Am updating my review of A Quiet Life, my first novel, and providing the first chapter here. The book is about a rogue tech billionaire who becomes president in 2032, violently shuts down the border, and goes after an innocent married couple.
Michael and Pamela Housen's world is turned upside down when they become enemies of the
state and a dangerous president. Michael works in marketing at high-powered Armor Security, the maker of internet-connected video cameras. He doesn’t think much before clicking on a link in an email at work. But he soon learns he was the victim of a phishing campaign that allows Iranian cyber hackers to compromise the company and, in turn, its customer the U.S. Treasury department.
Very quickly, Michael and Pam find themselves in prison and America finds itself at war with Iran, thanks to a President who’s been looking for an excuse to attack Iran (and who also owns the prison).
It’s a war that upends the quiet life of Michael and Pam, a daughter of Iranian immigrants. The couple realizes only they can stop the war and prove they are innocent. Michael compromises his jailers to get himself and Pam out of jail. Then, with Pam’s help, he joins a radical militia supporting the President--and his draconian immigration policies--to get closer to his machinations. They ultimately get much closer than they ever imagined.
Here's the first chapter:
Chapter 1
Tuesday, June 21.
It was 2:15 a.m. and the stars glittered in the sky outside our window. A soft light entered the bedroom and blanketed most of the light-blue Persian rug lying atop the hardwood floor. The night was quiet.
My mind, however, was racing.
I kept thinking about Pam’s sleeping pills. The ones she had started
taking as work got more stressful. I had already opened the bottle twice and peered inside but was too worried that if I was sedated, I wouldn’t be able to handle another surprise the right way. So I held back.
I couldn’t get FBI Special Agent Weiss’s face out of my mind. “Subpoenas are coming,” she had told me about twelve hours before, her sharp green eyes unblinking as she looked right through me, as if envisioning me in a dark steel prison cell. What did she mean? Was I supposed to do something? I still didn’t have a lawyer. How do you find a good national-security lawyer in the middle of rural Indiana?
The way Agent Weiss said it — the cool, complete certainty in her voice — was deeply unsettling.
And as I heard her calm, cold warning, my boss’s words pinballed in my mind again and again:
“You are a suspect.”
“You are a suspect.”
“You are a suspect.”
I sat up in bed and turned on the television, quickly muting it. Pam, to my right, was finally asleep. I could hear the familiar purr of her soft snore. SportsCenter came on, but I had already watched it. Up one channel was HBO. No Country for Old Men was on. But I was not in the mood for a movie — at least not one with the sound off. So I reluctantly punched the number for GNC into the remote and, grimacing, pressed enter.
The screen immediately lit up the dark room. Chicago was burning. Flames were blazing into the sky from several buildings downtown and giant plumes of smoke obscured the skyline.
My spine stiffened. I swallowed my breath.
The Chicago River, separating the two sides of downtown, was orange, reflecting the hovering flames. I turned up the volume just enough to hear the audio. The GNC correspondent, Janine Wood,
stared into the camera with her deep brown eyes. I always loved her work because nothing frazzled her. Until now. She explained that a series of bombs had exploded only minutes before. Two separate buildings had been hit, she said, her eyes wet, her voice trembling. The Iranian government had already taken responsibility. One of the bombs, Wood continued, had been strapped to a man who reportedly was screaming “Iran is king! America no more!” before it detonated in the lobby of a fifty-five-story skyscraper on Wacker Drive.
Chunks of the nearby riverfront Davis Hotel — insulation, glass, and other debris — were floating down the river. The building was in flames. Meanwhile, in Tehran, US and Israeli air strikes were intensifying. Wood reported that NATO’s secretary general warned that NATO countries would participate in the United States’ and Israel’s illegal actions at peril of their membership.
GNC’s footage showed billows of dark smoke engulfing the Iranian capital in midmorning. The bombs’ pyrotechnics glittered in the smoke, and the sky filled with popping bright flashes of yellow. US fighter jets raced across the screen.
Wood explained that the campaign had broadened beyond Tehran, with reports of air strikes in Ahvaz, Rasht, Qom, and Kermanshah. Her strong voice sounded like it was going to break in half.
And then I felt that familiar queasiness when I saw the president, Brian Davis, appear on the screen from the waist up. His black hair was slicked back, revealing an uneven, receding hairline above his scaly white forehead. While the forty-seven-year-old’s paunch was a little bigger than normal, his shoulders and pectorals were typically awkward and oversized (rumor has it he takes cutting-edge synthetic steroids developed at one of his private company’s labs). His thin lips were pursed in smug self-approval — as always. As his dark, shiny eyes danced around frenetically above dark and puffy pockets, one of his Davis Truths rolled out along the bottom of the screen like the punch line to a bad joke: “IRAN HAS LEFT US NO OPTION. IT WILL NOW BE TOTALLY DESTROYED.”
