*****
*****
Jim accelerated
Lucky’s schooling after the coronation celebration. There were only a few weeks
left in the term, but because Lucky had missed so much while he was in the
hospital, Jim needed to make up for the time – there was a daily log he had to
fill out – and sign - to make sure Lucky’s class work was accredited. The
course work was not easy and the homework Jim dished out was staggering.
When Lucky
complained, Jim said, “You lost almost a whole semester – and that was at a
British school with a poor reputation. I either have to put you back a grade,
or push you onward. You don’t want to be left behind when you return to
American do, you?”
His answer was a
definite “No.” But the last thing on Lucky’s mind was returning to America. The
whole idea of leaving Cyprus forever was too depressing to contemplate. As
finals loomed, it did not make it easier for him concentrate on his studies.
Oddly enough, he didn’t mind that Jim had proposed a summer session to assure
Lucky of catching up. Despite the mountain of school work, Lucky treasured
every moment he spent with his teacher.
Inspired by Jim,
he was filling whole composition books with essays, observations and snatches
of poetry. Jim was hard on his writing, making him do things over and over
again – editing and polishing to a tiresome extreme.
When Lucky
balked after a rewrite on his latest essay, Jim reminded him that he – Lucky
Cole – had complained that he’d once ached to be a violinist, but his parents
had rejected his request. “If you had taken up the violin,” Jim said, “you
would have been required to play things hundreds of times if you wanted to
achieve some success.”
Lucky said
nothing, only sighed and shook his head. He had to admit that Jim’s methods had
certainly improved his writing. He only had to look at his test scores to see
that. Jim said his English levels were in the highest percentile possible in
the educational program.
“But they would
most certainly assume you were cheating to achieve such scores,” Jim said, “if
they saw this essay.”
Jim pushed the
composition over to Lucky. It was open to the essay he’d just turned in.
Lucky’s heart sank when he saw all the red scrawls. He turned the page – this
was just as bad. So heavily marked up with errors that it looked someone had
bled on the pages.
Lucky got his
back up. “Okay, so it has some errors,” he said. “Spelling errors. Some
grammatical errors. But that’s just technical stuff. The point is, what did you think of the essay?”
Jim shrugged.
“That a boy with very slovenly habits rudely assaulted my eyes with it.”
Lucky was
exasperated. “Fitzgerald couldn’t spell. And he was one of the greatest writers
of the century.”
“If Mr. F. Scott
Fitzgerald had been my student,” Jim said, “he would have been able to spell.”
“It’s a good
essay,” Lucky insisted. “You just won’t admit it.”
Jim looked at
him through narrowed eyes. “Very well, if you insist on turning it in as it is
– with revisions and corrections – then I will grade it accordingly. I will
subtract ten points for each error.” He picked the essay up and quickly glanced
over it. “I suspect your grade, therefore, will be easily three or four hundred
points below zero.”
Lucky was
aghast. “That’s not fair,” he protested.
“Nevertheless,”
Jim said, “that is my decision. So what will it be, Lucky? Revise, or accept
the consequences.”
Lucky was so
angry that he very nearly shoved the essay across the desk – and be damned to
the less than zero marks. But he thought better of it. “Okay,” he said, putting
the composition book back in the school bag. “I’ll fix it.”
Jim smiled.
“Just learn to use the dictionary,” he said. “Don’t trust your instincts
because for the moment your spelling and grammatical senses are all but
non-existent. Do it properly and in time such things will become second
nature.”
When Lucky rose
the next morning, he was eager for the school day to begin. He’d worked until
late in the night correcting his essay. Then, instead of being satisfied with
this result, he’d re-written the entire thing. He gone over the final product
with a fine-tooth comb and now he was anxious to show Jim just how really good
he could be if he put his mind to it.
The essay
concerned an old man – Petros - he’d met the weekend after the coronation.
Petros – who admitted to being more than eighty - was a Greek Cypriot farmer
who in his youth had fought for Athens against the Turks. Now, nearly crippled
by arthritis, he still managed a day’s work that would test the endurance of a
much younger man.
