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Resurrect Kindle Fire Giveaway from David E. Stevens. RSVP for Facebook Party on 12/4!
To celebrate the release of Resurrect, David E. Stevens has teamed up with his publisher, Kregel Publications, for a Kindle Fire Giveaway and Facebook Author Chat Party on 12/4.
One "thrilling" winner will receive:
- A Kindle Fire
- Resurrect by David E. Stevens
Winner will be announced at the "Resurrect" Author Chat Facebook Party on 12/4. Connect with David, get a sneak peek of the next book in the Resurrect Trilogy, try your hand at the trivia contest, and win some great prizes—gift certificates, books and a Book Club Prize Pack (10 copies for your book club or small group)!
So grab your copy of Resurrect and join David on the evening of December 4th for a chance to connect with David and make some new friends. (If you haven't read the book - don't let that stop you from coming!)
Don't miss a moment of the fun, RSVP today. Tell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTER and increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on the 4th!
Resurrect Trailer
Book Review
Resurrect (Book 1 - Resurrect Trilogy) by David E. Stevens
Publisher: Monarch Books
Publication Date: November 1, 2012
Format: Paperback - 384 pages / Kindle - 608 KB / Nook 1020 KB
ISBN: 0857212494
ASIN: B008M4ISD2
Genre: Apocalyptic Thriller / Action Thriller
BUY THE BOOK: Resurrect
Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the author / publisher in exchange for my honest review and participation in a virtual book tour event hosted by Litfuse Publicity Blog Tours.
Book Description:
Preventing his burning fighter from crashing into a neighborhood, Navy Commander Josh Logan ejects … too late.
Critically injured, he’s offered a new life and mission exploit highly classified military technology to stop a global cataclysm. The price? He’ll be dead to everyone he knows.
He wakes in a city hospital with a genetically enhanced body and no identity. With the help of his brilliant, Neuro ICU nurse, and guided by nothing but a voice, he must infiltrate the military-industrial complex to develop the world’s most powerful weapon … to protect humanity?
Book Excerpt:
Thirty-foot blue-white blowtorches slashed the twilight, driving the twenty-ton fighter down the runway like an angry rhino on crack. Using small rudder corrections, Commander Josh Logan kept the overpowered F-18 Super Hornet tracking straight. Clumsy and ungainly on the ground, it transformed into an agile and graceful bird of prey as it leaped into the air.
He was delivering the brand new fighter to a squadron on the West Coast. It was a routine ferry flight, but it felt great to be back in the air and away from his desk.
The fifty-million dollar Hornets, assembled only a few hundred yards away at the Boeing plant, shared St. Louis International Airport with commercial airliners. The air traffic controllers wanted the fighters out of their crowded airspace as soon as possible. Happy to oblige, Josh pulled the jet into a sixty-degree climb. Smiling, he knew his vertical departure in afterburner dominated the dusk like a comet. He'd loved roller coasters as a kid. Fighters were just roller coasters without the track.
As he raised the landing gear, he caught something out of the corner of his eye - a tiny blur of motion accompanied by the slightest of vibrations. He quickly checked his engine instruments - everything looked okay.
The red-tailed hawk tucked its wings and dove, but too late. It struck inside the landing gear bay at 250 miles an hour. The bird expired in an explosion of feathers, the impact creating a hairline fracture in a high-pressure fuel line.
As he rocketed through 10,000 feet, Josh pulled the Hornet out of burner and reduced his rate of climb. Checking his radar, he slewed a cursor on one of the cockpit screens with his throttle-mounted mouse. He realized he was just working on his "office computer" - like everyone else. There were a few differences. His office chair was a thinly padded ejection seat, his phone, a mic inside his oxygen mask. Noisier than most offices, his sat a few feet in front of hundreds of twirling, titanium turbine blades, shredding air at 70,000 RPM.