Before Davis said a word the screen suddenly went black. After a few seconds he was replaced with a gray-bearded man in a white turban and a black robe, glaring out at the world through thick black horn-rimmed glasses, as if the Great Satan were before his eyes. It was Iran’s Supreme Leader Ali Rhouhani, and as I read the subtitles, my stomach tightened into a rock-hard knot of fear:
“The United States’ belligerence will not stand. These war crimes are predicated on a lie. It has chosen a path that will not destroy Iran but rather its own people. Every measure the US takes against Iran will lead to a more powerful countermeasure by Iran. The lessons of the last century — ”
The speech was cut off. It was replaced by aerial footage showing large fires concentrated on Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. Several buildings had been hit. Helicopters were landing on top of the Staples Center, and Disneyland was now an evacuation center. Janine Wood came back on the screen, barely holding herself together. “We have, moreover, learned from American intelligence sources that there are concerns Iran may have gained access to the US electrical grid through its cyber-operations. President Davis will address the nation again in about ten minutes.”
Pam awoke and slowly sat up. She looked at me, her soft and sleepy face illuminated by the television screen’s light and clouded with worry as she saw the destruction unfolding on GNC. She put her left hand on my right shoulder and squeezed hard.
“Mikey, what’s going on? Mikey?” she said softly, squinting her eyes. I could feel her wedding band cold on my skin. She stared at me, then back at the television — terror and confusion in her turquoise eyes. Then back to me. Her long dark hair swung on her shoulders with each turn.
Another Davis Truth blazed across the bottom of the screen: “American people, hold tight. I have this completely under control. Total control. I am with our great generals right now. Iran has made a series of strategic miscalculations. First with its unprovoked cyberattack on our government and now with terrorist attacks on US soil. This will be a great victory for the United States — a great victory — and it will be over soon.”
“Mikey, answer me,” Pam pleaded in an alarmed, trembling voice. I wanted to speak to her, to tell her what I knew, but I was paralyzed by my own fear.
The GNC screen showed a photo of Russian president Igor Pryosnev, chiseled and stern, his black hair shining in stark contrast to his pale white skin. He was smirking, seemingly amused by the unfolding events. The ticker displayed his statement: “Neither Russia nor the world will stand for this dangerous American aggression. America has long been the central global player in cyber warfare. It is transparently using Iran’s cyber activities as a pretext to meddle in the Middle East, yet again, in an impotent, embarrassing effort to cling to its ever-shrinking stature in the world order. Russia stands by Iran and — ”
Suddenly, the television went black. The silent flat-screen disappeared into the dark wall behind it.
“Mikey?” Pam said, her voice trembling as I sat frozen with shock, staring ahead. “What’s going on? Mikey? Answer me. Mikey. What’s wrong with you?”
The alarm clock beside the bed came back on and started flashing:
“12:00.”
“12:00.”
“12:00.”
“12:00.”
The TV violently flashed on and off.
The streetlights outside flickered, bringing our neighborhood’s dense rows of middle-American suburban tract houses in and out of view. Then the alarm clock, the television, and the streetlights went out completely. Only the stars outside and the fully charged phones beside the bed emitted light. There were screams coming from several homes on the block. A chorus of barking dogs grew louder. A few neighbors were congregating in the street in their pajamas. Pam picked up her phone while I continued to stare at the blank television. She tried to go on the internet, but her phone rejected her: “no connection.” She reached across me violently and grabbed my phone. Same thing.
She slammed it back down loudly on the bedside cabinet, knocking over my glass of water into the bed, and then shifted back to her side of the bed. I could feel the cold water seeping through my boxer shorts.
“Mikey,” Pam whispered intensely, scared to raise her voice in the dark night. Trembling, she grabbed my shoulder and tried to turn my body toward hers. “Answer me. What’s going on?”
Things kept spiraling faster and faster in my mind, and the worst part of it all was that I didn’t know when — or if — it would all stop. I did not know how bad this would get. I felt like I was driving a race car in a thick fog and even though my foot had pressed the pedal all the way down, the car kept going faster and faster and faster.
“Mikey,” Pam repeated, gripping my sweating face with both hands and pulling it to hers. Tears racing down her cheeks. Her lips quivering. Her hair draped across my bare, sweating shoulders. The right strap to her nightgown had fallen to the middle of her arm and her eyes, inches from mine, glowed frantically in the dim light.
“Mikey,” Pam said, again, her voice rising. Her shaking hands tightened their grip on my face. Her nose mashed against mine. I could see her eyes. I could hear her pleas. I could smell her breath. But the words were stuck behind a wall of my own fear.
“Michael Talbot Housen,” she pleaded. “Answer me.” She looked like I was breaking her great heart. And that look reached my heart and breached the wall. I could not let my wife suffer without me. We were together in everything, including this. So I told her. I told her that I — the most unimportant, the most anonymous, the most innocuous person on the planet — was responsible for this. “Pam,” I said, my voice sounding like it was underwater. “I did this. The war is my fault.”