A new series of short stories, IN THE SHADOWS OF OUR FLAG
I have recently completed the first of a series of short stories, which overall is a conspiracy theory, suspense thriller genre. The series title is; In the Shadows of our Flag and Part I is titled, Black Apparatus. I recently began a blog which you can follow at http://gazanni.blogspot.com/ I figured I would post a synopsis of this story here and offer a glimpse of the first chapter. Please chime in and tell me what you think.
Part I is coming soon and will be available where ever you can get an ebook. I hope you enjoy this glimpse.
SYNOPSIS
IN THE SHADOWS OF OUR FLAG
I
BLACK APPARATUS
Have you ever seen Chemical Trails that look like crosshatched vapor in the sky, camouflaged amongst the clouds and wondered; what is that? Is that just random jet streaks crossing paths in the air? Or is it more than that? Is it coordinates for some type of planned chemical dump, or is it really the government scientists trying to slow down manmade global warming. Well since, I don’t believe in manmade global warming, and no government entity can give a straight answer as to what is up in our skies, it leads to a lot of talk and even some popular conspiracy theories. These chemical trails are the inspiration for this series.
World renowned botanist, Nadal Moi has completed a formula that could forever change the world and put an end to world hunger. When he is taken by men in black in the middle of the night, FBI Special Agent, Russell Casey and his Partner Allison Fiore are dispatched to locate him.
His first break in the case, Russell Casey arranges a secret meeting with a spooked Pentagon employee who claims that he has information on Nadal Moi’s disappearance and more. Before his meeting, Casey identifies another agency operating in the area. Utilizing techniques that are beyond a typical FBI agent, Casey distracts and disables the shadow operatives and escapes a train station with his informer.
Knowing that he is working on borrowed time, Casey dumps the top secret dossier that he is handed by his informer on contact, in the hopes that he or Allison Fiore can locate it when conditions are more in their favor. After the informer spills his guts, it is apparent that there is a devastating plan, years in the making about to unfold on American soil.
After all electronics on a train is shut down, Casey is arrested and taken to a strange location and held against his will, by President Krane’s secret police force, headed by appointed Tsar of National Defense, Vernon Bell. Bell intends on putting Casey to death without a trial of his peers for the crime of treason and is bent on finding where Casey received his training and who he is really working for.
Allison Fiore, following a coded message sent to her by her partner in their last conversation, races to find the top secret dossier in the hopes that she can rescue her partner before his is put to death.
Here is a Glimpse into the first chapter of "Black Apparatus"
ONE
Interstate 95 North Bound
Attleboro, Massachusetts
July 14, Nearing Midnight
The road ahead of the Blue Explorer was black and veiled with fog. The streetlights were either not working or the bulbs had all malfunctioned. The vehicle’s headlights were still enough to light the way so the forty-three year old, world renowned botanist, Nadal Moi paid the darkness no mind.
In a way it soothed him.
Spending years driving his native country of Kosovo’s roadways, much of that time when the Serbians were trying to eradicate his people, he learned to get comfortable in the dark. What’s more, with his heightened fears settling in over his thoughts, he had forgotten momentarily where he was geographically. If he had, he would have recognized that darkness to this degree where he was; was not a good thing.
It took a moment of recognition coming out of a string of morbid thoughts for Nadal to recognize that not only was he splitting darkness at eighty-miles per hour, but there was something even more alarming that suddenly dawned on him.
There were no headlights behind or taillights ahead.
When was the last car he had seen? He couldn’t recall. But a liberal estimate would be five or six miles ago when the Explorer slipped from Rhode Island across the Massachusetts border.
Nadal’s cargo was simple. He carried with him only the clothing on his back, which consisted of a thin jean jacket, cargo pants, a green polo shirt and black Sketchers with no laces along with a black rucksack that contained the sum of his life savings, roughly two million dollars, US. He touched the bag with his fingers to make sure it was still between the seats and then caught a glimpse of his wrinkled face and graying hair in the rearview mirror. When did I become an old man? He thought.
To distract himself, he focused on his game plan.