Office dress code required a suit - a green fire-resistant flight suit. Over it, he wore a G-suit zipped tightly around his legs and stomach. During hard turns, it inflated, forcing blood back to the brain to prevent blackout. G-suits were sophisticated technology, but he always thought they looked like ... green cowboy chaps. He'd never ridden a horse, but strapping into a fighter might not be that different than saddling up a high-strung bronco. They shared the promise of a wild ride, and both were capable of ejecting their riders.
Scanning his engine instruments, he saw the RPM sagging on the left engine, but it was within limits.
He checked in with Kansas City Center for his final cruise altitude.
They responded, "Hornet Zero Seven, climb and maintain flight level four seven zero."
Josh repeated the altitude back followed by a "roger." Technically, the correct response was "wilco," meaning, "will comply." Like most pilots, he never used it. Probably just an inherent dislike of being compliant.
As he flew toward the sunset, he realized that if there were such a thing as a perfect life, he had it. The Navy had promoted him early and he'd married an amazing woman. His friends jokingly told him it was all downhill after the honeymoon. Recalling the passion of last night's first anniversary celebration, Josh knew they were wrong.
The only damper had been this morning, when the subject of children had come up yet again. They'd agreed to wait a year. It had been exactly one year. He hadn't said anything, but she could read him like a book. She was ready; he wasn't. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet as he left the house.
To the cockpit he said, "I'm a test pilot. I've flown in combat and land on carriers." He sighed. But raising kids...
Leveling off at 47,000 feet, he tabled the internal debate and enjoyed the view. His accommodations might have been Spartan, but unlike many offices, his had a window, and what a window it was. The fighter's bubble canopy gave him a panoramic view with only a centimeter of Plexiglas separating him from the cold, thin, 600 mph air.
Nine miles high, cruising on a thundering twin-turbine Harley, he chased the setting sun across the continent. The sun always won, but, flying close to the speed of sound, he gave it a run for its money. Sunsets, normally lasting fifteen minutes, stretched to an hour. With eighty percent of the atmosphere below him, he saw a brilliantly compressed sunset with colors that spanned the spectrum. Above him was the simple dead, dark black of space. Stars stared down, unblinking, having lost their atmosphere-induced twinkle. The black dome ended in a narrow strip of deep iridescent purple. The purple feathered into infinite shades of blue, from the darkest navy, across a band of powdery sky-blue, into a brief gasp of turquoise. Finally, an explosion of brilliant yellows, fluorescent oranges, and deep, rich reds cut the horizon like a rip in the heavens.
He savored the beauty and solitude of extreme altitude, knowing there'd be few of these moments in the years ahead. A thirty-two year old Commander, he had one real flying tour left. He'd really miss it ... everything but the night carrier landings. Landing a twenty-ton fighter at night, on a moving deck the size of a tennis court, was still the stupidest thing he'd done more than once. Darkness stole any peripheral vision, and with it that indefinable feel, leaving nothing but an elaborate video game with a penalty - lose and you die.
A familiar female voice broke his reverie. Bitching Betty - the pilot's nickname for the automated warning system - spoke when the computer detected an emergency requiring immediate action. In her calm, sultry voice, she shared the worst words in her limited vocabulary - "Engine Fire Left, Engine Fire Left."
Josh's first reaction was disbelief, followed by a curse as he slammed the left throttle off. Jabbing the Fire Warning light, he cut fuel flow to the engine. He then punched the fire-extinguisher button, releasing a flood of Halon gas. Holding his breath, he waited ... and waited.
It seemed an eternity, but it was only seconds before the fire light extinguished. Breathing again, he saw his now single-engine jet was losing airspeed rapidly. He throttled up the remaining engine and pushed the nose into a descent.
Kansas City Center called. "Hornet Zero Seven, we show you descending out of your assigned altitude, say intentions."
"Center, Zero Seven, had a fire. Declaring an emergency. Need to land as soon as possible."
"Hornet Zero Seven, say fuel remaining and souls on board."
Why did they always say, "Souls on board?" It was standard aviation terminology, but it gave him the creeps. "I have plenty of fuel, and it's just me. Need a vector to the nearest field with at least 5,000 feet of runway."
