Steve Wilson's Blog - Posts Tagged "the-michael-neill-adventures"
A Fresh Look
Sometimes it's nice to break away from the actual writing of a series to focus on the images that will help you market it. I am a big fan of Photoshop, and I am constantly looking through my library of images and adding new graphics to my Facebook page and my Amazon author profile page.
Most of the imagery has focused on military hardware, or scenes depicting locations from the books. Today I decided the cover photo for my FB page needed a more human touch. This exercise was a lot of fun, and to my mind, brings a little bit of a different dimension to the look of the page.
Book Offer Christmas Promotion
My publisher and I are doing a Christmas promotion for the Michael Neill Adventures. You can get them individually, or as a 3-book set, discounted by 30% for the holidays. I'm including the links to PayPal for anyone who's interested. Just click on the preferred offer and follow the prompts.
'Red Sky at Morning' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
'Tempest of Fire' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
'Trinity Icon' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
3 Book Set offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
'Red Sky at Morning' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
'Tempest of Fire' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
'Trinity Icon' offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
3 Book Set offer:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr...
Secrets of a Published Author
Okay, so you've completed your novel, and let's say it's Christian fiction, and is hard-hitting, edgey, and full of twists. You're saying, 'Okay, Steve, that's me. What do I do now?'
The first thing you need to do is find someone as passionate about your book as you are, and GET IT PUBLISHED!
(I wasn't yelling, I was just emphasizing that important piece of intel.)
Now some of you are rolling your eyes, because finding a publisher or an agent who will even LOOK at your manuscript is next to impossible. But having an agent helps tremendously in getting your work in front of a big time publisher. So where do you find agents? One great place is online; check out www.aaronline.org for dozens of them. Find one that represents your genre and start sending queries. Compare your manuscripts to similar published works, and explain to them why yours is better. Most won’t give you the time of day, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. If you’ve won an award, or been nominated for one, put that tidbit into the subject line of your inquiry. Something like, ‘2-Time Hugo Award Winner Seeks Agency Representation’, or ‘Christy Award Nominee Looking For Literary Agent’. You need some kind of a hook to catch their interest, and I have found that this can get their attention. Another method is to find out who represents your favorite authors and contact them as well.
You’ll get rejected. A lot. Most won’t even respond. I can't tell you how many rejections I got when I finished the first (and second, and third) draft of 'Red Sky at Morning'. But persistence has a way of overcoming resistance. So bear with me. I think this blog post will be very important when it comes to encouraging aspiring writers and authors.
On the other hand, you might be surprised. Since March, two of the biggest names in agency representation have corresponded with me about my novels (I won't mention names). One of these gentlemen invited me to submit future manuscripts to his attention. It seems he's very interested in a historical novel I've been developing.
Now the other agent told me he 'might be interested' in my books at a later date. He told me that all three of my books are sitting on his nightstand, and he might give them another look in the future.
Quite frankly, the latter individual has been in the game quite a long time. I think he's lost the enthusiasm for considering new projects. And admittedly, he doesn't have to; he's in a position to pick and choose as he pleases.
So don't give up hope!
Now here’s one of my pet peeves. One of the big hurdles for my genre is the 'Amish Factor'. If you've written Christian fiction, then you know it's dominated by Amish romance novels. Slap a soft, Photoshopped image of a corn-fed beauty on the cover, give it a catchy title (like 'My Amish Bouquet', or 'My Bonnet Stands For Love') and you're almost there. You laugh, but it’s true. Key to this whole process--write this down--is having the corn-fed beauty wearing (you guessed it) a bonnet.
Why do I call that a hurdle? Because unless you're writing Amish Christian fiction, you're facing an uphill battle. "But Tom Clancy never had this problem," you say. And you're absolutely correct. But Tom Clancy wasn't writing military/espionage novels with roots in Christian fiction. And that's the distinction. My goal is to include the very real aspect of faith that exists among military members.
Right about now, many of you have furrowed brows and are worried; because like me, none of your manuscripts feature bonnie lasses in ribboned bonnets either. And that's okay. There are authors out there who shy away from Amish fiction. Take a look at thechristianmanifesto.com, or straightoffthepage.com, two sites dedicated to reviewing Christian fiction. You'll find plenty. And at this point, I think it's best to move on to some of the other points I've uncovered as a debut author in the military genre. There are do's and don't's if you're writing fiction, and these apply to almost any category.
