Recent Release - Adventure Thriller
The Cobra Conspiracy - Middle-aged and unemployed Buck Barnum, once a feisty sports writer, finally lands a job in public relations with a Los Angeles shipyard that is about to launch a controversial high-tech ship. But as disturbing events confront him, Buck comes to realize that an accurate description of his job would give new meaning to the words, public and relations. He runs up against those who will resort to sabotage and murder in their efforts to stop the project. And he discovers which of his qualities the company really bought—his courage and his pitbull tenacity. Cast in the role of point man, Buck charges ahead, but with each step the path gets rougher and the danger increases.
Order the Book
Publisher: iUniverse, Inc. 6" x 9" Quality Trade Paperback 349 pages
TRADE PAPERBACK - ISBN No. 978-1-4401-6280-0 $ 20.95
E-BOOK (PDF format) - ISBN No. 978-1-4401-6279-4 $ 6.00
The Cobra Conspiracy is available through the following online bookstores. It will also be found in most other online stores. It can be ordered through conventional "brick and mortar" stores by asking the clerk to refer to the Bowker's Books In Print listing.
TO ORDER ONLINE:
Select a bookstore.
Click on the ORDER button for that store.
On the bookstore's homepage type in: The Cobra Conspiracy
amazon.com/books
iUniverse.com/bookstore
barnes & noble/books
Special Offer:
Any reader who has the author's novel Ark II might contact the author before ordering. E-mail link
Readers Say:
From a five-star review by Carol Hoyer, PhD, for Reader Views
"Looking at the front cover of this book, one would assume that it is about gangsters or the mob; however, this book covers that and more. It is apparent that the author, Roger A. Naylor, did some great research on the scientific aspects of The Cobra Conspiracy and made his characters real. From the beginning of the book, the author’s descriptions and language capture the reader for wanting more. The reading was easy, exciting, and the flow between characters and action was very smooth."
From a five-star review by Midwest Book Review
"When some people don’t want something done, they’ll do almost anything to stop it. The Cobra Conspiracy tells the story of Buck Barnum, as he’s faced with the task of helping launch a high tech ship from Los Angeles. But there are those who will go to any lengths to stop this ship from launching, and Buck finds himself between them and his new job. The Cobra Conspiracy is a fun thriller, highly recommended."
From a five-star review by P. Mickey
"The author, Roger A. Naylor, says it right. He writes about ordinary people who get caught up in extraordinary situations. In this story the main character, Buck Barnum, is a middle-aged man who lands a job with an old college mate's firm. The job, the firm and the action are anything but ordinary. From there on it is non-stop action with police, crooks, pretty girls, and lots of intrigue. The book is a fast, smooth read with a surprise ending."
From a Five-Star Amazon Review by Bonnie Sturtz
"The Cobra Conspiracy is a fast-paced, carefully crafted thriller based on the theme of using modern green technology to protect the environment from pollution--technology so advanced and controversial that it is opposed by the entrenched 'bad guys' (and 'bad guys' who think they are 'good guys') who profit from the 'status quo.' The hero, Buck Barnum, an unemployed sports writer, is recruited by an old football friend for what purportedly is a public relations job with his friend's shipbuilding company. Buck soon discovers that the job entails much more than PR, and that he is in over his head. He tends to act first and think second, but in the end he uses his football mindset and physical skills to (literally) 'save the ship'. The cast of characters is varied, interesting, and well developed. As you approach the end of the story you'll think you have it figured out--but you'll be wrong! All in all, a good read."
"I picked it up yesterday, got hooked, and slept in this morning.” Joyce Mulligan
"A fresh, new thriller, the proverbial page-turner." Jeff Petersen
"A living, compelling novel. I really liked it." Bruce Bothwell
Excerpts
Take a free ride with the Prologue and Chapter 1!
Prologue
He flew face down, arms outstretched, with that eerie feeling of weightlessness. He knew he ought to fall. Men can’t fly.
Beneath him stretched an endless, black void. He tried to climb up away from it, but he couldn’t. He tried to turn left, then right—no success. He twisted his body to one side, then the other, but the threatening blackness was everywhere. A terrible world, one nobody should ever see. The balloon of panic swelled in his belly. Miraculously, he was still flying, but what was the point? No buildings, no meadows, rivers, or mountains, and no people. If he flew forever it might still be like this.