Lucky met Petros
while rambling across the recently mowed fields near his home. There he came
upon a strange sight – a large golden circle of grain had been laid out on the
ground. The ground itself appeared so hard and smooth, that it looked like
stone. And the grain was laid out in a perfect circle, about three feet wide,
like a golden wedding band. In the center of that band was a finger, of sorts –
a thick post, weathered by the ages. Gray, like the stone and the ground. Rough
on the upper parts, where years of wind had cut at it, making shapes that could
be taken as faces if looked at a certain way. But then the post became
smoother, and more perfect as it centered itself into a great griddle of hewn
granite. It was a stone wheel, laid on its side, with a large hole drilled
through the center. Lucky supposed it was a discarded mill wheel – Jim had shown
him such things – because there were cracks running through the rock that would
definitely weaken it if put to a grinding purpose.
But the purpose
of this wheel, Lucky saw, was not to move, but to steady the post that would
whirl about if pressure were applied to the sturdy pole jutting out from it at
a right angle. The pole was fitted with leather straps that hung down from the
end. Sitting in the middle of the broad patch of grain was what looked like a
large sled, curved up both front and back like an ungainly boat. A rickety
chair was placed in the middle of the sled and next to the chair was a rusted
old jerry can with the top cut off. The boy studied the device for a long time,
trying to figure out what it was meant for.
Then an old man
hobbled into view leading an ox and it soon became clear. The farmer maneuvered
the ox beneath the leather straps and hitched it. Then he climbed up on the
sled, sat in the chair and coolly lit his pipe. Lucky knew the old man had seen
him, but was purposely ignoring him – having a little fun with the foreigner.
Finally, the old
man picked up the reins and gave them a snap. The ox started moving, dragging
the heavy sled behind it – the post revolving along with the beast and the long
pole it was tethered to kept it on an exact path. It was then that it dawned on
Lucky what was happening. The old man was threshing the wheat by riding the
heavy sled across it. But what about the jerry-can? What was that for? A minute
later the ox answered the question by lifting its tail. Immediately the old man
leaned smoothly down, picked up the jerry-can and put it under the ox’s tail
just in time to catch a steaming load which would have fallen on the wheat.
Lucky laughed –
this was marvelous. He watched a while longer, then he got up to nerve to
approach the old man and ask for a ride. The old was delighted that the boy was
not only an American – he had a grandson in Detroit, perhaps Lucky knew him –
but spoke Greek as well. He introduced himself as Petros and invited him aboard
his wheat ship. Petros himself spoke decent English and the conversation moved
easily between both languages.
The boy settled
in for an hour or more, taking over the jerry-can duties while the Petros
explained to him that the sled had been built by his great-grandfather “in the
time of the Turks.” He said it was made of a rare hardwood from the Troodos
mountains where the goddess lives, which meant it was an ideal sled for the
harvest. The flint bottom was made of stone that came from the Cypriot copper mines,
so it imparted that nourishing metal into the wheat. He said his family’s wheat
was known throughout the island as the most healthy from which to bake bread or
make humus. A little later, several women came out with blankets followed by a
group of small boys with rakes. Some of the boys scooped fresh wheat in front
of the sled, while others shoveled threshed wheat into the blankets, which
women tossed into the air, letting the breeze blow away the chaff, then
catching the grain again in the blankets.
After a time,
Petros called a halt, while the women fetched refreshments – bread and cheese
and olives, with a little sharp wine to wash it down, and some hay set out on a
blanket for the ox, as well as a pail of water. Lucky ate with Petros, munching
on the meal while the old man told him about the adventures of his youth. He
said he’d been a soldier in the Greek army when they fought the Turks. He
showed Lucky a great gaping scar on his leg caused by shrapnel from “a big
damned Turkish cannon.” He’d killed many Turks in return, he said, but had
returned home a different sort of man. He had many medals, but did not cherish
them. In fact, he thought so little of medals he let his grandchildren play
with them.
“They give a man
a button, or a badge or a piece of ribbon for murder,” he said. “What kind of
thing is that? A man’s life for a shiny bit of nothing?”
