I was born at a young age in the majestic mountainous city of Sukabumi, Island of Java, Indonesia (The former Dutch East Indies Colony), of mixed-ethnic parents. Thus, I am even more of a ‘mutt’; Dutch-Indonesian (Indo), German, Chinese, French, British, Surinamese, Swiss, Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian, that I know of.
My Father was an ex-Dutch Army officer, ex-Japanese POW survivor, and one of many Indonesian political scapegoat POWs during the country’s cold-war years. My Mother also survived the Japanese Occupation and the country’s political turmoil afterwards. I was but three years of age leaving the Islands and relocated to the Netherlands. Immigrated with the family at age eight to America; alas – too late to take part in trekking the western wilderness as a pioneer with covered wagon. So our ride west was per the old Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway.
I have a military background including a two-tour Vietnam LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) combat stint. In addition, a twenty-three year career as a government agency Combat Field Officer in different parts of the world training and advising foreign military forces in small arms efficiency, counterterrorist methods and led teams in the field against insurgency elements. After relieving most of the wild oats and indiscretions within my character traits, I was forced to grow up and my civilian work career has since been in materials/purchasing management in various industries.
When not working, you will find me spending enjoyable time with my life’s partner; a most marvelous lady who is more than qualified to ride the river with. Other passions are studying history, road trips, shooting sports, shooting hoops, biking, playing tennis and belting out karaoke tunes.
Writing has been a challenging learning experience, which draws me endlessly as mystic sirens with their hypnotic call. My first novel is TURBULANT WATERS; an action suspense novel dealing with modern piracy on the high seas. I am finishing writing the first of a sea-faring and swash-buckling action/adventure three-book series – WINDS OF FURY – THE HEINRICH DROPE CHRONICLES, which takes place at the dawn of the 19th century.
The supply vessel was way too large to experience the powerful violent shudder of the thunderous explosion caused by the RPG rocket that had all those nearby, whether friend or foe, shaking and trembling uncontrollably, while their ear drums reverberated by the shockwave of the blast. As the crew reeled from fright, the dark cloud of smoke cleared to reveal a mass of mangled steel of what just seconds ago was the ship’s bridge – its control center. As the crew fought the fear their nerves had been beset with, their minds simultaneously tried with difficulty to render some form of clarity of the dire situation that had besieged them. It became every bit as arduous to comprehend that all those who had been within the targeted compartment were worse off than the twisted metal. People had just died! This was insane! Absolutely surreal to their mind sets. How could this be possible? How could this catastrophic occurrence have befallen them in this modern sea-faring age? The ship had cruised these waters many times over without a problem. Now suddenly they were beset upon by local armed thugs in small powerboats attempting to hijack not only their vessel, but putting their very lives in jeopardy as well. The crew’s minds were still focused on the carnage and disheveled thoughts that lingered, when in a heartbeat, multiple automatic weapons fired in unison and a hail of bullets struck metalwork structures around them. The deadly fusillade forcibly brought their minds back to the fact they were in imminent danger. It was sink or fight and to these men there was no choice but to go down battling the scourge that threatened their very existence. They quickly sought out the few firearms available on board. However meager the defensive attempt would be, it was their only hope.
This is a story about U.S. Special Forces; the specialty-trained guardians and defenders of the United States. Numerous times they contribute to the welfare of the international community as well. They are special because they have unique skills to fight the terrorism that has engulfed the world. The men and women in the Special Forces are not super beings, they are, however the cream of the crop. It takes a person with natural abilities who can be molded into a razor sharp weapon. However, becoming an elite soldier is not easy; they toil hard to become the experts that are called upon to handle the most difficult assignments. If their darkly veiled methods are unconventional, there is good reason for it; these operators accomplish what others cannot. They tirelessly prepare, not knowing when they will be flung head first into a hot zone. Their mission assignments require secrecy. These operators stay in the shadows; their clandestine missions are a crucial part of national security. This is what sets them apart.
