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  ICE BASE NAZIS     The hotel pub at the bottom of the world was the last place he expected to find himself, yet here he was, dirty glass of warm beer in hand. Warner Yeager was feeling sorry for himself.   He slouched against the cigarette burn scarred bar and scowled at the dark yellow concoction that passed for beer.   It wasn't the fine German construction he had grown used to during his time in the Bavarian forest, but it was local and it was cheap and no one looked at him twice for ordering it. Yeager was in the practice of going unnoticed. It had been several months since his adventure in Germany, the discovery that landed him in the news, though not quite for the reasons he had hoped.   As a treasure hunter, his wish was to be as famous as Mel Fisher, who discovered the Atoca on the floor of the ocean just past the Florida Keys.   Yeager wanted to find lost art looted by the Nazi's. Instead, he stumbled across a hidden armory of ...

 Chapter Two    "You know, it would be a lot easier to understand you if you weren't wearing that flight suit," Tinker wiggled his eyebrows at her. "I can kill you in over eleven hundred ways," Junebug answered. "Each more pleasant than the last," Tinker sighed. "Ecstasy in your arms." "What's wrong with you?" Mona Lisa barked. "I'm going space mad with lust, love," Tinker guzzled a jar of starshine and wiped his lips with the back of one hand. "One of you could do a man a kindness and help me out." "There is no such malady as space madness," said the AI. "Of course there is," Tinker said. "You just wouldn't understand it with that logical computer brain you've got up there." "My processing matrix is a mix of organic matter and neural pathways," Junebug explained. Tinker waved one hand to shut her up and spilled a little shine on the metal ...

 Parallax - The Dipole Series   He stepped out of the shower and almost bumped into Mona Lisa. She stopped in the middle of the corridor, inches away from his still damp skin and stared up at him with oversized eyes. “Jesus, Bat,” she breathed. He could look down and see the flush of her cheeks, the hint of color creeping up her neck. Her eyes dilated, her breath came in short quick pants as her eyes drifted over his bare torso. It looked like it had been carved from some tan colored stone, etched by an artist who admired Michelangelo but insisted on a more comic book interpretation of the male form. All the muscles were massive, packed and sheathed under thin skin, like a soft from anatomy map. Everything was oversized, from his biceps to pectorals, to sloping muscles down his back to where they tapered to a trim waist hidden in a towel that looked too small. “They were designed like that,” Junebug announced from the speaker. “Stop watching me,” Mona Lisa an...

CHAPTER           First rule. There are no gentleman's rules in war. Rules get written by survivors, and those survivors don't want anyone to know what kind of shit they did or how horrible they were to survive. So they create the myth of the gentleman. Honor. Duty. All that shit. And it is just that. A bunch of shit. Cause when you're going through Hell, it's all about you and the guy next to you, and that gal on the other side of you. All about surviving and staying alive. And to do that, you have to kill the enemy. You kill the hell out of them, and live to do it all over again, like some time loop crazy way of living. Second rule. When you get out, when you put in your twenty and you're done, you don't talk about it. Not to anybody. You can talk shit to the people who survived it with you. But talking shit ain't doing shit, if you know what I'm saying. Cause talking shit sounds like a fishing tale from earth. ...

  He had pluck they said. He had gumption they crooned with admiration. Because the one thing every nineteen year old needed in this man's army was pluck and gumption.   What they did not need was a Ranger with nine fingers, and so they processed him out. He didn't even rate a hospital bed while they did it, just a plastic chair in a tiny waiting room, nine stitches where his pinky used to be.   His hand was numb, as was the crook of his elbow where the medic shoved a ten gauge needle into a vein and pumped him full of saline and antibiotics.   The young Sgt. winked and gave him a half dose of morphine too, which made him care less about the pain and let his mind flow in funny ways. All he ever wanted was Army.   All he ever wanted was to be the best. His Dad had been the best and then his Dad died when he was a kid and he grew up with the ghost of the best in a picture on the mantel. That ghost had a stolid face and high cheekbones.   That ghos...

  The ONE ONE   "I hate it." "You just need to give it a chance." I loved John, but right then, I wanted to punch him the mouth.   I glared at the smog encrusted stucco that once was beige, but now was a dull gray and tried to like it. I failed. "I hate it," I grumbled again. John put his soft hand on the back of my neck and tried to rub the tension away. It didn't work. My sigh told him so. "I know it's not great," he said. He practically bubbled it out, because that was his personality type and one of the reasons I loved him. That and his six foot two inch super hot ripped swimmer's bod, topped off by chiseled cheeks and delicious green eyes that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world when he talked to me. Like now. "But it's close to work, so I can run there, run back and you can have the car." Did I mention he was a Doctor? Yeah, gorgeous and he wanted to help people. Idiot. M...