The Center Controller came back quickly. "Closest field is Kansas City, ten degrees right of your nose, seventy miles. You're cleared direct."
He turned to the new heading and scanned his displays. The right engine and hydraulics looked good. He had plenty of fuel, but automatically checked his gauge - 7,000 pounds. Wait ... that couldn't be right. He'd had over 8,000 a minute ago! As he watched, the digital indicator dropped to 6900. It suddenly made sense. Here was the fire's source - a massive fuel leak. He timed the drop and did a quick calculation. He'd be out of fuel in ten minutes. He was pleased he could remember how to multiply. IQ dropped with adrenaline, and he was producing his share.
"Center, Hornet Zero Seven, looks like a major fuel leak caused the fire. I have, maybe, ten minutes left. Need something closer. I'll take anything with even 3,000 feet of runway."
The Controller, now matching some of the stress in Josh's voice, said, "Standby Zero Seven."
Josh edged the throttle up gingerly, increasing his airspeed and descent. He was in a race, stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. With his jet hemorrhaging fuel, the last thing he wanted to do was run the remaining engine hotter. But it was either burn it or lose it.
"Hornet Zero Seven, there's a small airport on the outskirts of the city, fifty-five miles from your position. It has a 4,000 foot runway."
"I'll take it."
"Hornet Zero Seven, turn right to heading two niner five. Descend at pilot's discretion. We're clearing all traffic between you and the field. Destination weather is broken to overcast with a 1200 foot ceiling."
He pushed the fighter into a steeper descent, accelerating to 450 knots. It felt more like a dive-bombing run than a landing approach. He refined his heading and scanned his fuel gauge for the umpteenth time. He might have just enough fuel to make it.
He realized that his current job would prevent situations like this in the future. Testing new fighters was just a collateral duty. His real job was program manager for the next generation of robo-fighters, Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicles or UCAVS.
Center switched him to Approach Control. Doing 400 knots as he checked in, they cleared him to break the 250-knot speed limit below 10,000 feet.
Fifteen miles from the airfield, he descended into the clouds, leaving the sunset of the heavens above for the darkness below. As he transitioned to flying by instruments, Betty, with no apparent concern, said, "Fuel Low, Fuel Low." With adrenaline rising again, he was thankful for his Heads-Up Display. The green flight symbols appeared to float ten feet in front of the windscreen, keeping his eyes out of the cockpit and slashing his workload. The technology was pure magic, referred to by fighter pilots as PFM.
He punched through the bottom of the overcast, leveling off 1,000 feet above the ground. Below the clouds, it was dark, but the Approach Controller had lined him up nicely. He saw the runway lights, seven miles off his nose.
The Approach Controller gave him the tower frequency and added, "Good luck."
He thanked her, switched to the tower, and pulled the throttle back to idle to slow down.
As he checked in, the tower immediately cleared him to land. He didn't even know the name of the airport, but he could tell he was in the middle of suburban sprawl. Under him was an ever-expanding grid of street and house lights, spread out like an illuminated net as far as he could see. Ahead, he saw the telltale flashing red lights of the crash trucks flanking the runway.
Slowing to 250 knots, he lowered his landing gear and flaps. He was only four miles from the runway. He was going to make it.
As the landing gear came down, he felt an unusual thump, followed by the simultaneous illumination of both engine fire lights. Looking up, he saw an orange reflection in his canopy rear-view mirrors. At the slower speed, the flames were now clearly visible between the fighter's twin tails. Opening the landing gear doors must have pushed air into the engine bay, reigniting the fuel. His fire extinguisher was empty and the jet could explode at any second. The emergency procedure for this situation was simple - eject. But he was over a populated area and so close to the runway.
He coaxed his fighter. "Come on baby. We're almost there." The fire trucks would be ready to spray him down if he could just get the fighter on the runway.
Less than a minute from touchdown, he felt the sick sensation of deceleration. He shoved the throttle forward to no effect. He still had 1,000 pounds of fuel! With a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach, he knew the fire must have burned through his remaining fuel lines.
