Saturday, July 24, 2010

Walk Across America

This past spring the kids and I drove across two-thirds of the country in six days. These guys walked across it in fourteen. Below is a video of how they did it. I love behind the scenes peeks of artists at work and solving problems in creative ways.



Here's the final video.



Photobucket

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Nightshade by Ronie Kendig

Wow! That about sums up my feelings for this book. Ronie just nailed it. I love reading military suspense, especially with a dash of romance, and Ronie is as good as any I've read. The dialogue and actions by the men ring very true, and that's something many female writers struggle with. She's done her homework and it shows.

I also appreciate that Ronie tackled some tough issues like PTSD and how that tears families apart. I hope her book will help others understand what a tough job those men and women have who put themselves in harm's way to protect our freedom.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



Today's Wild Card author is:





and the book:



Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Camy Tang and Ronie Kendig for sending me a review copy.***



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:








Ronie Kendig grew up an Army brat, married a veteran, and they now have four children and a Golden Retriever. She has a BS in Psychology, speaks to various groups, volunteers with the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), and mentors new writers.





Visit the author's website and her book website,.









Product Details:



List Price: $12.99

Paperback: 368 pages

Publisher: Barbour Books; Discarded Heroes edition (July 1, 2010)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 160260777X

ISBN-13: 978-1602607774
Get it Here:



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:






Prologue



Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in Goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man’s face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.



Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—



The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.



“You almost missed the fun.” Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.



Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. “You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?”



The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families. . . . “We could leave now.”



“You know this has to happen.”



After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. “So, the body count’s finally high enough?”



Blue eyes narrowed. “I’m here. That should tell you something.”



“Indeed.” Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. “I need full autonomy for me and my team.”



Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.



“Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I’m a sitting duck out here.” He rubbed his hands and glanced around.



Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. “I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours.”



The man shook his head. “No trails.”



The corner of Olin’s mouth quirked up. “You’ve already got one.” He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.



A curse hissed through the night. “You’d bleed me out if you could.”



“Whatever it takes to protect these men.”



Eyeing him, the man hesitated. “The men? Or you?”



“One and the same. If they’re protected, I’m protected. Whatever happens out there, we’re not going to take the fall for it.”



“If it goes bad, someone will get blamed.”



Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?”



“Seven.”



On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. “Then we’re through.”



The man caught his elbow. “Sit down.”



Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he’d ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize deep-six missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.



The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.



“Get me their names. I’ll write a carte blanche.”



Olin’s gut twisted. “Not happening.” If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. “Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn’t happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up.”



“If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert.”



“And a million people will die if you don’t.”



“We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there.”



A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. “You’ve been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility.” Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They’d be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.



He let out a long exhale. “If you aren’t going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11.”



He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. “You’ve always impressed me, Lambert, even though you’re Army.”



“Navy lost the last game, Admiral.” Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. “These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don’t have time to wrangle the pundits. Let’s get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir.”



Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. “You’ll have it by morning.”



Chapter 1



Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from . . . everything. Here only pine trees, concrete and speed were his friends.



His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.



Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10% grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise.



He twisted the throttle.



Eighty.



Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge.



Ninety.



He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break.



The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped.



This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd . . .



Take me. Just take me.



The Hayabusa plummeted.



Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth.



The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—



Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him.



Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane. Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.



Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.



Finally. It’d be over. He closed his eyes. No more—



THUD! “Oof.” The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees.



He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn’t going to die, he didn’t want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through.



He dumped into a ditch.



Smack!



Everything went black.



He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. “Argh!”



Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and . . . everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should’ve punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him.





Why couldn’t God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn’t have to face his consummate failures in life. “Just let me go!” he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He’d do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.



But that wasn’t an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.



A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He’d seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn’t a coincidence. And he didn’t like being hunted.



Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn’t he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.



Sydney. . .



He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.



Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.



The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn’t mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. At least not easily.



Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man’s jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.



“You through? Or you want another go at it?”



What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.



“We took you for stronger.” The man glanced back at the bike. “But maybe you’re nothing but broke and no use to no one.”



Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?



“So, what’s it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?”



How does he know my name? “Who are you?” Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. “What do you want?”