Petros sighed
and sipped his wine as he reflected. “I suppose God will punish me for the
Turks I killed,” he finally said. “But I don’t worry so much about such things
any longer. How can the next life be more sorrowful than this one? Especially
for a man afflicted with my poor luck. Why, if the whole world fell into the
sun, like the philosophers say it must some day, this farm will remain a little
longer because I haven’t finished paying the filthy miser who loaned us money
for last season’s seed.”
Lucky asked him
what he thought about the new queen – Elizabeth II, who had just been crowned.
He explained to him, first, that he had attended the coronation ceremonies.
The old man
studied for a moment, deciding whether to trust the lad. Then he said, “My
opinion is this: The new queen is no doubt a royal woman of honor. I do not
dispute this. But she comes to us in an unlucky time and I fear it will be
unlucky for the world, as well as her family, which surely cannot prosper now
that her man, her – how do you say – her hero defiled the holy voono – the
mountain of the gods.”
Lucky was agog.
“You mean Hillary?” he said. “The man who conquered Everest?”
Petros nodded.
“Oh, yes… he conquered… or so the fellow on the radio in my daughter’s house
reports. But in my opinion he insulted the mountain. It did not wish to be
climbed, yet he did so anyway although there was no purpose to it, except to
shame the mountain. And so I say that the mountain has no choice but to bring
ill fortune to the queen whose man did this thing.”
“What do you
think is going to happen?” Lucky asked.
The old man
shrugged. “Who can say what a mountain will do or not do? Or how many will
suffer because they are in its path. Now is boso keendinos – so much danger –
for all of us. So take a care how you go, Mr. Lucky. Take a care how you go.”
And so that was
what Lucky had written about – the old man’s pacifist views, forged in war, and
his feelings that nature was being dangerously despoiled by modern man. Lucky
had recently read Joseph Conrad’s “Green Mansions,” and he wondered if any of
themes in that wonderful book were reflected in his own essay.
Thinking about
this, he went to the sink and turned on the water. As he bent down to scoop up
water, he suddenly felt very strange. Dizzy and sick to his stomach.
There was a
roaring in his ears and he staggered, unsteady on his feet.
He grabbed the
sides of the sink, fighting to keep his balance. His vision became blurred –
the face he saw in the bathroom mirror was rocking side to side in a motion
that made him feel sicker still.
Then he felt a
lurch. The whole house seemed like it was tilting up and up and up and there
were terrible sounds like immense beasts grinding their teeth.
There was a hard
bump against his belly and he stared down in horror as the sink broke free of
its moorings and came rushing out at him on thick twisting tentacles of steel
pipe.
Lucky watched in
frozen shock as the naked pipes burst through the plaster like they were being
driven by an enormous hammer-wielding giant. The pipes carried the sink before
him – bulling into him so hard that he nearly fell over. He held on to the
sink, his head going back and back until he was just hanging there, helplessly
staring up at the ceiling, legs sprawled out beneath the sink, which was now
rocking back and forth and making wild metallic shrieks as if it were alive.
There was a
rumble and a violent lurch and then he saw a great crack start across the
ceiling – jagged as a lightning bolt – and plaster showered down on him. He saw
the bare wood slats beneath the plaster and electrical wires fell down, torn loose
from their fastenings. Another lurch, and suddenly he was being dragged forward
as the sink was drawn back into its original position. There was so much force
to the motion that he felt like he’d been grabbed by the scruff of the neck and
slammed forward.
He lost his hold
on the sink and staggered backward, windmilling his arms and bouncing against
the opposite wall.
Somewhere, he
heard Brosina wail and his mother shout, “Lucky! Lucky!” The way she called
when everything had gone to hell and she needed him. But the house gave another
lurch, bouncing him back against the sink. He hit his head on the mirror and it
shattered. He reached up, expecting blood, but thank God he wasn’t cut.
With all his
strength he tried to stand up straight and go to his mother, but his legs
wouldn’t move – he felt as if an enormous weight was pushing down on him and he
thought madly that maybe he’d been transported to one of those heavy gravity
worlds in the science fiction books and scared as he was, he almost laughed hysterically
at the thought.