Nadal was going to drive straight through to Maine with as few stops as possible, and with the unmarked cash he had traded for on the black market, each reserve note printed before 1984, he would find a safe place to disappear into the mountains. Maine, in his estimation would be one of the few points in the United States left to ride out the storm when Winslow Krane’s plan went into effect. His primal fear of what was to soon come had morphed him into the throes of a deep paranoia, so much so that on a few occasions he thought he was hearing voices in his head.
Nadal was a naïve man, a pragmatist, a scientist. But just under twenty-four hours ago, he had finally put all the pieces together, mainly because all of those pieces were nearly in place for an atrocity. Once he understood that not only was his formula going to be used as a weapon as opposed to his intended use of it, to be used as a tool to fight hunger, Nadal deduced that there was not going to be a seat at the table for him or anyone else not in the world’s affluent top two percent subculture.
Hopefully the paranoia would be enough to keep him alive. After all, before his father had been taken into Serbian custody and put to death, Abeeb Moi had offered a final piece of advice that had stuck with Nadal since his childhood. His father had said, “Kjo nuk është paranojë, nëse njerëzit janë pas jush.” Rough translation, “It’s not paranoia if people are really coming after you.”
His father had offered him that tidbit, months before Slobodan Miloševic began slaughtering Albanians in the name of Genetic Cleansing.
The quiet darkness of the highway was suddenly unnerving to say the least. A green sign hanging over the roadway reflected in the stream of his headlights signaling that another town was quickly approaching.
Sweat percolated on Nadal’s forehead as he calculated the time and distance to North Attleboro and how long he would be left vulnerable on the dark, barren roadway. Until he got off the highway, things would be tense. He checked his mirrors, wishing for some driving company to ease his trepidation.
Still no cars.
Still no lights.
Just then, the Explorer’s engine powered down. The lights on the dashboard vanished and the headlights flicked and then failed.
“They found me.”
He quickly threw the truck into neutral and with the momentum of eighty plus miles per hour he coasted the dead vehicle toward the shoulder, moved another hundred yards, intent on finding an escape route. Nadal would not go easily.
In the shadows of a line of trees, he spotted something that he could use. For a brief moment, Nadal began to hope. There was a trail leading down a decline toward a free flowing stream. If he could make it to the water before he was seen, he could dive in and ride the current to safety.
For that to become a reality, he would have to move fast.
Without a second thought, Nadal pulled the rucksack from between the seats then in one motion swung the door open and dove out of into the night. Leaping from a moving vehicle proved harder than he expected. The ground came on him fast and he landed at a bad angle. A bone in his right hand crunched against the ground, and his left arm that he used as a shield was scraped up by rocks and loose gravel as he twisted head over heels. He grasped with his good hand at anything he could use to stop his tumble.
His hand dug into mud and he slapped hard onto his back, knocking the wind out of himself. He tried to ignore the pain as his eyes continued to roll. Up the road, the truck coasted off road and after hitting a divot, flipped over onto its back.
This couldn’t have gone worse.
He found himself looking up at a veiled sky that danced with his dizziness. But he didn’t have time to wait until his brain settled.
Move, Nadal, move. He said to himself as he slipped to his feet. He shook the cobwebs out of his head, grabbed his rucksack and then took two steps toward the treeline. That was when he saw the green reflection of NOD’s in the treeline. As a unit, men silently began to flow out of the underbrush, dressed entirely in black from their boots to their baklavas, toting standard issue M-4’s with suppressors.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Dr. Moi.” A man commanded.
A cold shiver of fear followed as Nadal recognized the voice of the leader. Colonel Michael Greene was a direct liaison from the Office of the President of the United States sent to watch over his laboratory. Even though, Greene was quiet and boasted a very unremarkable, almost forgettable face and carried an average build, there was something about his presence that had always terrified Nadal. That went double in the moment.
After pausing to think, Nadal’s reaction response went from flight to freeze. He stood in place, heart racing, too scared to move. Gone were his thoughts of escape.
Instead, he raised his hands into the air and dropped the rucksack into the mud, all the while knowing that he would be forced at gunpoint and through the persuasive power of torture for the remainder of his life if necessary to complete what Krane wanted.