“You.”



Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn’t show him weak. “What’s the game?”



The man’s eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater’s sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. Force Recon, if Max made out the symbol correctly.



An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.



“Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It’s the Rangers I don’t like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time.”



Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull.



“What’s it going to be, squid?” The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. “You don’t have a ride back to town. So why don’t you climb in and listen to what I have to say?”



Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. “You flash a tattoo and think I’ll just bend my knee? I don’t think so.” A silent brotherhood had closed Max’s knife. But he didn’t want company. The oaf’s or anyone else’s. But how else would he get home?



“What? You think you’re going home? To your can opener and mattress?”



Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.



“No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out.”



At least, as the man had said, he’d have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.



He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.



Mr. Force Recon grinned. “You’re predictable, Jacobs.”



Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. “So what’s this about? Why have you been following me?”



A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. “You’ve been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs.”



Max snorted. “Already did my time. I’m out.” He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.



“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”



Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy’s gut. He’d left the service for Sydney. Only it’d been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything.”



Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you’ve been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife.”



The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.



“Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation.” He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. “How am I doing?”



“If you knew anything about me, you’d dull your edge.”



Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. “The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it.”



“And won.”



“Yessir.” The man nodded for several seconds. “So, why now? Why’d you let them put you out this time?”



Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.



“You’re a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs.”



Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.



“Who are you? What’s your story?”



“Name’s Griffin.” He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. “My story. . . ?” A toothy grin. “Let’s just say I got smart.”



The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. “So, what’s the gig?”



“The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you’ve returned from your last tour?”



Max grunted. “Yesterday.”



“That’s what I like to hear.” Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. “Then this is where it starts.”





Elite soldiers stood in a semicircle, waiting. For what, Max wasn’t sure. And he wouldn’t ask. If his guess was right, then time would tell—because Griffin seemed to be the guy in the know, and his relaxed posture against the SUV said things were going according to plan.



“Hey, dude, want me to look those over?” A blond guy dressed in khaki shorts, a faded tank, and a pair of flip-flops motioned to Max’s scrapes and lacerations.



Right. Beach bum wanted to play nurse. “I’m good.”



“About as good as a dog in a meat grinder,” the guy replied.



Max clenched his teeth. Whatever kind of circus Griffin was running. . .



A diesel engine growled, the sound reverberating off the aluminum in the cavernous space, preempting the shiny blue dualie truck pulling into the dank building. The engine cut. A guy stepped out and donned a black cowboy hat that added about five inches to his six-foot-two frame.



Griffin’s laugh rumbled as he pushed off his SUV. “Colton.”



A broad grin spilled under the rim of the man’s Stetson. “Hey.” The two clasped hands and patted backs. “How’s Dante?”



A quiet dialogue carried between the two for several minutes that effectively cut out the rest of those gathered. Yeah, they had a friendship, one that said they trusted each other with more than superficial things. Something about the tight bond rankled Max. Hit deep.



“Why are we here?”



Max’s gaze bounced to the shortest and youngest of the six men in the building. The Kid had read his thoughts. A warehouse full of warriors? This setup smelled rotten.



“If you’ll be patient—” Griffin paused and glanced behind him. “I think it’s time.”



A black Chrysler 300 glided into the middle of the grouping. The hollow clunk of an opening door echoed off the steel rafters and grime-laden windows. A man emerged. White hair feathered back. A sun-bronzed nose sported dark-tinted sunglasses. The thud of the door almost swallowed the crunching of his squeaky shoes. New, expensive shoes. Maybe even tailor-made. He gripped the rim of his glasses and drew them off.



Was the old man supposed to mean something? Be someone who mattered? Irritation skittered along Max’s shoulders as the old man shook hands with Riddell and the cowboy.



“Who’s the hoo-hah?” Max mumbled to himself.



“You kidding me, man?” The blond look at him and smirked. “That’s—”



“For those not enlightened,” an authoritative voice cut through the surfer’s explanation, “my name is General Olin Lambert. I am a member of the Joint Chiefs. But among the seven of us, I am merely a citizen of the United States just like you.” Blue eyes probed each man.