For one thing, you need to get reviews. They don't really sell books, but they get people talking about them, and the more good buzz you have, the better. The above-mentioned websites (thechristianmanifesto.com and straightoffthepage.com) are very good and very reputable sources for authors. Check out their submissions requirements and get the ball rolling. Another excellent site is readersfavorite.com. You can submit your manuscript for a free review. My motto is 'if it's free, it's for me'. So get moving. Readersfavorite also has an annual contest, but beware; there's a fee to enter.
I generally steer clear of 'for fee' review or contest sites (I've done a few of those, but not anymore). Put out a call for reviews on Goodreads.com (another site you really need to establish an account with--and it's free). The best reviews I've received for my books have come from the sites I've just recommended. On Goodreads, you'll meet other authors willing to give your books a look, and also reviewers, as well. So take advantage of that.
Writing conferences. I'm not a fan of those. And I'm not a fan of writers' societies that restrict your access to their site unless you've accrued ‘X amount of royalty money’ in book sales. I'm a member of one of those now, and I just requested a refund. These groups generally purport to be 'invested in your writing career', but they're really only invested in their own wallets. Many are put together by authors seeking a cult of personality, so mind the gap, as they say across the pond.
You're a writer. So write. And establish a social media presence. Promote your work there. Don't get bogged down in networking until you've got a bulk of written and/or published material. Once you've done that, focus on marketing your work. Even if you've got a big publisher behind you, you will need to be involved in spreading the word about your books. It's a big job, but ultimately, your writing career is in your own hands.
Remember that upwards of 80% of fiction readers are women. Here's another secret worth remembering: MEN CAN'T READ. That's right. It's been scientifically proven. They pretend to read, and they’d like you to think they can read. But they can’t. So unless you're writing non-fiction, gear your stuff toward the ladies. Trust me, their insights put the dudes to shame.
Here’s a few other things you can do. Giveaways, even if you’re only offering ebooks. Do contests on places like Goodreads.com. Set up a website. Blog about your work. Post excerpts of your books. But above all, write. Every day. Even if you’re just jotting down ideas for the pages you’ll write tomorrow. Write what God lays on your heart.
When it’s all said and done, you can’t sell what you haven’t written. So crank up the laptop and start writing.
The first thing you need to do is find someone as passionate about your book as you are, and GET IT PUBLISHED!
(I wasn't yelling, I was just emphasizing that important piece of intel.)
Now some of you are rolling your eyes, because finding a publisher or an agent who will even LOOK at your manuscript is next to impossible. But having an agent helps tremendously in getting your work in front of a big time publisher. So where do you find agents? One great place is online; check out www.aaronline.org for dozens of them. Find one that represents your genre and start sending queries. Compare your manuscripts to similar published works, and explain to them why yours is better. Most won’t give you the time of day, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. If you’ve won an award, or been nominated for one, put that tidbit into the subject line of your inquiry. Something like, ‘2-Time Hugo Award Winner Seeks Agency Representation’, or ‘Christy Award Nominee Looking For Literary Agent’. You need some kind of a hook to catch their interest, and I have found that this can get their attention. Another method is to find out who represents your favorite authors and contact them as well.
You’ll get rejected. A lot. Most won’t even respond. I can't tell you how many rejections I got when I finished the first (and second, and third) draft of 'Red Sky at Morning'. But persistence has a way of overcoming resistance. So bear with me. I think this blog post will be very important when it comes to encouraging aspiring writers and authors.
On the other hand, you might be surprised. Since March, two of the biggest names in agency representation have corresponded with me about my novels (I won't mention names). One of these gentlemen invited me to submit future manuscripts to his attention. It seems he's very interested in a historical novel I've been developing.
Now the other agent told me he 'might be interested' in my books at a later date. He told me that all three of my books are sitting on his nightstand, and he might give them another look in the future.
Quite frankly, the latter individual has been in the game quite a long time. I think he's lost the enthusiasm for considering new projects. And admittedly, he doesn't have to; he's in a position to pick and choose as he pleases.
So don't give up hope!