Betty casually added, "Engine Right, Engine Right," as his other engine flamed out.
Only two miles from the runway ... but it might as well have been two hundred. Twenty-ton fighters made lousy gliders.
Everything began to move in slow motion. He knew that in fifteen seconds, the beautiful new jet would slam into the ground. The fireball would blow burning metal and graphite across several acres. There were too many lights below. Each was someone's home, someone's life and family. The small airport was in the middle of suburbia. He couldn't eject ... not yet.
Scanning the ground, he saw a small, dark area a half mile to his left. No lights meant no houses. The floating green symbol in his HUD projected his flight path, or in this case, his impact point. If he turned, he might have just enough height to glide the burning fighter into the dark area. He banked the jet away from the runway. To make sure the wounded Hornet didn't turn or stall, he'd have to get as close as possible before punching out.
With the engines silent, the tower must have determined his intentions. Their last transmission was simply, "Good luck and Godspeed."
As the last engine spooled down, the hydraulic pressure began to falter. The jet responded sluggishly, as if angry with him for heading away from the runway. He had to use exaggerated stick inputs to control the dying fighter.
To slow his descent, he needed to hold the nose up, but the jet began to buffet and shake as it approached stall speed. If the Hornet stalled, it would roll over and tumble to the ground. There were houses on each side, and under his nose was a brightly lit and occupied soccer field. He fought his instinct and pushed the stick forward, increasing his descent rate to maintain flying speed. As he dropped through 200 feet, Betty pointlessly shared, "Altitude, Altitude."
Just a few more seconds.
Red hydraulic fluid sprayed across the wing like blood from a severed artery, as Betty spoke her final words. "Flight Controls, Flight Controls." With no hydraulic pressure, the jet began an uncontrolled roll to the right. Even as he slammed the stick left, he realized the futility. His Hornet had bled out. She was dead.
Letting go of the useless stick, he pulled the yellow and black handle between his legs.
An explosive charge immediately blew the giant bubble canopy off the jet. Simultaneously, his shoulder, waist, and leg restraints retracted, yanking him firmly against the seat. With the force of a couple sticks of dynamite, the ejection charge detonated. Rattling his skull and compressing his spine, the seat blasted up the rails like an artillery shell. As it cleared the cockpit, its rocket motors ignited, firing him into the night.
The ejection occurred well outside the seat's design envelope. The altitude was too low, the bank angle too high. The rocket-propelled seat tried to right itself as it accelerated from the almost inverted jet. Clipping the top of the forest at over one hundred miles an hour, it ripped through the treetops, breaking branches and bones. Sensing extremely low altitude, the seat's simple barometric sensor deployed the parachute. The chute shredded. Its tangled shroud lines caught and slung him like a puppet on the end of a string, slamming him against the trees. Finally, his unconscious body slid to the forest floor like a rag doll. Shock constricted his arteries as his heart struggled against the decreasing volume of blood from internal hemorrhaging.
A quarter mile away, a boiling cloud of orange and white flame climbed above the forest, as the fighter followed its pilot into the ground. The young soccer players stopped in their tracks to watch the orange mushroom cloud expand above the treetops. Like a short fireworks finale, rolling thunder echoed through the woods as the artificial sunrise briefly lit the forest.
Josh opened his eyes. He saw the silhouette of treetops against the soft orange glow of the low clouds. The orange cast came from the sprawl of sodium-vapor streetlights surrounding the woods where he lay. He knew the funeral pyre of his late Hornet added a flicker to the glow. A few stars peeked through a hole in the cloud cover. Faintly, he heard sirens in the distance. Otherwise, it was the peaceful quiet of an early spring evening before the crickets awoke. He couldn't move or feel anything. His only sensation was sight and the metallic taste of blood.
He knew he was dying. With surprising calm and clarity, he realized he'd had an incredible life. He'd done things that most only dreamed of.
.... What was next? His dad was a pragmatic scientist. As a child, Josh never attended church, but he'd always wondered if humans really were accidental combinations of organic molecules. He didn't see sufficient evidence to believe in God, but knew that lack of proof didn't prove anything.
