by John Bowers
Nick didn’t know what else to say. He merely nodded.
She shook hands with Bridge again.
“Thank you both for your dedication. And keep up the good work.”
Vivian White Wolf turned and strode back toward the airlock. Nick and Bridge watched her go. Less than five minutes later, the yacht disengaged and drifted clear of the station.
Bridge turned to Nick.
“Can I shake your hand?”
“Why?”
“Because it touched the President’s hand.”
“So did yours.”
“Sure, but she didn’t come to see me, she came to see you.”
Nick laughed and they shook hands. Bridge clapped him on the shoulder.
“Ready for some time off?”
“You mean, like R&R?”
“Exactly. Before anything else hits the fan.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Something else always hits the fan, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. It always does.”
Thank You
If you enjoyed this book, it would be fabulous if you could leave a brief review on Amazon and/or wherever you bought it. Readers trust other readers, and the number of positive reviews has a huge impact on sales.
If you’re on Facebook or other social sites, and liked the book, perhaps you could recommend it to your friends. Again, thank you so much. You are my marketing team!
--John
Writing and posting reviews is easy
You don’t have to be a professional writer or particularly verbose. Reviews by “real people” are what most readers are seeking. Just tell them, in your own words, what you thought of the book. If you can put into words why you liked the book you can also add that information.
Don’t give away the ending. Most people hate “spoilers” (although there are a few who actually look for them).
Then give it a rating (usually 1 to 5 stars), a title, if needed, and click on the appropriate button (on Amazon, that would be the “preview” button, followed by the “publish” button) if you like what you’ve done.
That’s all there is to it. You’re now a seasoned reviewer.
Preview
Nick Walker, Star Marine:
Revolt on Alpha 2
(coming this winter)
Nick held up his fist again and dropped to a knee. The closer they got to the enemy position, the more jittery he became. He chinned his helmet radio.
“Sergeant Dubose, can you come forward?”
Dubose didn’t answer, but twenty seconds later he knelt beside Nick.
“What’s up, Walker?”
“We’re out of town now, Sergeant. I estimate the rebel stronghold to be about five hundred yards ahead, but I can’t see shit without contacts and if we come under fire all strung out like this, a lucky shot could take out half the company.”
“You thinking line abreast?”
Nick nodded. “That way, we can bring every rifle to bear when we make contact, but the downside is that each man will have to scout his own path. There could be holes, tripwires, or even a minefield ahead of us.”
Dubose stared thoughtfully into the gloom.
“The briefing said no minefields had been detected…”
“Right, but they also said that was a best guess-timate. Ceramic mines don’t show up on drone radar.”
“And plasma mines are usually encased in ceramics.”
“Exactly.”
Dubose released his breath.
“Fuck.”
Nick heard footsteps behind him and suddenly Capt. Seals was kneeling beside them.
“What’s the holdup here?”
Dubose explained the situation. Seals listened, then consulted a data tablet that displayed a map of their location. Pinpoints of light marked the location of each company involved in the operation.
“S2 says no minefields were detected,” he said. “It’s the best intel we have, so we have to go with it.”
“How up to date is that data?” Nick asked.
“As of a few hours ago.”
“Captain, ceramic mines don’t show up on radar. If the Freaks planted plasma mines…”
“I understand, Walker, but plasma mines are expensive, and these rebels may not have any. Even if they do, we’ve been tasked to take this position and we have to move forward.”
Nick nodded, not in the least comforted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go ahead and make it line abreast. The Freaks should be blinded by the drone flare, so—”
A brilliant flash about forty degrees to their left interrupted Seals. For an instant the entire landscape was illuminated, and just a few hundred yards ahead, Nick had a brief glimpse of what looked like a large dirt mound. But the flash was so brilliant that he had to duck his head against the glare, as did Seals and Dubose.
“Shit!” Seals grunted.
“I guess that answers the question,” said Dubose. “They definitely have plasma mines.”
Nick’s heart hammered faster than ever. When he opened his eyes, he saw a heat mushroom rising from the area of the flash; he half expected to hear screams, but did not. He could only wonder who set off the mine and how many people had died.
Seals seemed momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly enough.
“Line abreast,” he said. “Spread out, ten yard separation…”
Without warning, lights began to flicker from the dark mound ahead. The breeze carried the muted sounds of chirping laser bolts, and Nick saw brilliant points of light streaking in his direction—he heard them pass over him with a sound like water drops on a hot skillet.
“Hit the dirt!” Seals bellowed
About the Author
Born in the Arkansas Ozarks, John Bowers came to California at the age of two. His parents had no job prospects, but as lifelong farmers, found work as migrant labor in the San Joaquin Valley (in the 1950s, most of California’s migrant labor was done by “Arkies” and “Okies”, many of whom had come West during the Great Depression). Some of his earliest memories include sitting on a pallet under a grape vine playing with toy trucks while his parents harvested grapes or picked cotton.
By the time Bowers started school, his dad had found work on a turkey ranch, and continued to work in turkeys for the next 15 years, moving from one job to another almost every year. From first grade until his senior year in high school, Bowers attended ten different schools, including three high schools. “We moved almost every year,” he recalls, “usually in the dead of winter” (when agriculture was dormant). As a result, Bowers remembers lots of people, but few of them remember him: “I simply wasn’t there long enough to be remembered.”
When he was four years old, Bowers’ mother began studying with what later proved to be a religious cult. She didn’t actually join the cult for several years, but Bowers lived under its influence from an early age. By the time they started attending “church”, Bowers was also convinced it was the true religion. “My mom said she had proved it,” he says today. “Mom was the smartest person I knew, so I believed her.”
Forty years later, when Bowers saw evidence the organization was corrupt, his eyes were opened and he made his escape. “Unfortunately, I had subjected my own kids to several years of cult indoctrination,” he says, “but I think we got out early enough for them to have a somewhat normal life.” Today, neither Bowers nor his children are involved in religion. “I spent forty years in the wilderness,” he laughs. “I think I’ve paid my dues.”
Bowers discovered a love for writing in 7th grade. In high school his English teachers considered him a prodigy, expecting him to become a great success as a novelist. But the “church” had other ideas, and went to great lengths to squelch his talent. “They called it vanity,” he says. “I defied them for a while, but you can’t fight against ‘God’ forever, and I finally stuck a pin in it.” But he never gave up the dream, and at age 44, when he finally seized his freedom, he started writing again. Assassin on Cen
tauri B is his 17th novel on Amazon, and in spite of the wasted years, he swears he is only getting started.
Bowers still lives in Central California, and hasn’t moved for 26 years. As for his cult experience, he has this to say (with apologies to the United States Marines who served on Guadalcanal):
“And when he gets to Heaven,
“To St. Peter he will tell:
“‘Another cult member reporting, sir…
“I’ve served my time in Hell.’”