He could taste the coarse blackness. It tasted like—blood. No, more like asphalt—like asphalt and blood. He withdrew his tongue, then tried again. The same. Bitter asphalt and blood. From somewhere out in the blackness he heard sounds, sounds like voices, but there were no words. He looked for the people but saw only the blackness. The voices came nearer.
“-kay, - urn - im - ove - gent - ow.”
Strong hands grasped his flying body, slowing him. He was turning, slowing and turning. And then, he crashed. It was not a hard crash, but he knew he was no longer flying for the thrill of suspension was gone and something cold and hard pressed rigidly, unforgiving, against his back. The black faded to dark gray. Have my eyes shut? he wondered.
Open—got to open! The darkness remained, but the voices grew louder, more distinct.
He felt hands touching and probing about his body, some gentle, some firm, some almost rough with a tight hold on his leg, his left one, squeezing and tightening, as though to pinch it off. He kicked at the enemy with his other leg. “Hey, Man! Stop that!” a deep voice thundered. “He’s coming around—almost got me.”
“Vitals look good,” a female voice said. “Got that bleeding stopped?”
“Okay here, Angie, if he doesn’t kick my teeth out.”
Who are they? What are they doing to me? he asked himself. Got to open eyes. Got to—
Suddenly, a bright star appeared close to one eye, the left. It hovered, moved about briefly, and was gone. Then it glowed before his other eye, hovered, moved about, and just as abruptly disappeared again.
“We’re paramedics,” the female voice said close to his face.
What is that? he wondered. That nice voice smells of . . . garlic?
“You’ve had a bad time of it,” came the voice again, but you’re going to make it. What’s your name, Mister? Your name?”
“Buck . . . you—”
“A little louder, Mister? Your name?”
“Buck . . . you—”
“What’d he say, Angie?”
“He said, ‘Fuck you.’ Nice guy, huh?”
“I guess, if I took the kind of beating this dude took, I’d say it, too,” the man’s voice replied.
What? What’d he say? Got to open . . . open!
“Hisa name’sa Buck,” came another voice. “He’sa customer. Name’sa Buck.”
That voice . . . that’s—I know that voice, he thought. That’s . . . that’s Dante. Help me, Dante!
“You know him, Dante?” the garlic voice said. “What’s his last name?”
“I dunno. Don’ta really know him. Justa Buck."
You know me, damn it. Help me, Dante! He screamed, but nobody seemed to hear him. The dark gray began to slip into blackness again. His body felt light. No, no, he thought—not again!
* * *
One arm moved. He waited, expecting the other to follow suit. It didn’t. Why not? he wondered. His head— It hurt, hurt badly, like someone was pushing a red hot spike into the back of his skull. Why? With a determined effort, he willed his eyes to open, only to be blinded by vicious white light. Blinking rapidly he tried to adjust. A pretty Filipino nurse gradually came into focus.
Holding his arm, checking his pulse, she smiled at him, her dark eyes flashing.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnum,” she said. “Welcome back. You have headache?”
“No damn words,” Buck said, “—describe—headache I have. Who you?”
“Very good sign, Mr. Barnum.”
“What—worst damned headache of my life?”
“No, ‘course not. But it good you so alert, able speak so good. Very good sign, Mr. Barnum.”
“Very good sign, very good sign . . . what about my headache?”
“My, you spunky, too. Dr. Norman be in—check you. Then, you probably get something for pain.”
“What day is it? What time is it? How long have I been here? What—“
“What happened you?” She finished her count, gave his hand a squeeze, and stepped back. “Thursday, seven o’clock in morning. You brought in Long Beach Memorial ‘bout eight last night. You remember what happened?”
“I—” Buck paused. His attempt to trace events backward hit a wall. He tried to reach back for something he remembered, anything, to work forward, but it was all a jumble.
“Don’t worry much. It come back to you,” the nurse said.
“What’s . . . wrong with me?”
“Have serious concussion, bruised ribs, and stab wound in calf of left leg, about four inch long, but not too deep.” She laughed, a warm, friendly laugh. “How you do that, Mr. Barnum? We get stab wounds alla time, but in leg? How you do that?”
That explains the pain down there, Buck thought, but it’s nothing compared to this headache.
“Don’t know how I do that,” he snapped. “Anyone know I’m here?”
“Oh, yes. A handsome young man, and a beautiful young lady waiting down the hall. Your son and daughter?”
“Son and daughter?"
Slowly, a vision of Bob and Sunny filtered through the pounding in his head. He wanted desperately to see them, but. . . .
