I really should have posted this last week, but you know, busy. The same will (should) run at TPC and FP this week.

The Substitute, the First Novel by Perrin Lovett

At long last, she’s here – my first serious foray into fiction and a comprehensive story featuring everyone’s favorite spook turned teacher, Tom Ironsides.

I give you, The Substitute. ORDER NOW AT AMAZON.

© Perrin Lovett

© Perrin Lovett

Tom, of course, is a retired CIA Paramilitary Officer. Now, he faces what may be an insurmountable challenge – confronting America’s failed or failing “public” schools – an extreme man for an extreme mission. Follow his adventure through an academic year as he deeply investigates the happenings in one particular fictional system. Being who he is, he also stumbles across a continuing series of cases and events that relate back to his previous employment. Several flashbacks keep the action moving, like the following a preview of the beginning of Chapter One, At Home Far Away:

******

Belgrade, Serbia, April 1, 2001, the wee hours…

Five men stood or sat in and around a used Mercedes T1 Transporter van. The early morning air was cool, a little wet, but bearable, not that comfort had anything to do with their line of work. The team leader sat between the rear doors, which were wide open to provide a view downhill to the compound. He raised his satellite phone as he gazed down at the house through a night vision scope. Continuing his observation, he spoke, ‘Some of his drunks are staggering out of the veranda. The cops are kind of humoring … pushing them aside. They’re about to bring him out. Now. You want us to take the shot?’

   A muffled, warbling voice instructed from the other end. He cut it short,

   ‘Been here for over forty hours. He’s coming out in a second. Do you, or do you not … want him dead?’

   The electronic voice from Virginia warbled away.

   ‘Got a twenty mike-mike ready to roll, here,’ the leader said without breaking his stare, even as he reached around and patted the barrel of an older Soviet ShVAK-20 autocannon, ‘If it’s dead, then I need to move over kind of quick like.’

   More warbling.

   ‘Okay, shit! It’s not like they have any evidence or cause for this arrest. Not here, certainly not at the Hague, not even our guys. Yeah! Who the hell wants to bother with a trial?’

   Warb…

   ‘Save it. He’s coming out. Between four officers right now.’

   The hardened paramilitary operations officer watched as heavily armed police escorted a handcuffed Slobodan Milosevic, first and now former President of the Serbian Republic to a waiting car (one of five, as he counted them). ‘Last chance. I can still light it up…’ He was cut off in turn.

   A stern voice spoke through the receiver, a little clearer to his hearing than to that of his men, ‘Negative! Watch them drive off and then get out of there. Green Ops will make sure he arrives at Central. We’ll have him in Tuzla tomorrow. Stand down and prepare for evac. Go ahead to the rendezvous point. You’re done.’

   ‘Roger that. Black Delivery, out.’ He folded the phone closed and watched as Milosevic was tucked into the back of a car that sped away immediately. He spoke to his team, ‘Okay, boys and girls, field trip’s over. Load it up and let’s get clear.’

   As he stood up, he patted the barrel again, ‘Birch, does this thing even work?’

   Before Birch could answer, five small-arms shots rang out in the distance. The team wheeled around and rescanned the general area of Kuca Milosevic. Silence followed. There were a lot of guns out and about. It was probable that someone at the house had vented a little frustration. If it was something else, then Green Ops and the locals could deal with it. Either way, the men counted their work as finished.

   ‘Yeah. There’s a party over there… The twenty? Kinda glad we don’t have to find out, Tom,’ Birch replied with a smirk. ‘You heard the man. Let’s move out.’

   With all parties and equipment secure, the van slowed crept forward towards the road. A SEAL support newbie, a huge man that Tom and Birch thought sort of looked like a tree, was at the wheel. Tom spoke to Birch quietly on the makeshift back seat, ‘Somebody’s really confident about this nab and extradition. I don’t think they ever intended to assassinate him.’