Then, suddenly,
it was over and he was standing ankle deep in broken plaster, the air
shimmering in sunlight streaming through a broken window, white particles of
plaster floating as if suspended in water. Everything was unreal, as if he were
permanently mired in a dream state. He turned his head, scanning the bathroom,
and it seemed as if his eyes were slow motion cameras, making him feel so dizzy
and disoriented that he had to brace himself against the hot water tank.
He smelled
kerosene and looked down and saw fuel leaking out of the tank into a growing
pool of water that was gushing across the floor. Dizzy, he found the kerosene
petcock and shut it off.
Then he heard
his little brother cry and full awareness returned. He turned and encountered
the bathroom door, which was partially open, but had torn from its top mooring.
When he pulled, the door dug into the bathroom tile. He put real strength
behind the next tug, so much so that the bottom corner of the door ripped away
– sending a wave of kerosene-tainted water sloshing over his shoes.
He raced from
the room and down a long hallway whose floor was awash with water-soaked
debris. It was a utility area that contained the fuse box which controlled the
electricity to the house. As he moved through the narrow room he saw a light
bulb sparking at its connection and he stopped at the fuse box, threw it open,
and slammed down the lever that cut off the power. In case of attack, both his
father and his CIA counselor had drilled into him, cut the power. It can be
your worst enemy.
As he continued
on his way he went by an open window and automatically ducked down. Don’t give
them a target, his counselor had warned. Don’t cross a window, don’t pass by an
open door. At this point Lucky had no idea what had happed. Had the Russians
bombed them? Or Enosis guerillas? Who could say? In any case, he had no time to
consider, as he rushed toward the sound of his bawling little brother.
Lucky found
Charlie in the kitchen, safely clutched in his mother’s arms – unharmed, but
scared as hell. Brosina stood next to Helen, a broom gripped in her hands as if
it were a weapon. When Brosina saw Lucky she burst into tears of relief.
“Sees-mos!”
Brosina croaked. “Sees-mos!”
And now it
dawned on Lucky what had happened. It wasn’t the Russians at all.
“Right,” he
said. “Sees-mos. An earthquake,” Lucky said.
Brosina kept
bawling as did Charlie. His mother stood there pale, but straight as a soldier.
Lucky knew he had to reassure everyone, even though he wasn’t that certain of
anything at all.
“It’s over, now,
Brosina,” he said. “It’s Telos.” He mouthed the word to Brosina, so she could
read his lips: “Tel-os. Tel-os.” He made a cutting motion at his throat. “It’s
ended.”
He went to his
mother and pulled her and his crying brother into an embrace. “It’s okay,” he
said. “It’s okay.”
“Let’s give
Charlie some warm milk,” his mother said. “That always calms him down.”
Lucky stepped
back, nodding. As always his mother was steady as a rock in an emergency. He
went to the refrigerator to get out some milk. But as he opened the door there
was a grinding lurch and he found himself suddenly hanging from the door as it
swung violently back and forth, his feet skittering on the tile as he fought
futility to stay on his feet.
His said mother
shouted, “Lucky!” And Brosina wailed in fear.
Then the
refrigerator started to topple over on him and he tried to hold it up. All the
contents came tumbling out, spattering Lucky with food, glass smashing onto the
floor. There was a shriek of metal and then a loud bang! as the kitchen water
pipes burst and the room was suddenly flooded. Lucky pushed the refrigerator
away and staggered to the kitchen door – fighting to keep his balance on the
food-slick floor. Finally, he got a good grip on the jamb and held on as the
rocking continued.
Then it was
still again.
Lucky looked
around and saw his mother crouched under the kitchen table with his brother,
while Brosina held onto the sink, water gushing across her feet. All was silent,
except for the creaking of the house and the sound of the flowing water.
Brosina motioned for Lucky to help her – gesturing under the sink and turning
her wrist. She was trying to tell him that they had to shut the water off.
Lucky got on his hands and knees and crawled under the sink, water fountaining
into his face. Blindly, he reached around until he found the turnoff valve and
got it closed. The water stopped and he stayed on his knees a moment, water
dripping from him, panting to get his breath.
Brosina tugged
at him to come out and he heard his mother say, “The stove. She wants us to
shut off the kerosene.”
Numb, Lucky
nodded and climbed to his feet. “Stay under the table in case it comes again,”
he told his mother.