“Oooh,” he groaned, “not ready for that. Uh, do me favor?”
“If I can,” she replied.
“Don’t tell them I’m—yet. Need time to—head straightened out. Okay?”
“Hokay,” she echoed, starting for the door. “I tell them you not wake up, need little more time. Oh,” she stopped in the doorway, “a Detective Bercovich wants us call. Wants see you—soon as possible.”
The name, Detective Bercovich, roared out of his muddled memory like a rocket.
“Tell you what,” he said, “don’t call ‘til family leaves? I—uh— don’t want family upset—the police around.”
“Hokay,” came the chipper answer. The door closed behind her.
Detective Bercovich, Buck thought. Yeah, seems like I really need to see Detective Bercovich. But right now, I need to fight my way past this pain. Got to think. Got to remember who did this. Think—think!
He clenched his fists, tightened every muscle in his body, and put all of the strength he had into the effort. Somehow, he managed to relegate the pain to a secondary level, but nothing came to him. After several minutes of the fruitless struggle, he was exhausted. He sighed and momentarily gave it up. But something in him demanded another effort.
“Damn,” he muttered. “What did I do? How did I get here?”
Still, the questions found no answers and the effort pulled him steadily down until fatigue took over. Closing his eyes, he felt himself drifting again. But this time he drifted quickly through the blackness into a scene so clear, so vivid, it startled him.
He saw himself seated in an office waiting room, seated next to a fat lady. The luxurious office decor impressed him because he was there for a job interview. A place this nice . . . it would be a good place to work.
Chapter 1
“Ms. Barnum?" She paused, then turned a cold, mechanical smile toward the fat lady next to him and repeated, “Ms. Beverly Barnum?”
“I—think you must mean me,” he said, rising from his chair and turning on a smile he hoped was more genuine than her own. “The name is Buck, B-U-C-K, Buck Barnum.”
In that moment, the suppressed anger toward his mother flared again. Damn it, he thought. After forty-one years I still get upset by this? He strode toward the woman with his stomach in, chest out, and shoulders as broad as he could make them. His teeth were clenched behind the frozen smile.
The sour-faced secretary appeared to be in her late fifties. She peered over her half-moon glasses with a penetration that did nothing to ease his anger.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnum,” she said coldly. "I—am Mrs. Erichs. This way. Mr. Roland will see you now.”
As Buck followed the prim figure down the hallway, he struggled to recover from the shaky start. You need this job, he thought. Don’t blow it, Buck. But this old biddy? I must be a magnet to bitchy women.
He smoothed his freshly trimmed, brown hair as he walked, his fingertips feeling the streaks of gray. “Distinguished,” it had been called, but the word meant something else to him. They approached a glass hallway divider with a large, automatic glass door. A sturdy, almost handsome six-footer in a subdued charcoal plaid suit mirrored his every step. “Some dude, Dad,” he could hear his daughter, Sunny, saying. The thought twisted the encroaching lines around his eyes and mouth into a slight smile.
They passed an office on the left, apparently the secretary’s domain. The name-plates on the open door indicated that somewhere behind her desk were the offices of Charles H. Hudson, CEO, and Garland Grigsby, CFO.
Just beyond the suite, they passed through another hallway door, an old style push-type door. Buck felt as if he had been beamed to an underworld, for where there had been the plush, red carpet, he saw worn, chipped gray tiles. And where there had been freshly painted white walls with frequent hangings, there were now faded, smudged beige walls with nothing to break the planes but the doors up ahead. With but a few more clicks of Mrs. Erichs’ sharp heels on the hard surface, Buck followed her into an office marked: EDWARD ROLAND – V.P. ENVIRONMENTAL CONCERNS.
“Mr. Roland, this is Beverly . . . Buck . . . Barnum." With an icy glance at Buck, she brushed past him and was gone.
“Well, Buck Barnum! How are you?” The figure bolted from behind the desk and vigorously shook Buck’s hand. He was, perhaps, a few years younger and several inches shorter than Buck. His pastel blue shirt was open at the neck, and his tie hung loosely. While he appeared to be rather soft, he was quite trim. His reddish complexion was topped by strawberry blond hair, neatly parted in the middle, and the combination of his warm, blue eyes and radiant smile provided a startling contrast with Buck’s guide of seconds before. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”
“No, a piece of cake, almost.”
