A military operation opens a portal to the past resulting in an alternate timeline. The Soviet Union rises as a conquering superpower, and the United States nears extinction. Join freedom fighters as they race across time to restore history.
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About the Book
For Colonel Jackson Taylor, everyday is a nightmare. The savage army of the Soviet Union has marched across his homeland and brought the United States to its knees. Colonel Taylor and his men find themselves battle weary, wounded, and on the verge of defeat, constantly fighting an insurmountable foe bent on crushing their very way of life. Now, it seems, circumstances have finally become too much for Taylor. On the eve of their most desperate hour, Jackson has lost his purpose. He has become consumed with the unnerving feeling that he no longer belongs in this life, that he is living a lie. As the battle rages outside, Colonel Taylor faces an equally difficult struggle within, and neither fight is one he feels he can win. Death, it appears, is the only escape.
That is until Jackson meets the enigmatic Dr. Golden. Golden holds the key to everything that has happened in Jackson’s life. His mind holds the answer to all of Jackson’s questions and to all the events that have conspired to make life the nightmare it has become. And, more importantly, he knows the secret that will allow them both to change everything and restore a rightful balance to the world.
However, Jackson and the doctor are not alone in this knowledge. Standing in their way at every turn is the most cunning, most deadly Soviet of them all, Major Jana Khodorovsky. To retain her grasp on her own reality, stopping Golden and Taylor is critical, and she will let nothing stand in her way. Their fight will take them from one side of the country to the next and see them journey across time and back, one side desperate to make things right, the other bent on world domination.
Jackson remembered now that he had been sleeping. Pretty damn hard too he felt as his head still wasn’t fully clear from being startled so suddenly by Monty’s ugly mug staring at him, and his annoying voice calling his name. It was a hell of a sight to have to wake up to, especially when you weren’t ready for it.
“Me wake you up Sir? Your yelling damn near woke half the unit. The guys elected me to figure it out.”
“Elected you? We testing a new military democracy here pal?”
Jackson knew Monty had taken it upon himself to check out his friend. But a little ribbing wouldn’t hurt.
“Ok, ok. I chose to figure out what was going on at the Colonel’s bunk despite the grave risk to life and limb. You sure have been talking in your sleep a lot lately sir, but today was by far the loudest and the longest.”
Talking in his sleep? Jackson didn’t think he did that sort of thing, at least no one had ever told him before that he talked during his sleep. However, like they’d just discussed, he hadn’t really slept close to anyone for a long, long time. This was great though, he thought. There was definitely nothing like having your unit thinking you’re a “nut-job” to get them to fight for you. This would be real great.
“Alright Montgomery? Lets hear it then. What was I saying? Did I award any promotions while I was asleep? Demotions? Are you my superior now? Tell me. What’ve I been saying?”
Monty fell into step beside him as they walked out of the bunk area and into the makeshift cleanup center made up of the ultra sanitary barrel full of water, hanging bag of antibacterial cleanser, or shower goo as it had been affectionately nicknamed by the men, and a group of mirrors. Jackson dunked his hands into the water, lamenting the fact that it was always so damn cold in that dirty barrel, and squeezed the bag shooting some of the shower goo into his wet hands. Rubbing them together to create a lather, he spread his fingers around his face to clean the final vestiges of sleep out of his system and to get himself going a bit. He pulled his hands away and took a look. There wasn’t any shower goo left that was for certain. All the grease and grime had absorbed it. His face was just too dirty damn dirty for a palm’s worth to make a difference; it didn’t matter though because you could never get clean in this place anyway.
“Well Boss, it hasn’t been that pleasant, and, like I said, this time was one of the worst, though it’s been nearly this bad before. It’s all about fire and people dying. It…uh…it kind of makes us nervous if you know what I mean? Like what do you know that none of us know? You know what I mean? Course it doesn’t help when you come within a single nerve twitch from shooting the guy who wakes you up right between the eyes. Guess I’m lucky you like me boss. What if it had been Landazzo? Now that would’ve been fucking messy. After all, you hate him.”
Jackson laughed, but he was a little confused now. What in the world had he been saying and why was he talking about fire and dying. It sounded familiar to him, but why? Continuing with his fruitless two minute grooming effort, Jackson looked up into the mirror. He shook some of the loose water droplets off the skin of his face, but there were still remnants of his goo lather caught in his whatever-o-clock stubble. He hadn’t shaved in at least fifteen hours, but he wasn’t in the mood to do it now either. His sandy blondish hair was still functionally short, but growing out a bit longer than he preferred. Jackson always felt a little bit dirtier when his hair got too long; best way to keep it clean was to keep it short enough to prevent anything from getting in there. The inch long groove under his left eye was starting to heal pretty nicely. The medics had pumped him full of antibiotics to prevent an infection, but it would still scar. He could remember the heat of the pain from receiving it, still fresh from action just over a week ago.
Jackson squeezed his eyes shut forcing the last of the watery goo mix out of them. Monty was still talking, still firing away about the things he’d been apparently screaming about in his sleep. Fire and people dying. Why would he be screaming about that? Why was it so familiar to him? He must have been dreaming about some recent action they’d seen. There had been some rough days the last few months, particularly the disaster at Kansas City, or what was left of it at the time. Now nothing was there but an enemy stronghold. They’d lost a lot of men that day and they had been lost due to enemy artillery bursts. But there had been some good times of late too, he thought. Not many, but a few. Jefferson City for one.
Jackson opened his eyes ready to respond to the captain’s concerns but they remained fixated on the image in the mirror. What two seconds ago had been his face, scarred and bedraggled, unshaven, and with a permanent layer of dirt, soot, and grime, he now stared at something else. It was the same face, his face, but clean, perfectly clean and impeccably groomed. The man looking back shared his blue eyes, but his hair was longer and styled and he looked like he must have just shaven with laser like precision. Sharp wire framed glasses, reasonably stylish actually, framed the man’s eyes, but there was no question that they were, in fact, his own eyes. And, the man in the mirror, the clean Jackson, wore not military coveralls and ammo packs, but business attire, a smooth-lined navy suit, white collared shirt, and what must have been a silk tie. That Jackson in the mirror looked like he had never even held a weapon in his life, let alone fired one, at least not for any aggressive reason. Startled by the image but not totally surprised – he remembered all of a sudden that this had happened before though he had no explanation for it, usually chalking it up to fatigue – Jackson immediately shut his eyes again and rubbed them hard, trying to clear not just the eyes, but the very image and confusion from his head. When he finally eased them back open, the man in the mirror was the man he expected to see. Thing was, he had never in his life kept his appearance in a way similar to the image in the mirror, yet it was without question his own face. And each time it happened, the image was clearer in his mind, virtually flawless this time, to every intricate detail, even the white security badge on the breast pocket of the suit jacket. It had read his name and had government indications of some sort on it. Each time this happened, the image in the mirror felt less and less strange and more comfortable, almost as if it was the one he was supposed to see.