Well, that was a glimpse of the first chapter of Black Apparatus. I hope you liked it, I know it is tough to read in this format. If you find it interesting I am currently working on Part II, Puddled Iron 86.
Thanks for reading,
G.A.Zanni
Part I is coming soon and will be available where ever you can get an ebook. I hope you enjoy this glimpse.
SYNOPSIS
IN THE SHADOWS OF OUR FLAG
I
BLACK APPARATUS
Have you ever seen Chemical Trails that look like crosshatched vapor in the sky, camouflaged amongst the clouds and wondered; what is that? Is that just random jet streaks crossing paths in the air? Or is it more than that? Is it coordinates for some type of planned chemical dump, or is it really the government scientists trying to slow down manmade global warming. Well since, I don’t believe in manmade global warming, and no government entity can give a straight answer as to what is up in our skies, it leads to a lot of talk and even some popular conspiracy theories. These chemical trails are the inspiration for this series.
World renowned botanist, Nadal Moi has completed a formula that could forever change the world and put an end to world hunger. When he is taken by men in black in the middle of the night, FBI Special Agent, Russell Casey and his Partner Allison Fiore are dispatched to locate him.
His first break in the case, Russell Casey arranges a secret meeting with a spooked Pentagon employee who claims that he has information on Nadal Moi’s disappearance and more. Before his meeting, Casey identifies another agency operating in the area. Utilizing techniques that are beyond a typical FBI agent, Casey distracts and disables the shadow operatives and escapes a train station with his informer.
Knowing that he is working on borrowed time, Casey dumps the top secret dossier that he is handed by his informer on contact, in the hopes that he or Allison Fiore can locate it when conditions are more in their favor. After the informer spills his guts, it is apparent that there is a devastating plan, years in the making about to unfold on American soil.
After all electronics on a train is shut down, Casey is arrested and taken to a strange location and held against his will, by President Krane’s secret police force, headed by appointed Tsar of National Defense, Vernon Bell. Bell intends on putting Casey to death without a trial of his peers for the crime of treason and is bent on finding where Casey received his training and who he is really working for.
Allison Fiore, following a coded message sent to her by her partner in their last conversation, races to find the top secret dossier in the hopes that she can rescue her partner before his is put to death.
Here is a Glimpse into the first chapter of "Black Apparatus"
ONE
Interstate 95 North Bound
Attleboro, Massachusetts
July 14, Nearing Midnight
The road ahead of the Blue Explorer was black and veiled with fog. The streetlights were either not working or the bulbs had all malfunctioned. The vehicle’s headlights were still enough to light the way so the forty-three year old, world renowned botanist, Nadal Moi paid the darkness no mind.
In a way it soothed him.
Spending years driving his native country of Kosovo’s roadways, much of that time when the Serbians were trying to eradicate his people, he learned to get comfortable in the dark. What’s more, with his heightened fears settling in over his thoughts, he had forgotten momentarily where he was geographically. If he had, he would have recognized that darkness to this degree where he was; was not a good thing.
It took a moment of recognition coming out of a string of morbid thoughts for Nadal to recognize that not only was he splitting darkness at eighty-miles per hour, but there was something even more alarming that suddenly dawned on him.
There were no headlights behind or taillights ahead.
When was the last car he had seen? He couldn’t recall. But a liberal estimate would be five or six miles ago when the Explorer slipped from Rhode Island across the Massachusetts border.
Nadal’s cargo was simple. He carried with him only the clothing on his back, which consisted of a thin jean jacket, cargo pants, a green polo shirt and black Sketchers with no laces along with a black rucksack that contained the sum of his life savings, roughly two million dollars, US. He touched the bag with his fingers to make sure it was still between the seats and then caught a glimpse of his wrinkled face and graying hair in the rearview mirror. When did I become an old man? He thought.
To distract himself, he focused on his game plan.
Nadal was going to drive straight through to Maine with as few stops as possible, and with the unmarked cash he had traded for on the black market, each reserve note printed before 1984, he would find a safe place to disappear into the mountains. Maine, in his estimation would be one of the few points in the United States left to ride out the storm when Winslow Krane’s plan went into effect. His primal fear of what was to soon come had morphed him into the throes of a deep paranoia, so much so that on a few occasions he thought he was hearing voices in his head.
