C.W. Lemoine's Blog, page 2

Sneak Peek: ARCHANGEL FALLEN - Prologue

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



PrologueTampa, FL1845L
“I  should be home by midnight, sweetie. Kiss the girls for me and tell them I love them. Love you,” he said before hanging up as he pulled into the crowded parking lot. It was a weeknight, but The Silver Fox Gentleman’s Club was always busy, pulling in crowds from the base just a few miles away. Transient aircrew flying into MacDill for the night loved blowing their hard-earned per diem on girls working their way through college.  It was easy to get lost among the close-cropped GI haircuts filing in and out of the place at all hours of the night.
Blending in was exactly why Charles “Ironman” Steele had chosen this meeting location. As the director of a highly classified covert unit, he spent a lot of time trying to blend in. Although for the 5’9” 200 lb. Steele, blending in wasn’t always easy. His bald head and general lack of neck seemingly made him stand out in even the most military looking of establishments.
Ironman checked his watch as he flashed his retired military ID at the burly bouncer. He was fifteen minutes early. The bouncer pretended to study the ID for a moment and then waved him through the mirrored glass door. The relative silence of the lobby gave way to a blaring rock song as a girl made her best effort at flailing around the pole on stage. The banner above her proudly announced “Amateur Night” as the younger airmen waved singles at her and cat called from the base of the stage.
Ironman chuckled to himself as the girl struggled with her top. He found a table in the corner of the dark room away from the stage and sat down. His white t-shirt and faded jeans glowed under the neon lights. He had changed out of his Desert ACUs that he usually wore just before driving out of the secure facility nestled in the center of MacDill Air Force Base near United States Central Command Headquarters. As his wife would tell anyone, Ironman was not known for his fashion sense.
As a former F/A-18 pilot and Joint Terminal Attack Controller that had been embedded with Navy SEALS in Afghanistan, Ironman preferred a uniform to anything else. The only variation he had ever needed was the change from summer whites to dress blues for which the Navy was famous. Otherwise, he preferred a flight suit or fatigues.
A scantily clad waitress shuffled up in her high heels to Ironman’s table. He ordered an ale and asked for the $5.99 steak special – the rarer the better. As the petite young blonde finished taking his order, he slipped her a twenty and sent her on her way.
Ironman scanned the room as he leaned back into the plush booth. He hadn’t chosen the location by accident. He had a complete scan of the entire room and its rowdy occupants, including the most important part – the door. As he continued the scan, he found the man he was looking for. The tall, slender Asian stood out in the homogenous crowd of military aviators, but given what Ironman knew about the man, he wondered if the guy even cared. Ruthless was the only word he could come up with to describe him.
Ironman checked his watch again as the pretty little waitress delivered his beer. It was 1900. His Breitling was still set on GMT from his recent trip to the sandbox. He never bothered changing it to local. It was always easier to just do the quick math to remind him where he was.  As the Director of Project Archangel, he was almost always living out of his go-bag in some third world country. The world was full of hotspots, and although the current administration was nearing the end of its second term, the business of covert war had never been better.
Covert war. He had always thought it was a cute saying, but that was his job. He had been hand-picked by the previous administration to develop a team of special operators and aviators that could be deployed anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice with a minimal footprint while being self-sustaining. With its fleet of advanced Close Air Support fixed wing aircraft and helicopters, they could fight their way into any hot spot in the world and fight their way out without the US Government getting their hands dirty.
It had been the perfect retirement job for Ironman. He still got to see his wife and two girls most of the time while making money hand over fist as a high-level contractor and still being at the tip of the spear. It was a spear that, for the most part, even the most high level Pentagon officials didn’t  know had been thrown until they read about it on the Internet days – and sometimes even weeks — later. But despite the nice scenery as another sorority girl clumsily tried her luck on stage, his presence in the booth represented a part of the job he hated. His group was full of high-level operators and fighter pilots. They were all Type A personalities that worked hard and played hard. Most of the people he recruited had been screened extensively, but every now and then one guy would slip through the cracks. And then he would have to do damage control.
Sometimes it was simple — the former SEAL who just couldn’t turn it off after spending three months being shot at and ended up putting five people in the hospital during a bar fight. Or one of his pilots who wound up in jail after leading police on a high-speed chase at speeds over 170 mph in a Corvette ZR1 while wearing Night Vision Goggles at three a. m. Those were easy, and often pretty funny. But Cal “Spectre” Martin was different.
Spectre had been a problem child from the start. Ironman had been reluctant to even hire him. It had been his boss, then Secretary of Defense (SECDEF) and current Vice Presidential Candidate Kerry Johnson who had pushed the issue.
Ironman unwrapped his silverware from the paper napkin as the petite blonde returned with his steak. She walked off, he checked his watch one more time. 1915. Spectre was late. He looked back over at the Asian man he had picked out earlier. They made eye contact briefly as Ironman shrugged it off and returned to his steak.
It didn’t surprise him. Nothing in the file that Johnson’s aide had dropped on his desk screamed reliability. In fact, other than graduating at the top of his pilot training class, Spectre’s flying career had been less than impressive. Spectre hadn’t even upgraded to Instructor Pilot before being grounded after a deployment in Iraq.
In doing his due diligence, Ironman had pulled the mission report from Spectre’s last flight. Spectre had shown a reckless disregard for the current rules of engagement by employing ordnance while his flight lead was refueling at the tanker. He had even continued to prosecute the attack after the only qualified controller on the scene had been disabled. Although Ironman admitted that Spectre had probably saved more than a few lives that night, the action was evidence of a general lack of flight discipline.
Ironman had warned the SECDEF that Spectre wasn’t a good fit for the team. Spectre just didn’t meet the standard that had been set for Project Archangel’s pilots. On top of that, Spectre hadn’t flown in over five years. He had been working at a gun supply store in South Florida. Ironman initially resisted based on Spectre’s resume alone. When SECDEF effectively directed him to shut up and color, Ironman saluted smartly, said “Aye, Aye” and drove down to Homestead, Florida to recruit Spectre. His first opportunity had been at the funeral of Spectre’s fiancée.
 Ironman had never read the official report on the mishap involving Chloe Moss, but he knew there was more to her death than he had access to. The initial reports and eventual Air Force Accident Investigation Board investigation all said that Chloe Moss had fallen victim to spatial disorientation. Controlled flight into terrain, the reports said. But in his circle, the rumor mill had been running wild. The possible theories ran the gauntlet from defection to Cuba to a covert counter-intelligence mission against the Chinese. Despite his high-level clearance, he didn’t have a need to know for a lot of programs, but Ironman knew that the truth was somewhere in the middle while still being very far from the official cover story.
Spectre had seemed pretty shaken up at the funeral, and Ironman wasn’t even sure Spectre would return his phone call. He was hoping Spectre would just throw the card away and go on about his life. As he finished the last few bites of his steak and checked his watch again, he wished Spectre had. He would have much preferred to be spending his evening with his two daughters.
At first it appeared that Spectre was just as high level as any of the other members of the team.  When Spectre made it through every level of the intense physical training, as well as the flight training, Ironman thought his initial assessments had been proven wrong. Spectre performed as well as any pilot he had put through the course, and almost as well as some of the Special Operators through the hand-to-hand combat and weapons phases. Ironman had been cautiously hopeful that Spectre had become the one-in-a-million undrafted free agent that football teams salivate for.
But a tiger can’t change his stripes, and when Ironman received the phone call that Spectre’s aircraft had been downed in Iraq, he kicked himself for letting his guard down. Spectre had failed to abort a mission when a pair of Syrian fighters scrambled to intercept his team. And when he finally did make the abort call, he managed to get himself shot down in the process. They were lucky Spectre’s aircraft had been the only one lost, but the team lost nearly three days in trying to recover Spectre from bad guy land — time that could’ve been spent keeping chemical weapons out of the hands of terrorists in Syria.
Even more surprising to Ironman was the SECDEF’s reaction to the initial news. Although Ironman was not a huge fan of the man’s politics, he’d always thought Johnson to be a fair and compassionate person. He had been taken aback when the SECDEF outright refused to authorize an immediate Combat Search and Rescue Operation to find and retrieve Spectre. It was one of very few times Ironman had clashed with his boss. Johnson’s concern for creating an even bigger international incident had become more important than not leaving a man behind. Despite his reservations about Spectre, he was still a member of the team and deserved to go home to whatever family he had. It was simply unacceptable to Ironman.
Making matters worse, Spectre’s tag along had been very vocal in launching a rescue mission. To Ironman, Joe Carpenter was perhaps the closest thing to the magical free agent in the deal. Carpenter had been an Army Ranger and Air Force TAC/P. He was squared away and highly motivated. His record spoke for itself, and when Spectre asked to bring Carpenter along as part of the deal, it was a no brainer. Ironman wished he had stayed on the team after Spectre had been let go.
Let go. It was a polite way of saying fired. After being shot down in Syria, there was simply no way to justify Spectre’s presence on the team. As with his hiring, the SECDEF led the charge with his firing. There was no valid argument against it. Spectre had saved the other aircraft he had been escorting, but the entire incident could have been avoided if he had stuck to protocols and aborted. He was just too much of a wild card. Ironman had been disappointed that Carpenter quit in protest, but given their long-standing history together, he wasn’t surprised. It was a shame Carpenter had been killed a few days later.
Ironman checked his watch one more time as the Asian man stood from his table and approached. It was almost eight p. m. and it had become quite apparent that Spectre was a no show. At least he had gotten a cheap steak and free entertainment out of the deal.
The man walked up to Ironman’s booth and took his place across from Ironman. He was wearing a dark button down shirt and slacks. His dark goatee gave way to a sinister smile as he watched Ironman push aside his plate.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Steele?” he asked.
“I can think of better ways to spend my evening,” Ironman replied. “But not many.”
“I’m sure your two daughters would much rather have you home,” the man said flatly.
Ironman’s brow furrowed. He never discussed his family outside of the people he trusted on his team, and the man across from him was neither on his team nor particularly trusted. He tried to hide his anger.
“Did I hit a nerve?” the man said. He spoke with a slight Chinese accent, but his English was flawless.
“What do you want?” Ironman asked impatiently.
“You said he would be here. He is not. Why?” The man’s voice was almost robotic to Ironman. Beyond the forced grin, he seemed to exude no emotion whatsoever.
“I don’t know. I guess he had a change of heart,” Ironman replied with a shrug. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled with me at the funeral.” Ironman had attended Carpenter’s funeral, but despite Ironman’s offer to get to the bottom of Carpenter’s mysterious death, Spectre had been nothing but flippant during their brief encounter after the service.
“Do you know where he went?”
“Look, Xin, or Jiang, or whatever it is you go by,” Ironman said as he slid out of the booth and put another twenty on the table. “I did what I was told to do. He didn’t show up. There’s nothing else I can do at this point.”
Xin stood to meet Ironman. He was nearly the same height, but much smaller in stature than the much bulkier man.
“You are right,” Xin replied calmly.
Ironman waited for him to say something else as he stood within feet of the man. Ironman was used to dealing with angry special operations operators all the time, but Xin was downright scary. There was just something about him that creeped Ironman out.
“Let me know if I can do anything else for you,” Ironman finally said, breaking the awkward silence.
“I will,” Xin replied.
Ironman nodded and then turned to walk out, passing the stage as a wet t-shirt contest was just beginning. He shrugged off the feeling of terror he felt deep within his gut. He had landed on aircraft carriers at night in rough seas and bad weather, but nothing compared to the pit that had formed in his stomach.
“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbled to himself as he stepped out into the humid night air in the parking lot. 