Now here’s one of my pet peeves. One of the big hurdles for my genre is the 'Amish Factor'. If you've written Christian fiction, then you know it's dominated by Amish romance novels. Slap a soft, Photoshopped image of a corn-fed beauty on the cover, give it a catchy title (like 'My Amish Bouquet', or 'My Bonnet Stands For Love') and you're almost there. You laugh, but it’s true. Key to this whole process--write this down--is having the corn-fed beauty wearing (you guessed it) a bonnet.
Why do I call that a hurdle? Because unless you're writing Amish Christian fiction, you're facing an uphill battle. "But Tom Clancy never had this problem," you say. And you're absolutely correct. But Tom Clancy wasn't writing military/espionage novels with roots in Christian fiction. And that's the distinction. My goal is to include the very real aspect of faith that exists among military members.
Right about now, many of you have furrowed brows and are worried; because like me, none of your manuscripts feature bonnie lasses in ribboned bonnets either. And that's okay. There are authors out there who shy away from Amish fiction. Take a look at thechristianmanifesto.com, or straightoffthepage.com, two sites dedicated to reviewing Christian fiction. You'll find plenty. And at this point, I think it's best to move on to some of the other points I've uncovered as a debut author in the military genre. There are do's and don't's if you're writing fiction, and these apply to almost any category.
For one thing, you need to get reviews. They don't really sell books, but they get people talking about them, and the more good buzz you have, the better. The above-mentioned websites (thechristianmanifesto.com and straightoffthepage.com) are very good and very reputable sources for authors. Check out their submissions requirements and get the ball rolling. Another excellent site is readersfavorite.com. You can submit your manuscript for a free review. My motto is 'if it's free, it's for me'. So get moving. Readersfavorite also has an annual contest, but beware; there's a fee to enter.
I generally steer clear of 'for fee' review or contest sites (I've done a few of those, but not anymore). Put out a call for reviews on Goodreads.com (another site you really need to establish an account with--and it's free). The best reviews I've received for my books have come from the sites I've just recommended. On Goodreads, you'll meet other authors willing to give your books a look, and also reviewers, as well. So take advantage of that.
Writing conferences. I'm not a fan of those. And I'm not a fan of writers' societies that restrict your access to their site unless you've accrued ‘X amount of royalty money’ in book sales. I'm a member of one of those now, and I just requested a refund. These groups generally purport to be 'invested in your writing career', but they're really only invested in their own wallets. Many are put together by authors seeking a cult of personality, so mind the gap, as they say across the pond.
You're a writer. So write. And establish a social media presence. Promote your work there. Don't get bogged down in networking until you've got a bulk of written and/or published material. Once you've done that, focus on marketing your work. Even if you've got a big publisher behind you, you will need to be involved in spreading the word about your books. It's a big job, but ultimately, your writing career is in your own hands.
Remember that upwards of 80% of fiction readers are women. Here's another secret worth remembering: MEN CAN'T READ. That's right. It's been scientifically proven. They pretend to read, and they’d like you to think they can read. But they can’t. So unless you're writing non-fiction, gear your stuff toward the ladies. Trust me, their insights put the dudes to shame.
Here’s a few other things you can do. Giveaways, even if you’re only offering ebooks. Do contests on places like Goodreads.com. Set up a website. Blog about your work. Post excerpts of your books. But above all, write. Every day. Even if you’re just jotting down ideas for the pages you’ll write tomorrow. Write what God lays on your heart.
When it’s all said and done, you can’t sell what you haven’t written. So crank up the laptop and start writing.
General George S. Patton
Over the past few days I've watched (I should say 're-watched') 'Patton', the movie from the '70s starring George C. Scott. It's an excellent movie; inspiring, patriotic, and while the producers take a few liberties, the story is told fairly accurately--in the broad strokes.
We need a few generals like Patton these days; officers who are pure tacticians, that give no regard to politics, and recognize the real purpose of the military.
Now I could say a lot more about that, but I'm still in the military, and doing so would land me in a lot of hot water. My personal belief is that the armed forces of our nation should be tasked with killing the enemy and breaking things.
In that order.
Back to Patton. The man really was a genius. Single-minded in purpose, and committed to victory. And I agree with his position on the Russians. When George Patton looked into the eyes of Ivan, he didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. He wanted to continue WWII by advancing the front lines all the way to Moscow. In hindsight, I believe there was wisdom in that philosophy.