   Birch answered softly, ‘They did, or at least it was plan B. But, yeah, money buys confidence. G-team’s spent a small fortune convincing Dindic. He’s our guy now. We’ve spent even more with the ICTY. The banks don’t aim to lose. Ever.’

   ‘You can say that again,’ Tom said with a shrug and a little louder. ‘Was this another grand waste? Rather than play collection agent for Basel and the IMF, I’d prefer to track down some of the al-Qaeda chatter. Something’s moving. Wonder what the money men know about tha…’

   The shotgun rider, a veteran SEAL, interrupted: ‘Roadblock! Roadblock! Twelve o’clock!’

   Tom raised his night vision scope for a moment, peering through the windshield. ‘Guns. Up and leveled! Through it or around it! Go, man, go!’

   The big newbie floored the gas and headed for an opening between two blocking vehicles on the right. They were welcomed with a hail of bullets. The van rolled over two shooters and clipped a truck as it blasted through. The primary support agent in the rear opened up with an H&K 416, firing a deluge of three-round bursts. After a split second, he cried to the front, ‘Company! Van and two cars following us!’

   ‘Secure this shit in, Birch!’ Tom ordered as he hopped over the seat to the waiting ShVAC. ‘And, hey, we’re about to find out!’

   The rear agent leaped behind Tom, picking up the night scope so as to act as his boss’s spotter. Birch was scrabbling to get in touch with Force Recon. Bullets cracked here and there on the skin and frame of the now very used van. The spotter tapped Tom’s shoulder and pointed back and right.

   ‘Ears!’ Tom screamed.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

   In a deafening second, they both found out that the old gun worked just fine and they lost one pursuing car. In another second:

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

   Another car burst into flames and crashed down a hillside. One more, baby! Tom had a clear, distinctive view of the van through the comically oversized iron sight. He checked the belt and prepared to squeeze the trigger again. The Mercedes lurched and turned hard. He lost his view for a fraction of a second. When the van was visible again, he instantly saw its hood, grille, and front passenger quarter-panel erupt in a shower of sparks. Up in the front, his veteran SEAL was damned good with an AK, even hanging out the window of a speeding van, shooting in the dark. Tom watched the van sputter and grind to a halt in a ditch.

   ‘Good shooting!’ Tom yelled, a yell which even he had trouble hearing. ‘Guess I don’t get all the fun! Anybody else deaf?! And, WAS ANYONE HIT?!!’

   Fortune favored the bold; no-one was damaged aside from ringing in the ears which even decent ear protection couldn’t prevent. Something about not shooting an anti-aircraft gun in an enclosed vehicle… Birch informed that a Marine helo would meet them in about three minutes, maybe one minute after they arrived at the field. The van slogged to a stop, resting on mostly flattened tires, in a patch of mud.

   ‘E’rbody off!’ Tom yelled. ‘Let’s give the bird something to steer by. Light this heap up!’

   The five stood by, wary – watching the sky and scanning the horizon as the Mercedes began to burn behind them. The distinctive sound of an approaching rotar-craft thump-thump-thumped towards them. Tom’s signal flare did its job well. Just then, the younger agent barked, ‘The van! The van’s out there on the road!’ And, given away by headlights and its silhouette, a van was meandering down the street adjacent to their position. Tom stared at it hard.

   Birch put in, ‘I mentioned that to the Jarheads during our getaway. They gotta see it now.’

   Tom kept staring. Suddenly, he turned to Birch, ‘No! That one’s a different shape and a little bigger. More of a small bus. Tell them to hold their…’

   As the Blackhawk prepared to set down near the flaming wreck, its door gun spoke, loud, clear, and mercilessly. **Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrurrt!** The small bus was cut to burning pieces.

   ‘Oh, hell.’ Tom started. ‘Don’t tell me that was…’

   As the others were pulled into the chopper, Tom stood rooted in the mud. He watched as a screaming child crawled from the remains of the bus. ‘GODDAMMIT! NO!’

