,”—doors opening. No one disembarked at this stop, and the small group began crowding forward.
Holcek reached into his jacket. A 9 millimeter Beretta rested in a holster on his left side. The weapon was heavier than usual, equipped with a noise suppressor. The Russian had also chosen subsonic ammunition, not terribly effective over great distances—but certainly lethal at close range.
The plan was simple enough, and bold. Sergei would wait until Viktoriya took her first step into the tram. He would press in from the rear, raise the weapon to the base of her skull and fire two rounds.
Things would happen quickly from that point.
As the young woman fell forward, Holcek intended to make a hasty retreat, capitalizing on confusion and shock. Street traffic would slow anyone who might try to follow him. The Russian would then race into the alley, and the driver would take over, carrying the assassin on a pre-determined path out of town.
Holcek filled his lungs again. The tourists had taken their time—had he imagined their sloth, or was he just nervous?—but had finally entered the idling streetcar. Viktoriya paused as the last one ascended the steps, and then edged to the open door.
Time to move...
Trinity Icon--The 'Back of the Book Summary'
For everyone who's been asking what 'Trinity Icon' is all about, here's the summary that will appear in all press releases and promotional material. Keep in mind that this was written a year ago when I put the outline together for the book. I'd like to think it's prescient; at the very least, it's fascinating to see how fiction sometimes gets ahead of reality.
One more thing; I'd like to post another excerpt from the book. There's no time limit, but once I reach 125 likes on The Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page, I'll post one right here. I think that's a reasonable figure, given that the page currently has 109 likes.
Enough of that. Here's the summary...
"A new president is elected, and Willis Avery is tapped to fill the position of Secretary of Defense. But before he can accept this new role, he must navigate a maze of foreign policy issues--and keep the Russian government at bay.
In Central Europe, Poland has rejected a plan to position a missile shield on their soil--until a threat from beyond their borders creates havoc. Fanning the flames of conflict, Moscow begins supplying Tehran with new weaponry, and during testing, an Iranian ICBM veers off course with tragic results. The Polish government turns to NATO--and the United States--for protection.
The National Security Advisor conceives a plan to strengthen ties with the former republics. With the defensive shield now back on the table, Willis Avery envisions an even broader network of emplacements, providing greater security to nations bordering Russia. His strategy depends on the cooperation of the breakaway states in the region--and the help of Captain Michael Neill.
After successful assignments in Ukraine and the South China Sea, Neill is tasked as a liaison. To convince the republics, he enlists the aid of an old friend, General Andrei Ulyanov—and, if he can keep her alive, the dynamic and beautiful Viktoriya Gavrilenko.
The stage is set for increased tension when the former Soviet empire threatens an arms race, and along the way, Neill becomes caught up in the search for a lost religious icon--foretold by legend to restore the faith of a disheartened people. But that’s not all; the Marine’s very heart is laid bare, and there’s no denying the growing feelings he has for someone very close to him . . ."
One more thing; I'd like to post another excerpt from the book. There's no time limit, but once I reach 125 likes on The Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page, I'll post one right here. I think that's a reasonable figure, given that the page currently has 109 likes.
Enough of that. Here's the summary...
"A new president is elected, and Willis Avery is tapped to fill the position of Secretary of Defense. But before he can accept this new role, he must navigate a maze of foreign policy issues--and keep the Russian government at bay.
In Central Europe, Poland has rejected a plan to position a missile shield on their soil--until a threat from beyond their borders creates havoc. Fanning the flames of conflict, Moscow begins supplying Tehran with new weaponry, and during testing, an Iranian ICBM veers off course with tragic results. The Polish government turns to NATO--and the United States--for protection.
The National Security Advisor conceives a plan to strengthen ties with the former republics. With the defensive shield now back on the table, Willis Avery envisions an even broader network of emplacements, providing greater security to nations bordering Russia. His strategy depends on the cooperation of the breakaway states in the region--and the help of Captain Michael Neill.
After successful assignments in Ukraine and the South China Sea, Neill is tasked as a liaison. To convince the republics, he enlists the aid of an old friend, General Andrei Ulyanov—and, if he can keep her alive, the dynamic and beautiful Viktoriya Gavrilenko.