Where’d Who Go? – Adventures in Publishing

It’s been just over a year since AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. hit the market, and since its release, the most common question or comment I’ve seen is, “Wait, where’s the next one? When does the next book come out?”

The reason for that is that ANK, by design, was never meant to be a stand alone novel. I wrote it to shift the SPECTRE Series from the introduction (SPECTRE RISING) to a more complex political thriller. My intent was to end the major conflict created in the beginning (The mysterious assassins) and use that book to open the door for something on a much bigger scale.

Unfortunately, I did a poor job initially of conveying that to the readers, and some of the reviews reflected that disappointment. For that, I apologize. It was never my intent to leave readers hanging.

To make matters worse, I got caught up in the lure of traditional publishing, which is what I will discuss today. It will hopefully explain where I’ve been and why I had seemingly gone off the grid.

In late June of 2014, I signed with an agent to represent the subsidiary rights of the Spectre series. Since the two books out at the time already had ISBNs and were therefore undesirable by traditional publishers, he was only interested in the possibility of movie/film, TV, graphic novel adaptations.

Excited to finally have an agent, I let him go to work as I went back to doing what I felt most comfortable – writing. I started writing ARCHANGEL FALLEN at the beginning of August and had the first draft completed by November. After my awesome editor went through it, I sent it to my agent on the off chance that he might want to shop it around since it didn’t have the ISBN problem that the other two books had and could be published as an original.

A week later, I received a phone call from my agent. “Did you really write this?” he asked excitedly.

“Umm.. yeah?” I replied. Seriously? I knew what he was getting at, but I was a little insulted.

“This is great! The writing is tight. The plot is great. This is a great book!” he said.

“So do you think it has a chance to get picked up by the major publishers?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement. It was what I had always hoped for – to be a real, published author.

“Absolutely, I’ll start working on putting together a pitch sheet,” he said.

And with that, ARCHANGEL FALLEN was frozen in time. It was ready for release, but I was so excited by the idea of having a real marketing force behind me that I wanted to see what happened. I wanted to see it through.

At first, we were receiving winning comm. The first major publisher requested a full manuscript shortly before Christmas. I was antsy, willing them to make a quick decision. I hated the idea of sitting on a good book when my readers were wondering what the hell had happened to me. I was afraid to announce that everything was on hold while I pitched it to publishers, for fear of what I’d say if they said no. I just let everything sit.

After Christmas, nine more publishers requested full manuscripts. It was starting to get expensive and eat into my limited self-publishing marketing budget. The contract I had with my agent stated that I would bear the cost of mailing manuscripts. The 400+ page (double spaced) work became a $50 charge every time he sent it out. Gotta spend money to make money, right? I remained hopeful.

My agent told me each editor would take 4-6 weeks to make a decision. I hated the waiting. Why did it take so long? I felt like all the work I had done was going to waste. As I waited, I started writing the fourth book in the series, EXECUTIVE REACTION. In February, I finished that manuscript as well.

The days clicked by. I checked in weekly with my agent, hoping he had some news. When the answer was no, I went back to writing. At the end of April, my agent said we should have news soon. Book Expo America 2015 was scheduled for the end of May, and he’d have a chance to talk to each editor that had requested manuscripts.

The week prior to BEA 2015, my agent and I were in constant communication. We created a pitch sheet for him to hand out, I tallied my sales figures from the first year and a half of publishing, and we discussed the options. I was excited.  SPECTRE RISING had just gotten a sales boost from a BookBub ad, and was sitting at #1 in three different Amazon categories. I thought for sure at least one out of ten would say yes. I had made it so far.

On the first day of BEA 2015, I received an e-mail. A major distributor was interested in picking up the entire series. I was a bit confused, but still excited. If they were interested, surely a publisher would be too.

It wasn’t until around noon on day two of BEA2015 that my hopes were finally dashed. My agent called, spinning it in a positive light. There was interest. Ingram Spark was the distributor that had been interested – a self publishing tool to get print books into stores.

I asked what the editors had said. He said they all loved the book, but the business side of things had forced them to decline. My books were all selling well enough that they didn’t think they could help, but not enough that they were interested in buying the rights to the entire series. Strictly a business decision.

I was confused. If they knew this ahead of time, why bother asking for a manuscript? My agent tried to explain that it wasn’t the writing, but simply that they were tightening their belts and didn’t think they could make enough money. Regardless of whether that particular book had been published, it was still part of a greater series that they couldn’t pick up. Sorry, thanks but no thanks.

I was crushed. I had wasted six months waiting for a response only to be told that it never could have worked. I considered throwing in the towel completely, embarrassed for even trying.

Despite the trend toward eBooks and the relatively bad deals publishers are throwing at authors these days, I had always considered traditional publishing to be a sort of validation. You’re not really an author until you’re “published” and self publishing doesn’t count, right?

I am a fighter pilot, a writer, and a cop. I am not a publisher. I am not a marketing guru. I will never have the tools available to me that a traditional publisher will in terms of getting reviews, getting the book in the hands of the New York Times, scheduling book tours, and telling people about myself and my work. It’s just not me.

But after a bit of thought, I decided I’m also not a quitter. I enjoy writing, and I enjoy interacting with readers. Books 3 and 4 are already written, and I’m working on a spinoff novel as we speak. I get just as engrossed with the characters as some readers do, and I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.

So I will keep writing, and promoting these books the best way I know how. They may not make it to airport book stores or USA Today, but they will be available through every online retailer, and they will be affordable for readers.

ARCHANGEL FALLEN will be released July 14, 2015.

I haven’t decided an exact date yet, but EXECUTIVE REACTION will hit stores sometime this fall.

The current book I’m working on has a working title of SHEPHERD’S RAGE. It’s a bit of a departure from what I’m used to writing – a first person novel. It is about an ISIS attack on American soil, and a local police officer’s response to losing everything. It’s very much “ripped from the headlines” and will have a tie in to the Spectre universe. I hope to have it finished by the fall as well for release sometime late this year or early next year.

Bottom line – I’m back. Expect more information on the books as time goes on. The next few weeks should be pretty exciting with the release of sample chapters, a cover reveal, and preorder information. It’s time to start moving forward again.

As always, thanks for reading. Without you, none of this would be possible. Also, if you haven’t checked it out yet, you can see more of my work on Fightersweep.com where I’m now a contributing writer.

Where'd Who Go? - Adventures in Publishing

It's been just over a year since AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. hit the market, and since its release, the most common question or comment I've seen is, "Wait, where's the next one? When does the next book come out?"

The reason for that is that ANK, by design, was never meant to be a stand alone novel. I wrote it to shift the SPECTRE Series from the introduction (SPECTRE RISING) to a more complex political thriller. My intent was to end the major conflict created in the beginning (The mysterious assassins) and use that book to open the door for something on a much bigger scale.