Right into Max’s soul.



“With Mr. Riddell’s help, I’ve hand-chosen each and every one of you for a very specific purpose. There isn’t anything about you or your lives that I don’t know.” Lambert paused, as if to let his words sink in, but Max just wished he’d get on with it. Scabs were forming on his scrapes.



“Chosen us for what, ese?” asked the Hispanic man.



“A black ops team.”



And that meant two things: military and that this meeting was over. Max turned and started walking.



“It’s not military, Mr. Jacobs.”



Hesitation held him at the large, garage-style door he’d entered. “How can you do black ops without military aid, intelligence, and backup?” He turned around, ignoring what felt like glass stuck to his calves and thighs.



“I didn’t say we wouldn’t have aid or intelligence.” Creases pinched Lambert’s eyes at the corners. “I said it’s not military.”



“Come again?” the beach bum asked, disbelief coloring his words.



“Let the general explain.” Griffin leaned back against the truck with his cowboy buddy.



“Thank you, Mr. Riddell.” Lambert tucked his sunglasses in his left breast pocket, then threaded his fingers in front of him. Impressive and commanding. “Each of you has returned from combat changed, affected.”



Nervous glances skidded from man to man. Max glued his attention to the general, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Lambert’s words.



“You’re what I’ve dubbed discarded heroes.”



Grunts of approval rang through the building, and the group seemed to tighten in around the old man. Being a general, he knew what it was like to have slanted glances of pity from those who knew where you’d been, what you’d probably done, and what it was like to go against a politically correct ideology and fight for freedom on foreign soil. Or to have some tree hugger spit in your face and call you a murderer.



“You served your time, saw and experienced things no normal person would be expected to deal with. Sure, you were trained. Taught to expect evil. Demanded success. However, when confronted with the true terrors of war, no human mind can dissolve the images embedded in memory for all time.



“Then it’s time to get out. They yank you back here, give you a once-over, and toss you out with a ‘thank you very much and have a good life.’ So you go home, try to reintegrate into society, and—”



“It’s screwed up,” the Kid said. He shrugged when the others scowled at him. “Well? I’m right, aren’t I? From what I heard you saying earlier,” he pointed to the beach bum, “you’ve spent time in Afghanistan—a lot.” Then to the Latino, “You probably did your tours of duty in Panama or the like.” His gaze came to Max.



“Don’t.” Fists balled, Max willed his feet to remain in place. He didn’t want anyone digging in his brain.



“Mr. Vaughn is correct,” Lambert said. “You’ve all seen combat. You’ve all been trained to kill; then you come back, and what do you do with those skills but go out of your mind?”



Max shifted. Was it over yet? He eyed the wide-open berth to freedom behind the blue dualie.



“Max Jacobs.”



Hearing his name felt like a detonation that blasted his attention back to the general.



“You served eight years with the SEALs. Your experience in command and combat no doubt left indelible scars. Watched your best friend toss himself on a grenade to save the team.”



Bile pooled at the back of Max’s throat as the memory surged. He flared his nostrils, pushing the images back into the pit from which they’d been drawn.



Lambert stalked the inner perimeter, as if prepping troops for war with a pep talk. “Lieutenant Jacobs is the man I’ve chosen as team leader, but his position is no more valuable than anyone else’s. You’ve all seen war. In this building are years of tactical experience. Incredible wisdom. And one element that makes each of you vital for this to work.”



“What’s that?” Cowboy asked, his arms folded over his thick chest.



“Loyalty, Mr. Neeley. Your duty with the Marine Special Operations Team is bloated with exemplary conduct, commendation after commendation.” He waved his hand around the cozy circle. “I’ve reviewed all of your files and found the same thing in every one.”



Awkward silence cooled some of the tension in the room, and once again Max eyed the exit.



“Mr. Reyes, your career as a pararescue jumper, specifically your medic skills, saved dozens of lives.”



“Pair o’ what?” Cowboy taunted.



“Hey,” Reyes grinned. “You’re just jealous. I’m a PJ. Why you think they call me Fix?”



“Because you put everyone in one?” Griffin chuckled, eliciting more laughter.