I won't belabor the tenets of that belief. There's an excellent work, written by Robert K. Wilcox. It's title is 'Target: Patton - The Plot to Assassinate General George S. Patton'. And if you're thinking of gleaning insight from O'Reilly's book on the subject, don't. Wilcox does a much better job.
Granted, there's a fair amount of conjecture in 'Target: Patton'. But the author lays it all out methodically, and it's a truly fascinating read. You might walk away unconvinced, but I guarantee you that the book will get you thinking (personally, I'm leaning toward Wilcox' conclusion--and you'll just have to read it to know more).
George Patton didn't believe that diversity was the bedrock of victory in war. He believed in ordnance on target, in bullets making contact with the enemy, and in the indefatigable spirit of the American fighting man.
...and here's one more:
We need a few generals like Patton these days; officers who are pure tacticians, that give no regard to politics, and recognize the real purpose of the military.
Now I could say a lot more about that, but I'm still in the military, and doing so would land me in a lot of hot water. My personal belief is that the armed forces of our nation should be tasked with killing the enemy and breaking things.
In that order.
Back to Patton. The man really was a genius. Single-minded in purpose, and committed to victory. And I agree with his position on the Russians. When George Patton looked into the eyes of Ivan, he didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. He wanted to continue WWII by advancing the front lines all the way to Moscow. In hindsight, I believe there was wisdom in that philosophy.
I won't belabor the tenets of that belief. There's an excellent work, written by Robert K. Wilcox. It's title is 'Target: Patton - The Plot to Assassinate General George S. Patton'. And if you're thinking of gleaning insight from O'Reilly's book on the subject, don't. Wilcox does a much better job.
Granted, there's a fair amount of conjecture in 'Target: Patton'. But the author lays it all out methodically, and it's a truly fascinating read. You might walk away unconvinced, but I guarantee you that the book will get you thinking (personally, I'm leaning toward Wilcox' conclusion--and you'll just have to read it to know more).
George Patton didn't believe that diversity was the bedrock of victory in war. He believed in ordnance on target, in bullets making contact with the enemy, and in the indefatigable spirit of the American fighting man.
...and here's one more:
My blog, post-brain surgery
This will take the form of an update, in addition to what I've learned about my recent surgery.
The actual procedure was called an endoscopic ventriculostomy of the third ventricle, an operation intended to drain excess fluid building up in the first three ventricles due to excess tissue growing in the duct that usually drains that area. The surgeon drained the third ventricle and removed the duct tissue. I am pleased to say that it apparently worked beautifully; the surgeon told Sheila that he went in and did exactly what he wanted to do. The results? I am walking without shuffling my feet now, not leaning to the left and my headaches are fading fast. I have a nasty 5 inch incision on top of my gourd running front to back, but I am okay with that.
Here's the second thing I've learned. There are no cats running across clotheslines in hospital recovery rooms, despite what I THOUGHT I saw (under the influence of anesthesia, of course).
Today, Sheila and I went out to our favorite stomping grounds, Fort Desoto, and the Pinellas Trail. We both accomplished a 3 mile power walk, including going up and down the steps to the top of the fort 5 times. Granted, that's not what I'm used to; for years, we would walk/run that far, and I'd go up and down 15-20 times. But I'm taking it slow. My surgeon doesn't want me to run till I've seen him for my post-surgery appointment. He'll decide then what I'm up for.
I'd like to thank all of you who prayed for me during surgery, and in the days following. Please continue to pray for healing. My appointment with the doc is this coming Monday. Should get the results of the biopsy then, but until that time, we are resting in Jesus.
And what of book four? 'Eye of Charybdis' is back on track. I've written several pages over the past few days. Now up to 256 pages, and I hope to reach 300 by late January. Naturally, this means that the book won't be finished when I promised, but given my health issues and military obligations, there was no avoiding that.
That's all for now. Keep reading, and happy New Year!