His vision began to fade. His thoughts went to Kelly. Not just his wife; she was his best friend. He wished he could see her, tell her it would be okay... His thoughts became less distinct. If there were a God and an afterlife ... he'd soon find out. As his heart beat its last beat, he thought, at least I get to see the stars one last time...
He was delivering the brand new fighter to a squadron on the West Coast. It was a routine ferry flight, but it felt great to be back in the air and away from his desk.
The fifty-million dollar Hornets, assembled only a few hundred yards away at the Boeing plant, shared St. Louis International Airport with commercial airliners. The air traffic controllers wanted the fighters out of their crowded airspace as soon as possible. Happy to oblige, Josh pulled the jet into a sixty-degree climb. Smiling, he knew his vertical departure in afterburner dominated the dusk like a comet. He'd loved roller coasters as a kid. Fighters were just roller coasters without the track.
As he raised the landing gear, he caught something out of the corner of his eye - a tiny blur of motion accompanied by the slightest of vibrations. He quickly checked his engine instruments - everything looked okay.
The red-tailed hawk tucked its wings and dove, but too late. It struck inside the landing gear bay at 250 miles an hour. The bird expired in an explosion of feathers, the impact creating a hairline fracture in a high-pressure fuel line.
As he rocketed through 10,000 feet, Josh pulled the Hornet out of burner and reduced his rate of climb. Checking his radar, he slewed a cursor on one of the cockpit screens with his throttle-mounted mouse. He realized he was just working on his "office computer" - like everyone else. There were a few differences. His office chair was a thinly padded ejection seat, his phone, a mic inside his oxygen mask. Noisier than most offices, his sat a few feet in front of hundreds of twirling, titanium turbine blades, shredding air at 70,000 RPM.
Office dress code required a suit - a green fire-resistant flight suit. Over it, he wore a G-suit zipped tightly around his legs and stomach. During hard turns, it inflated, forcing blood back to the brain to prevent blackout. G-suits were sophisticated technology, but he always thought they looked like ... green cowboy chaps. He'd never ridden a horse, but strapping into a fighter might not be that different than saddling up a high-strung bronco. They shared the promise of a wild ride, and both were capable of ejecting their riders.
Scanning his engine instruments, he saw the RPM sagging on the left engine, but it was within limits.
He checked in with Kansas City Center for his final cruise altitude.
They responded, "Hornet Zero Seven, climb and maintain flight level four seven zero."
Josh repeated the altitude back followed by a "roger." Technically, the correct response was "wilco," meaning, "will comply." Like most pilots, he never used it. Probably just an inherent dislike of being compliant.
As he flew toward the sunset, he realized that if there were such a thing as a perfect life, he had it. The Navy had promoted him early and he'd married an amazing woman. His friends jokingly told him it was all downhill after the honeymoon. Recalling the passion of last night's first anniversary celebration, Josh knew they were wrong.
The only damper had been this morning, when the subject of children had come up yet again. They'd agreed to wait a year. It had been exactly one year. He hadn't said anything, but she could read him like a book. She was ready; he wasn't. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet as he left the house.
To the cockpit he said, "I'm a test pilot. I've flown in combat and land on carriers." He sighed. But raising kids...
Leveling off at 47,000 feet, he tabled the internal debate and enjoyed the view. His accommodations might have been Spartan, but unlike many offices, his had a window, and what a window it was. The fighter's bubble canopy gave him a panoramic view with only a centimeter of Plexiglas separating him from the cold, thin, 600 mph air.
Nine miles high, cruising on a thundering twin-turbine Harley, he chased the setting sun across the continent. The sun always won, but, flying close to the speed of sound, he gave it a run for its money. Sunsets, normally lasting fifteen minutes, stretched to an hour. With eighty percent of the atmosphere below him, he saw a brilliantly compressed sunset with colors that spanned the spectrum. Above him was the simple dead, dark black of space. Stars stared down, unblinking, having lost their atmosphere-induced twinkle. The black dome ended in a narrow strip of deep iridescent purple. The purple feathered into infinite shades of blue, from the darkest navy, across a band of powdery sky-blue, into a brief gasp of turquoise. Finally, an explosion of brilliant yellows, fluorescent oranges, and deep, rich reds cut the horizon like a rip in the heavens.