   He too was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the helo by a sturdy Corporal. The DOD never billed him for the damage he did to the chopper bay. The whole squad, once they understood what had happened, took Tom’s sorrowful view of the matter. It was much worse for him, understanding all the details. The master crooks used the “law” to snatch a smaller crook. Tom and his men were merely pawns. Other pawns had tried to kill them. All of it went with the territory. But, why was it that every single time, some innocents had to die? Every damned time!

Derry, New Hampshire, April 10, 2018, 05:00…

   Tom woke up with a start, sweating profusely. He counted that particular adventure as one of his “favorite” nightmares. It was certainly one of the most recurrent. Serbia… In the end, he’d been right about Milosevic. After a baseless capture, an illegal transfer, and a five-year sham of a trial, the man “committed suicide.” Then, and only then was he posthumously declared acquitted, with a lack of evidence of any chargeable war crimes. Tom had seen it, known it, way back then. And, he’d been right about the chatter as well.

   An already exciting life kicked into overdrive following the morning of 9/11. If! There were more “ifs” than anything else and he still harbored many suspicions. Back at the time, had anyone near Washington had half a brain, they might have inquired as to who, exactly, Slobodan was allegedly committing those fake war crimes against. Some of the same characters were linked, here and there, to cells in Germany, the UK, Michigan, and Florida. 

…

******

Click that link, above, and start reading! Note: you do not have to limit yourself to just a single copy. The book makes a great Christmas gift. Order as many as you can afford. And, a Kindle e-version is (very slowly) coming together. And! I’m already four or five chapters into an all-action, political-thriller prequel, a first-person novella set a year before the 2018 beginning of Part One. I also have about twenty separate Ironsides shorts which could (will) morph into a series of future novels and novellas. 

Early readers report ease of reading from the layout, font, etc. – a quality book. The style is already being compared to that of Stuart Woods. Join the party and see what you think!

440 pages. $19.95, paperback.

At least the Amazon link is up.

BUY NOW AT AMAZON

I update the “Books” page and I spruced up the sidebar link, left.

Not bad, at all, for a first novel. Order yours now. Buy two. Or ten. (No limit).

I’ll have more of a promo shortly.

THE SUBSTITUTE

She’s locked and loaded into Amazon’s (and other systems). Could be 72 hours – more or less. You’ll know ASAP.

Formatted, it’s 440-ish pages in a high-quality paperback format.

$19.95

Kindle to follow – doing this one the right way.

Super excited. I’ll have all the info you need just as soon as the finished thing is ready.

-P

Pardon those broken line things – Pub Preview – not in book.

**Who killed Geoffrey Steinberg?!?!?!**

     … ‘That was Steinberg Island.’ Langley reported. ‘Emphasis on the was part. Until we ran radiological scans we had assumed it was a small nuke. It wasn’t. What you just watched was a thermobaric in action.’

     ‘Damn big one too.’ Tom added.

     ‘Yeah. Too big. From what we’re gathering, that was the largest non-nuclear bomb in the world. Bigger than anything we have. Or the Russians or anyone else. Whole island is gone. Crushed and incinerated.’ The voice continued, ‘The press doesn’t know it. Bureau either. But… Steinberg was on his island at the time. He’s dead.’

     ‘Good! Thank God!’ Tom yelled. ‘Case closed, huh? Well, thanks for the good news. I’ll SLEEP well now.’

     ‘Hang on, Tom, there’s more.’ The voice conferred with someone in the background and continued. ‘Anything strike you as funny about the blast?’

     ‘I find the whole thing hilarious,’ Tom said while laughing, ‘But, yeah, it was an aerial delivery. Not a rocket, unless there’s a Saturn Five gone missing. Any leads on a plane? Would have had to be a larger transport.’

     ‘That’s the other thing – one of them actually.’ A woman’s voice interjected.

     ‘Good morning, Madam Director. They got you up early too?’