Steve
The actual procedure was called an endoscopic ventriculostomy of the third ventricle, an operation intended to drain excess fluid building up in the first three ventricles due to excess tissue growing in the duct that usually drains that area. The surgeon drained the third ventricle and removed the duct tissue. I am pleased to say that it apparently worked beautifully; the surgeon told Sheila that he went in and did exactly what he wanted to do. The results? I am walking without shuffling my feet now, not leaning to the left and my headaches are fading fast. I have a nasty 5 inch incision on top of my gourd running front to back, but I am okay with that.
Here's the second thing I've learned. There are no cats running across clotheslines in hospital recovery rooms, despite what I THOUGHT I saw (under the influence of anesthesia, of course).
Today, Sheila and I went out to our favorite stomping grounds, Fort Desoto, and the Pinellas Trail. We both accomplished a 3 mile power walk, including going up and down the steps to the top of the fort 5 times. Granted, that's not what I'm used to; for years, we would walk/run that far, and I'd go up and down 15-20 times. But I'm taking it slow. My surgeon doesn't want me to run till I've seen him for my post-surgery appointment. He'll decide then what I'm up for.
I'd like to thank all of you who prayed for me during surgery, and in the days following. Please continue to pray for healing. My appointment with the doc is this coming Monday. Should get the results of the biopsy then, but until that time, we are resting in Jesus.
And what of book four? 'Eye of Charybdis' is back on track. I've written several pages over the past few days. Now up to 256 pages, and I hope to reach 300 by late January. Naturally, this means that the book won't be finished when I promised, but given my health issues and military obligations, there was no avoiding that.
That's all for now. Keep reading, and happy New Year!
Steve
'Tempest of Fire' deleted scene
Northern Somalia’s Minister of Defense was somewhat confused. Standing in the U.S. embassy, Desmond Okot arched his back and pulled his frame up to its full height. He was a tall man with a regal bearing—the blood of kings and tribal chieftains coursed through his veins—and was quite an imposing figure. Across the room, the American ambassador looked up from his desk and watched as the Somalian’s expression changed and a broad smile spread across his face.
“You must be joking,” Okot grinned, but the ambassador could tell he wasn’t really amused. “Do you have any idea what you are asking?”
William Tate-Smith raised a casual eyebrow and pretended to be surprised. “I assure you, Mr. Okot, indeed I do,” he replied calmly. Tate-Smith was about to cross the line between political negotiation and manipulative diplomacy, and few men were better suited for the task. “All we require is the cooperation of your government.”
The game was on.
Still smiling, Okot shook his head. “Cooperation?” He repeated. “Do you think we would allow your aircraft—your troops, your weapons—to invade our airspace?”
Tate-Smith frowned. “This is an extraction, Mr. Okot. A rescue mission—not an invasion. And we certainly mean no harm to your government or the people of Northern Somalia. We just want to save our people from those . . . insurgents . . . down south.”
From behind, a Marine captain opened the door and slipped quietly into the room. Okot was slightly distracted by the officer’s presence but his resolve was firm.
“I have great sympathy for your personnel, Mr. Ambassador. But my answer remains the same. You will have to find an alternate route to Meersala.”
The room grew very quiet. Tate-Smith pursed his lips. This was not the answer he’d hoped for. There seemed to be no clear rationale behind Northern Somalia’s obstinence at times like these. Even though the United States maintained a diplomatic presence, relations between the two countries remained fragile. More often than not, Tate-Smith was struck by how difficult this post was. It reminded him of the relationship between the U.S. and Pakistan—a friend one day, and an enemy the next. He felt as if he was dealing with the same mentality here.
But there was also a history of violence in Somalia that had left scars on America’s psyche—the infamous atrocities committed against U.S. troops in the ‘90s, and the continuing problem of piracy on the high seas. For a diplomat, Tate-Smith was something of a hawk. These people understood only one thing—brute force. His tenure here had taught the ambassador that the Somalians regarded anything else as weakness. This was especially true for Southern Somalia. Tate-Smith suppressed a smile; here in the north, the ruling party considered itself very accommodating in its dealings with the west—yet with friends like these—
The game wasn’t over yet. It was just time to change tactics.
“Mr. Okot, perhaps I didn’t make myself perfectly clear,” he began slowly, biting off the end of each word. “Our troops intend to cross your borders whether you allow it or not. Of course, without your cooperation they’ll be running a terrible risk.” The ambassador paused for effect and turned in his chair to face the window. A Navy man, Tate-Smith always went to great lengths as an advocate for the armed forces. “Your military might try to impede their progress; perhaps attempt to shoot them down—even before they reach their objective. I needn’t point out that such an act would only sour relations between us.”
