Click here to buy this book!
Kindle Edition
Download to your Nook (eBook)
Download from Smashwords (eBook)
Amazon
Lulu
Darryl Sollerh
Lulu Publishing
Category:
Action/Thriller
ISBN-10: 0988725428
Pages: 80
Copyright: June 03, 2013
ISBN-13: 9780988725430
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
A romantic thriller about a Special Ops Team, embedded with a female specialist, who deploy a “Trancer” spy into the Taliban – a new technology capable of making a soldier believe he is a Taliban. But as the mission unravels, their young spy becomes increasingly troubled by his lost-time memory lapses, and tries to discover who he truly is, even as he tries to protect a precarious new love.
A romantic thriller about a Special Ops Team, embedded with a female specialist, who deploy a “Trancer” spy into the Taliban – a new technology capable of turning a soldier into an "immersion spy", temporarily making a soldier believe he is a member of the Taliban. But as their mission grows ever more life-threatening, their young spy grows increasingly confused and concerned by his lost-time memory lapses, as well as his shifting loyalties, driving him on a hellbent search to discover who he truly is, even as he tries to protect a precarious new love.
Now available in Print from Amazon and Lulu.com
And as an eBook at: Amazon (Kindle), Barnes and Noble (Nook), on iPAD (Apple), or on Smashwords as an ePub file for all other eReaders.
Excerpt
A freezing chill grips Kunduz Provence, Afghanistan, holding it hostage to the night as an uneasy silence crouches in the shadows, bracing as if for an immanent onslaught.
A moment later, it arrives.
Tracer rounds suddenly flash out of the dark, streaking across a hilly pass like phosphorescent arrows as mortars plummet out the black sky, exploding in concussive bursts that boiling up into scorching fireballs.
Out of the chaos a man in robes comes running, desperately trying to escape this hell.
Scrambling over the rocky terrain, he trips, stumbles to his knees, but regains his footing to press on in the pitch black, desperately trying to flee the battle, the war, the curse on this land.
Arriving at a ravine, he slides down into its protective crevice to hurry on, making his way to safety, only to be jettisoned by a last second explosion that tosses him up like a rag doll, then tumbles him back to earth, face first into the dirt.
Unable to move, he lays there, his ears ringing, his eyes burning, his head pounding as a small, quiet thought circles his mind:
I love my country.
I believe in my country.
I would die for my country.
I just don't know which country is my country.
~*~
Under a glaring New Mexico sun, a lone highway stretches out like a desiccated snakeskin, pulled across endless, nameless miles of browning saguaros, parched pig-weed and dry desert scrub.
In the distance, riding its singed surface, a rippling black dot shimmers into view, shape-shifting in the undulating heat-waves to congeal into a black, government-issue Ford SUV approaching at a fast clip.
In it, CIA Assistant Secretary to the director Ackerman, a sixties career man with a youthful enthusiasm for his work, watches with fascination as the arid terrain whips past his window. Across from him, his late-twenties attaché, a young man with a Georgetown degree, winces, preferring the infinitely more civilized comforts of air conditioning to the ravages of desert life.
Coming into view, they can see a sun-baked warehouse ahead, apparently abandoned, but still guarded by a corroding chain link fence.
The SUV slows, drawing down to ease onto the highway’s shoulder, kicking up dust devils as it brakes, turns and pulls up to the entrance gate where a small, camouflaged security camera discreetly tilts to inspect it.
A beat later, the gate opens as if by magic.
The SUV drives in and continues around to the back of the warehouse, out of the highway’s view, where a loading bay door opens like a mouth.
Striding down a dim hallway, Ackerman makes his way to an unmarked door, flanked by his attaché.
Emily Pinder, a research specialist in her thirties, already gaining a reputation for her tireless work, steps from her office, lost in thought. But the instant she sees Ackerman her eyes fire to life:
Secretary Ackerman?
His attaché indicates 'not now' as Ackerman enters the unmarked door, all business.
Once inside, Ackerman and attaché take up seats to peer through a two-way mirror into what looks like a Middle-Eastern hospital patient’s room, replete with its stucco-walls, pastel turquoise hues and dated medical devices.
The patient, Gavin Chance, a young, Louisiana-bred recruit from mixed blood, is laying on a hospital bed as a physician, a gentle Middle-Eastern doctor, pastes diodes onto Chance’s shaved head.
Apparently unaware he’s being observed, or that this has all been staged, Chance confides in his doctor, revealing the defining moment his life:
So that by the time I came to, our truck was already up in flames. I tried ta get ta her, ta save her, but...
Chance’s eyes mist at the memory as his doctor regards him compassionately:
When was this?
Chance has to think, strangely unsure:
…Year before last?
About the time you volunteered?
‘Recruiter said it'd be like takin' a mental vacation from everythin', which sounded pretty good ta me.
His doctor nods understandingly and pastes the last diode into place:
So I take this is your first time away from home?
Yes, sir.
So what do you think?
Chance considers, then:
All in all, think I prefer home, sir.
His doctor smiles, gets up and moves to an aging laptop to type in some instructions as Chance looks on apprehensively.
Okay, we're set, Chance. You ready?
Chance draws in a deep breath, exhales, then nods, bracing himself as his doctor adds:
Just try to relax, okay? In three, two...
Chance's body suddenly jolts up with the surge of energy, only to quickly collapse again onto his bed, unconscious.
In the adjoining room, Ackerman arches a concerned brow as the doctor clicks another key, triggering a nearby monitor to display a rush of images depicting Afghan tribal life.
As they blur across its screen, the doctor moves to check Chance’s vitals, beaming a flashlight into his pupils, then timing Chance’s pulse.
Satisfied, he steps back to his laptop and clicks another key, shutting down the program.
As the monitor screen goes dark, Ackerman leans forward, wholly focused on Chance who is drifting slowly back into consciousness as if from a deep, otherworldly dream, only to fill with sudden alarm when he opens his eyes.
He sits up, panicked, and blurts out in Pashtu:
Where am I? Who are you?!
His doctor calmly answers him in Pashtu:
My name is Dr. Ahmed, and you are in Jalalabad Hospital.
Chance looks around, trying to get his bearings as Ahmed continues:
You took a bad fall, my friend, but you’ll be fine. …What’s your name?
Chance has to think. Finally:
Masood.
His doctor nods:
Allahu Akbar, Masood.
|