He savored the beauty and solitude of extreme altitude, knowing there'd be few of these moments in the years ahead. A thirty-two year old Commander, he had one real flying tour left. He'd really miss it ... everything but the night carrier landings. Landing a twenty-ton fighter at night, on a moving deck the size of a tennis court, was still the stupidest thing he'd done more than once. Darkness stole any peripheral vision, and with it that indefinable feel, leaving nothing but an elaborate video game with a penalty - lose and you die.
A familiar female voice broke his reverie. Bitching Betty - the pilot's nickname for the automated warning system - spoke when the computer detected an emergency requiring immediate action. In her calm, sultry voice, she shared the worst words in her limited vocabulary - "Engine Fire Left, Engine Fire Left."
Josh's first reaction was disbelief, followed by a curse as he slammed the left throttle off. Jabbing the Fire Warning light, he cut fuel flow to the engine. He then punched the fire-extinguisher button, releasing a flood of Halon gas. Holding his breath, he waited ... and waited.
It seemed an eternity, but it was only seconds before the fire light extinguished. Breathing again, he saw his now single-engine jet was losing airspeed rapidly. He throttled up the remaining engine and pushed the nose into a descent.
Kansas City Center called. "Hornet Zero Seven, we show you descending out of your assigned altitude, say intentions."
"Center, Zero Seven, had a fire. Declaring an emergency. Need to land as soon as possible."
"Hornet Zero Seven, say fuel remaining and souls on board."
Why did they always say, "Souls on board?" It was standard aviation terminology, but it gave him the creeps. "I have plenty of fuel, and it's just me. Need a vector to the nearest field with at least 5,000 feet of runway."
The Center Controller came back quickly. "Closest field is Kansas City, ten degrees right of your nose, seventy miles. You're cleared direct."
He turned to the new heading and scanned his displays. The right engine and hydraulics looked good. He had plenty of fuel, but automatically checked his gauge - 7,000 pounds. Wait ... that couldn't be right. He'd had over 8,000 a minute ago! As he watched, the digital indicator dropped to 6900. It suddenly made sense. Here was the fire's source - a massive fuel leak. He timed the drop and did a quick calculation. He'd be out of fuel in ten minutes. He was pleased he could remember how to multiply. IQ dropped with adrenaline, and he was producing his share.
"Center, Hornet Zero Seven, looks like a major fuel leak caused the fire. I have, maybe, ten minutes left. Need something closer. I'll take anything with even 3,000 feet of runway."
The Controller, now matching some of the stress in Josh's voice, said, "Standby Zero Seven."
Josh edged the throttle up gingerly, increasing his airspeed and descent. He was in a race, stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. With his jet hemorrhaging fuel, the last thing he wanted to do was run the remaining engine hotter. But it was either burn it or lose it.
"Hornet Zero Seven, there's a small airport on the outskirts of the city, fifty-five miles from your position. It has a 4,000 foot runway."
"I'll take it."
"Hornet Zero Seven, turn right to heading two niner five. Descend at pilot's discretion. We're clearing all traffic between you and the field. Destination weather is broken to overcast with a 1200 foot ceiling."
He pushed the fighter into a steeper descent, accelerating to 450 knots. It felt more like a dive-bombing run than a landing approach. He refined his heading and scanned his fuel gauge for the umpteenth time. He might have just enough fuel to make it.
He realized that his current job would prevent situations like this in the future. Testing new fighters was just a collateral duty. His real job was program manager for the next generation of robo-fighters, Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicles or UCAVS.
Center switched him to Approach Control. Doing 400 knots as he checked in, they cleared him to break the 250-knot speed limit below 10,000 feet.