Then he pulled
the stove away from the wall and he shut the valve that fed kerosene into the range.
Meanwhile, Brosina was racing about the house, dealing with other kerosene
sources.
Helen came out
from under the table, Charlie whimpering in her arms. “We’d better get into the
living room,” she said. “It’ll be safer there.”
And so they fled
to the living room, which was undamaged, except for a few knick knacks that had
fallen off the radio console. Lucky got his mother to sit on the big couch and
then went to fetch Brosina. It was the other maid’s day off, so he didn’t have
to worry about her. He put Brosina with his mother then raced into the kitchen
to get milk for his brother. Fortunately the bottle was intact, as was a large
jug of boiled water. He brought those back with him, along with some bread and
goat’s cheese.
While Brosina
made a little picnic for them he collapsed on the large, overstuffed chair next
to the radio. He turned on the news, but all he heard was static.
“Maybe the tower
is down,” his mother said.
Lucky nodded.
Maybe. He thought he’d get the short wave radio out of his room and see what
was happening. As he started to rise another shock rocked the house. It was
like a huge hand was pushing down on him and he fell back into the chair. He
heard something crack! and he looked up at the big chandelier dangling over
him. It had come part way loose from the ceiling and had dropped down about a
foot. Another crack! and it plunged down, only to be brought up short by an
electrical wire a scant two or three feet above Lucky’s head.
He heard
Brosina’s strangled cry and then her strong hands gripped his arms and he was
pulled bodily off the chair. They both fell onto the floor just as the
chandelier came the rest of the way, crashing onto the chair, then smashing onto
the floor – glass showering everywhere. Brosina and Lucky stayed there for what
seemed hours, but was surely only scant minutes, as the house and shook and
windows burst and hunks of plaster crashed down.
Then, once
again, peace returned. Gingerly Lucky sat up. He looked at Brosina – she was
ghostly white from all the plaster, but seemed unhurt. He looked over at his
mother, who was rocking Charlie in her arms cooing, “It’s alright. It’s
alright.”
Lucky hugged
Brosina, thanking her and she burst into tears, clinging to him as if it were
he who had saved her, instead of the other way around. Finally, trembling
nerves under control, they pulled the heavy couch away from the wall, making a
space behind it. Then they all crawled into it, pulling the couch back again so
they could use it as a shield. They huddled there in the cool dark, as several
more aftershocks hit. They remained there for nearly two hours to make certain
that the earthquakes had stopped.
Finally, Lucky
pushed the couch away and crawled out, the others following. Glancing around,
he saw that everything in the room was covered by plaster, but other than the
chandelier, nothing seemed to be broken. He went into the reception area and
here everything seemed fine, except for the broken windows.
With some
trepidation, Lucky went to the front door and pulled it open. He blinked in the
bright sunlight, feeling disoriented, but not sure why. Gourds from the
overhead vine were smashed against the pathway, but other than that nothing
appeared amiss. He looked across the street, but saw nothing out of the
ordinary. He thought he heard shouting, but wasn’t sure. Still, things didn’t
seem right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
He went to the
front gate and opened it and then stood there, stunned. The reason for his
confusion was now frighteningly clear. There was a great absence of the village
skyline. Other than the sturdy old church and its bell tower, there was not a
roof in sight. In fact, looking straight across the street the first thing that
met his eye were scores of people running through the fields toward the scene
of the disaster.
The village
itself consisted of nothing more than mounds of broken adobe bricks. All the
homes had collapsed. All the beehive ovens turned to dust. Even the outhouses
were no more than holes, surrounded by debris.
As he scanned
the rubble, he saw not one single human being. Then he heard dogs bark, then a
few babies crying – their wails as lonely as train whistles in the night.
Just across from
him he saw something stirring in a rubble mound – like an ant trying to free
itself from a collapsed tunnel. Then a little girl emerged, her clothing torn,
her face bloody. She came out on her knees, brushed dirt from her face, then
turned around and started pawing at the broken bricks, crying, “Mah-nah!
Mah-nah!” Mother, mother.