There was a courtyard on the other side of the glass. The ambassador wondered what the temperature was outside. Probably hot, he reasoned, even though the sun had been down for several hours. It was always hot in Somalia. “And that’s exactly why I’ve asked you here tonight, Mr. Defense Minister. A simple word from you to your military could avert such an unfortunate incident. Now—” Tate-Smith said hopefully, “—do we have your support or not?”
He knew that he didn’t. Issuing an ultimatum only strengthened Okot’s resolve. The Somalian’s eyes narrowed. “You underestimate me, Mr. Ambassador.” His voice held a decidedly nasty edge. “I am not some third world bureaucrat you can bully, and my country will not be used as a doormat by the United States or any other nation. Is that understood?”
Okot expected a more belligerent response, but Tate-Smith surprised him. With a deep frown knitting his brow, the ambassador merely heaved a sigh and nodded his head. When he finally spoke his voice carried a subdued tone.
“Is that your final word on the matter, Mr. Okot?”
The Somalian nodded. “It is, Mr. Ambassador.”
Tate-Smith rose slowly to his feet and smiled wanly. He seemed almost detached. “Then I suppose our business here is concluded.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Okot eyed him with suspicion. This was too easy.
“I am pleased you see things from my perspective, Mr. Ambassador.” Puffed with pride, Okot now felt superior to the American.
“Of course,” Tate-Smith gripped his hand firmly. Okot was surprised by the strength in the westerner’s handshake. He had no idea. “I believe your car is waiting for you out front. Captain, would you kindly show Mr. Okot to the door?”
The Marine officer wore a slightly pained expression. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Ambassador.”
Tate-Smith gave a startled look. “Is there some problem, Captain?”
“The embassy has been placed on alert status, sir.” The captain looked grim. “During such an alert we operate under very strict guidelines. No one comes in, and no one goes out.” He stepped forward and handed the ambassador a yellow message slip. “This just came in.”
Okot stiffened, his mind racing to understand what was going on. He watched intently as Tate-Smith unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the message.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured softly. “This is serious.” A look of great concern seemed to darken his face. “I’m afraid the Captain is quite right, Mr. Defense Minister. The rescue mission we’ve discussed has apparently been approved by the Joint Chiefs. Our troops are airborne as we speak.” He looked up and met Okot’s stare. “For your own safety—and as a concession to operational security—I must insist that you remain here with us. Temporarily, of course.”
Okot suspected as much. “I am to be your prisoner, then?” he asked angrily.
“Prisoner?” The ambassador shook his head. “Poor choice of words, Mr. Okot. I regret that such an idea would even cross your mind.” His face brightened a little. “I’m sure that by this time tomorrow, you can return—”
“That is unacceptable.” Okot growled. “I demand that you release me this instant.” For the first time, Okot noticed that the captain carried a sidearm; and as if on cue, two more Marines entered the room—enlisted men, judging from the black insignia they wore on their collars.
Tate-Smith held up his hands and smiled broadly. “Mr. Defense Minister, I understand what you must be feeling,” he said slowly. “At a time like this, your place is at your post. American troops have entered your airspace. Surely your government will want some answers. Undoubtedly, your President will be placing a call to your office, demanding an explanation; but here you stand, unable to give it.” He let that sink in.
The Somalian seethed. “Do you know what you have done?”
Tate-Smith nodded. “I think I do, Mr. Okot. Your absence—at this late hour—will raise questions in the mind of your President. Some might even believe that you came here seeking . . . well, some advantage—in the midst of this incursion? It could damage you politically—or even worse.” Tate-Smith didn’t have to elaborate on that point. Two Northern Somalian cabinet members had been executed a few months earlier for lesser crimes—and without any evidence to convict them.
The ambassador sat casually on the corner of his desk. He knew he was laying it on a little thick. “However, if you were to place a phone call to the commander of your armed forces—ordering your military to stand down—I’m sure that would go a long way toward restoring stability. I would be assured of your safety, and you would be free to go.”