Fifteen miles from the airfield, he descended into the clouds, leaving the sunset of the heavens above for the darkness below. As he transitioned to flying by instruments, Betty, with no apparent concern, said, "Fuel Low, Fuel Low." With adrenaline rising again, he was thankful for his Heads-Up Display. The green flight symbols appeared to float ten feet in front of the windscreen, keeping his eyes out of the cockpit and slashing his workload. The technology was pure magic, referred to by fighter pilots as PFM.
He punched through the bottom of the overcast, leveling off 1,000 feet above the ground. Below the clouds, it was dark, but the Approach Controller had lined him up nicely. He saw the runway lights, seven miles off his nose.
The Approach Controller gave him the tower frequency and added, "Good luck."
He thanked her, switched to the tower, and pulled the throttle back to idle to slow down.
As he checked in, the tower immediately cleared him to land. He didn't even know the name of the airport, but he could tell he was in the middle of suburban sprawl. Under him was an ever-expanding grid of street and house lights, spread out like an illuminated net as far as he could see. Ahead, he saw the telltale flashing red lights of the crash trucks flanking the runway.
Slowing to 250 knots, he lowered his landing gear and flaps. He was only four miles from the runway. He was going to make it.
As the landing gear came down, he felt an unusual thump, followed by the simultaneous illumination of both engine fire lights. Looking up, he saw an orange reflection in his canopy rear-view mirrors. At the slower speed, the flames were now clearly visible between the fighter's twin tails. Opening the landing gear doors must have pushed air into the engine bay, reigniting the fuel. His fire extinguisher was empty and the jet could explode at any second. The emergency procedure for this situation was simple - eject. But he was over a populated area and so close to the runway.
He coaxed his fighter. "Come on baby. We're almost there." The fire trucks would be ready to spray him down if he could just get the fighter on the runway.
Less than a minute from touchdown, he felt the sick sensation of deceleration. He shoved the throttle forward to no effect. He still had 1,000 pounds of fuel! With a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach, he knew the fire must have burned through his remaining fuel lines.
Betty casually added, "Engine Right, Engine Right," as his other engine flamed out.
Only two miles from the runway ... but it might as well have been two hundred. Twenty-ton fighters made lousy gliders.
Everything began to move in slow motion. He knew that in fifteen seconds, the beautiful new jet would slam into the ground. The fireball would blow burning metal and graphite across several acres. There were too many lights below. Each was someone's home, someone's life and family. The small airport was in the middle of suburbia. He couldn't eject ... not yet.
Scanning the ground, he saw a small, dark area a half mile to his left. No lights meant no houses. The floating green symbol in his HUD projected his flight path, or in this case, his impact point. If he turned, he might have just enough height to glide the burning fighter into the dark area. He banked the jet away from the runway. To make sure the wounded Hornet didn't turn or stall, he'd have to get as close as possible before punching out.
With the engines silent, the tower must have determined his intentions. Their last transmission was simply, "Good luck and Godspeed."
As the last engine spooled down, the hydraulic pressure began to falter. The jet responded sluggishly, as if angry with him for heading away from the runway. He had to use exaggerated stick inputs to control the dying fighter.
To slow his descent, he needed to hold the nose up, but the jet began to buffet and shake as it approached stall speed. If the Hornet stalled, it would roll over and tumble to the ground. There were houses on each side, and under his nose was a brightly lit and occupied soccer field. He fought his instinct and pushed the stick forward, increasing his descent rate to maintain flying speed. As he dropped through 200 feet, Betty pointlessly shared, "Altitude, Altitude."
Just a few more seconds.
Red hydraulic fluid sprayed across the wing like blood from a severed artery, as Betty spoke her final words. "Flight Controls, Flight Controls." With no hydraulic pressure, the jet began an uncontrolled roll to the right. Even as he slammed the stick left, he realized the futility. His Hornet had bled out. She was dead.
Letting go of the useless stick, he pulled the yellow and black handle between his legs.
