“If you love suspense novels, this is a must read. A wonderful mix of characters creates an extraordinary novel that is easy to follow and understand. It leaves you speechless and gets your mind going.”
-- Get Book Reviews
“The prolific Chernozemsky creates a compelling dramatic story line, exploring parallel dimensions whose possibility reveals alternate paths of history for Humankind. A rewarding book with distinctive characters, absorbing intrigue, and riveting action.”
-- Small Press Book Review
“A masterful work that will leave readers thinking of how each moment in history affects the next. Well-written, an exciting, gripping tale right from the start...”
-- Book Review.com
“Recommended! A good read. The author creates a powerful parallel world, enlightening us to another religion’s way of thinking.”
-- Allbooks Reviews
“It gave me a chill! Chernozemsky gives his readers a glimpse into their darkest hours with an unexpected twist. Recommended.”
-- Book Review Club
“Again, Vladimir Chernozemsky creates a fascinating story and characters, this time in a distant reality, but that still lives, breathes and develops within the reader. He explores interesting ideas of evil fighting evil, parallel histories...how changing one event in an ongoing chain can bring about an entirely different outcome...”
-- Larry Reimon, Military Writer and Advisor
“It seized my interest and held tight to the end. A speculation about what would have become of Tim McVeigh if he had escaped after Oklahoma City and continued on as a “soldier of one,” only to become a pawn in a much larger master plan.”
-- Susan Jakes, Beijing Times
“Gripping, real characters caught in supernatural circumstances. The author has created a dream world that mirrors ours, but not quite. Extremely timely in terms of what is happening in the U.S. and abroad today.”
-- Mathew Taylor, Author and Journalist
Excerpt from Chapter One:
Gregory MacPherson felt nothing, except the animalistic instinct to escape. Before he set off the blast, he had paid the motel bill with a phony credit card. His clunker Chevy Marquise started faithfully, all cylinders rhythmically engaged — nothing faulty. Before dropping him off at the motel, Larry had driven him by the ruins of the City Hall. For a few moments Greg considered driving by again, but his gut instincts told him to make tracks. The two Arabs from #12 left their room, obviously puzzled at the sounds of nearby explosions. MacPherson laughed inwardly. They should be, he thought. He drove slowly out of the parking lot. The emergency sirens screamed incessantly.
Time didn’t matter to him, only distance. There was nothing to worry about, except changing his license plates. He had a stolen pair and had phony papers to go with them. His spare tire was no good, but Canada wasn’t that far. He drove according to the posted speed limit, respecting all signals. The city traffic was erratic, though once on the freeway, there were hardly any other vehicles.
Greg reached toward the radio, then withdrew his hand. He wasn’t interested in someone else’s perceptions. Everything went according to his master plan. He was a Force of One, except for Larry. But Larry was nothing. It was Gregory MacPherson against them.
The day was great. He washed every single thought out of his head. Through the open window, the air rushed at his chiseled face, roughing his cropped hair. What a feeling to be young and powerful!
A hitchhiker. Sorry, no company. Ten miles further, he spotted a rest area. It was empty. He parked his car, opened the trunk and changed into a pair of running shorts and a jersey top. He felt good - strong and perfect. He whistled as he changed the license plates.
What else? The windshield was dirty because the automatic washer didn’t work. He cleaned the window with paper towels and water, then looked underneath the car. Something was making a clinking sound — the exhaust pipe had become loose again. His heightened senses alerted him to someone or something close by. He looked up.
It was a police cruiser. “Hi, guys,” his cornflower-blue eyes were smiling.
The cop on Greg’s side pushed his hat to the back of his head and turned down the police radio. “Need any help?”
Greg sat on his rump. “Not really, officer. It’s just an old clunker.”
The officer listened a bit to the radio. “Coming from the city?” he asked.
Greg feigned naiveté. “No. From the farm over there. Why?”
The man adjusted his sunglasses against the glare. “No TV?”
Greg shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I’m just a lowly hired hand. Now here, then there….”
The driver interrupted. “Where is there?”
“I’m just out of the Marines and traveling around for awhile,” Greg answered.
The sergeant impatiently turned to the officer at the wheel. “Let’s go.”
The police car pulled away, tires screeching. The officers hadn’t asked for identification. That should’ve been done before anything else. Later, they explained that the guy didn’t look like a murderer.
What are murderers supposed to look like?
Greg sat behind the wheel laughing. He checked the gas gauge — plenty to get where he was going. He referred to the Triple A map to double-check his route. He drove to a parallel road, careful not to speed — speed attracts attention. Obviously, he hadn’t been identified — yet. The license plate number written in the motel’s registration book was different from what he had now. Besides, if the police checked that motel, the detectives were most likely to focus on the obvious — the Arabs.