Unfortunately, I did a poor job initially of conveying that to the readers, and some of the reviews reflected that disappointment. For that, I apologize. It was never my intent to leave readers hanging.

To make matters worse, I got caught up in the lure of traditional publishing, which is what I will discuss today. It will hopefully explain where I've been and why I had seemingly gone off the grid.

In late June of 2014, I signed with an agent to represent the subsidiary rights of the Spectre series. Since the two books out at the time already had ISBNs and were therefore undesirable by traditional publishers, he was only interested in the possibility of movie/film, TV, graphic novel adaptations.

Excited to finally have an agent, I let him go to work as I went back to doing what I felt most comfortable - writing. I started writing ARCHANGEL FALLEN at the beginning of August and had the first draft completed by November. After my awesome editor went through it, I sent it to my agent on the off chance that he might want to shop it around since it didn't have the ISBN problem that the other two books had and could be published as an original.

A week later, I received a phone call from my agent. "Did you really write this?" he asked excitedly.

"Umm.. yeah?" I replied. Seriously? I knew what he was getting at, but I was a little insulted.

"This is great! The writing is tight. The plot is great. This is a great book!" he said.

"So do you think it has a chance to get picked up by the major publishers?" I asked, trying to contain my excitement. It was what I had always hoped for - to be a real, published author.

"Absolutely, I'll start working on putting together a pitch sheet," he said.

And with that, ARCHANGEL FALLEN was frozen in time. It was ready for release, but I was so excited by the idea of having a real marketing force behind me that I wanted to see what happened. I wanted to see it through.

At first, we were receiving winning comm. The first major publisher requested a full manuscript shortly before Christmas. I was antsy, willing them to make a quick decision. I hated the idea of sitting on a good book when my readers were wondering what the hell had happened to me. I was afraid to announce that everything was on hold while I pitched it to publishers, for fear of what I'd say if they said no. I just let everything sit.

After Christmas, nine more publishers requested full manuscripts. It was starting to get expensive and eat into my limited self-publishing marketing budget. The contract I had with my agent stated that I would bear the cost of mailing manuscripts. The 400+ page (double spaced) work became a $50 charge every time he sent it out. Gotta spend money to make money, right? I remained hopeful.

My agent told me each editor would take 4-6 weeks to make a decision. I hated the waiting. Why did it take so long? I felt like all the work I had done was going to waste. As I waited, I started writing the fourth book in the series, EXECUTIVE REACTION. In February, I finished that manuscript as well.

The days clicked by. I checked in weekly with my agent, hoping he had some news. When the answer was no, I went back to writing. At the end of April, my agent said we should have news soon. Book Expo America 2015 was scheduled for the end of May, and he'd have a chance to talk to each editor that had requested manuscripts.

The week prior to BEA 2015, my agent and I were in constant communication. We created a pitch sheet for him to hand out, I tallied my sales figures from the first year and a half of publishing, and we discussed the options. I was excited.  SPECTRE RISING had just gotten a sales boost from a BookBub ad, and was sitting at #1 in three different Amazon categories. I thought for sure at least one out of ten would say yes. I had made it so far.

On the first day of BEA 2015, I received an e-mail. A major distributor was interested in picking up the entire series. I was a bit confused, but still excited. If they were interested, surely a publisher would be too.

It wasn't until around noon on day two of BEA2015 that my hopes were finally dashed. My agent called, spinning it in a positive light. There was interest. Ingram Spark was the distributor that had been interested - a self publishing tool to get print books into stores.

I asked what the editors had said. He said they all loved the book, but the business side of things had forced them to decline. My books were all selling well enough that they didn't think they could help, but not enough that they were interested in buying the rights to the entire series. Strictly a business decision.

I was confused. If they knew this ahead of time, why bother asking for a manuscript? My agent tried to explain that it wasn't the writing, but simply that they were tightening their belts and didn't think they could make enough money. Regardless of whether that particular book had been published, it was still part of a greater series that they couldn't pick up. Sorry, thanks but no thanks.

I was crushed. I had wasted six months waiting for a response only to be told that it never could have worked. I considered throwing in the towel completely, embarrassed for even trying.

Despite the trend toward eBooks and the relatively bad deals publishers are throwing at authors these days, I had always considered traditional publishing to be a sort of validation. You're not really an author until you're "published" and self publishing doesn't count, right?

I am a fighter pilot, a writer, and a cop. I am not a publisher. I am not a marketing guru. I will never have the tools available to me that a traditional publisher will in terms of getting reviews, getting the book in the hands of the New York Times, scheduling book tours, and telling people about myself and my work. It's just not me.

But after a bit of thought, I decided I'm also not a quitter. I enjoy writing, and I enjoy interacting with readers. Books 3 and 4 are already written, and I'm working on a spinoff novel as we speak. I get just as engrossed with the characters as some readers do, and I'm not quite ready to say goodbye.

So I will keep writing, and promoting these books the best way I know how. They may not make it to airport book stores or USA Today, but they will be available through every online retailer, and they will be affordable for readers.

ARCHANGEL FALLEN will be released July 14, 2015.

I haven't decided an exact date yet, but EXECUTIVE REACTION will hit stores sometime this fall.

The current book I'm working on has a working title of SHEPHERD'S RAGE. It's a bit of a departure from what I'm used to writing - a first person novel. It is about an ISIS attack on American soil, and a local police officer's response to losing everything. It's very much "ripped from the headlines" and will have a tie in to the Spectre universe. I hope to have it finished by the fall as well for release sometime late this year or early next year.

Bottom line - I'm back. Expect more information on the books as time goes on. The next few weeks should be pretty exciting with the release of sample chapters, a cover reveal, and preorder information. It's time to start moving forward again.

As always, thanks for reading. Without you, none of this would be possible. Also, if you haven't checked it out yet, you can see more of my work on Fightersweep.com where I'm now a contributing writer.

The Day That Changed My Life Forever

Dec 28th, 1995. Nineteen years ago today, but it still feels like yesterday. It started out just like any other Thursday morning during school break. Mom and Dad went to work while I rode with my brother's caretaker, Regina, to take him to his Physical Therapy appointment in Eunice, LA. I was twleve years old and school was out for Christmas/New Years break.

We had just gotten home. Gina was in the laundry room, busy putting away laundry and ironing dad’s work shirts. I was in the computer room – the same chair Dad would later spend his last moments in – playing on the internet. I think it was AOL 3.0 back then. It was dial-up, and with my copy of Microsoft Flight Simulator, I was surfing the AOL message boards learning about Virtual Airlines.

There was a knock on the door that sent our miniature dachshund, Sparky, barking. I immediately went to see who it was, finding my dad standing there behind the glass door. I still don’t know why he knocked – he had always done it to agitate the dog, but I’ll never forget the look.

He didn’t have to say a word. His eyes said it all. Sadness. Despair. Heartache. Fear. I was only twelve years old, but somehow I knew instantly. I didn’t even give him a chance to explain before I screamed, “No!” and took off in a sprint down the hall before falling to my knees in their bedroom crying.

My dad finally caught up with me, picking me up. Mom was sick. She had been found at work. It wasn’t good, but there was hope. We had to get back to the hospital right away. I found my favorite jacket – the Starter Jacket Mom had bought me a few days prior, the one all the cool kids at school were wearing – and we made the six mile drive to the hospital. There wasn’t much to say. Dad tried to explain what he knew, but even he was lost. We prayed. We held out hope.

The next few hours were a dizzying blur. I couldn’t see Mom. She was in ICU. The doctors were still trying to figure out what to do. They parked me in the hospital cafeteria as Mom’s friends and coworkers stayed with me while Dad stayed near Mom and talked to the doctors. I waited. I prayed some more.

When my Dad finally returned, he gave me the news. They were pretty sure it was an aneurysm. She had to be taken to the hospital in Alexandria. That’s where the neurosurgeon was. There was still hope, but if she recovered, it would be a long road. And there was a chance she might not ever be the same. I steadied my resolve. I would help Mom get better – no matter what.

I remember following the ambulance to Alexandria with Dad in his truck. My dad held my hand the whole way there. We both cried. He hoped. We prayed. I knew my mom was in the back of that ambulance as we raced to get help. Rapides had the best doctors. She was going to be ok. She had to.
When we got to the hospital, they shoved us into the waiting room while the doctors reviewed the case. It seemed like hours. Maybe it was. Time didn’t matter anymore. The doctor finally returned. He was so sorry, but there was nothing he could do. Her body was alive, but she just wasn’t with us anymore.

We all fell to our knees. Everyone. My dad. My sister. Me. The hope was gone. The prayers had gone unanswered – at least for us. Three days after Christmas, Mom was gone forever.

Dad left for a while. I don’t know where he went, but he came back later to talk to me. He had been talking to the doctors and wanted to talk to me about what’s next. Mom was gone. There was no brain activity at all, but her body – her organs – were still alive. She could still save lives. He asked me what I thought. He was so scared.

At first, the thoughts are purely selfish. What if there’s a chance she could live? What if the doctors are wrong? Why should someone else get a chance? But that’s not what Mom would’ve wanted. She was the most generous person my dad had ever known. She would’ve wanted someone else to live on. I agreed. So they did it.