Okot’s eyes narrowed. This was blackmail; but he had little choice. This—American—had outsmarted him. And he was right—leaving his office to come here, Okot’s motives might be misinterpreted. The Northern Somalian government was a republic in title, that much was true—but in reality, it wasn’t too far removed from a despotic theocracy. There was too much at stake to gauge just how forgiving the current President might be.
Okot sat back in his chair and tried to convey a look of indifference.
“All right, Mr. Ambassador,” Okot breathed. “I will make such a call.” He stood to his feet and stepped toward the phone on the ambassador’s desk.
The Marine also moved forward, cutting off Okot in mid-stride. The tall Somalian became aware of the presence of the two enlisted men beside him.
The ambassador turned and picked up the handset. “Allow me, Mr. Okot,” Tate-Smith said without expression. He punched in the number and waited for someone to pick up on the other end. “I’m concerned that you reach the proper authorities—we wouldn’t want you to dial the wrong number now, would we?”
“You must be joking,” Okot grinned, but the ambassador could tell he wasn’t really amused. “Do you have any idea what you are asking?”
William Tate-Smith raised a casual eyebrow and pretended to be surprised. “I assure you, Mr. Okot, indeed I do,” he replied calmly. Tate-Smith was about to cross the line between political negotiation and manipulative diplomacy, and few men were better suited for the task. “All we require is the cooperation of your government.”
The game was on.
Still smiling, Okot shook his head. “Cooperation?” He repeated. “Do you think we would allow your aircraft—your troops, your weapons—to invade our airspace?”
Tate-Smith frowned. “This is an extraction, Mr. Okot. A rescue mission—not an invasion. And we certainly mean no harm to your government or the people of Northern Somalia. We just want to save our people from those . . . insurgents . . . down south.”
From behind, a Marine captain opened the door and slipped quietly into the room. Okot was slightly distracted by the officer’s presence but his resolve was firm.
“I have great sympathy for your personnel, Mr. Ambassador. But my answer remains the same. You will have to find an alternate route to Meersala.”
The room grew very quiet. Tate-Smith pursed his lips. This was not the answer he’d hoped for. There seemed to be no clear rationale behind Northern Somalia’s obstinence at times like these. Even though the United States maintained a diplomatic presence, relations between the two countries remained fragile. More often than not, Tate-Smith was struck by how difficult this post was. It reminded him of the relationship between the U.S. and Pakistan—a friend one day, and an enemy the next. He felt as if he was dealing with the same mentality here.
But there was also a history of violence in Somalia that had left scars on America’s psyche—the infamous atrocities committed against U.S. troops in the ‘90s, and the continuing problem of piracy on the high seas. For a diplomat, Tate-Smith was something of a hawk. These people understood only one thing—brute force. His tenure here had taught the ambassador that the Somalians regarded anything else as weakness. This was especially true for Southern Somalia. Tate-Smith suppressed a smile; here in the north, the ruling party considered itself very accommodating in its dealings with the west—yet with friends like these—
The game wasn’t over yet. It was just time to change tactics.
“Mr. Okot, perhaps I didn’t make myself perfectly clear,” he began slowly, biting off the end of each word. “Our troops intend to cross your borders whether you allow it or not. Of course, without your cooperation they’ll be running a terrible risk.” The ambassador paused for effect and turned in his chair to face the window. A Navy man, Tate-Smith always went to great lengths as an advocate for the armed forces. “Your military might try to impede their progress; perhaps attempt to shoot them down—even before they reach their objective. I needn’t point out that such an act would only sour relations between us.”
There was a courtyard on the other side of the glass. The ambassador wondered what the temperature was outside. Probably hot, he reasoned, even though the sun had been down for several hours. It was always hot in Somalia. “And that’s exactly why I’ve asked you here tonight, Mr. Defense Minister. A simple word from you to your military could avert such an unfortunate incident. Now—” Tate-Smith said hopefully, “—do we have your support or not?”
He knew that he didn’t. Issuing an ultimatum only strengthened Okot’s resolve. The Somalian’s eyes narrowed. “You underestimate me, Mr. Ambassador.” His voice held a decidedly nasty edge. “I am not some third world bureaucrat you can bully, and my country will not be used as a doormat by the United States or any other nation. Is that understood?”
