CONTENTS
Dedication
Legal
Image
Timeline
Key Players
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Nomad: Gateway to the Universe
Author Notes - Craig Martelle
Author Notes - Michael Anderle
Craig Series List
Michael Series List
Social Links
They say behind every great man, is a great woman,
but what if the woman is a Werewolf?
DEDICATION
We can’t write without those who support us
On the home front, we thank you for being there for us
We wouldn’t be able to do this for a living if it weren’t for our readers
We thank you for reading our books
NOMAD’S JOURNAL
The Terry Henry Walton Chronicles
Team Includes
BETA / EDITOR BOOK
See Craig’s author notes
JIT Beta Readers - From both of us, our deepest gratitude!
James Caplan
Micky Cocker
Mike Pendergrass
Maria Stanley
Leo Roars
Sherry Foster
John Findlay
Kelly ODonnell
Kimberly Boyer
Joshua Ahles
If we missed anyone, please let us know!
NOMAD’S JOURNAL (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2017 Craig Martelle and Michael T. Anderle
Cover by Andrew Dobell, www.creativeedgestudios.co.uk
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, September 2017
Editing by Mia Darien, www.miadarien.com
The Kurtherian Gambit (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2017 by Michael T. Anderle.
Find the high-res version here:
http://kurtherianbooks.com/timeline_jeff/
TIMELINE
World’s Worst Day Ever (WWDE)
WWDE + 20 years – Terry Henry Walton Returns to humanity
Nomad Found
Nomad Redeemed
Nomad Unleashed
WWDE + 23 years – Terry & Char get married in New Boulder
Nomad Supreme
WWDE + 24 years – The move to North Chicago is complete, Kaeden & Kimber join Terry & Char’s family
Nomad’s Fury
WWDE + 25 years – Cordelia is born
Nomad’s Justice
WWDE + 50 years – Terry Henry is taken prisoner
Nomad Avenged
WWDE + 50 years – TH starts his war on the Forsaken
Nomad Mortis
WWDE + 82 years – TH builds the FDG for the final battle
Nomad’s Force
WWDE + 150 years – TH prepares to leave Earth behind
Nomad’s Galaxy
KEY PLAYERS
Terry Henry Walton (was 45 on the WWDE) – called TH by his friends, wears the rank of Colonel, leads the Force de Guerre (FDG), a military unit that he established on WWDE+20
Charumati (was 65 on the WWDE) – married to Terry, carries the rank of Major in the FDG
Kimber (born WWDE+15, enhanced on WWDE+65) – Major in the FDG
•Her husband Auburn Weathers (enhanced on WWDE+82) – provides logistics support to the FDG
•Their son, Kailin (enhanced on WWDE+93)
Kaeden (born WWDE+16, enhanced on WWDE+65) – Major in the FDG
•His wife Marcie Spires (born on WWDE+22, naturally enhanced) – Colonel in the FDG
•Their children Mary Ellen & William, born WWDE+60/61, did not get enhanced
Cory (born WWDE+25, naturally enhanced, gifted with the power to heal)
•Her husband Ramses (born WWDE+23, enhanced on WWDE+65) – Major in the FDG
•Their children Sarah (born WWDE+126, naturally enhanced) and Sylvia (born WWDE+127, naturally enhanced)
Fu (born WWDE+28, enhanced on WWDE+75) Married to Gene the Werebear
Vampires
•Akio & Yuko – born long ago, in service to the Queen Bitch
Werewolves born before the WWDE:
•Sue & Timmons
•Shonna & Merrit
•Xandrie & Adams
•Ted (with Felicity, an enhanced human)
Weretigers born before the WWDE:
•Aaron & Yanmei
Werebear born before the WWDE
•Evgeniy, called Gene by his friends
Forsaken
•Joseph (born 300 years before the WWDE)
•Petricia (born WWDE+30)
•Andrew (born WWDE+25)
ONE
The Forsaken called Joseph
1775 – John Joseph Dixon
“A good morning to you, Mister Purdie!” Joseph called happily, tamping his pipe as he stood outside the small building where the printing business was located. As usual, John Joseph Dixon was covered head to tie with a wide-brimmed hat, always shielding his face from the sun. He wore the most stylish gloves, because he was an adherent of modern fashion and flaunted his London contacts when packages addressed to him arrived on the latest ship.