Nadal was a naïve man, a pragmatist, a scientist. But just under twenty-four hours ago, he had finally put all the pieces together, mainly because all of those pieces were nearly in place for an atrocity. Once he understood that not only was his formula going to be used as a weapon as opposed to his intended use of it, to be used as a tool to fight hunger, Nadal deduced that there was not going to be a seat at the table for him or anyone else not in the world’s affluent top two percent subculture.
Hopefully the paranoia would be enough to keep him alive. After all, before his father had been taken into Serbian custody and put to death, Abeeb Moi had offered a final piece of advice that had stuck with Nadal since his childhood. His father had said, “Kjo nuk është paranojë, nëse njerëzit janë pas jush.” Rough translation, “It’s not paranoia if people are really coming after you.”
His father had offered him that tidbit, months before Slobodan Miloševic began slaughtering Albanians in the name of Genetic Cleansing.
The quiet darkness of the highway was suddenly unnerving to say the least. A green sign hanging over the roadway reflected in the stream of his headlights signaling that another town was quickly approaching.
Sweat percolated on Nadal’s forehead as he calculated the time and distance to North Attleboro and how long he would be left vulnerable on the dark, barren roadway. Until he got off the highway, things would be tense. He checked his mirrors, wishing for some driving company to ease his trepidation.
Still no cars.
Still no lights.
Just then, the Explorer’s engine powered down. The lights on the dashboard vanished and the headlights flicked and then failed.
“They found me.”
He quickly threw the truck into neutral and with the momentum of eighty plus miles per hour he coasted the dead vehicle toward the shoulder, moved another hundred yards, intent on finding an escape route. Nadal would not go easily.
In the shadows of a line of trees, he spotted something that he could use. For a brief moment, Nadal began to hope. There was a trail leading down a decline toward a free flowing stream. If he could make it to the water before he was seen, he could dive in and ride the current to safety.
For that to become a reality, he would have to move fast.
Without a second thought, Nadal pulled the rucksack from between the seats then in one motion swung the door open and dove out of into the night. Leaping from a moving vehicle proved harder than he expected. The ground came on him fast and he landed at a bad angle. A bone in his right hand crunched against the ground, and his left arm that he used as a shield was scraped up by rocks and loose gravel as he twisted head over heels. He grasped with his good hand at anything he could use to stop his tumble.
His hand dug into mud and he slapped hard onto his back, knocking the wind out of himself. He tried to ignore the pain as his eyes continued to roll. Up the road, the truck coasted off road and after hitting a divot, flipped over onto its back.
This couldn’t have gone worse.
He found himself looking up at a veiled sky that danced with his dizziness. But he didn’t have time to wait until his brain settled.
Move, Nadal, move. He said to himself as he slipped to his feet. He shook the cobwebs out of his head, grabbed his rucksack and then took two steps toward the treeline. That was when he saw the green reflection of NOD’s in the treeline. As a unit, men silently began to flow out of the underbrush, dressed entirely in black from their boots to their baklavas, toting standard issue M-4’s with suppressors.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Dr. Moi.” A man commanded.
A cold shiver of fear followed as Nadal recognized the voice of the leader. Colonel Michael Greene was a direct liaison from the Office of the President of the United States sent to watch over his laboratory. Even though, Greene was quiet and boasted a very unremarkable, almost forgettable face and carried an average build, there was something about his presence that had always terrified Nadal. That went double in the moment.
After pausing to think, Nadal’s reaction response went from flight to freeze. He stood in place, heart racing, too scared to move. Gone were his thoughts of escape.
Instead, he raised his hands into the air and dropped the rucksack into the mud, all the while knowing that he would be forced at gunpoint and through the persuasive power of torture for the remainder of his life if necessary to complete what Krane wanted.
Well, that was a glimpse of the first chapter of Black Apparatus. I hope you liked it, I know it is tough to read in this format. If you find it interesting I am currently working on Part II, Puddled Iron 86.
Thanks for reading,
G.A.Zanni
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