Okot expected a more belligerent response, but Tate-Smith surprised him. With a deep frown knitting his brow, the ambassador merely heaved a sigh and nodded his head. When he finally spoke his voice carried a subdued tone.
“Is that your final word on the matter, Mr. Okot?”
The Somalian nodded. “It is, Mr. Ambassador.”
Tate-Smith rose slowly to his feet and smiled wanly. He seemed almost detached. “Then I suppose our business here is concluded.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Okot eyed him with suspicion. This was too easy.
“I am pleased you see things from my perspective, Mr. Ambassador.” Puffed with pride, Okot now felt superior to the American.
“Of course,” Tate-Smith gripped his hand firmly. Okot was surprised by the strength in the westerner’s handshake. He had no idea. “I believe your car is waiting for you out front. Captain, would you kindly show Mr. Okot to the door?”
The Marine officer wore a slightly pained expression. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Ambassador.”
Tate-Smith gave a startled look. “Is there some problem, Captain?”
“The embassy has been placed on alert status, sir.” The captain looked grim. “During such an alert we operate under very strict guidelines. No one comes in, and no one goes out.” He stepped forward and handed the ambassador a yellow message slip. “This just came in.”
Okot stiffened, his mind racing to understand what was going on. He watched intently as Tate-Smith unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the message.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured softly. “This is serious.” A look of great concern seemed to darken his face. “I’m afraid the Captain is quite right, Mr. Defense Minister. The rescue mission we’ve discussed has apparently been approved by the Joint Chiefs. Our troops are airborne as we speak.” He looked up and met Okot’s stare. “For your own safety—and as a concession to operational security—I must insist that you remain here with us. Temporarily, of course.”
Okot suspected as much. “I am to be your prisoner, then?” he asked angrily.
“Prisoner?” The ambassador shook his head. “Poor choice of words, Mr. Okot. I regret that such an idea would even cross your mind.” His face brightened a little. “I’m sure that by this time tomorrow, you can return—”
“That is unacceptable.” Okot growled. “I demand that you release me this instant.” For the first time, Okot noticed that the captain carried a sidearm; and as if on cue, two more Marines entered the room—enlisted men, judging from the black insignia they wore on their collars.
Tate-Smith held up his hands and smiled broadly. “Mr. Defense Minister, I understand what you must be feeling,” he said slowly. “At a time like this, your place is at your post. American troops have entered your airspace. Surely your government will want some answers. Undoubtedly, your President will be placing a call to your office, demanding an explanation; but here you stand, unable to give it.” He let that sink in.
The Somalian seethed. “Do you know what you have done?”
Tate-Smith nodded. “I think I do, Mr. Okot. Your absence—at this late hour—will raise questions in the mind of your President. Some might even believe that you came here seeking . . . well, some advantage—in the midst of this incursion? It could damage you politically—or even worse.” Tate-Smith didn’t have to elaborate on that point. Two Northern Somalian cabinet members had been executed a few months earlier for lesser crimes—and without any evidence to convict them.
The ambassador sat casually on the corner of his desk. He knew he was laying it on a little thick. “However, if you were to place a phone call to the commander of your armed forces—ordering your military to stand down—I’m sure that would go a long way toward restoring stability. I would be assured of your safety, and you would be free to go.”
Okot’s eyes narrowed. This was blackmail; but he had little choice. This—American—had outsmarted him. And he was right—leaving his office to come here, Okot’s motives might be misinterpreted. The Northern Somalian government was a republic in title, that much was true—but in reality, it wasn’t too far removed from a despotic theocracy. There was too much at stake to gauge just how forgiving the current President might be.
Okot sat back in his chair and tried to convey a look of indifference.
“All right, Mr. Ambassador,” Okot breathed. “I will make such a call.” He stood to his feet and stepped toward the phone on the ambassador’s desk.
The Marine also moved forward, cutting off Okot in mid-stride. The tall Somalian became aware of the presence of the two enlisted men beside him.
The ambassador turned and picked up the handset. “Allow me, Mr. Okot,” Tate-Smith said without expression. He punched in the number and waited for someone to pick up on the other end. “I’m concerned that you reach the proper authorities—we wouldn’t want you to dial the wrong number now, would we?”