Mom officially died on December 29th, 1995, but on that evening, she was gone forever. And in an instant, our lives changed forever. Worrying about the latest Playstation game had gone from the most pressing of issues to a problem I so desperately longed to have again.

We’re guaranteed nothing on this Earth, yet we tend to take so much for granted. On November 8th. 2013, I had no idea I would be writing this before going to sit at the grave of both Mom and Dad alone. What once was a yearly tradition of my dad and I visiting Mom's grave became me going to visit their graves by myself. He died just as unexpectedly and suddenly as she did nearly eighteen years later.

Love the people close to you. Cherish them. Respect them. Because it only takes an instant for them to be gone forever.

It’s been nineteen years now since Mom left this earth. And I’ve lived more of my life without her than with her. I wish I had been given the opportunity to know her as an adult. My only wish is that somehow she’s been able to see it all, and that I would’ve made her proud. She certainly cast a big shadow.

RIP Mom. August 7, 1951 – December 28, 1995

Guest Blogger – Amanda Hough (Author)

 I’ve had several readers tell me that while the SPECTRE Series is great for its plot twists, action, and adventure, it also has a romance component that romance readers enjoy. Although I never really thought about it as I was writing, I think it’s an interesting premise.

So this week, I asked romance novelist Amanda Hough to give readers a woman’s perspective on Cal “Spectre” Martin and his exploits. 

I hope you enjoy it!

 

Spectre of Romance

By Amanda Hough








I’m not sure how many female readers will admit this but,

when they read a romance novel, they want to see themselves as the lead female

protagonist. In fact, I would argue that it is the single most important point

in engaging the reader. Well, that and a hero she can look toward to make it

all better. That’s where C.W. Lemoine’s Cal “Spectre” Martin comes in. I will

get to that in a moment.



Women want the hero and heroine in romances to be

interesting and emotionally complex. They want them to ‘feel real’. Even if

they are soldiers with bravery to spare, there must be an element of

believability. The reader must engage with the hero. See yourself in him or in

the man you imagine. C.W. Lemoine, somehow manages to do just that. Spectre can

fly an F-16 and disarm a terrorist in a nanosecond, but he’s still human. The

reader, somehow, can still imagine himself or herself as him or with him.

Spectre

brought the paper up to his face as if to get a better look. It was time to

kill. As his hands

reached his eye level, he dropped the paper and instantly grabbed the man’s

right wrist with his right hand and the barrel of the gun with his left.

Falling to his side while securing the weapon, he flicked off the safety,

squeezed through the double action of the fourteen-pound trigger, and fired at

his shocked captor. The bullet struck the man in the throat and sent him

stumbling back into the camera as he gasped through his last breaths.

           -AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. 





What woman wouldn’t find that romantic? If he can do that

with his hands, just imagine the possibilities.



As a romance novelist, I am consistently warring with my

female characters. In fiction, as in life, I need her to be all things but

still accessible. Smart yet self-deprecating. Strong but a little vulnerable. Adroit

but not completely self-sufficient. She needs to be stunningly beautiful,

exotic, sexy but somehow still the girl next door. You see, she needs to be an

impossible combination of every woman and one woman. The woman reading the

book.



For the longest time, I felt it was only the female

characters who had to strike this balance. Spectre has changed my mind. Spectre

without the humor, modesty and humanity wouldn’t be Cal. Instead he would be a

man no one could relate to. Someone… unlikable. But Cal is supremely affable.

In a deadly, hunted hero way.

As time has marched on (mostly on my face) my taste in heroes

and heroines have morphed, as it should. I still read romance novels, of

course. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do without them. However, the men

and women seldom live up to the expectations I have for them. Even the women I

write tend to acquiesce to the hero at one point or another.



At least physically, the heroes in romance novels have

changed very little over the years. He’s strong, tall, dangerously clever, brave

and achingly handsome. Of course, what the reader perceives as handsome varies

nowadays. A tattooed ex-con who’s the leader of a motorcycle club is a new

norm. Moreover, it is quite popular. The bad boy concept isn’t new. A lot of

the heroes from my favorite novels years ago had bad boys. 



Sometimes they got

the girl but often times they didn’t. He’d try to steal the fair maiden from

the white knight only to lose the woman and his life at the end of the

narrative. Typically, his death would come in the form of a rapier through his

gut. But in his dying breath, he would see the proverbial light and repent.

Realizing that the woman’s love would have been the prize, not her body.



Today the hero often lacks the qualities that I found so

appealing in my youth and now my adulthood. Consequently, my disillusionment

has drawn me to other genres, to feed the need. And no genre does a better job

at heroes than thrillers. Military and espionage novels in particular.



In fact, I liken a good thriller as the flip side of a

well-written romance. The POV in romance is often the females because, let’s

face it, it’s our point of view that matters. In thrillers, we often get the

male POV. When I read one of these stories, I get a glimpse into the inner workings

of a man’s mind. But not just any man,  a

real hero. A male protagonist with conviction, daring, loyalty and a kinship to

both his country and his brothers in arms. Like Cal “Spectre” Martin.



I’ve had a favorite character for many years now, Daniel

Silva’s Gabriel Allon, an art restorer and former Israeli assassin. For

heaven’s sakes, he can kill his enemy with his bare hands and appreciate the

differences between fauvism and impressionism. What’s not to love?



It is that same contrasting balance that draws me to C.W. Lemoine’s

Cal Martin.

We start with a soldier, dedicated to his nation who is much

maligned by a bloated, corrupt system. He is a hero whose dedication to service

is used against him. We all feel, at times, a victim of the political/social

system that we built through balloting, shortsightedness or apathy. Cal fights

that power to restore a balance in his life. He doesn’t concede his moral

center. And his resolute, fearless stance wins him the woman. And Michelle

Decker is quite a woman.



She is a heroine who would be utterly at home in a romance

novel today. What female reader wouldn’t want to imagine herself as Michelle?

She has all the desirable physical attributes a man craves. However, she’s also

steadfast, brave, clever and funny. A perfect combination.



Together she and Cal could (and may) take the story beyond thrills

and add an element of romance. Knowing C.W. Lemoine’s work, I’ve no doubt he

will avoid clichéd overtures that do little for the plot, but I can see these

two working together to save the world. What a dynamic, and dare I say romantic

notion that could be?

Amanda Hough is a romance novelist from Ohio. She is the author of The

Mikhailov Trilogy, The Ferrara Brothers Novellas and Fight to Win, a

military romance with proceeds proudly going to K9s for Warriors. She

welcomes email at Houghromances@gmail.com, visit her website at www.amandahough.com or find her on Facebook.

Guest Blogger - Amanda Hough (Author)

 I've had several readers tell me that while the SPECTRE Series is great for its plot twists, action, and adventure, it also has a romance component that romance readers enjoy. Although I never really thought about it as I was writing, I think it's an interesting premise.

So this week, I asked romance novelist Amanda Hough to give readers a woman's perspective on Cal "Spectre" Martin and his exploits. 

I hope you enjoy it!

 Spectre of RomanceBy Amanda Hough I’m not sure how many female readers will admit this but, when they read a romance novel, they want to see themselves as the lead female protagonist. In fact, I would argue that it is the single most important point in engaging the reader. Well, that and a hero she can look toward to make it all better. That’s where C.W. Lemoine’s Cal “Spectre” Martin comes in. I will get to that in a moment.
Women want the hero and heroine in romances to be interesting and emotionally complex. They want them to ‘feel real’. Even if they are soldiers with bravery to spare, there must be an element of believability. The reader must engage with the hero. See yourself in him or in the man you imagine. C.W. Lemoine, somehow manages to do just that. Spectre can fly an F-16 and disarm a terrorist in a nanosecond, but he’s still human. The reader, somehow, can still imagine himself or herself as him or with him.

Spectre brought the paper up to his face as if to get a better look. It was time to kill. As his hands reached his eye level, he dropped the paper and instantly grabbed the man’s right wrist with his right hand and the barrel of the gun with his left. Falling to his side while securing the weapon, he flicked off the safety, squeezed through the double action of the fourteen-pound trigger, and fired at his shocked captor. The bullet struck the man in the throat and sent him stumbling back into the camera as he gasped through his last breaths.