An explosive charge immediately blew the giant bubble canopy off the jet. Simultaneously, his shoulder, waist, and leg restraints retracted, yanking him firmly against the seat. With the force of a couple sticks of dynamite, the ejection charge detonated. Rattling his skull and compressing his spine, the seat blasted up the rails like an artillery shell. As it cleared the cockpit, its rocket motors ignited, firing him into the night.
The ejection occurred well outside the seat's design envelope. The altitude was too low, the bank angle too high. The rocket-propelled seat tried to right itself as it accelerated from the almost inverted jet. Clipping the top of the forest at over one hundred miles an hour, it ripped through the treetops, breaking branches and bones. Sensing extremely low altitude, the seat's simple barometric sensor deployed the parachute. The chute shredded. Its tangled shroud lines caught and slung him like a puppet on the end of a string, slamming him against the trees. Finally, his unconscious body slid to the forest floor like a rag doll. Shock constricted his arteries as his heart struggled against the decreasing volume of blood from internal hemorrhaging.
A quarter mile away, a boiling cloud of orange and white flame climbed above the forest, as the fighter followed its pilot into the ground. The young soccer players stopped in their tracks to watch the orange mushroom cloud expand above the treetops. Like a short fireworks finale, rolling thunder echoed through the woods as the artificial sunrise briefly lit the forest.
Josh opened his eyes. He saw the silhouette of treetops against the soft orange glow of the low clouds. The orange cast came from the sprawl of sodium-vapor streetlights surrounding the woods where he lay. He knew the funeral pyre of his late Hornet added a flicker to the glow. A few stars peeked through a hole in the cloud cover. Faintly, he heard sirens in the distance. Otherwise, it was the peaceful quiet of an early spring evening before the crickets awoke. He couldn't move or feel anything. His only sensation was sight and the metallic taste of blood.
He knew he was dying. With surprising calm and clarity, he realized he'd had an incredible life. He'd done things that most only dreamed of.
.... What was next? His dad was a pragmatic scientist. As a child, Josh never attended church, but he'd always wondered if humans really were accidental combinations of organic molecules. He didn't see sufficient evidence to believe in God, but knew that lack of proof didn't prove anything.
His vision began to fade. His thoughts went to Kelly. Not just his wife; she was his best friend. He wished he could see her, tell her it would be okay... His thoughts became less distinct. If there were a God and an afterlife ... he'd soon find out. As his heart beat its last beat, he thought, at least I get to see the stars one last time...
My Book Review:
While Navy Commander Josh Logan was testing out a new fighter jet there was an engine malfunction. He manages to avoid crashing into a civilian neighborhood, but performs an emergency ejection from the jet a few moments too late and is critically injured.
A year later, he awakes from a coma and is offered a second chance at life with an genetically enhanced body, and guided only by a voice named Jesse, he is given a new mission to save the world from total destruction from a comet that is headed towards Earth. Oh ... and by the way ... he only has two years to accomplish his mission.
Will Josh accept his new mission, knowing that the life he previously lead has been changed forever? Can he accomplish his mission and stop the comet from destroying the world before time runs out?
Resurrect is an action packed apocalyptic thriller that takes the reader on an exhilarating roller coaster ride. In his debut novel, author David E. Stevens has created a captivating story that draws the reader in and grabs hold of them until they turn the last page. He weaves a tale that showcases his vast knowledge of astrophysics and military experience. The story has a perfect balance of suspense, science and spirituality that will simply keep the reader spellbound. His creative style of writing has a way of transporting the reader into the story in a way that you can feel the intensity and action that makes this one heck of a thriller!
The author has a created a cast of characters who are realistic and believable. Their complex personalities, witty dialogue and interactions easily draw the reader into the story. The reader is engaged to ponder the "what ifs" of highly intelligent individuals and their bionic capabilities. If you are a military, adventure and/or sci-fi buff, this multi-layered story is right up your alley. The characters and high octane action adventure in this story will take you on a thrilling journey that is worthy of becoming a movie.
Resurrect is a riveting story that combines the best of action thrillers with science fiction, it will make you sit up and ponder the unknown. Resurrect is the first book in the Resurrect Trilogy.
RATING: 4 STARS ****
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