“Nah, man. It’s ’cause of this,” he said as he drew out a crucifix from his shirt and kissed it. “My crucifix. They called me Cru at first, then since I’m a medic, they started calling me Fix.”



Swallowing his groan, Max ran a hand through his short crop. Religion and military. This was starting to feel worse than an AA meeting. And there wasn’t a point. “This is a lot of flowery, moving discourse, but what do you want from us?” Max mentally shook off the way the others looked at him. Was he the only one who was still waiting for the boom to lower?



“Mr. Riddell, if you please.” Lambert pointed to the black SUV as Griffin opened the tailgate. “Give each man one.”



Griffin handed out small black packs that bore a lone symbol. A strange star backed by a sword and wings. The Kid, the Beach Bum, and the Latino dug into the packs, almost excited. In seconds, a black phone, keys, a watch, and a set of duds spilled across the gray cement floor in front of them.



Max remained in place, his pack dangling from his clenched fist. He didn’t like being played. And this definitely felt like a setup.



General Lambert faced him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?”



He dropped his pack onto the floor. “Not seeing the point.”



Behind the general, Griffin seemed to grow several inches as he towered over the aged officer. “What?” he growled. “You want to take another nose-dive off that hill? Hope this time there’s only enough of you left to fill a baggie? Want to make that estranged wife of yours a widow before you can be called a failure?”



Hands coiled, Max drew up his shoulders. Saw red. No. No. He wouldn’t give in to the goading. He dragged his attention back to the general.



“Ease up, Legend,” Cowboy said, patting Griffin’s chest. “Give the guy a chance.” Lambert remained unwavering. “The point, Lieutenant, is to establish a team that can penetrate hostile situations without any entanglements, without any blame on the good ol’ US-of-A or any other entity or government. You returned from two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and a covert mission nobody in this room will ever know about. You were the best, a natural, your CO said. But you were so volatile after those experiences took their toll they tried to discharge you, and your compatriots nicknamed you after a volatile chemical. Somehow you held it together. Then jumped ship out of the blue.” More than recitation of information lurked behind the general’s blue eyes. A knowing—no, an understanding, quiet and unnerving. “Tell me, Mr. Jacobs, what are you doing with your life now?”



“Minding my own business,” Max answered through tight lips.



Lambert laughed. “And that’s exactly what you’ll be doing as part of my team. Funding isn’t a problem. You’ll have unlimited resources.”



“That’d be a change,” the Kid grumbled.



“To go where?” the Beach Bum asked.



“Doesn’t matter,” the Kid interrupted. “Man, how is this any different than military? Igot out for a reason.”



“You’ll go wherever needed.” The general turned toward the younger man. “Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?”



The Kid paled.



“Why?” Max couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why are you doing this? What’s this thing to you?”



Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. “I am. . .discarded just like you.”



“Bull.” Max tucked his hands under his arms. “You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You’re paid, you’re connected—”



“I know what you guys have been through.” The general tapped his temple. “MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours.”



Max’s eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.



“Heard the phrase ‘peace with honor’?”



Max shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t?”



“It was a platitude.” Lambert’s eyes flamed under his passion. “The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put ’em.



“I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished.” The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. “But I slowly remembered that I’d joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a man. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after.”



Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max’s barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the old man’s chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.



Lambert’s lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. “What’s it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?”



“Whoa-hoa!” Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. “Old Man’s got some fire under that shiny dome.”



Lambert spun toward the bum. “What’s it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?”



The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. “I’m in.”



The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.



“You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up.”



A half smile slid into Lambert’s face. “A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?”



“You all right, old man.” He hooked Lambert’s hand and patted his back. “You all right.” Reyes leaned in toward the general’s shoulders and looked at the Kid. “But I don’t know about this kid. He don’t look like he’s out of diapers yet.”



“That’s wrong. That’s just wrong.” The Kid’s face flushed. “I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—”



“Rangers.” Max couldn’t help but grunt his disapproval. “That explains a lot.”



The Kid’s chin jerked up in defiance. “I’m in.”



It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. “Mr. Neeley?”



Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. “I’m ready.”