           -AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. 
What woman wouldn’t find that romantic? If he can do that with his hands, just imagine the possibilities.
As a romance novelist, I am consistently warring with my female characters. In fiction, as in life, I need her to be all things but still accessible. Smart yet self-deprecating. Strong but a little vulnerable. Adroit but not completely self-sufficient. She needs to be stunningly beautiful, exotic, sexy but somehow still the girl next door. You see, she needs to be an impossible combination of every woman and one woman. The woman reading the book.
For the longest time, I felt it was only the female characters who had to strike this balance. Spectre has changed my mind. Spectre without the humor, modesty and humanity wouldn’t be Cal. Instead he would be a man no one could relate to. Someone… unlikable. But Cal is supremely affable. In a deadly, hunted hero way. As time has marched on (mostly on my face) my taste in heroes and heroines have morphed, as it should. I still read romance novels, of course. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do without them. However, the men and women seldom live up to the expectations I have for them. Even the women I write tend to acquiesce to the hero at one point or another.
At least physically, the heroes in romance novels have changed very little over the years. He’s strong, tall, dangerously clever, brave and achingly handsome. Of course, what the reader perceives as handsome varies nowadays. A tattooed ex-con who’s the leader of a motorcycle club is a new norm. Moreover, it is quite popular. The bad boy concept isn’t new. A lot of the heroes from my favorite novels years ago had bad boys. 
Sometimes they got the girl but often times they didn’t. He’d try to steal the fair maiden from the white knight only to lose the woman and his life at the end of the narrative. Typically, his death would come in the form of a rapier through his gut. But in his dying breath, he would see the proverbial light and repent. Realizing that the woman’s love would have been the prize, not her body.
Today the hero often lacks the qualities that I found so appealing in my youth and now my adulthood. Consequently, my disillusionment has drawn me to other genres, to feed the need. And no genre does a better job at heroes than thrillers. Military and espionage novels in particular.
In fact, I liken a good thriller as the flip side of a well-written romance. The POV in romance is often the females because, let’s face it, it’s our point of view that matters. In thrillers, we often get the male POV. When I read one of these stories, I get a glimpse into the inner workings of a man’s mind. But not just any man,  a real hero. A male protagonist with conviction, daring, loyalty and a kinship to both his country and his brothers in arms. Like Cal “Spectre” Martin.
I’ve had a favorite character for many years now, Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon, an art restorer and former Israeli assassin. For heaven’s sakes, he can kill his enemy with his bare hands and appreciate the differences between fauvism and impressionism. What’s not to love?
It is that same contrasting balance that draws me to C.W. Lemoine’s Cal Martin. We start with a soldier, dedicated to his nation who is much maligned by a bloated, corrupt system. He is a hero whose dedication to service is used against him. We all feel, at times, a victim of the political/social system that we built through balloting, shortsightedness or apathy. Cal fights that power to restore a balance in his life. He doesn’t concede his moral center. And his resolute, fearless stance wins him the woman. And Michelle Decker is quite a woman.
She is a heroine who would be utterly at home in a romance novel today. What female reader wouldn’t want to imagine herself as Michelle? She has all the desirable physical attributes a man craves. However, she’s also steadfast, brave, clever and funny. A perfect combination.
Together she and Cal could (and may) take the story beyond thrills and add an element of romance. Knowing C.W. Lemoine’s work, I’ve no doubt he will avoid clichéd overtures that do little for the plot, but I can see these two working together to save the world. What a dynamic, and dare I say romantic notion that could be?

Amanda Hough is a romance novelist from Ohio. She is the author of The Mikhailov Trilogy, The Ferrara Brothers Novellas and Fight to Win, a military romance with proceeds proudly going to K9s for Warriors. She welcomes email at Houghromances@gmail.com, visit her website at www.amandahough.com or find her on Facebook.

Why Krav Maga?

Why Taylor Swift Uses Krav Maga
I’m sure we’ve all wondered, how does Taylor Swift stay so fit while fending off the screaming fans and skinny jeans wearing guys?
Today, we'll explore that very topic!

I’m just kidding. I have no idea and don’t care. After the constructive feedback from the last post, I promised my fans I would return to my bubble and not write anymore Taylor Swift posts, so this blog is not about that.

Instead, let's talk about why I chose Krav Maga as the preferred fighting style in the SPECTRE Series.
Knife takedown 

“I know,” Baxter said as he calmed down.  “But I was kind of hoping Cal would do some of that Kung Fu stuff on him just for the hell of it.”

“Krav Maga,” Decker corrected.  She frowned at Baxter’s weak attempt at a joke.  “And we certainly don’t need any of that today.” 

“Kung Fu.  Krock Macrotch.  Karate.  Whatever.  That guy just needs an ass-whipping.”

 -      Special Agent Sean Baxter talking to Michelle Decker in AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL.

It’s a conversation I’ve had many times before when discussing my training in Krav Maga. When talking about the Israeli self-defense system, the responses have ranged from “Say what?” to “So does that mean you can kill me with a thought?”
In my SPECTRE Series thrillers, main character Cal “Spectre” Martin is a black belt in Krav Maga, so today I thought I’d go into a little more detail about it and explain what it is and what it isn’t.
What is Krav Maga?
Practicing a defense against a slashing knife attack during class.If you’re not one of the people who stumble over the pronunciation and look at me like I’m speaking Klingon, you’ve probably seen or heard of Krav Maga in popular culture.
On the TV show Archer, ISIS agents are trained in Krav Maga instead of Karate, with Archer calling Karate the “Dane Cook of martial arts.” Krav Maga has also been featured in the hit TV series 24 and in the Splinter Cell video games. As it has become more prevalent in pop culture, more schools across the United States have begun to pop up.
Pronounced “krahv mah-GAH,” the words Krav Maga are Hebrew for “contact combat.” It is a fighting system developed by Hungarian-Israeli Imi Lichtenfield as a way of defending the Jewish quarter against fascist groups in Czechoslovakia in the late 1930s.
When Lichtenfield immigrated to Israel in the late 1940s, he became an instructor for what would later become the Israeli Defense Force. His tactics focused on real-world situations with extremely efficient and brutal counter attacks.
Although Lichtenfield is the father of Krav Maga, Krav Maga in Israel has become as common as Karate in Japan, with many students branching out to form their own derivatives and methods.
One such derivative is Survival (Hisardut) Krav Maga. This is the fighting style that Cal “Spectre” Martin employs in the books. It is also the method in which I am both a Certified Instructor and Brown Belt. Me with Sensei Miki Erez
Survival Krav Maga was founded by Miki Erez in the mid 1990s. While in the Israeli Air Force, Miki Erez was a student of Imi Lichtenfeld in Krav Maga. Miki Erez studied and earned his 3rd degree black belt in Hisardut directly under Grandmaster Dennis Hanover.
In addition, Erez earned his 6th degree black belt in Mas Oyama’s Kyokushin full contact Karate and World Oyama Karate under Shigeru, and Yasuhiko Oyama. Erez incorporated Oyama Karate with more Thai kickboxing into a modified form of Survival Hisardut, called Survival Krav Maga.
This advanced form of Hisardut is enhanced by the addition of new facets of overall survival, and combat fighting. It is intended to give its students the skills, techniques and the ability needed to escape from almost any threat virtually unharmed (including firearms, knives, clubs).
I was introduced to Sensei Erez in 2009. I had just come back from my first tour in Iraq, and one of the pilots had been telling me all about his training in Krav Maga and how useful it could be in real world applications, especially as fighter pilots.
At the time, the world had been changing for fighter pilots flying over combat zones. Gone were the days that a pilot could expect to wind up as a Prisoner of War, should he end up downed over enemy territory. The video of the beheading of journalist Nick Berg at the hands of Al Qaeda terrorist Abu Musab al-Zarqawi had taught us that much. An American fighter pilot captured in Iraq or Afghanistan would be nothing more than propaganda for them.
My response in country had been to carry extra ammunition. I always carried five magazines for my Beretta M9 as opposed to the issued three. It made my survival vest a bit heavier, but it was much better than the alternative. My plan had always been that I would use every bullet, saving the last one for myself should it come to that. My flight leads always briefed that whoever was still airborne would do whatever it took to keep the bad guys at bay until help had arrived, but at the end of the day, it was a personal choice to make.
So the idea of adding another tool to my arsenal seemed like a good plan. I had read about Krav Maga on the internet and watched YouTube videos, and it seemed like something I might enjoy. I had also trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in college and Karate as a kid, so I knew it would be both a physical and mental challenge.  The first day of training lived up to everything I had been expecting. I arrived at the address my squadron mate had given me to find that classes were being held in the garage of the now retired Israeli. He had all of the pads, mats, and equipment perfectly lined up everywhere with side-by-side American and Israeli flags as the backdrop.
I shook Miki Erez’s hand and introduced myself. The first thing I learned is that we shake with two hands, a sign of mutual respect. Sensei Erez was larger than life – a big Israeli with an awesome mustache and bodybuilder physique. I would later learn that he had been doing competitions late into his fifties.
Erez’s story was inspiring. He had been paralyzed from the waist down in a helicopter accident in Israel in 1973. Although he had been told he would never walk again, Sensei Erez managed to rehabilitate himself to the point of not only walking, but later competing in the Israeli Olympics in Karate.
If that’s not enough of an inspiration, he would later reinjure himself in the 80s while swimming, causing another long rehabilitation stint in which he defied doctors and got himself walking again. He once told me that later in his life, a Miami doctor looked at his MRI and X-ray and wanted to operate on him, saying, “You shouldn’t even be walking right now.” Sensei refused, and although he walks with a pronounced limp and little to no feeling in his feet, still has a very functional life.
When the training finally began, Sensei pushed me to my limits almost immediately. Although I prided myself as a fitness geek who went to the gym five days per week, I found myself completely out of shape. The basic warm up of air kicks, pushups on the fingers, sit-ups, air punches, more pushups (on the fists this time), and more kicks had me hoping I would make it through the whole hour and a half without puking – especially since I was training with a senior fighter pilot that I liked and respected.
As we moved on to the basic moves of the system, I learned that it was effective because of its simplicity. The system was designed for any Isreali, of any walk of life, to be able to quickly defend him or herself and move forward. After all, Israel is a small country surrounded by enemies. In war, there is no time or ability to retreat. They must be able to neutralize a threat and move forward. And so I learned the first basic tenant of Survival Krav Maga: attack your attacker.
It seemed brilliant in its simplicity. The best defense is a good offense. My basic police academy used to play on those words saying, “nothing good ever happens on defense.” I learned that moving forward, attacking, and moving on were keys to survival. It was a no frills, extremely effective system that had me hooked from day one.
After surviving the first day, I made it part of my life. I wanted to be in better shape. I wanted to add the tools of Krav Maga to myself defense arsenal. I wanted to embrace it.
I started out going to class just on Sunday mornings, but the more I learned the more I wanted to learn. The more I faced off against people twice my size and felt defeated, the more I wanted to master it. And so I began adding days, going from once a week to three days per week.
And then one day after class, Sensei Erez pulled me aside. He offered me an opportunity – to become a certified instructor in Survival Krav Maga. I had helped him give seminars to local security firms before, but he wanted me to be able to teach on my own. It was humbling and an awesome opportunity. I accepted.
I had some leave built up one month, and took the month off to train. I trained nearly every day, and some days twice per day. At the time, I was disappointed when he would have me sit down and take notes instead of physical training, but later I realized that the mental knowledge and preparation were perhaps more important than the physical side of things.
Some of these skills would translate directly into Spectre’s character. Specifically, the concepts of avoidance, negotiation, and then killing. My second novel is completely based on these tenants. It’s spelled out in the first chapter, but the theme of the novel is Spectre’s application of them.
Receiving my instructor certificate in 2011I graduated with my instructor certificate in late 2011 and earned my Brown Belt shortly before leaving Miami in 2012. It was bittersweet receiving that belt, knowing that my time training regularly with Sensei Erez had come to an end. I was moving on to the Navy Reserve and to Louisiana. I considered him both a friend and mentor that I was sad to leave. Receiving my Brown Belt in 2012
I never quite found anything close to that experience when I moved to Louisiana. The problem with Krav Maga is that it has become very commercialized. There are many “boutique” UFC gyms that boast Krav Maga instruction, when in reality, they’re nothing more than MMA gyms with one or two instructors who took a one or two day course and received a certificate, having never actually even met an Israeli.
My training now is mostly in my own garage. I often invite friends to train with me, and I teach based on the concepts and techniques of Sensei Erez. It keeps me mostly proficient and in shape, but I don’t think it will ever quite be the same. I have also had the opportunity to teach seminars for local law enforcement, which is challenging and rewarding all on its own.
Teaching a seminar for law enforcementFor now, my training and experience live on through Cal Martin as he fights, “attacks his attackers” and pushes forward through the SPECTRE Series books.  
What Krav Maga Isn’t
Krav Maga is not a sport. In UFC and MMA, it usually fails. The reason for that is that in Krav Maga, there is only one rule – survival.
Specific techniques taught in Krav Maga are banned in sport fighting because they are designed to cause serious or permanent injury. Krav Maga is a weapon to be used in self defense only. It requires just as much discipline as owning a taser, baton, OC spray or even a handgun.
This is the reason behind the Avoid, Negotiate, Killconcept. If one can avoid a fight, then that is always the preferred tactic. There is no room for ego in Krav Maga. Living to fight another day without having to engage the threat is by far the most effective method.
If that doesn’t work, negotiation is the second best option. Again, this technique stresses the need for a person to check their ego at the door. Sometimes people can talk their way out of a situation. If that is possible, then it allows the defender to fight another day.
Finally, if all else fails, Krav Maga teaches to Kill.  Kill their will to fight, kill their ability to fight, or kill them. This is where the idea of “attacking your attacker” comes into play. Once the decision has been made to kill, there is no hesitation. The idea now is to quickly and efficiently stand down the threat through violence and swiftness of action. It is unlike boxing or MMA where we can accept standing up and going blow for blow with the adversary. The idea is to use whatever means necessary to end the fight and move forward.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this blog post. Hopefully this clears the air and gives a bit more insight into the Cal “Spectre” Martin character. And if you have to ask, yes, I can kill you with a thought.
It was an honor training with Sensei Miki Erez who is now actively involved in helping those in wheelchairs to stay in shape and improve their lives. His story is amazing, and if you have time, I highly recommend visiting http://www.wheelchairfitnesssolution.com/and checking out his revolutionary new wheelchair training system.
Thank you for reading. Stay tuned for the next blog post.
Until next time.