Greg stopped for a meal and coffee. He tipped the waitress generously. Would she come along for a quick fuck? he thought to himself. No-o-o…she might remember his face. He shouldn’t push his luck too far. His sexual urge blurred his mind.
He drove to a secluded place and parked. There, he relieved himself of his sexual tension and felt a sense of release. Life in a Marine barracks had taught him well.
Now he was able to think straight. Back on the road he was more able to concentrate on driving. He found the freeway that led to his destination. More traffic…so what?
Greg drove well into the night, stopping only in the wee hours to sleep in the car. At sunrise, he woke up refreshed, walked into the brush and relieved himself. As he zipped up, a friendly puppy appeared from nowhere. He played with it for a while, then shooed it away. He had no need for companions.
Greg bought coffee and donuts and ate while driving. He disposed of the remnants through the window.
Before long, he pulled into a gas station and parked his old car in a spot next to an even older Mercedes with a “FOR SALE” sign attached to the back window. While buying some snacks and drinking water, he glanced at the newspaper’s headlines. He saw nothing pertaining to him. The Arabs were mentioned at the bottom of page one, and there was also a short interview with the motel clerk, “Yes, there was a young man, very polite and quiet.” Then a description of his car, coupled with the true license plate number. “Shucks…” muttered Greg. There were two TVs on in the shop, and a single sales person was looking at to one of them, paying little attention to him.
Greg went out and checked the Mercedes. It wasn’t locked. He got in and looked around. The keys were behind the sun visor. He removed his Chevy’s stolen plates, threw them into the Mercedes and shifted the “FOR SALE” sign onto his old car. A lady drove her car up to the high-test pump as Greg slid behind the Mercedes’ wheel. He was lucky. Now, would it start? It did and it sounded better than his old car. He left through “EXIT ONLY.” The windshield wipers didn’t budge, but the weather was in his corner. Everything else seemed in perfect working order, including the radio.
However, the gas gauge showed nearly empty. Greg drove to the next gas station, filled up and paid with cash. He pumped some air into the worn-out tires. Bad news — they didn’t look too good, but he had to take some chances. It was the story of his life.
By the end of the day the weather changed abruptly. The young fugitive sniffed rain in the air without needing a weather forecast. He again stopped to get the wipers repaired, again paying cash.
When Greg had set his master plan in action, to blow up the city hall, he had made certain he had an escape route. He had the phone numbers and addresses of three “friendly” cells, one in Minneapolis and two in Canada. Greg didn’t trust telephone lines. He felt strangely disaffected from his own security. There was no one he knew in the underground, except for Larry, who he had never cared for. Larry was trustworthy to a certain point, but probably a latent homo. Neither one of them belonged to a cult. Both shared pot, but never sentiments. They lacked any common interest save for explosives and detonators. Both were tacit and reticent by nature. At times, Greg found Larry despicable, a mama’s boy who fed on books and propaganda. At times, they hated each other.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except his own escape. He was on the run, but at least his escape route was laid out.
For the moment he was rather impressed with himself. He had accomplished his plan of blowing up the establishment who didn’t believe he was capable of even risking his life for them in exchange for meager pay while he was in the Marines. Now those saps will see who Gregory MacPherson is!
***
Gregory MacPherson abandoned the Mercedes just before crossing the Canadian border, undetected, at an unguarded area he was previously told about. Now, on foot, he made his way north. Mother Nature had endowed Greg with good night vision, and he had been trained by the Marines to endure extreme cold and heat (as well as learning hand-to-hand combat). Barefoot, clad only in shorts and shirt, he had his clothes and shoes in a water-resistant package along with his false identifications and a small amount of Canadian currency. The darkness was soothing to him. His military wristwatch/compass was readable and told him his whereabouts with precision. He carried a miniature flashlight and map for reference. Greg remained favored by the weather, and his presence was still undetected.
Greg approached the designated house in a roundabout way. The dogs had been taken inside. Someone calmed them. The night was fading into a grayish morning fog that crept low to the ground. Greg shed his wet wear and dressed in the woodshed. The smell of chopped wood reminded him of a boyhood on a ranch in the Rockies. Most of his memories were unpleasant. He shook them away. He had to keep a clear mind.
Greg’s first objective was to establish contact exactly as had been planned. Catlike, he walked to the door and knocked out the code. Light came on almost instantly. The door cracked open. A crisp male voice came from behind:
“Where did you come from, stranger?”
Greg uttered the code word, “Titicaca.”
“Are you the thin man?” the man retorted.
“No,” Greg answered like an automaton. “I was made in Waco, Texas.”
The man ushered him in with some reluctance. “I might be
under surveillance, but I’ll drive you to the city...