“And a fine morning it is, Mister Dixon,” Alexander Purdie replied before looking up and down the dusty street in front of his shop.
“We’ll be meeting at Charlton’s Coffeehouse to discuss important matters, ‘round eleven. I trust you’ll come.” Alexander Purdie was not a large man, but he was of sturdy frame. One of his tasks was to carry bundles of blank print and barrels of ink from carriage to shop. From recorder to journalist to printer to work hand, he did it all. He impressed the ink onto the blank page to share the latest news of the era, news carefully worded to cultivate attitudes and grow the disdain for British rule.
“Charlton’s Coffeehouse? Was it only last night I was in Charlton’s Tavern? Methinks it is one and the same, kind sir,” Joseph jousted. Smile lines wrinkled around Purdie’s eyes as he laughed. His cheeks turned brighter red. He was an older man, a widower with grown sons. His printing business had recently been appointed the public printer with the responsibility to print the laws of the Virginia colony. He was proud of that contract, even though his rival Rynd had to die before the honor was bestowed on Purdie.
“You are right, of course,” Purdie replied. “A well-educated man interprets what he sees as his reality versus what he is told to believe. Ever since that stamp tax debacle of sixty-seven, coffeehouses h
ave received such bad press.”
“Nicely stated, my friend,” Joseph replied, using a nail to tamp his tobacco as he dragged hard on his pipe to keep it lit.
To no avail. “Damn. The new crop smells like heaven, but it is not quite ready. Last year’s leaf is failing me,” Joseph complained, turning his pipe over and tamping it against the heel of his boot to dump the smoldering ash on the ground.
“I don’t have anything this morning, but tomorrow I’ll need your help, Mister Dixon. Thank you for selling me your share of the business and for your continued help. I haven’t been the same since Mary passed. William has come of age, but he doesn’t love the work. Not like you or I. Regardless, we are in good places, my friend, are we not?”
“I could not agree more, Mister Purdie. It is best for all. Tomorrow at nine, then?” Joseph asked.
“Eight! We will have much to print.” Purdie offered his hand and Joseph took it, shaking warmly, but with far less than his full strength.
Joseph remained on the Duke of Gloucester Street as Purdie returned to his shop.
The hunger burned within. Joseph’s secret was dark and tugged at the edges of his mind.
All the time. He fought with it, but knew it would not be long before he had to feed.
Blood was the only answer.
Joseph shivered. There had been quite the stir in Williamsburg the last time he fed on a calf too close to town. Word traveled quickly by way of too many wagging tongues.
Those upstarts who ran Pasteur and Galt apothecary shop knew that the calf’s death had not been natural. They didn’t believe in witches and searched hard for an alternate answer. While the town’s leaders crossed themselves, the apothecaries had rolled up their sleeves and gone to work, studying the facts without making suppositions.
They learned that the calf’s blood had been drained, even finding the marks where Joseph’s extended canines had found the jugular.
But the leadership was quickly distracted by the churn of events, the inflammatory words of the young rebellion. The speeches and letters of Jefferson, Monroe, Henry, and Lafayette. Two months had passed since Patrick Henry addressed the Second Virginia Convention in Richmond, where they had met because it hadn’t been safe in the capital of Williamsburg. Joseph had gone and watched. They’d met in a church and talked, endlessly they talked, but called for action. Patrick Henry was like a caged animal, ready to be released into the wild. He said what he had to say, finally, and then they returned to their communities and their homes.
Henry’s words resonated with Joseph and he felt their power. They reflected his own internal struggle. He remembered the speech well…
“They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance, by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
“It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace, but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!”
Joseph knew that he would forever be a prisoner within his own body, afraid to die, while being afraid to live. It was his cursed life for him to make the most of.
He chose a direction and followed it, the road out of town, toward the coast. He walked briskly and when out of sight of the townspeople, he started to run, far faster than any human should have. He slowed when he felt them ahead.
British military, coming to join the garrison in Williamsburg.
He dodged off the road, finding a place to hide, and he waited.
When they passed, he saw in their minds that soon they would stop and rest before entering Williamsburg. He followed them, quietly, as the silent predator he had become.