Members of the Special Forces live in a world different than those who serve in the armed forces. There are no parades awaiting them after successful missions. Recognition does not come by being awarded medals of valor at the White House. Their reward is much different; it comes from the self-satisfaction of knowing their mission was successful and living to fight again. It comes from the realization their personal commitment of an internalized ideal has been served in spades to enemies of the state. It comes from the fact they bested personal limits and notched up their performance another rung on the ladder. It comes from the satisfaction of having performed the job well. It comes from peer recognition within the small fraternity of their comrades in arms.
This story is about how valuable these gallant black-mission warriors are; keeping America sovereign, strong, and secure.
Porky McLoin swept the light beam back toward the right and closer to the ship’s hull. It came to settle on …, his dry throat swallowed hard and his eye balls seemed to bulge out of their sockets. Completely stunned, he froze up as he saw a powerboat filled with dark-skinned men. Somehow Porky knew they were not there to sell trinkets or wooden carved camels as friendly merchants. All of them had a weapon in hand. He watched in horror as one man in the front of the boat raised his rifle and took a brief moment to aim. The very next sound was a loud crash emitted into the otherwise silent night as the large spotlight light exploded apart in a million pieces. He experienced total darkness besides being pelted by shards of glass and hearing the faint crack of the shot as it dissipated into the wind. The combination of the light shattering, the sound of the shot, and the sudden darkness shook him out of his stupor. McLoin had the sensation of having to pee as he glanced from one side to the other subconsciously l
ooking for the next thing to do under the fearful circumstance.
He ducked down below the top rail shielded by heavy bulwark steel and carefully peeked around the edge of the opening to the stairs. The steel stairway ran down diagonally toward the left all the way to the water line. Porky looked down, but it was too dark to see anything. He pulled his face back and remembered the flashlight in his utility trouser’s thigh pocket and pulled it out and felt the wetness that had soaked his pants. Again, carefully peering down to where the stairway ended, he flicked the flashlight on and he felt his heart jumping out of his ribcage from fright as he saw the speedboat right alongside the metal grated platform. A few of the men were reaching to grab the stairway to secure their craft. Though the stairway was narrow forcing them to climb in single file, the scoundrels would make it up to the top soon enough. It didn’t take an oceanographer to tell Porky his life would soon ebb and flow into a deep black hole from which there was no return if they caught him.
With his light shining on them, a fierce yell emitted and another rifle shot fired smacking with a dull thud against the steel hull mere inches from McLoin’s face. Pulling back behind the bulwark, he was now beyond being scared; he was horror-stricken and in a panic. He felt like crying and curling up in a fetal position hoping this was just a dream. The voice shouting from below in a foreign tongue made his dream impossible. ‘I’m only a cook. I should be in my kitchen; not playing soldier.’
Courageous he was not, but even the Porkys of the world had survival instincts that prevailed over simply letting an attacker kill them outright. He fumbled with the two-way radio in the dark trying to feel for the talk button. He had no idea he was holding the gadget upside down. Using both hands searching for it, he found and pressed it. Not knowing which end to speak into and having no clue; nor cared about proper radio-speak, he shouted at the radio.
‘Hello, hello, anybody there? This is your cook. I … I have bad-guys incoming! They’re on the stairway right now and … and they’re coming for me!”
He wanted to keep yelling into the radio thinking that it would bring help faster, but enough brain function squeezed through telling him to now wait for a reply. He stared at the radio still clutching it with a death grip as if it was his only lifeline. No one was answering though, as he still had the transmit button held down! Just then the emergency siren began wailing. The annoying sound was like sweet music to Porky’s ears. Maybe he would come out of this in one big piece after all and might be the hero of the hour having alerted the ship of the impending attack as Paul Revere had notified the countryside that the invaders were coming over two hundred years back in early America.
Barely managing to get to his feet, his mind was on one thing – run like hell away from there.