Black Rock Bay - When California entrepreneur Hudson Bryant III answers the phone, his old friend Gibby Gunderson shouts, “Hud, after all the other stuff they done to us, now they killed our dog, Herman!” The plea for help prompts Hud to fly to the aid of his old fishing buddy who lives in retirement on the shores of Black Rock Bay near the Minnesota-Canada border. Hud anticipates a quick fix for his friend’s problems. Instead he finds himself on the first line of battle with an army of terrorists, and it’s a battle he can’t hope to win by force.
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Publisher: iUniverse 6"x 9" Quality Trade Paperback 332 pages
TRADE PAPERBACK - ISBN: 978-0-5950-8977-2 $ 16.95
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Readers Say:
Review by Jeffrey Petersen -- Five Star
"I have read this book twice and enjoyed both reads. The author has used his first hand knowledge of owning and running a northwoods resort to impart a realism to all the efforts by Hudson Bryant to save a lakeshore paradise from a militia cult.
"The novel has a bit of romance along with twists and turns that are both surprising and believable. Pick up this book for a great read. You’ll be glad you did."
“His people are so real you can reach out and touch them." Mic Kelly
“A one-man war on home grown terrorism – the kind that Americans can now imagine.” Don Watson
“. . . .an extremely well-told, exciting, and absorbing story. I was kept in suspense throughout.” Xenia Chasman
"It was wonderful! Every so often I find a book that is a 'can't put it down' and must be read all at one sitting. This was one of them!" Tracy Widhalm
“The book really held my attention and I enjoyed it very much.” Alene Wallace
Adventure Thriller
Excerpts: Prologue and Chapter 1
Take a free ride!
Prologue
“All rise,” said the small, gray-haired figure, gesturing with both hands from the elevated pulpit. Hardly a sound threatened the sanctity in the immense hall of the Church of the Rock as one hundred young men rose as one from their pews. Their hardened athletic bodies, their intense self-discipline, and their finely-tuned coordination as a group combined to effect the movement so quietly that only the hushed brushing of their clothing could be heard.
“May the world hear God as He speaks through us,” said the religious leader, with cultured resonance. “Amen.”
He paused and surveyed the group. Not one eye blinked; not one throat coughed; not one body moved. It was as though their very breathing had stopped.
“To you, the members of Company C, I extend my congratulations,” he continued. “In a few short months, you have transformed yourselves from the lowest level of the helpless to the exalted position you now hold with Almighty God. You have rejuvenated the bodies of God and passed His physical test. You have revitalized your minds and hearts as you have completed your religious studies. And you have proven your dedication to God through your stellar performance in the work place. You are now poised, prepared, and certified to become loyal members of God’s militia, His Christian soldiers—the Minutemen.”
The leader paused, as though to gather momentum for the next segment, and then looked up again at his audience. The sound of his turning page nearly echoed through the sanctuary.
“You have been offered the opportunity to lead God’s charge against the evil in our world. If you accept the challenge, you will face times of extreme discomfort, pain, and anguish…along with the ultimate joy of bringing God’s world closer to Him. If there are any among you who find yourselves unable to make your pledge at this time, please step forward and make your exit through the portal on my right.”
He scanned the group from front to back. Not one pair of eyes glanced aside in search of movement.
“Gentlemen—your pledge.”
One hundred male voices came together in unison, the sheer power of their voices seemingly energized by the depth of their commitment.
“Recognizing that the citizens of the United States of America have voted themselves into a condition of slavery by extending trust to those who are untrustworthy and by permitting those who would lead us to choose the path of self-serving corruption, renouncing by their very actions their commitment to the electorate, I hereby pledge myself to the cause of the Minutemen, of Colony IV, and of the Thirteen Colonies of America.
“Should the deterioration of our once great nation lead to anarchy or armed conflict, I swear that I will uphold this pledge. Further, it is my charge to prepare myself for survival in all circumstances, to stand ready to sacrifice myself for the success of my mission, and to faithfully execute the commands of my leaders. This do I solemnly pledge to my God and to my country in the name of Liberty.”
Chapter 1
Hudson Wade Bryant III rolled his nude, muscular frame over to the edge of the kingsize bed, grabbed the pillow and stuffed it over his head. But the persistent telephone penetrated like the air horn of a semi truck. He squeezed the pillow against his ear.
“Damn it!” He opened his eyes, hurled the pillow at the nearest wall, and reached for the cordless unit on the night stand. Driven by an old habit, determined to face what came with his feet on the floor, he swung out of bed as he pulled the phone to his ear. "Bryant,” he mumbled angrily, as he shuffled toward the huge window that overlooked the diamond-studded morning Pacific from his home in Corona del Mar, California.
“Hud, this is Gibby Gunderson. Hope I didn’t wake you,” a tenor voice said.
Hud frowned and glanced back at the bed. Where there should have been the curvaceous body of…he couldn’t recall the name…he saw only a small piece of yellow note paper. Hud angled his six-foot, three-inch, two hundred-pound body around the bed.
“But you did wake me,” he grumbled. “What’s up?” He snatched up the note and returned to his favorite window. “They killed him, Hud. They killed our dog!” Gunderson shouted. Then, suddenly subdued, he went on, “Herman’s…gone. All this other crap they been pulling…and now…he’s gone, Hud.” His final words bore the twist of a question.