5 Things Every Author Can Learn From Taylor Swift

The people that are closest to me can tell you that when it comes to pop culture, I live in a bit of a bubble. Up until recently, I rarely ventured out of the rock music genre, and I still don’t quite understand the hoopla over a naked Kardashian.
But a few months ago, that changed over a conversation at dinner with my friend and his wife that went something like this:

Friend’s wife: You know who you should date? Me: Who? Friend’s wife: Taylor Swift! It would be perfect! Me: Who? Friend’s wife: Of course you know! The singer! You would be perfect for her. Me: Okay, I’ll bite. Why? Friend’s wife: Because you’re tall. Me: …. Friend’s wife: And she’s tall. Me: …. Friend’s wife: And you have blue eyes. Me: Let me guess, she has blue eyes too? Friend’s wife: Exactly! Perfect match. Me: Are you using drugs? Friend’s wife: No, check her out! I’m telling you.

So over dinner that evening, I used my phone to Google the most famous singer in the world, signaling to my Google Android overlords that I had become a Swifty and therefore needed daily updates pushed to my phone on a regular basis.
As the updates continued, I learned that Taylor was in the process of promoting an upcoming album called 1989. And the more I learned, the more fascinated I became with the process.
The results are in, and the album has been wildly successful. Aside from her unusual love of teenage hipster boy bands, it’s apparent that when it comes to marketing and promoting, independent and rookie authors stand to learn a lot from her genius. So without further ado, I give you the 5 Things We Can Learn From Taylor Swift:


1.      Shake it off.
Although Google told me everything I ever wanted to know about the pop icon, the first song that caught my attention was a song called “Shake it off.”
It happened after a particularly bad sortie in which everything just seemed to go wrong – from maintenance issues to weather to my own lack of proficiency. As I got in my truck that day to go home, “Shake it off” started playing on the radio.
My initial urge was to change stations. I was way outside of my comfort zone and needed the soothing sounds of Metallica or Five Finger Death Punch, but as I noticed it was one of the hyped new songs, I decided to take a listen. And in that moment, the twenty five year old singer taught me something that is applicable in both flying and writing – “Shake it off.”
I won’t get into quoting lyrics, but the general gist of the song is that no matter what you do, you will always have people out to criticize or demean you. The only thing you can truly control is how you react and whether you “just keep dancing.”
In flying, we call that compartmentalization. Dwelling on mistakes, what people will say in the debrief, or whatever trivial thing that’s made it to the front of your mind can be deadly in the cockpit. The only valid answer is to shake it off, keep flying, and focus on the task at hand.
In writing, that’s just as important. One of the many truths I’ve learned in becoming an author is that not everyone will love your work. Almost every author gets rejection letters from agents and publishers. Every author gets one and two star reviews. There will be fans and there will be “haters.”But what we can learn from the record breaking artist is that no matter what they say, the only correct answer is to shake it off. 
As a fighter pilot, arguing in the debrief will get you nowhere. Instead, you will lose the respect of your peers and instructors. And as an author, the same holds true. The best way to torpedo a promising book campaign is to argue with a reviewer, thus inviting the wrath of the internet upon you to pile on more negative reviews.
From a girl that’s had as many haters as fans, I think that’s pretty sage and sound advice, regardless of the medium.
2.      Appreciate your fan base.
I was surprised to learn that Swift had actually invited fans to her house on numerous occasions in the weeks leading up to the release of her new album. I was even more surprised that she invited them there to get a sneak preview of the full album before its release, and that no new restraining orders had to be filed as a result.
Although the idea of an author doing that brings back images of Stephen King’s psychological thriller MISERY , the concept can be easily adapted. We just call them beta readers.
Inviting people to read your yet-to-be-released work is the best way to not only reward your fan base for sticking it out with you, but also to get feedback in the last days before release. Even editors can miss things that stand out to the untrained eye, and the feedback you get can be both rewarding and useful in putting the finishing touches on your novel.
But hey, if you want to have people go to your house to read your book in front of you, knock your socks off. It worked for Taylor Swift.
3.      Put your heart into it.
Although any woman dating a skinny jean wearing teenage hipster elicits an eye roll and head shake from me, the experience(s) obviously gave the woman something to write and sing about. It doesn’t matter how painfully obvious the pending train wreck was to the rest of the world. (Although if she were to take up dating real men that have at least hit puberty, she might not have as many songs to write).
The pain, feeling, and realness of the feelings were exactly what her fans craved. It gave the words realness as people scrambled to figure out which lover she was singing about and how she really felt. 
Realness makes for good art.
In AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. , I left a piece of myself in the funeral chapter. Sometimes the truth is more compelling than fiction, and in that chapter, I took something that happened to me just over a year ago and made one of my characters go through the same thing.
I won’t spoil the ending for anyone who hasn’t read it yet, but the eulogy Cal “Spectre” Martin gives in that chapter and the final salute he gives at the end really happened. Not as a loss after a terror attack, but in my life as I lost my best friend, hero, and father. Putting that to paper was therapeutic, but also made for better writing.
4.      Your work has value, don’t just give it away.
One of the more recent scandals to hit my phone was Taylor Swift’s withdrawal from Spotify and her refusal to give her work away for free. Despite the criticism she’s received for that decision, I say kudos. And every independent author should take note.
Far too often, I see new authors on the Kindle Direct Publishing forums register and post their first thread, asking what the best way to give their work away for free is. Despite the hundreds of threads already started, it invariably creates the great debate – why?
People often argue that they do it for love. They write because they enjoy it and charging feels wrong. But who are they to devalue their work? Why is it ok to tell someone that they should pay (because publishing is expensive if you do it right with an editor, cover designer, etc.) for people to read their work?
It’s not, and it never serves that purpose. People love to download freebies, but they rarely read them because they see “free” or even “bargain” and think it lacks quality. So at the end of the day, all you did was pay someone to not read your work. It just doesn’t work.
Be proud of your work, present it proudly at a reasonable price, and you’ll get just as many real fans.
5.      Work the ground game.
The only reason I know anything about Taylor Swift right now, despite my bubble, is that her ground game leading up to her new album was unsurpassed. She put herself out there and made people aware and excited about its release.
People who write books usually aren’t pop stars. We generally aren’t extroverts that want to get on stage in front of millions of screaming fans. We want to be left alone, with our faithful furry friends, to create a world that people will want to escape to. Putting yourself out there is just not a natural thing.
But that’s exactly what separates a “Writer” from an “Author.”I am absolutely guilty of this, and this blog post and my new website are my first steps into the limelight. It’s infinitely more terrifying than anything I’ve ever done (including flying in combat.)
 I think it’s fair to say that most authors would rather let someone else do the leg work so they can focus on writing, but that’s only half the game. The other half – the half that Swift is a complete genius at doing – is building the buzz, getting the word out, and making people excited to click BUY as they countdown the days until release.
Well, it’s not quite a mega list, but in my brief exposure, I’ve been impressed by the effectiveness of it all. She seems to have struck the perfect balance of talent and marketing genius, and by taking just a few pointers from her, even small time writers can find success.
Above all, though, it really is important just to “Shake it off.” As Shakespeare wrote, “Our doubts are traitors, andDon’t let the fear of criticism, bad reviews, and failing stop you from putting forth your best effort and putting yourself out there. Just keep writing and everything will fall into place. I know I will try to just keep writing.
Okay, that’s enough time outside the bubble. Now someone please pass me a Sevendust CD while I go shoot paper targets at the range.
In other news, I’m finishing up the editing/publishing process of ARCHANGEL FALLEN and I’ve started working on Book 4. I plan on making more regular posts to this blog (Next up – Why Krav Maga?) and taking my own advice to work the ground game and reach out to fans more.
Until next time!