Buck felt the coat of ice he had worn down the hallway begin to melt. He sank deeply into the chair that was offered, and then, remembering the articles he had read on interview techniques, he lurched to an upright posture. Nearly twenty years since I’ve interviewed for a job, he thought.
Roland chattered on about the warm, dry weather and the dust from nearby construction.
“I feel like I already know you, Buck. Your good friend, Peter, speaks very highly of you, and I have nothing but confidence in Peter’s judgment. Glad you’re interested in the job. How much do you know about it?”
“Well,” Buck stalled. Should I relax and follow his lead, or should I stick to my outline? Would he use those trap questions? “As I understand it, you’re looking for a P.R. man for this new project involving sea-going incinerator ships. My investigative experience, the years of newspaper work, and my freelance writing should qualify me quite well.” The statement slid forth as he had rehearsed it. Good, he thought.
“Are you up on the hazardous waste problem our country faces?”
“I, ahh, I know we have a problem, but, to be honest with you, I’m anything but an expert on the matter. I’m good on research, though, and in no time, I’ll be an expert.” He tried for a modest smile as he said it.
“Ho—Ho-o-o! I like that! Just what Peter predicted. Tell you what. Here,” he paused, handing Buck a glossy, red, white, and blue folder that was stuffed with a thick packet of papers. “Materials on our project that you can take with you. In fact, I’ll have a ton of reading for you.”
Buck caught the positive implication, but the cautious part of him resisted assumptions. He studied the cover, a very professional job. In the upper left corner was a logo done in black letters: SEA-GOING INCINERATION, Inc., a Subsidiary of Southern California Boatbuilding Company. Centered on a sea of blue was an artist’s rendition of a ship that was strange and yet beautiful. In the lower right corner was a table:
ARK II
Overall length 381 feet
Beam 62 feet
Gross tonnage 4,940 tons
Liquid cargo capacity 1.33 million gallons
Number of cargo tanks 12
Sustained sea speed 15.5 knots
Range/full load 6,670 nautical miles
The name, Buck thought, interesting choice. Noah saved us with the Ark. Now they’ll do it again with Ark II?
The ship appeared from the side view to be quite large. Its brilliant white hull rose from the black water line to a red main deck. Near the bow was an immense, white superstructure that rose five levels upward, topped by what was obviously the bridge. Projecting upward from the bridge was a cluster of antennae of various heights and shapes.
Two enclosed lifeboats hung from stanchions on the boat deck, just aft of the superstructure. Their small windows gave them the appearance of houseboats. The low main deck that swept aft for a full two-thirds of the ship’s length was all but covered by a red maze of large pipes and steel framework. A white, railed catwalk was centered above the network of pipes, and it threaded its way the length of the main deck, from the front superstructure toward the stern.
“Wow!” Buck exclaimed. “An incredible piece of engineering, isn’t it?” Pointing to the other raised structure near the stern, he asked, “And I suppose this part with the two huge stacks is the incinerator section?”
“Uh-huh. That’s the meat and potatoes.”
“And you’re going to build this thing?”
“It’s already built . . . tied to the dock right out there,” Ed replied, motioning back over his shoulder. “Been through her sea trials already and passed with flying colors. Right now, we’re making some crew changes and minor adjustments while we wait for the Environmental Protection Agency’s approval to take her out on the all-important test burn.”
Buck scanned the picture again. She was surprisingly streamlined, considering the towering superstructures fore and aft and the gaping void between. A unique vessel, unlike any he had ever seen. He looked up to catch Ed Roland studying him intently.
“I’m not quite sure how I—I’d fit into all this,” Buck said, thumbing through the papers. “It seems that someone has already done the necessary writing.”
“Would seem so, wouldn’t it? Let me explain our roles. Your friend, Peter Hamlin, is the project manager. He’s in charge of the whole show. He reports to C.H. That’s Hudson. And me? I’m the Vice President for Environmental Concerns, and I report to Peter.”
Buck raised one eyebrow. He didn’t mean to—an old habit.
“You’re confused by our chain of command?” Roland asked, the grin returning to his face. “I was brought into Essee Beecee two years ago. My background is chemical engineering with some commercial communications experience. I’m the guy who writes all that stuff, does the press releases, the presentations for the bigheads from Washington, and runs around speaking to citizens’ groups. So far, I’ve done a pretty good job. The title? They just tacked the V.P. on. More credence, more pizzazz.”
And if you were just the P.R. man, your audiences would tend to say, ‘Just more B.S.’ Is that it?”