The stage is set for increased tension when the former Soviet empire threatens an arms race, and along the way, Neill becomes caught up in the search for a lost religious icon--foretold by legend to restore the faith of a disheartened people. But that’s not all; the Marine’s very heart is laid bare, and there’s no denying the growing feelings he has for someone very close to him . . ."
Chapter Twenty-Two Excerpt--'Context'
Two hundred kilometers away, Chris Prentice pointed the nose of his Raptor east. He was the lead element for RAVEN Flight, and as he angled the fighter away from Gdansk, the colonel looked down and to his left.
His wingman today was a Polish lieutenant, fresh from of the Academy in Deblin. The young pilot jockeyed an F-16, and the respective aircraft were flying a ‘loose deuce’ formation, with vast distances between their wingtips. In reality, the aviators were jetting ahead at different altitudes, which, under normal conditions, wouldn’t hinder their ability to fly as a team.
For that, Prentice groused, we’ll just rely on the disparity in language.
The colonel’s kvetching was done under his breath. All of the Polish pilots spoke English, or so he’d been told, but the truth was a little more revealing. Joint ops had all the ingredients for miscommunication, at best, and the alternative—well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about, now was it?
Prentice gave the Poles an ‘E’ for effort. The Europeans had certainly bested their U.S. counterparts; many spoke a handful of languages, prompting Christian to consider the percentages for bi-lingual speakers in the American military. Spanish probably topped the list, to be sure, but he wondered—
“RAVEN-2, turn right and form up on my three o’clock position.” The colonel spoke slowly; the Pole’s responses had so far been sluggish—an indication that his command of English left something to be desired.
“Turning right, RAVEN Lead,” the lieutenant repeated, almost immediately. His heavily accented voice crackled in the colonel’s headset. “Forming up on your three o’clock position.”
Sunlight pierced the canopy, and a surprised Prentice smiled under his visored helmet. “That’s a good copy, RAVEN-2. Kilo’s just ahead.”
The so-called Kaliningrad Corridor was the grid square designated for RESILIENT EAGLE. Location names were typically shortened (hence the reliance on acronyms, Christian decided), and Kilo was quickly adopted.
The colonel checked his scope. To the east, and headed in the opposite direction, another pairing of American and Polish flyers traced the southern reaches of Kilo’s airspace. Their path lay parallel to RAVEN Flight. Two more groups followed from the west, and while their presence was encouraging, what he saw to the north was not.
The tactical air control center at Lask was coordinating with other assets; a Boeing E-3, with a rotating radar dish atop its fuselage. Their combined efforts gave a bird’s-eye view of the playing field, and for the first time, coalition forces had a clear picture of the Russians’ base of operations.
At this distance, they were far out of sight, but Christian’s long-range display showed Ivan’s fighters filling the sky. Hardware in the Raptor’s nose identified the aircraft as Sukhoi 27s, along with two Su-34s, the brightly colored FULLBACKs he’d seen just days earlier. The birds now aloft had sprung from the base in Chkalovsk.
Their point of origin was telling. Chkalovsk was owned by the Russian Navy, and the Su-34s were operated by their Air Force, the Voyenno-Vosdushnye Sily Rossii. That mouthful of Slavic flowed easily enough from the locals’ lips, but Prentice became tongue-tied at just the thought of saying it.
The colonel mulled over the collaboration between Russia’s forces. Fighters from the navy and air force were now working in tandem. The word had been passed that elements of the Rocket Forces were now in place, entrenched along Kaliningrad’s southern border with Poland. The Russians were clearly intent on showing some muscle.
According to Prentice’ software, eight fighters representing the opposing force were now airborne, with a couple of lumbering support platforms nearby. One was probably a re-fueler, and the other, with its larger radar return, was undoubtedly a Beriev A-50. This aircraft was far more robust than the E-3, but fulfilled the same role.
He looked on the bright side. None of Russia’s assets had behaved provocatively. Christian gave them that; Ivan could be very disciplined. The Sukhois stayed behind their line, playing it safe and observing strict rules of engagement. Coalition pilots did the same, and no one—American, Polish, or Russian—had raised their radars to paint a hypothetical target.