Lambert smiled. “Good. Good.”



They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. “What if we get in trouble out there?”



“Then get out of trouble,” Lambert said. “Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he’ll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean no one—will know your names.”



“So our orders are coming from on high?” Metcalfe asked.



A twinkle brightened Lambert’s eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. “Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States. You will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know.”



“Or care.” The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.



Max wanted to punch him.



“Or maybe that’s where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch.” Lambert ambled toward him.



The beach bum made a tss noise and shook his head. “Nothing golden, just hard work.”



The general’s smile disappeared behind a stern facade. “What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?”



“This is crazy.” What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. “Fine.” The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. “I’m in.”



“Good.” General Lambert’s smile softened his commando persona. “Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you’re pinned down and need an extraction.



Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. “Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade.”

Sunday, July 11, 2010

The iPhone Fashion Shoot

I've spent a few years of my life learning photography. I've shot on some great equipment and some crappy equipment. While the great equipment makes it easier to get good shots, I've done some wonderful things with a cheap digital and even *gasp* my phone.

These guys prove this point by shooting a fashion video with an iPhone 3GS (I have that one and I'm pretty impressed by what it does for being a phone camera). It's pretty fun to watch, especially when his phone rings in the middle of the shoot. Watch carefully and you'll get some good tips on lighting and composition (via Digital Photography School).


Friday, July 09, 2010

Cool Protection for Phones and Gadgets

As I've mentioned before, I dabble in photography. While I was taking an online photography class at Creative Techs (go check them out if you like awesome classes on technology and creative stuff) the host, John Greengo, was talking about camera equipment and protecting the display on your digital camera. He mentioned a company called Zagg.

Cool, I thought and hopped over to check them out. They make something called
invisibleSHIELD. According to their site you can take a Dremel tool to it and it won't scratch through. I was really impressed, not just with getting a protective screen for my camera, but also one for my phone. And best of all (to me!) you could create your own skin for your phone. You can also make one for your iPad if you are so lucky as to own one of those creatures.

As you can see, I made one of my darling (most of the time) children for my iPhone.


This is the back of my iPhone. You can see the camera eye in the upper right corner. I was really impressed with the price and the quality of the product and it was easy to install. You can upload your own image (I'm thinking a business card or logo or book cover would be great) or use one of their many designs.

And I know I sound like a commercial. And yes, I became an affiliate for
invisibleSHIELD so if you click on the link and end up buying something I'll get a commission. But I did it because I think it's a great product. You can go to their site directly, www.zagg.com, and avoid my affiliate link if you'd like, but go check out their products. You'll be glad you did.


Wednesday, July 07, 2010

Making Work at Home Work: Managing Your Stress Level

Those of us who work from home (let's face it--that's all of us moms) are always looking for ways to keep everything calm and balanced. Having any luck with that? Yeah, me neither. But here's a terrific piece from Mary Byers of Making Work at Home Work with some tips to help.

Expanding and Contracting: Managing Your Stress Level
By Mary M. Byers

My work is seasonal. I make about 30% of my income for the entire year in one month! That's
the good news. The bad news is that it can be stressful getting through such a busy time. That's
where the concept of "Expanding and Contracting" comes in.

Expanding and contracting requires making a conscious decision regarding how big your life
view is going to be at any given time. For example, I once had a speaking engagement in my
home town. Since my mother lived there, I decided to take my children along so they could
spend some time with grandma.

Several weeks before the engagement, my world view was still large. I could look at the
calendar for the entire month, make plans for later in the summer, and keep an active “To
Do” list for the week. As the engagement approached, however, I narrowed my focus to
getting my presentation ready and getting myself and the kids packed. The day before our
departure, getting out the door and to Grandma’s house was ALL I focused on. As soon as my
presentation was over, however, I was able to expand my focus again and begin planning for
our next trip—a family vacation.

You’ve probably used these concepts of expanding and contracting without even knowing
it. Think about the last time you had friends over for dinner. When you called to extend the
invitation, your life view was still large. As you approached the day of the meal, your view
contracted as you began to plan the menu and make your grocery list. The day of the event,
your view likely contracted even more, to the point of being focused on straightening the house
and getting the food prepared. After your guests arrived, your view could begin to expand again
and by the time they left, you were probably already thinking ahead to what the next day would
bring.