“You’ve got it! Of course, when we get into the chemicals involved, I am the guy with the wisdom on the subject. I’m the guy who throws water on their acid,” Roland said, grinning and thumping a fist against the palm of the opposite hand.
I like him, Buck thought, but there’s something— “Mr. Roland?”
“Ed.”
“Ed, I don’t quite understand. With your expertise in chemistry and your communications skills, where would I fit in? It would seem that the writing must be about done."
“Good point, Buck, good. Say, would you like a cup of terrible coffee?”
“Is there any other kind? Sure, I’d like that—black, please.”
“Oh, it’ll be black, all right. Back in a second,” Roland said as he popped from his chair and left the room.
Buck took the moment to scan the room, aware that Ed Roland’s magnetism, along with his own apprehension, had kept his focus toward the front the whole time.
The small office was not simply drab. It was dingy. From the ceiling that had probably been white dangled a four-foot, hooded, fluorescent light, similar to the one he had mounted over his own workbench in the garage. The dirty walls were partially hidden by old chemistry structure charts and tables, yellowed press releases, and myriad printed materials, all carelessly mounted with thumbtacks or tape. The old metal desk was light gray, and the scarred linoleum top had been covered with a sheet of plate glass.
Only the personal computer and the hinged pair of gold-framed photographs on Roland’s desk suggested that the occupant was indeed of the twenty-first century. Buck was resisting the urge to turn the photos, to learn who was most important to this man, when he sensed the movement at the door.
“Here we are,” Roland said, slipping behind his desk and carelessly plopping Buck’s chipped mug on the glass desk top before him.
“Good luck! Now, back to Essee Beecee and you.”
“Excuse me, Ed. Essee Beecee?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! It’s S - C - B - C, Southern California Boat-building Company, Essee Beecee,” Roland laughed. “Now, the situation here.
"You’re right. The stuff for the Washington agencies, the specs, marketing materials, and press releases are just about all wrapped up. The ship is nearly ready. We’re entering the final phase now. We’re working on getting final approvals for the test burn site at sea and the temporary cargo loading station out there on the vacant lot.
"Then, there’s the construction of our permanent terminal on the East Coast, and we’re in business—a very necessary and lucrative business. You know, Buck, we’re doing a very good thing here. Our stock is up in the high thirties.”
“That’s impressive.”
“But our incineration program means much more than mere profits. Did you realize that nearly every firm that manufactures or alters the structure or shape of a product generates hazardous wastes, often toxic chemicals? Most of these wastes are being released into surface waters or buried in the ground where they will inevitably get into the water tables. Incineration is the answer, and sea-going incineration is far cheaper and safer than land-based incineration! I can’t begin to fully describe the situation in the time we have, but I’ll put you onto the necessary books and printed matter to educate you.”
“I read about Love Canal and Times Beach.” Buck noticed that, while Roland’s eyes continued to sparkle, the smile was gone. The pace had quickened.
“Just the tip, Buck, the tip of an underground iceberg so large—it’s terrifying! And even with the EPA’s crack-downs, nearly seventy percent of our industrial, hazardous wastes is still being disposed in unsafe and often illegal ways.”
“It sounds like we’ve created a monster!”
“Exactly. Right on. And it’s everywhere, all over the country—the world! Anyway, at this stage, I need help. I’m spending much of my time in meetings, meetings in Washington to keep things moving there, and local meetings to try to educate people who don’t understand sea-going incineration. Peter and I need someone to handle the unforeseen . . .ahh . . . things that come up. What do you think, Buck? Interested?”
Buck hesitated as long as he dared. “Well, yes. Yes, I am.” He could see Roland’s eyes watching him over the rim of the coffee mug. The mug came down, and there was the broad grin back again.
“Good—good!”
Buck was uncomfortable with his own answer. He still wasn’t sure what the job was, but he had to keep it alive until the blanks were filled in.
“I think you’ll do well with us, Buck,” Roland continued. “We need your communications skills, and we really need your determination."
Ed's expression suddenly turned serious, almost grave, and it unnerved Buck.
“And we’ll work well together!” Just as suddenly, the infectious grin was back.
“What’s next?” Buck asked.
Roland looked at his watch and sat forward in his chair. “Damn! The time! I lost all track.” The serious face returned. The end was coming. “Tell you what. I know nothing about the money thing, but your old friend, Peter, tells me he knows what it will take to get you aboard. That’s between you two. We’ll cram a worktable into the office here. After a week of study, you’ll probably be on the boat for a while.”