Prentice whispered a prayer that everyone involved would act circumspectly. Stretching out far below were the ground forces of several nations. Getting twitchy now wouldn’t help. Wars had begun over lesser things, and with NATO and the Russians poised on the brink, the senior officer couldn’t imagine a happenstance better suited to ruin everyone’s day.
His wingman today was a Polish lieutenant, fresh from of the Academy in Deblin. The young pilot jockeyed an F-16, and the respective aircraft were flying a ‘loose deuce’ formation, with vast distances between their wingtips. In reality, the aviators were jetting ahead at different altitudes, which, under normal conditions, wouldn’t hinder their ability to fly as a team.
For that, Prentice groused, we’ll just rely on the disparity in language.
The colonel’s kvetching was done under his breath. All of the Polish pilots spoke English, or so he’d been told, but the truth was a little more revealing. Joint ops had all the ingredients for miscommunication, at best, and the alternative—well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about, now was it?
Prentice gave the Poles an ‘E’ for effort. The Europeans had certainly bested their U.S. counterparts; many spoke a handful of languages, prompting Christian to consider the percentages for bi-lingual speakers in the American military. Spanish probably topped the list, to be sure, but he wondered—
“RAVEN-2, turn right and form up on my three o’clock position.” The colonel spoke slowly; the Pole’s responses had so far been sluggish—an indication that his command of English left something to be desired.
“Turning right, RAVEN Lead,” the lieutenant repeated, almost immediately. His heavily accented voice crackled in the colonel’s headset. “Forming up on your three o’clock position.”
Sunlight pierced the canopy, and a surprised Prentice smiled under his visored helmet. “That’s a good copy, RAVEN-2. Kilo’s just ahead.”
The so-called Kaliningrad Corridor was the grid square designated for RESILIENT EAGLE. Location names were typically shortened (hence the reliance on acronyms, Christian decided), and Kilo was quickly adopted.
The colonel checked his scope. To the east, and headed in the opposite direction, another pairing of American and Polish flyers traced the southern reaches of Kilo’s airspace. Their path lay parallel to RAVEN Flight. Two more groups followed from the west, and while their presence was encouraging, what he saw to the north was not.
The tactical air control center at Lask was coordinating with other assets; a Boeing E-3, with a rotating radar dish atop its fuselage. Their combined efforts gave a bird’s-eye view of the playing field, and for the first time, coalition forces had a clear picture of the Russians’ base of operations.
At this distance, they were far out of sight, but Christian’s long-range display showed Ivan’s fighters filling the sky. Hardware in the Raptor’s nose identified the aircraft as Sukhoi 27s, along with two Su-34s, the brightly colored FULLBACKs he’d seen just days earlier. The birds now aloft had sprung from the base in Chkalovsk.
Their point of origin was telling. Chkalovsk was owned by the Russian Navy, and the Su-34s were operated by their Air Force, the Voyenno-Vosdushnye Sily Rossii. That mouthful of Slavic flowed easily enough from the locals’ lips, but Prentice became tongue-tied at just the thought of saying it.
The colonel mulled over the collaboration between Russia’s forces. Fighters from the navy and air force were now working in tandem. The word had been passed that elements of the Rocket Forces were now in place, entrenched along Kaliningrad’s southern border with Poland. The Russians were clearly intent on showing some muscle.
According to Prentice’ software, eight fighters representing the opposing force were now airborne, with a couple of lumbering support platforms nearby. One was probably a re-fueler, and the other, with its larger radar return, was undoubtedly a Beriev A-50. This aircraft was far more robust than the E-3, but fulfilled the same role.
He looked on the bright side. None of Russia’s assets had behaved provocatively. Christian gave them that; Ivan could be very disciplined. The Sukhois stayed behind their line, playing it safe and observing strict rules of engagement. Coalition pilots did the same, and no one—American, Polish, or Russian—had raised their radars to paint a hypothetical target.
Prentice whispered a prayer that everyone involved would act circumspectly. Stretching out far below were the ground forces of several nations. Getting twitchy now wouldn’t help. Wars had begun over lesser things, and with NATO and the Russians poised on the brink, the senior officer couldn’t imagine a happenstance better suited to ruin everyone’s day.