     ‘Good morning. Dr. Ironsides. Yes. In here at oh-three-hundred.’ She spoke with someone else and continued, ‘Get back with the Bode, ASAP! … Sorry, Tom. Right. It had to be a plane. Obviously not a missile. But… we can’t track anything from the time. Someone … we don’t know who … anything, really … someone blocked out the sat system, in that sector, and at that time. It was a rolling obscurement, to hide all logistics.’

     ‘Nation-state, then. But, which one?’ Tom mused. 

     ‘We can’t think of any nation that would be interested in such action, Tom.’ The replacement added.

     ‘Well, maybe our nation should have done it, given the circumstances…’ Tom rejoined with a little force. ‘There’s us. The Russians, England, France, and China would be the other usual suspects. It’s possible that Germany, Italy, India, Israel, maybe a few others could have done it – with great effort. But, I don’t see why.

     ‘And, just how do we know all of this anyway?’ Tom was dubious.

     ‘SAS was preparing to move against the targets just before the bombing.’

     ‘Move against them with hugs and welfare checks, or move against them the right way – with slightly smaller explosives?’

     ‘Several strike teams were assembled before… This was a major interruption to the plan… Don’t know. We’re thinking that maybe it wasn’t a state actor.’ Said the Director.

     ‘Terrorists? Or, are you going to send that FBI kid here again a little later to congratulate me on another job well done?’ Tom was still laughing. ‘I have plenty of time away from school to build the world’s largest bomb, you know. And deliver it while blacking out Big Bird and Snow White.’ He chuckled to the point that it was hard to get the words out.

     The Director attempted to reign him in: ‘This isn’t a laughing matter.’

     ‘It really is!’ Laughed Tom. …

So much more when The Substitute starts class…

**Here, the reader finds Tom, fresh from another educational experiment, indulging a flashback while headed to New England for Thanksgiving. Ever wonder what Tom did on the morning of 9/11/2001? Read on.**

Chapter Twelve

A Date and a Plot

Driving away from Hammond that Tuesday afternoon, Tom shook his head. A popcorn riot! Kids will be kids. They do unruly things. But, with all that had happened at Eisenhower, every time he’d been there, he decided that was one school he would take off his list. He did that as soon as he was home – the first alteration he’d made to his availability in A.S.S.’s system. It wouldn’t be the last. Later, he ate at Lyon’s and tried a new holiday porter as recommended by two prettier members of the staff. He ended up drinking several of them. Once home again, he thought about testing out his new fire pit but decided against it due to his travel schedule the next day. But, he did have one last round before bed.

     The following morning, while he sipped coffee and almost regretted the last round, he noticed something out the window. The dreary November clouds parted just at the right moment, opening a vast swath of earth and water below the American Airlines flight as it cruised North towards New England. He looked down and beheld lower Manhattan, a good stretch of the whole Island, and parts of the surrounding Boroughs. As he stared at One Freedom Tower, his mind returned to another day, years before.

McLean, Virginia, September 11, 2001, 8:35 AM…

     ‘I hope there’s a cute turtle in here!’ Vicky exclaimed while clutching her little box of animal crackers to her chest. She loved both the snack and the slower armored reptile. And, she really loved her Daddy. ‘Will YOU AND mommy come get me before you get Traaaay?? I wanna be first!’

     Still down on one knee, Tom tried to look concerned. ‘We’re supposed to pick up both of you? I thought we just picked one and the other spent the night…’ The turtle-loving first grader wasn’t buying it this morning, instead giving Tom a squinty-eyed pouty face. ‘Alright! We’ll BOTH come get one of you and then the other. Maybe we can eat out tonight. Somewhere fun. Speaking of … looks like you need to get back in there, bunny.’

     Dangling the turtles and other animals by the little string handle, she gave him a big parting hug. ‘Love you, Dabby!’

     ‘Ruv you too, baby doll.’

     Tom rose and watched her skip away to a table where gathered some other little girls proudly wearing the uniforms of the Academy of Saint Mary. He bid Ms. Flaxon a good morning and made his way to the front doors, waving and nodding to a few nuns on the way out. Down the steps and across the front lawn, he almost bounded towards the parking lot. He’d just returned the night before from another overseas junket that lasted (as usual) a little longer than planned. Tonight would be fun family time; today was a chance to spend precious time with his bride. Or, it would have been.