“That sounds interest—”
“Here,” Ed Roland tossed three books across the desk, “here’s some reading to get you started.” Roland was out of his chair, extending a hand across the desk, pronouncing the end of the interview.
Buck shook the hand firmly. He bundled up the reading materials, stepped into the stark hallway, and headed up front. When he reached the dividing line, he marveled again at the abrupt change in decor. From the old to the new? From the unimportant to the important? Or was it a change from the real heart of this creature called Essee Beecee, the part that makes it all happen, to a mask painted on a head that was disproportionately large? He wondered about the two men, Hudson and Grigsby, who were so safely, luxuriously sequestered behind Mrs. Erichs.
He walked briskly to his little red pickup, climbed in, and tossed the folder and books onto the bucket seat beside him. As he stopped at the front gate and waited for the portly guard, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The curving, blacktop drive cut through the heart of the immense, vacant lot back to the drab, office building. Not a tree, shrub, or blade of grass in sight. Behind the office building, he could see two large, gray corrugated metal structures that extended perhaps a hundred yards to the left and right. A line of cars, pickups, and motorcycles sat nuzzled against them like nursing animals. Buck surrendered the plastic guest badge.
“Thank you, Sir!" the stubby, little guard said, pushing his glasses up on his nose with his bird finger. Buck wondered how the pimpous—couldn’t quite call him pompous—security man would do in a crisis. He was about fifty pounds short of Jackie Gleason's sheriff in the Smokey movies.
Pausing at the stop sign, Buck collected his bearings in order to retrace his route out of the drab neighborhood with its clusters of the familiar, grasshopperlike oil wells and back to Ocean Boulevard. He made his way up the high Vincent Thomas suspension bridge over the main, north-south channel of Los Angeles Harbor. Soon he was turning past the Los Angeles Maritime Museum into the Ports O’ Call Village area of San Pedro.
Buck had always been fascinated with the quaint strip of tourist shops and its winding brick walks, its shrubs and trees. The Village was constructed to resemble an old New England seaport, and the buildings ranged from rusty, corrugated sheet metal to Cape Cods with weathered shingles and white trim. Unfortunately, many were vacant.
At The Rum Barrel he found a seat at an outside table on a redwood deck overlooking the main channel.
“Ah, thank you, dear,” he said to the pleasant, attractive blonde who set the large Margarita before him.
Friday—Margarita Day. It had become a ritual for Buck and Roberta to eat at Juan Jose’s, their favorite Mexican restaurant, and the event included one or two Margaritas before dinner. The memory dulled the pleasant edge of Buck's mood.
“Guess I might as well join you, since we’re both waiting for people,” a voice said.
“Huh?”
Buck looked up into smiling eyes that were set in an older, pockmarked face behind a handlebar mustache. Without invitation, the intruder with the shiny shaved head slid gracefully into the chair opposite Buck. His white T-shirt revealed a weightlifter’s frame that was but half the age of his face. He plunked an orange-colored drink on the table.
“Rob McNair,” the stranger said, extending an enormous right hand. The corners of his mustache curled upward when he grinned. “And you are?”
“Buck Barnum,” he replied, surprised that the man’s firm grip didn't crush his hand. “Glad to have you aboard.”
“A tourist, eh?” McNair laughed.
“No, not a tourist,” Buck countered. “As a matter of fact, I work for a shipyard over there,” he motioned. “What made you think—”
“Your clothes, the way you stare at all the passing boats, and your welcoming me aboard,” McNair said, laughing again.
Buck was fascinated by the personable man with the awesome physique. Their conversation drifted along naturally, and Buck quickly learned that McNair was an engineer from the Kimberly Canyon, a large supertanker that was presently unloading Alaskan crude oil on the opposite side of the peninsula. Buck explained that his own project was the new incinerator ship, Ark II.
“Sure, everybody’s heard about the burner,” McNair said. “She’s a helluva piece of engineering—got the latest of everything. Kind of too bad, though. . . .”
“What do you mean, too bad?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. If I had millions to gamble, I’d be on the first plane to Vegas. Better odds. Oh, there’s my friend. Nice to meet you, Buck. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
With that, McNair sprang to his feet, shook Buck’s hand, swept up his glass of carrot juice in the other massive paw, and swaggered across the deck to another table.
Novels by Roger A. Naylor
". . . .so real one forgets that it's fiction."
| ||||||
Award Winner!