Expanding and contracting your view is extremely useful in staving off stress. As I view my
calendar some days and an overwhelmed feeling starts creeping over me, I simply take a
deep breathe (or two, or three, or ten, depending on the situation!) and ask myself, “How can
I contract my focus?” Doing so keeps me from being paralyzed and gives me a focal point
toward which to direct my energy. It's an extremely effective means of staying sane when you're
running a home and a business under one roof. Having a laser focus is necessary sometimes
just to get you through the day.

What techniques do you use to help you get through your work-related
busy times?
E-mail me at mbyers@marybyers.com and I'll share your tricks in my next
post. Until then, now that I'm done traveling for awhile, I'm expanding my focus again and it
feels good!
______________________
Mary Byers is the author of Making Work at Home Work: Successfully
Growing a Business and a Family Under One Roof
. You can learn more about
making work at home work by subscribing to Mary’s free blog at www.makingworkathomework.com. Interested in more articles like this? Join the blog ring here.

Monday, July 05, 2010

10 Things to Know About Lyme

I've talked before about my daughter's and my struggle with Lyme Disease. The sad thing is many, many people are infected with Lyme and don't even know it. It is so important to get treated early when treatment is most successful.

Below are ten things you should know about Lyme (via Lyme Disease Research Database)

1. Lyme disease is a bacterial infection known to be caused by the bite of a tick. Tick bites are not always detectable, and every person who contracts Lyme has a unique response. Contrary to old notions, Lyme can be extremely difficult to cure. Your best approach is to educate yourself and take a proactive stance in your recovery.

2. The bull's eye rash is not a reliable marker of Lyme. Many people, perhaps even as high as 80% of people who have Lyme, never get the bull's eye rash. In addition, Lyme disease is a superb mimic of hundreds of other diseases and conditions. Therefore, Lyme is frequently misdiagnosed.

3. Lyme tests used by IDSA doctors (the Western Blot and the ELISA) are notoriously unreliable. Lyme-aware doctors (also called LLMDs or Lyme literate MDs) observe the patients' symptoms and make a clinical diagnosis. As a patient, it is preferable to avoid delayed treatment, and LLMDs will begin treatment even while test results are pending, if they deem it appropriate.

4. There are two different standards of care for Lyme disease. The opposing views represent two organizations made up of physicians. On one side is the IDSA (Infectious Diseases Society of America). On the other is ILADS (International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society). Your doctor is probably aligned with one side or the other. This will directly affect your diagnosis, your treatment, and your recovery.

5. Many highly skilled, well-educated doctors are not trained how to recognize the symptoms, diagnose and/or treat Lyme. It is not unusual for people with Lyme disease to seek help from multiple doctors before finally receiving a positive diagnosis and beginning treatment.

6. Lyme is a multistage illness. You may receive a positive diagnosis while the disease is in the early stage. In this case, many doctors agree that the antibiotic protocol recommended by the IDSA will help you get better quickly. Many people, however, discover they have a Lyme infection when the illness has progressed to the second or tertiary stages. In this case, antibiotics may be administered long-term, via IV, and/or alternative treatments are frequently advised.

7. If you have been diagnosed with late-stage Lyme (also called chronic Lyme or Post-Lyme Syndrome), and you don't remember getting a tick bite, you are not alone. Many people do not recall the tick bite, and are not correctly diagnosed until the disease has progressed. Take heart. There are many treatment options you and your doctor should be aware of.

8. Your doctor may not be willing to test you for Lyme disease. Myths are rampant, such as, "[Your state] doesn't have Lyme disease."

9. Ticks do not simply carry Lyme bacteria. Chances are high that along with Lyme, they will deliver co-infections such as Babesia, Bartonella, and Erlichiosis. Therefore, the possibility of co-infections must also be detected and treated.

10. New testing options are becoming more widely available. Educate yourself about the types of tests available, and ask your doctor if these tests will be covered by your health insurance plan.