     About the time he reached his aging, ailing Rover Defender, his belt and side began to vibrate as if his work pager vehemently objected to his plans. He stopped mid-entry, with one foot still on the ground and checked. Despite his line of work, there was no expecting what he saw:

!!! CD BLK ATTACK WAR !!!

…

!!! HUNTRESS SCRAM F15 NYC !!!

…

!!! GIANTKILLER RELAY EADS !!!

…

!!! NCS RPT LANGLEY !!!

     As he raced towards CIA Headquarters, he tried a talk radio station. Some newsman was laughing about the time a World War Two-era bomber accidentally flew into the Empire State Building. This wasn’t an accident! You guys will know soon. Just as he switched off the dial, his phone started ringing. He let it ring. He had traffic laws to break.

     Ten minutes later he ran into a situation room, already crowded with officers, analysts, assistant directors, and several men in military uniforms, mostly Army. They were whispering if they even talked. All eyes were on the largest of screens in that room which, from the looks of it, could have launched the Space Shuttle. He joined them in time to see the second plane strike. Reports buzzed about the Pentagon. The FAA ceded aerial control to NORAD. Another screen, live from a satellite, computer-highlighted fighters as they assumed Combat Air Patrol over America’s East Coast. The President was moving. The Capitol was evacuating. South Tower collapsed. North Tower followed. A shocked world watched equally stunned media figures stumble through the reports.

     His shock gave way to anger. He recalled, vividly, his meeting, little more than a month earlier, at the White House – his first with President Bush. He’d read aloud the footnotes to his April report on Serbia. He was one of the bold who warned of an imminent attack on the Nation. He had stared in disbelief as, first one and then another, idiot neocon rebuffed his advice. Who were these people? Bin Laden was not bluffing to cover for Saddam. There was no need to bomb Iraq again. Shit, the targets are HERE now! He’d lost it on two of the loudest chickenhawks. And, he almost lost his job as a result. He would have but for a certain respect from the Deputy Director and that, for his faults, Bush seemed to know the value of at least one dissenter. They let him stick around but they didn’t take his advice. Now, this!

     Many voices spoke to or at him simultaneously. The Director had found him and was instructing him to ready a direct action team for deployment, probably to Afghanistan, and probably that night. 

     Does that mean, “you were right?” ‘Roger that. I need to get the…’

     ‘They’re saying Tower Seven is going to fall too!’ The Director’s assistant of something had found her boss, and Tom, and broke in. She seemed terrified.

     Tom looked at both of them with a grim, set face. ‘Who are they? And, how do they know?’

     That afternoon, Elizabeth picked up the kids by herself. Tom went, not to the Middle East (not yet) but to Tampa so he could escort a band of Saudis out of the country. When no-one else could fly. Almost no-one. His rival teams were busy shuttling Israelis and others back to their homes, some of them being hastily released from custody for the trip. The rest is muddled, forgotten, and covered-up history.

Derry, New Hampshire, Thanksgiving Eve, Late…

     Tom, Larry, Darla, Trey, and Romona sat around Larry’s kitchen table, enjoying drinks and conversation. Everyone had been anxious to probe into Tom’s progress with the schools. His answers, while entertaining, didn’t necessarily inspire confidence – at least not in his own self-critical mind.

     Trey kept the process in motion. ‘Sounds like you’re learning a lot, Dad. Do you think you like teaching at that, at those levels?’

     Tom had been thinking the same thing lately. He was learning, though not everything he learned made him happy. Things were bad, terminally-bad even, but he still wanted to help. The question was, did anyone else want help? He had a strange feeling that, just as his predictions and assessments were ignored before 9/11, so now they would be dismissed by the academy. He answered, ‘The Curse of Cassandra.’

     ‘The curse of who, now?’ Romona inquired.

…

The Substitute is coming…