Spectre Rising is now IndieReader Approved!

While AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. is still hot off the presses,  SPECTRE RISING has just received a great review from IndieReader.com.  This review earns it the above seal of approval.

"Post the sticker proudly, knowing that your title was judged by top industry professionals—not as merely a great indie book—but as great book, period."

Thank you, IndieReader, I think I will post it proudly. 

Check out their review HERE

Avoid. Negotiate. Kill. - Chapter Three

We're just a four short days away from the release of AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. on May 23rd, 2014.  Here's the final sample chapter.  This sequel to SPECTRE RISING will be available for Kindle, Nook, Kobo Books, iTunes, Sony eReader, and in paperback. 




Chapter Three
5 Miles West of Sinjar, Iraq0230L
“Chariot 11 and 12 are airborne,” Shorty announced over the secure radio, breaking a long silence.  Spectre had been orbiting at medium altitude as he watched the two helicopters refuel from an Iraqi Air Force CH-47 Chinook at the improvised Forward Operating Base through his Night Vision Goggles.
Despite the Scorpion Helmet Mounted Display he wore that allowed him to wear Night Vision Goggles and still have mission data displayed in his visor, Spectre hated night missions.  It was a hatred he had picked up from hours of droning over Iraq at night in the F-16.  The Night Vision Goggles were bulky and usually gave him a headache.  Spatial Disorientation had been a real threat in the F-16, even causing one of his former squadron mates and several other F-16 pilots to eject after losing relative orientation to the horizon.  It just wasn’t comfortable.
But most of those issues had happened on moonless, horizonless nights.  Tonight, the moon was full and the forecasted illumination was nearly one hundred percent.  With the NVGs, the moon was as bright as the sun, nearly turning night into day.  Even without them, it was still bright enough to see the desert terrain below. 
“Magic 31 is Showtime,” a female voice said over the secure radio.  Spectre looked out and saw the datalink circle projected in his visor over the flashing covert strobe out in the distance.  It was the Pilatus PC-12, piloted by “Jenny” Craig and a crew of sensor operators.  She had made the call to indicate she was crossing into Syrian Airspace and was en route to locate the chemical weapons and any potential surface to air threats in the area.
Spectre was glad to have the PC-12 on this mission, but he was hoping the intelligence reports were right and it wouldn’t be necessary.  The Syrian Army had reportedly moved all of its short range, mobile Surface-to-Air Missile systems to Damascus after saber rattling from the Israelis over destroying the chemical weapons caches in country.  The Syrian Air Force had also set up most of its alert fighters to the west, leaving the area Spectre and his team was flying in mostly unguarded by Syrian forces. 
Spectre reached forward and flipped the Master Arm switch to ARM as he escorted the helicopters into Syrian airspace.  They were flying a nap-of-the-earth profile, barely fifty feet above the desert and terrain as the two teams of four hung on the skids of the small helicopters.  The Super Tucano’s sixteen hundred shaft horsepower turbine engine droned effortlessly as Spectre maintained a 250 knot racetrack pattern around the slower helicopters at just over one thousand feet above them.
Checking his Situational Awareness Display on the multifunction display above his right knee, Spectre toggled through the various menus.  He checked to ensure that this Radar Warning Receiver and Threat Indicators were showing ready.  These systems would alert him if any enemy radars, airborne or ground-based, were targeting him, as well as alert him if it detected a manpad launch.  The system integrated with his Counter-Measure Dispensing System, allowing the aircraft to react with chaff and flares as appropriate against various threat systems.
Satisfied that his self-protection suite was ready, Spectre switched to his Stores Management Display Page.  He was loaded out with two five hundred pound GBU-12 laser guided bombs, two Israeli made Python 5 air-to-air heat seeking missiles, a rocket pod, and two hundred rounds of .50 caliber bullets. 
“Chariot flight, five mikes,” Shorty announced over the secure radio, indicating they were five minutes out from dropping the eight-man team off at the Landing Zone.  The team would then have a short one-kilometer hike to the small rebel outpost where the chemical weapons were in the process of being transferred. 
“Magic 31 has a fix on Mary Jane, sending now,” the female voice replied.  They were all using a common tactical datalink through which they could pass coordinates and secure messages.  Spectre’s screen flashed briefly to notify him that he had a new message.  Using the toggle on his throttle, he cycled through the pages, loading the coordinates for the chemical weapons.  He created a steerpoint in his system and a green diamond appeared in the desert on his display in his visor.  He slewed the targeting pod in the A-29’s nose onto it and the MFD showed a clear, black and white infrared image of four trucks.  The Intel had been dead on. 
As Spectre slewed the targeting pod around the trucks, looking for other vehicles and hostiles, he was suddenly alerted by a low pitched beeping in his headset.  His heart sank as he flipped to his Situational Awareness Display. 
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said as the exhale valve on his oxygen mask began to click faster with every breath. 
Using the cursor on his throttle, Spectre scrolled to the threat indicator symbol on his display and pressed down on the threat icon.  Moments later, “MiG-21” popped up in red.  His aircraft was being targeted.
“Venom 21, spiked 270, Fishbed,” Spectre said, letting the other members know that his radar warning receiver was showing the MiG-21 air-to-air fighters in the area. 
“Magic 31 shows same,” Jenny responded from the PC-12. 
“No way,” Spectre mumbled to himself.  He didn’t want to believe it.  The Syrians used the MiG-21 Fishbed as an interceptor.  They had just moved them all to Damascus.  Based on what Spectre had been briefed, there was no way they were this far east on a scramble order - especially not with the threat of the Israelis doing a strike from the west.  It just didn’t make sense. 
The low-pitched beeping stopped as Spectre turned back east on his racetrack orbit around the two helicopters.  He intensely watched his display to see if his rear Radar Warning Receiver antennas would also pick up the spike.  He loved the Super Tucano and its capabilities for Close Air Support, but now he desperately wished he were in a fighter with a radar and long range radar guided missiles.  He felt as if he were flying blindly into a thunderstorm with an ultralight.
Spectre held his breath as the two helicopters passed underneath him on the way to their LZ.  If they really were being targeted by Syrian fighters, there would be no time to waste in making the call to scrub the mission and high tail it back to the Iraqi border.  As the escort fighter, it was Spectre’s call to make.
“Magic 31 spiked, 270,” Jenny reported.  The MiG had swapped lock and was targeting the Pilatus.  Time to make a tactical retreat.
“All players, Retrograde!  Green east!”  Spectre called, using the codeword to indicate that the area was no longer safe due to an air-to-air threat and directing all aircraft to leave the area toward friendly territory.
“Chariot copies Retrograde,” Shorty responded calmly, seemingly unphased by the notion that an air threat was looming.
Spectre watched as the blue circles on his display representing the PC-12 and two helicopters turned back toward the east.  He made a hard turn to the west to pick up the PC-12 visually and hopefully the nearby MiG-21.
“Magic 31 hard spike!” Jenny exclaimed.  The MiG-21 was now locked on to the PC-12 inside of ten miles and had become an imminent threat.
Spectre looked out into the night sky where the locator line and segmented circle on his helmet-mounted display showed Magic to be.  He picked up their covert strobe through the NVGs and firewalled the throttle, immediately causing the Allison PT-6A turboprop to roar to life from its previous steady drone. 
“Bug out east!”  Spectre exclaimed as he dashed toward the PC-12.  It had been flying higher than Spectre and the two helicopters in order to find the chemical weapons trucks. 
“Music on!”  Jenny replied, letting everyone know that the PC-12 had engaged its self-protection jammer to attempt to break the lock of the MiG-21 and counter any radar guided missiles.