“Ohhh, Gib, no….” Hud felt a chill run through his body. Then a lump gathered in his throat, and finally, his body went numb, almost like the time when.…
He glanced at the calendar in the adjacent den. Three years—three years to the day since half of him died, since his Ellie lost her battle with cancer. He felt the tears well up in his eyes, and he recognized the pit he was about to slide into. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he willed himself past the wall that continually rose up, blocking him from the present as well as the future. But three years to the day? It was almost as though Gibby’s tragedy portended something even more ominous.
“What happened, Gib?” Hud asked. “Who’s they?” Hud could see the stout old woodsman, his red and black plaid shirt contrasting with the white hair and neatly trimmed beard that wrapped around a weathered, leathery face with squinting eyes. Typically, when old Gibby made calls he sat with his feet propped up on the kitchen table, the phone in one hand and his oversized mug of powerful, black coffee in the other. Gibby Gunderson, always the calm, self-assured old Norskie, more than able to handle his own problems and more than content to let others handle theirs. Over twelve years, their relationship had grown close, but the news, along with the tremor in the older man’s voice, told Hud this was a Gibby he didn’t know.
“I can’t prove it, but it’s them Bible Bashers across the bay,” Gib said. “Herman heard noises down by the dock last night, so I let him out. They…beat him and then…slit his throat, Hud.” The old woodsman’s voice cracked.
Hud could hear him blowing his nose. He thought of Herman, Gibby’s loyal labrador-shepherd mix, the constant companion who had reluctantly shared his master with a wife, Sarah. Herman had bonded so closely that he could read Gibby’s mind. They had fished, hunted …they did everything together. Herman carried out commands before they were given. A single tear trailed down each side of Hud’s nose. “.…and then,” Gibby went on, “they stole the depthfinder off your new walleye boat, Hud, and then they punched a big hole in her. Been other things, too.…I ain’t gonna tell you all of it over the phone. I’ll sound like a goddamned crybaby. But I’ll tell you this much. I got the Winchester and the shotgun hanging by the kitchen door—and they’re loaded.”
“Whoa, Gib! Slow down, old Buddy. You’ve got a right to keep the weapons loaded, and it sounds like you have good cause, too. But you’d better keep cool. If something else happens and you feel pissed, you’d better leave the gun right there on the pegs. You’re liable to kill someone without just cause, maybe even kill some innocent person. You got that?”
“Ya, I got that,” Gib answered slowly. "Guess that’s really why I called. I get along with most all the animals. Shit, the bears and I use first names. But these goddamned two-legged wolves—new game for me, Hud, and I’m scared I’m gonna do something I’ll be sorry for.”
“I don’t know what you’re up against,” Hud said, “but you’re a tough, old dude. The only thing I’m worried about is just that—you might do something foolish. Now listen, give me—”
“Hud, I need your help. Don’t guess I’ve ever asked anybody for help before. How about flying back here early? Get in on the walleye opener.” The old Norwegian’s voice gained in pitch and tempo until the syllables became rapid-fire bursts, “I’ll get your cabin all ready for you, get the water turned on, even lay in a hefty pile of firewood. If you want to fly the Piper in, the airstrip’s about dried out now. I can pick you up at International Falls if you don’t want to try the strip yet—"
"Gibby! Gibby! Cool it, my friend.” Hud said. “Give me a day or so to get the businesses set, and I’ll head out. It’ll take me two long days to get there. Go run your truck down the strip, will you? Check it for soft spots and gopher holes. I’ll call you when I leave, and again when I get to Fargo. Meanwhile, you look after yourself—don’t lose it, okay?”
“Thanks, Hud. Wasn’t an easy call to make,” Gib said. “And Hud? Sorry about what them assholes did to your new boat.”
“The boat doesn’t matter, Gib. You matter, Sarah matters, and Herman matters. You keep control of yourself, Old Buddy. And give Sarah a hug for me.”
As Hud placed the phone back in its cradle, he felt tightness throughout his body. Sorrow and anger pulled at him, as though having a tug-of-war on the one strand of his emotions that he had thought was still intact. He opened a clenched fist, smoothed the crumpled note, and turned his attention to the flawless, feminine handwriting on the yellow paper:
Hud,
Thanks for a wonderful night. Would like
to have stayed but work calls. Today’s Friday.
Call me and we can continue this—for the whole
weekend.
Your Kristi
Oh yeah…Kristi…he thought, recalling the brunette who might have been attractive sans makeup. Another one. Three dates and she’ll be suggesting that she move in with me. He scrunched his latest attempt at happiness into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, dried himself, and then studied the tanned stranger who looked back at him from the mirror. The face was handsome, they all said, with deep brown eyes and crinkles of character in all the right places, especially around the eyes. His short, wavy black hair seemed to fall in place, looking quite natural when combed and almost as neat when uncombed. But at his best, the gray at the temples gave away his thirty-nine years. And the man who stared at him was not at his best.
“Stupid dummy,” he said to the stranger. “Don’t know what you’re looking for, but you ought to know by now, you’re not going to find it in the bottle or the bedroom. If you can’t help yourself, go see if you can help someone else.” He slipped into his workout clothes, headed down the hallway to his small weight room, and attacked the equipment with a vengeance.
Novels by Roger A. Naylor
". . . .so real one forgets that it's fiction."
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