They stopped and sat by the side of the road.
“I need a crap,” one of them told his fellows, to their catcalls and laughter. He ventured into the woods, finding a secluded spot to take care of business. He leaned his musket against a tree, hanging his harness from it. He unbuttoned his red jacket, folding it and setting it respectfully on the ground. The soldier undid his trousers and started pulling them down when Joseph struck.
The Forsaken gripped the man’s chin and viciously yanked it backward until the neck bones strained, threatening to break. He bit deeply and drank fully while the man flailed, unable to scream.
When Joseph was done, he gagged at the thought of what he’d done, but reveled in the power it gave him. He looked at his victim. A soldier, with his pants around his ankles. The indignity of it and a horrible way to die.
Joseph leaned the man against the tree, pulled some nearby nightshade from the ground and stuffed it in the man’s mouth. The apothecaries would not be fooled as they knew what poisoning looked like, but it was the best Joseph had at the moment.
The Forsaken headed deeper into the woods, taking the long way back to town. He wanted to meet with the good people at the so-called coffeehouse.
He could use a fresh cup. Joseph hoped that Thomas Jefferson would be there. The redhead had a way with words that never failed to make Joseph marvel. He enjoyed their spirited discussions.
“Give me liberty or give me death,” Joseph told the silence of the woods’ darkness. “I shall have neither, but maybe you can, good people of Virginia.”
TWO
It’s All in the Mission – from Terry Henry Walton’s Personal Journal
Pre-WWDE
"Why in the hell are you here, Lieutenant?" I asked, irked by his presence. My team had trained together for over six months. We worked as one. We knew what each other thought, their strengths, their weaknesses. I was in charge, but only by virtue of rank. We all had our specialty. Mine just happened to be the equipment. I could tear it down and put it back together again. I made this junk work and I knew how to organize the data we collected and send it back to someone who cared. It was more than a job for us. And I was good at killing people.
I used the equipment for something to do in between the direct-action missions. I liked the scent of a man’s fear.
The lieutenant looked hurt.
"Well, Sergeant, I came along to observe and supervise if necessary. I can authorize the movement of this unit to alternate locations without the hassle of requesting it over the radio." The lieutenant seemed satisfied with his answer. He raised his head slightly so he could look down at me, a weak attempt to assert his authority.
One corporal manned the radio direction finding (RDF) equipment and a lance corporal rolled through frequencies slowly on a radio designed to pick up anything in the VHF spectrum. Both had noticed the friction between myself and the "observer" and watch
ed us closely. A second corporal lay curled up in a ball towards the edge of a rock wall some feet away, sleeping peacefully.
I leaned nearer the lieutenant and in a soft voice, so the others couldn't hear, said, "You stay out of our way. Do you understand? You shouldn't be here and already you've changed our orders three times. I've had it with you. The next time you open your mouth, we're going to pack our trash and we're humping out of here!"
The lieutenant prepared a retort or a threat or something else that didn't matter. I guess my angry glare kept his words from dribbling out like a baby spitting up its breakfast. I'd probably pay later, but for now, the mission would come back online and maybe we could get some intelligence that was worthwhile, then move back behind our lines. A hot meal and a rack in the air-conditioned comfort of our ship waited for us. But for now, we were stuck in a very small two-story building that was heaped with the rubble of a previous explosion.
We had selected this building because it was one of the few whole buildings standing in this part of Beirut. It had access to the roof where our antennas now stood. One antenna was low profile. Another looked like a typical TV antenna, but the third was an obvious Marine green. I had tried to set it up level with the TV-looking antenna, but I couldn't get in touch with the ship. After raising it another six feet, I could hear higher headquarters, and more importantly, they could hear me.
My team was set up on the bottom floor. Only one room was habitable and that just happened to be the kitchen. The only thing that suggested it had once been a kitchen were the sink and the counter. There was no water so we simply set up all our equipment on the counter and in the sink. We had been operating all day now after having been inserted late last night. So far, we hadn't found any exploitable targets and all was mundane and quiet. That probably accounted for some of the friction between the lieutenant and me.
Nomad's Journal: A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Terry Henry Walton Chronicles) Page 1