Spectre scanned for the enemy fighters as he headed for the PC-12.  The datalink distance showed that he was five miles away and closing as Jenny and her crew headed toward friendly Iraqi airspace. 
“Tally one!”  Spectre exclaimed as he picked up the flashing strobe of the MiG-21.  He slewed the targeting diamond of the Python-5 heat-seeking missile in his visor onto the flashing strobe and uncaged it.  A solid tone sounded in his headset to let him know that the missile had locked on and was tracking. 
Spectre’s heart was racing.  He had only been in one air-to-air engagement before, and it had been against two MiG-29s he engaged after flying a stolen F-16 out of Cuba.  It had been the most thrilling and terrifying experience of his life, but that had been during the daytime.  Dogfighting at night was exponentially more frightening – especially in an aircraft that was never built to fight in the air-to-air arena.
He held his right thumb next to the red “pickle button” on the stick and waited as he closed the distance.  He didn’t want to take a shot with the PC-12 between him and the MiG and risk the missile guiding and fusing on the wrong aircraft.  He needed a clear shot.
The PC-12 merged with Spectre as he continued toward the MiG.  As the PC-12 passed him, it suddenly let loose a string of self-protection flares that washed out the image on Spectre’s Night Vision Goggles, causing him to lose sight of the incoming MiG.  Spectre recaged his missile as the solid tone in his headset changed, indicating the missile had lost track through the string of Jenny’s flares.
“Missile in the air!”  Jenny exclaimed as she started a hard left hand turn with the aircraft.As the image in his goggles once again became clear, he looked over his shoulder to see the MiG’s missile guide on a flare and explode several hundred feet behind Jenny’s aircraft.  Spectre immediately turned back to see the MiG-21 merging head on with him with another MiG following in trail.  Two of them!
In the split-second he had to make the decision, Spectre chose to turn with the lead aircraft.  He knew it would cost him the advantage by putting him between the two aircraft, but it was the only way to save the PC-12 from the pursuing MiG-21.  He had to deal with the nearest threat first.Spectre took a deep breath as he started the hard left turn.  It was an old habit from his F-16 dogfighting days to prepare for the 9G turn.  Pulling 6Gs in the A-29 was much more gentlemanly, and although the NVGs and Scorpion display weighed down his head, it was significantly more comfortable than he remembered fighting in the F-16.  His G-suit inflated in response to the building G-forces as he craned his neck around and pulled straight back on the stick.
The lead MiG-21 continued closing on the PC-12 as it made its left turn.  Although the A-29 didn’t have the thrust to weight ratio he would have liked, it had a significant turn radius advantage, and in seconds, he was able to get his helmet-mounted sight on the MiG-21. 
With the Python-5’s targeting diamond on the MiG-21, Spectre uncaged the missile again and waited for the solid tone.  Once the missile indicated it was tracking and satisfied that he was targeting the right aircraft, Spectre pressed the red pickle button on the top of the control stick with his thumb.  The aircraft rocked slightly as the air-to-air missile went flying toward its target in the moonlit sky.  Spectre’s NVGs once again washed out as the rocket motor burned bright en route to its target.
“Fox two!” Spectre called.  The missile guided on the lead MiG-21, piercing through its narrow body and exploding in a brilliant and bright fireball behind the turning PC-12.
“Splash one!  Bug out east!”  Spectre directed as he searched for the other MiG-21.  The hair on the back of his neck was now standing straight up as he continued his tight turn and further bled down airspeed.  He knew the second MiG wasn’t far behind.
“Green east!  What’s your status?”  Jenny asked.
Spectre searched frantically for the second MiG.  He transitioned to a no-sight defense, continuing his tight turn as he descended toward the desert floor.  As he looked up, he suddenly saw the muzzle flash of the MiG-21 attempting to employ the gun from high to low.  Unable to follow the tight turn radius of Spectre’s Super Tucano, the Syrian pilot had elected to use its excess power to create vertical turning room.
“Venom 21 is engaged, get out of here!”  Spectre said as he attempted to jink to avoid the volley of 23MM bullets.  The MiG-21 swooped down from above.  Spectre tried to jink, but the controls were too sluggish as the Super Tucano’s large, straight wing struggled to maintain lift and stalled.  The aircraft shuddered as a stray bullet hit the fuselage.
Pushing the stick forward to unload and regain airspeed, Spectre rolled out of the tight turn.  The MiG-21 made an aggressive pull back to the vertical in an attempt to reposition and try again.  With the MiG’s nose off him, Spectre traded in the airspeed he had gained as he planted the stick in his lap and pulled the nose straight into the vertical.
“Fade away jump shot,” Spectre said to himself with a soft chuckle as he uncaged the Python-5 on the bright afterburner plume of the MiG-21 and hit the pickle button.  The aircraft rocked as the missile was sent screaming toward the MiG-21.  Like the first, it guided and fused right through the center of the MiG’s coke bottle fuselage and exploded, creating a bright fireball.
“Chariot is Millertime,” Shorty called, using the codeword to indicate his flight had reentered Iraqi airspace. 
“Venom, status?”  Jenny asked.
The nose of the Super Tucano was still pointed straight up as Spectre unloaded and rolled the aircraft onto its back to recover from the nearly vertical nose-high attitude.  As he did, he heard 
“WARNING” in his headset as the caution panel in front of him lit up. 
“Venom is bugging out east,” Spectre said as he reached level flight and rolled the aircraft back upright.  He quickly scanned his instruments.  His oil pressure and engine indications seemed to be good.  As the turbine engine shuddered, he noticed the fuel quantity was now reading less than two hundred and fifty pounds. 
Regaining his orientation, Spectre started a hard turn back to east and initiated a steady climb.  The MiG had pierced his fuselage fuel tank.  His fuel quantity was low and the fuel pump would soon start to cavitate.  He reached up and pushed the EMERGENCY JETTISON BUTTON with his left hand.  The jet rocked as the two five hundred pound bombs and rocket pod fell from the wing pylons.  His only hope was to set up a good glide profile and hope to make it into friendly territory before having to eject.
“Venom 21 is wounded bird,” Spectre declared.  “Ten miles west.”
“Venom 21, status?” a concerned Jenny requested again.
“Venom 21, wounded bird,” Spectre replied.
“Venom, do you hear me?”
Spectre checked his radio.  He was receiving her fine, but no one seemed to be hearing him transmit.  The round that had pierced his fuel tank must have also damaged his communications equipment.  That would also mean that they weren’t seeing him on the datalink either.
Spectre shook it off and focused on flying the airplane.  Aviate, navigate, and then communicate.  There was no reason to worry about the lack of communication at that point.  He was still in a hostile country with a motor that was starting to surge.
As Spectre climbed through eight thousand feet, the reliable Allison turboprop finally flamed out due to fuel starvation.  Spectre immediately feathered the prop to reduce drag as he pushed over to catch his best glide airspeed.  He had a fairly stiff headwind, but his calculations indicated he would at least make it to the border before having to bail out.  Things could have been worse.  
Spectre raised his visor and removed his night vision goggles and Scorpion helmet mounted sight.  His goal now was to make his ejection as survivable as possible.  He briefly considered landing the aircraft, but with soft sand and unknown terrain, he realized his most survivable option would be to eject.
“In the blind,” Spectre said, keying his radio, “Venom 21 is bailing out.”
Spectre tightened his harness and secured all of his kneeboard cards and maps as his Super Tucano glided toward the Iraqi border.  The drone of the turboprop had been replaced by the eerily quiet wind whistling across the canopy.  Spectre stared at the moving map display as his aircraft’s magenta icon approached the border.  With the radar altimeter showing two thousand feet and the aircraft showing just beyond the jagged Iraqi border, Spectre said a small prayer as he grabbed the yellow ejection seat handle between his legs with both hands, put his head against the Martin Baker Ejection Seat’s head box, and pulled the handle.