Lucky hurried
across the street and dropped down beside her. She was crying, but she wasn’t
hysterical. Determinedly pulling clay blocks aside and calling for her mother,
“Mah-nah! Mah-nah!” He wanted to help her, but was pushed aside by several
villagers who dropped to their knees and began digging and lifting aside broken
bits of adobe brick. He stood there watching, frozen in awful fascination.
The girl’s
mother was the woman known as the Widow Anthi, a weaver who supported two
children with her skills on the loom. Many a time while Lucky daydreamed, he
had listened to the weep-weep of her loom as the shuttle cock flew back and
forth in a steady, rhythm. They all dug and dug and the girl wept, holding up
bleeding fingers that could dig no more. She tugged at a man’s shirt and he took
it off. The girl wrapped her hands in the shirt and continued digging – more
frantic then before.
A dog charged in
from the side, barking at the people, pushing them with his snout and even
daring to nip their arms and legs. Lucky recognized the animal as being the
family dog. One and the other village lads had played with on many idle
afternoons. But now the animal thought of them as the ones who had somehow
destroyed the house and was probably trying to find his mistress and hurt her.
He snarled, teeth snapping in an hysterical frenzy, eyes half-mad.
The girl came
out of her trance, hugged the dog, then started scraping the ground. Urging the
dog to “Skabo! Skabo!” Which meant, dig, dig.
The girl pawed
at the bricks some more. “Skabo Manah. Skabo Manah!”
The dog got the
idea and jammed its nose into the rubble. It ran here and there, sniffing,
pawing at this place and that – whining all the while. Then it came to a spot
and gave out a yelp and started digging frantically. Guessing the dog had found
his mistress, Lucky rushed over to help, but it became apparent he would just
be getting in the way, so he stood back, while the dog and the villagers dug, hurling
broken bits of adobe and shattered household items in every direction - the dog whining, the girl weeping calling for
her mother.
People were
starting to tire and Lucky took a tentative step forward, wanting to help. But then a large shadow fell across him.
He looked up and
saw the Turkish police chief. His face was deathly white, his eyes wild. Behind
the chief, Lucky saw two young Turkish cops from the station. He knew the Turk
spoke English, but Lucky was so numb he could only think in truncated. He tried
to think of the man’s name, but the only thing that came to him was chief. Then
he remembered – Bulent. Chief Bulent.
“Chief Bulent,”
he cried. “Ella Anthi! Ella Anthi!” Which made no sense at all, since it meant
come here, Anthi. And this had nothing to do with the situation, but Bulent
immediately got his meaning. He shouted
orders to his men and they shoved the girl and the villagers aside and started
digging. His men positioned themselves on the other side of the mound and dug
for all they were worth, driven on by both Bulent and Lucky shouting the nonsensical,
“Ella Anthi! Ella Anthi!” The little dog charged around the men, barking and
pushing to the front when he thought they’d gone astray.
Then Chief
Bluent suddenly stopped. He sat back on his heels and lifted his head to the
heavens giving such an awful and blasphemous curse that Lucky knew he’d found
the body. His shouted orders to his men, who rushed to his side to help him.
After what seemed
like an eternity Bulent lifted a dusty form out of the earth. She came out like
a corpse retrieved from a recent grave. Anthi was perfectly dressed and even
made up, although her hair and face was clotted with earth which fell from her
as the big Turk clasped her bloody form.
“Anthi!” he
cried, in a voice so mournful that Lucky would remember it for the rest of his
life. “Anthi, ahgahpee!” Anthi my love, is what he was saying.
He bent over the
corpse, his face twisted in awful pain. A mad, unkind thought came unbidden
into Lucky’s mind – so it was true that the Turkish police chief was a lover of
the beautiful Widow, Anthi. Many young Greek men had been jealous about that,
but nothing could be proven. And now it was shown to be all too-true and nobody
could compete again for the lovely widow’s company.
The big Turk
climbed to his feet, his dead lover cradled in his arms. He staggered back to
the station, weeping and calling to Allah. The little girl followed, tugging at
his muddy trousers, crying, “Mah-nah! Mah-nah!”
The two young
cops looked at Lucky, embarrassed, then hurried after their boss.
NEXT: COME THE REVOLUTION
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
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